Oh god I suck pretty hard

Sorry again. Haven't written next bit yet. No excuse really. May have a bit of writers bock. Next friday.

I may have an excuse

No update. I feel pretty terrible and haven't got around to writing, my tongue is fucked up pretty majorly and lolepilespy. To attempt to make up for the lack of update you get to gawp at my tongue. Hooray for you.

HEY SUCAKAKAKAKAKAAAKS

Tom:
Today was pretty good. Me and Sam originnaly went to a party then we got kicked out for not being invited ;_; but we had the moral highground because we left when we were supposed to when

Sam:
Pretty cool i guess. I pretty much just summed this up in msn:

went to a party
59:00
got kicked out
59:05
came home
59:22
played gears 2 with tom college (you don't know him)
59:31
and drank whiskey and beer and cider


THAT IS WHAT HAPPENED FOLK.

Whiskey is fucking foul you guise. Shitsux.

The settlement man

Note: Miles is here :)

Chapter one

“Ugg.”

A crude stereotype, which is sadly true, the “caveman” is a simple creature, with simple urges. Eat, sleep, and reproduce. These are the things that drive it forwards. It has little to no morals and will do all three of these things with reckless abandon. It eats anything and everything, scarcely stopping to consider it’s waistline, it will sleep in the middle of the day, without a thought about all the cleaning that needs to be done and of course he will reproduce, without a moments consideration for what he may be bringing into the world and, indeed, with whom. However the story told here does not star these uncouth savages. We have business with a better class of homo sapiens, a new class of man.

They aren’t cavemen of course, to be a caveman one must live in a cave. The problem is public perception, smallprimitivesettlementman doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, you see? So caveman it became and caveman became engraved in the public subconscious. Boundaries were set as to what was classed as a caveman and without things like an accurate description it soon became a piece of “common knowledge.”The man in question broke the boundaries of pre-historic civilisation; the social norm did not exist to this man. He was an inventor, an explorer, a linguistic genius and much, much more. Without him, we would still be sat in a dank cave somewhere, fondly thinking of the animal we killed and ate today and falling asleep in the middle of the day. Like savages. We are, of course, much better off for if we were in that situation, most of you, would be dead. I do not think that the type of people who read this particular type of thing, usually have the strength and agility that is required for this sort of a life.

A strange word, Ugg, it is the very foundations of language as we know it, yet we have never known what it means. A strange word indeed. We know of what it becomes though. From “Ugg” to “Ugh” it has slowly changed, we assume over the ages. “Ugh” to “Huh”. The truth is of course that it all happened over five or ten minutes. “Huh” to “Hi” it became what it is today. A greeting. Intelligence, sparked in even the most primitive of life, can do a lot for a young race, unsteady on their feet as they travel through thick forests. How else will they make shelter? Fire? Food? As soon as this stage is done though, most races settle down, they are happy like this. They satisfy all their primal needs, they have no reason to change now and why should they? They are fine, fine as they are.

We visit a small community, sitting on what will one day be known as a beach. It is here that we see this man, this visionary, at his most vulnerable. He was not always as he is known to be. Once upon a time he was a mindless peon as well, toiling in the sun to catch food for the village. Sleeping, eating, reproducing. One day of course that all changed, fantastic isn’t it? The change just one person can make to the world.

“Ugg.”

Hello there.

Yeah, just making this quick post to say that I've decided to write things once a week instead if three times. This way the stuff should be better and longer. Had a pretty boring week, didn't really do much :/

Bye.

Caps

Note: I woke up this morning feeling pretty terrible. Didn't feel like writing, heres an old script I was working on instead. Sorry.

SCENE ONE (ORIGINS OF FEAR)

MARK is seen walking around a main road, the camera become POV and turns to shop signs using all capital letters or mainly capital letters. The camera is back on him and he is starting to look uncomfortable. He ducks into a side road with only houses (Possibly sees a to let or for sale sign with caps on) MARK bumps into his friend who is walking to a bus stop.

Mark

Oh, Hi.

Otis

Hey Mark, what are you doing?

MARK

Oh, I'm just going home.

OTIS begins walking MARK follows.

OTIS

You don't live this way.

MARK

Oh yeah, I.. I forgot.

OTIS

Do you want to come with me to my house? You live pretty close.

MARK

No, no. It's alright I'll walk it.

OTIS

O.K. Stay calm and don't get too freaked out.

MARK

Yeah, I'll try.

OTIS gets on a bus and leaves Mark in front of a shop, the sign has got only capital letters. MARK runs out of the road into a road with just houses again. Scene finishes.

