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Post #641 Subject: Re: RAP / COMMENT
Posted at: 00:28:48 28/01/13 [Quote]
johndoe666 [31303]

Level: 3,000
Posts: 349
cool, you have proven your class 2...
this was the only book i just have to write down some parts to enjoy them later (and read them all over again)....3 pieces are already in this forum...and i am still saving the best 3 pieces... thumbup1
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Post #642 Subject: Re: RAP / COMMENT
Posted at: 12:17:18 01/03/13 [Quote]
johndoe666 [31303]

Level: 3,000
Posts: 349
terreez gewdeez

Banana N'Vectif's patent

Banana N'Vectif, cunningest hunter in the great yellow plains of Klatch, held his breath as he tweezered the last piece into place. Rain drummed on the roof of his hut.
There. That was it.
He'd never done anything like this before, but he knew he was doing it RIGHT.
He'd trapped everything from zebras to thargas in his time, and what had he got to show for it? But yesterday, when he'd taken a load of skins into N'kouf, he'd heard a trader say that if any man ever built a better mousetrap, then the world would beat a path to his door.
He'd lain awake all night thinking about this. Then, in the first light of dawn, he scratched a few designs on the hut wall with a stick and got to work. He had taken the opportunity to look at a few mousetraps while he was in the town, and they were definitely less than perfect. They hadn't been built by hunters.
Now he picked up the twig and pushed it gently into the mechanism.
Now, all he had to do was take it into N'kouf and see if the merchant -
The rain was very loud indeed. In fact, it sounded more like -
When Banana woke up he was lying in the ruins of his hut and they were in a half-mile wide swathe of trodden mud.
He looked muzzily at what remained of his home. He looked at the brown scar that stretched from horizon to horizon. He looked at the dark, muddy cloud just visible at one end of it.
Then he looked down. The better mousetrap was now a rather nice two-dimensional design, squashed into the middle of an enormous footprint.
He said, "I didn't know it was THAT good."
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Post #643 Subject: Re: RAP / COMMENT
Posted at: 06:48:25 31/03/13 [Quote]
johndoe666 [31303]

Level: 3,000
Posts: 349
easter present from da honorable


Snow glittered on the rimward outriders of the Ramtop mountains, that great world-spanning range which, where it curves around the Circle Sea, forms a natural wall between Klatch and the great flat Sto plains.
It was the home of rogue glaciers and prowling avalanches and high, silent fields of snow.
And Yetis. Yetis are high-altitude species of troll, and quite unaware that eating people is out of fashion. Their view is: if it moves, eat it. If it doesn't move, then wait for it to move. And then eat it.
They'd been listening all day to the sounds. Echoes had bounced from peak to peak along the frozen ranges until, now, it was steady dull rumble.
"My cousin," said one of them, idly probing a hollow tooth with a claw, "said they was enormous grey animals. Elephants."
"Bigger'n us?" said the other yeti.
"Nearly as bigger'n us," said the first yeti. "Loads of them, he said. More than he could count."
The second yeti sniffed the wind and appeared to consider this.
"Yeah, well," he said, gloomily. "Your cousin can't count above one."
"He said there was lots of big ones. Big fat grey elephants, all climbing, all roped together. Big and slow. All carrying lots of oograah."
The first yeti indicated the vast sloping snowfield.
"Good and deep today," he said. "Nothing's gonna move fast in this, right? We lie down in the snow, they won't see us till they're right on top of us, we panic 'em, it's Big Eats time." He waved his enormous paws in the air.
"Very heavy, my cousin said. They'll not move fast, you mark my words."
The other yeti shrugged.
"Let's do it," he said, against the sound of distant, terrified trumpeting.
They lay down in the snow, their white hides turning them into two unsuspicious mounds. It was a technique that had worked time and again, and had been handed down from yeti to yeti for thousand of years, although it wasn't going to be handed much further.
They waited.
There was a distant bellowing as the herd approached.
Eventually the first troll said, very slowly, because it had been working this out for a long time. "What do you get, right, what do you get if, you cross . . . a mountain with a elephant?"
It never got an answer.
The yetis had been right.
When five hundred crude two-elephant bobsleighs crested the ridge ten feet away at sixty miles an hour, their strapped-on occupants trumpeting in panic, they never saw the yetis until they were right on top of them.
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Post #644 Subject: Re: RAP / COMMENT
Posted at: 10:14:35 22/06/13 [Quote]
johndoe666 [31303]

Level: 3,000
Posts: 349
2 moa 2 go

Thoughts of drunken talking dog Gaspode the Wonder dog (named after famous Gaspode)

Gaspode sighed