SCENE TWO (Overcoming terror)

We see MARK sitting down at his house writing on paper, it is him trying to write down capital letters but he always writes down half of it and stops as if it hurts him to write them. He retires for the night.

It is now inside MARK's dream. He dreams of himself being older, running at the sight of capital letters. We see him in a suit going in for a job interview. He is told to sit down by someone off screen. The camera is now POV he looks around the office. He sees posters with capital letters on and tries to stay calm.

Interviewer

It says here you have Hoofdaphobia?

MARK

*Stammers* Yes

INTERVIEWER

Well, can you tell me what it is?

MARK

It's going to sound stupid, but it's a fear of capital letters.

INTERVIEWER

Oh I see, how will you be planning on doing your job?

MARK

I will just have to deal with my fear.

INTERVIEWER

Like this?

Interviewer stands up, he has a capital I on his shirt. MARK looks shocked and runs out, INTERVIEWER is laughing. MARK runs away and into OTIS.

MARK

Oh thank god. Otis, they are after me.

Otis takes off shirt and reveals t-shirt underneath with a capital M on. Dream ends.

MARK wakes up and grabs a bag, he quickly shoves some clothes in the bag. He grabs a small book and sneaks out of his house. It is getting dark outside, we see MARK quickly walk away out of his road. He settles down and leans against a wall, he gets a pen out and starts writing in the book. We hear what he is writing.

MARK (writing)

I've left civilization. Everyone had abandoned me, even Otis. I can't live in the city, my fear jumps at me from every direction. I'm leaving for the wilderness.

We see MARK walking away and the scene ends.

Scene three (the wilderness)

Katamari March

Note: I didn't think that a comic book script would be good enough so i wrote a very short story about katamari instead. If you want to see the script just tell me and I'll post it on friday.

My ball rolls down a ever stretching hill. It picks up the grass, the flowers, the trees, the ground. I start small, lifting pennies and toys. I grow quickly, gathering mass as my rolling sphere reaches the maximum it can be. It becomes a star, a planet, a meteor. It becomes anything. I recreate a universe, step-by-step, planet-by-planet. My father’s guiding hand shows me the way to go, the areas of the world slowly being unlocked. My recreation is a mere portion of the greatness of the original. My rolling star; collecting the fragments of this, the final perfect world, he hopes to create a galaxy; an imperfect one but a galaxy nonetheless. The ball is rolling and rolling, lifting the very continents themselves. How many lives must be sacrificed for my king? This world is littered with life and I scoop it up without any thought. England, Japan, North America. They have all fallen under the weight of this ball.

We have a lift-off. The ball has escaped the pull of the planet and is flying free in space. Basic physics do not hamper my journey; I pull in the stars from the sky, as they are suddenly specks. All the prior made planets, al the lives sacrificed are added to my ever-growing death toll. The sun is my target and I roll it up as easily as the rest. This stops now. I begin to slow but from the corner of my eye, the king of all cosmos sits in space, staring at me. I am weak and must oblige. The ball rolls towards the black hole. Not stopping to collide with more planets, it simply goes through them now; they are added to the ball. The hole is plugged. This makes no sense. The matter used against it, it begins its long battle against it. I say it was plugged; it was simply stopped. The hole will slowly deteriorate until one day, it will be safe to re-populate.

This is Katamari Damacy.

The grey city

Note: For Wednesday's entry I am going to write a script of the first comic book featuring this character.

January 30th, 2030

A man lays dead in the alley, bullet wounds in back, pool of blood beneath him. Regulation bullets are ploughed deep into his wounds and the mark of the enclave scars his head. A bag full of clothes and food lays next to him. Stolen. In this hell-hole the government call our country’s capital city the law is upheld to the extremes. His man stole some food, probably for his starving family. He is dressed in rags and is incredibly thin. Not sure how he survived this long without food. As I say this, the enclave will be heading to his family; likely somewhere in one of the homeless areas, hunting them down and killing them. This city has an infection. More deadly than any threat the human race had faced yet. Corruption. This city has an infection and I, I’m the cure.

February 5th, 2030

Investigation continues. The police are ever more vigilant, they cover the public’s head with wool. Drown out the sights, the smells, the sounds. The brutal force of the enclave; seen but ignored. The smell of burning corpses; noticed but ignored. The sound of children crying, as their families are killed in front of them; heard but ignored. While most of the people of the upper classes, simply walk past. Ignoring everything happening around them, I cannot do that. I must take action. The situation of my home today is appalling. It all comes back to the police. They sit in their office chairs, safe from the very people they are supposed to be protecting. Their egos are only satisfied by the amount of power they hold, they tell someone to do something and it is done, anything is done for them. They believe themselves immune from the law, they put aside morals to fuel their ego. Well, morals are my law and no-one escapes my judgement.

February 12th, 2030

I can feel the police moving in on me, they won’t catch me, they never do. Funny thing about a costume and mask, the “crimes” you commit while attached to it, stay with it. I can take the costume off and disappear into obscurity. The enclave cameras buzz overhead, capturing the image of an unfamiliar face. I haven’t taken my costume off in months, but now more then ever I must stay hidden. The corruption of this place sickens me. I have been living among these people for only a few hours and I can already tell that the time spent away from bringing justice to the world will be a living hell. For now I will stop making entries into this. It’s not he normal thing to be doing, now is it?

February 18th, 2030

My self-inflicted confinement from the streets of this diseased city has left me with a bad taste in my mouth. I must continue the investigation as a means of…distraction. Found gun discarded in bins nearby, standard issue pistol. My gloves allow interaction, without risk of tainting evidence. The gun is lifted out of the bin, I slowly pocket it and am on my way. I realise now how much I am distracted from my cause, the police are on a never-ending manhunt. I am the deer in their headlights. I arrive home and peel off my mask. I lay it down on the counter and hang my coat up. The gun is wrapped up in a parcel, soon to be delivered. The stamp and address on the package assure it’s safe arrival at the police station. This gun is a symbol of the many Americanisms we have let, come in and poison our country from within. It ends here. I send a note with it, it reads as follows:

The Police of London, now known as City ten, have drawn the line. I found the attached weapon dumped near the body of a civilian, the civilian in question was starved, cold and stealing, for his family. If these senseless acts of violence do not stop, I shall not rest until the people responsible for these acts against the basic moral fibre of the human race have been silenced. This is your last warning, stop immediately or face redemption.

February 25th, 2030

The police have made their move and in this, their declaration of war. I found a man, laying beside the other, in the same situation. There is a note on his body. “Consider this” It says, “the very moral grey area you fight for is held by us. We kill but only the criminals of the world; it is a crime for the greater good. The men who lay before you are criminals, as you have now announced yourself to be.”

They are wrong. They are the true criminals; they prey on the weak whilst I prey on the unjust. Their set of morals is comparable to the stripes on a zebra crossing; black or white, no middle ground. How can they claim to fight crime when they kill these men and let rapists and killers loose? Corrupt, evil men. I would sooner kill myself then side with one of them. This may be the last entry; I begin my reign of justice tonight.

Chicago Ted

The corpses littered the streets around him, slashed in half, heads caved in, blasted to pieces. He had killed them all. Since the massacre at his birthplace of Chicago he had vowed to bring flannel shirt wearing justice raining down upon them. He raised his mighty head above the stench of death to clear his lungs of decaying flesh. A shotgun, cradled in his meaty hands and aimed by instinct alone, blasted through the horde as the car alarm rang in his ears. He jumped into the middle of the fray and began his assault. Immediately a hooded ghoul jumped at him and landed square on his chest. He raised his trusty blade and brought it down towards him, pulling the head clean off. He pushed many of the zombies off him with his shotgun and ran. He led the rotting hoard towards the cold, thick, metal doors of the safe-room and stood his ground. He could hear the ceiling above cracking from the weight of hundreds of bodies and simply waited. Waited for the break.

“Crash” said Chicago Ted, as the ceiling fell down around him, the masses writhing around the debris like fish out of water. He started the fight. Lifting up his sword, with his shotgun in his left hand, he jumped at the nearest one. Pop, goes the neck bone as it is separated. Blam, goes the boomstick as it goes off in the face of a former human being. Blood splattered his chin, caught in his beard were pieces of flesh, as he continued to run through Satan’s work. When everything lay dead around him he had a moment of reflective silence, now penetrated by a soft sobbing. He switched on his flashlight and looked around the room, seeing a pair of glowing red eyes huddled down on the floor. He threw his weapons to the ground and leapt on her. Her witch-like head bursting on the floor as it slams down followed by a gargantuan palm.


He walked up to the safe room door and opened it quietly. Savouring the time spent not covered with disease, he saw a pen on the table and writing on the wall. He took the pen from the table and slowly removed the lid, leaning close to the ground to leave his mark upon the world. “No zombie is safe from Chicago Ted.”

Detectives

The apartment sat, stacked in the middle of London. The apartment is not quite as important as the people who choose to reside within it but it plays an important role in housing said people and keeping them from being dead.
The people who live in the apartment are Dan Fort and Donald Ulen and they are about to be called upon to solve a particularly nasty series of murder cases in which the murderer leaves a small rubber duck as his calling card at the scene of the crime. The reasoning behind them doing this is that they are, in fact, detectives. So far they had absolutely no solved cases involving any crimes or any cases at all for that matter. The reason the police have chosen these fine, young detectives to solve this case is a simple matter. Every other detective in London had been killed. That’s right, the other detective; nicknamed half-man for his lack of a left eye and left leg was also the police’s first choice had been murdered by the killer in question. This left the illustrious Fort Ulen detective agency the only place qualified to solve this murder. Inside the apartment hangs a sign.
“Stay out, detectives at work” says the sign, with all the feral ferociousness of a moth. The men themselves are already hard at work on a case, the case of “I left my laptop at the coffee shop, can you find it for me?” It was a tough case and the importance of it hung heavily over the heads of our heroes. The phone rang under a pile of paper. It was an old fashioned phone, the dial thick and heavy and the wire curling up towards the, quite frankly, huge receiver.
“Huh, you’re in. Good, I suppose. It’s me, John, head of the police department.” Said the phone.
“What is it you want sir?” Said Dan, shocked. The police never use us, why do they want us? And what was the last law I broke? These were some of the questions buzzing through his mind.
“Yes. Well, there was a series of murders; we need you to find the killer. The only information that we have on him is his calling card; a rubber duck. Think you can handle that?”
“Err, urm, well, that is to say, yes. Yes I think we can.” Said Dan cautiously looking over at Donald as he gave a slow nod.
“Well that is just…” John struggled to say the words, in conjunction with the current situation they just seemed wrong, “…fine. Come over to 14 Hants road, the latest victim is there.”
“We’ll be right over, sir.” Said Dan and buzzing with anticipation, he hung up. Donald looked up from his magazine,
“We’ll be roight ova suh.” He parroted.
“Hey, stop reading. Did you not hear the phone? We have work!” Dan said, persevering through Donald’s aggressive personality. “Look, this is the first work we’ve had in a few months, ever since we found Mrs. Gardener’s lost cat on the tire of our car. We have to take this seriously, you ready?”
“Suh, lemme just get a coat, suh!”
“Oh, er, ok then, nice change of tone.” Said Dan, he always got nervous when sarcasm was around. “Let’s go.” Dan’s car lay near to the pavement, it had been customised by vandals, someone had spray painted a cat on one of the wheels and “Killers!” on the bonnet,
“You know it was that old lady who did this, right? As revenge for killing her cat.”
“Who? Mrs. Gardener? She wouldn’t do this sort of thing, she’s more of a ‘puncture all the tires and remove the seats’ sort of girl.”
“Yeah, whatever, let’s just go.”
“Right, so off we go. Into the great unknown wasteland of the criminal underground, yet again. Exciting isn’t it?” Donald stayed silent, slowly making a tiny nodding gesture towards Dan.

Z

Note: Unfinished

May 1st 1998

We had been at the camp for a fortnight now, too long, too long to stay anywhere anymore. We’ve had four attacks; one very close call and one death. He died last night, Rob, he was the main support of the group, did most of the killing and hunting, one less mouth to feed though I suppose. The close call was Amy, we know she was bitten; she insists that it’s just a scratch but I’ve seen what just a scratch can do. World turned upside down. No contacts with anyone outside the group, the floor thick with corpses, some of the corpses move, walk after death. I have been chosen to chronicle the group’s journey in this diary. So far, outlook bleak; food almost gone, little fresh water left. We move tonight.


May 2nd 1998

Most of today spent travelling, not much to say. Set up camp for the night; hope we are far away enough. Can’t write more now. Have to help unpack.

Water stocks replenished, found river. We will be staying close to it; fresh fish and water make a welcome change to canned peas and stagnant water. Going to bed now.


May 3rd 1998

Being watched. Can see Tom peering over shoulder as I write this. I know he’s there. If I turn around he goes. He doesn’t believe in this documentation. He thinks we could be using the time better. He’ll make his move one day. I know it. Not before I make mine.

A grim work

I had a typical day at work today. I love my job, but the paperwork is murder. The amount I have to fill out if I so much as make one mistake is unfathomable. I mean; I do my job, I do my job bloody well and at the end of the day all I have to look forward to is more bloody paperwork. “Unruly conduct” this and “Inappropriate work attire.” I wore shorts once and I had to fill out 3 sheets of A4 with an apology to the head of my office. I may just be one worker ant among many but the way we are treated is ridiculous. No holidays, full stop. The boss says that “There is always work to be done” which is ridiculous. There are hundreds of us in that building and they can’t all be working as much as I am. I work my fingers to the bone protecting the circle of life itself and what do I get in return? Minimal dental cover and £20,000 a year.

I suppose that it is my fault; my chosen career path I mean. I’m the one who took it at uni, I did it in college for a bit of a laugh, we all did, but I’m the only one who stuck it out. I should have listened to my dad. He went down the same route as me, like father like son I suppose, he told me to drop it and go after a career in medicine. Told me that the whole “death” thing was just a fad and that eventually people would just stop, whereas people are sick all the time, even if they don’t die. I should have listened. Come to think of it, work has been thinning out recently and if it stops altogether I am buggered. The only other thing I passed was a demi-godhood in astrophysics. The problem is that the market of space is flooded by thousands of new, fresh workers. They wouldn’t want me. Besides where would a skeleton fit in outer space? I should have never majored in reaping.

John Kirby

John Kirby, amateur explorer, was exploring a cave. But the important thing is not the cave, the important thing is the secrets it contained. The cave was said to be home to the "gene pool" the explanation for everything that is passed down though the generations. It is a discovery that could change the life of an up and coming explorer and as Kirby was about to find out, it will.

As he ventured further into the cave Kirby came to a cross road, two signs pointing either way read "The room of infinite ladies" to the left and "The gene pool" to the right. Just as you are thinking "The secret will surely be lost forever!" get a hold of yourself because; One, He is only a beginner, if he can get though this cave, so can a lot of other people and second, Kirby met with an unfortunate accident with a machete during his stay at explorers school; during jungle training, his class mates thought it would be a good idea to leave him alone in the middle of the Amazon river. As he floated downstream, he started panicking, the river was flowing ever faster and there was no end in sight. That is until he hit a rock; completely shredding his testicles. But, that is enough of that.

As he trudged down the path to glory; Kirby wondered why he had "Follow the yellow brick road" stuck in his head. He usually blamed it on his short Broadway career however he often thought it was something deeper rooted then that, the thought of having a deep psychological reason for having songs from The Wizard of Oz stuck in his head worried him. So much so that he now found himself drowning in a thick, treacle-like sea of worry, followed by wave after wave of all-consuming anxiety. It was only when his head when under and he found himself unable to breathe that he began to seriously start thinking about seeing a psychiatrist.

He woke up in a pool of his own sweat. Hmm, he thought, I can’t possibly have been sweating this much, there must be some explanation. He assumed the thinking position a few metres below the surface of the body of water he was currently occupying. He opened his eyes and was greeted by the gentle sting of chlorine; his retina was surrounded by it. A pool. The gene pool? Perhaps. He swam upwards, breaking the surface and gasping for breath. He pulled himself out of the water and sat on the edge. It looked like an ordinary swimming pool. He looked down and saw that he was suddenly and quite inexplicably sporting a set of gills. “Well” he said, to himself, “this explains why I didn’t drown.” He took a deep breath and felt a deep burning pain in his neck; he couldn’t breathe. He dove back into the pool and swam to the bottom, finding himself suddenly able to breathe.

This presented a problem; how was he going to leave? Just as he was thinking this and taking another gulp of water, he felt short of breath. He felt his neck, his gills had left him and in their place they left a sudden need for air to breathe. He swam to the surface and calmed himself down; once this had been accomplished, he took a sample of the pool water and headed back to his apartment for testing.

Where's wally?

Everywhere he went, a crowd followed. Colours morphed around him. Red and white; they were his camouflage. No one notices him as he glides through the middle of a crowded street; no one feels him, no one hears him, no one sees him. He spans the ages, waltzing through history as naturally as breathing is to us. His glasses shine as he basks in the sun; they glisten in the rain. Tonight he starts the countdown; he goes to death. He shudders under the freezing wind. It’s an act; it’s all an act. He didn’t get cold anymore. His jumper stood out against the grey sky. Red and white. But not for long; soon the sun came up, to aid in keeping him invisible. He reaches the cliff face and begins to climb. The wind is picking up now, as he scales the wall, his hat is blown off, lost, for others to find. He has made it to the top. He breathes in a lungful of air, all an act; he doesn’t breathe anymore, and he jumps. He hits the grounds with an inaudible thud. He hit the ground, so why was there no sound. He sees his body through his hands. His body is dead, never found, the world changes around it, disguises it, while his soul wanders the world forever. He’s a ghost, just a ghost. Where’s Wally?

New Blog

I have decided to make a new blog because I have been switching all my accounts over to my googlemail email. I will post all the old stuff up tonight and I am going to try to write something about thrice a week, culminating in a LIFE update on sunday.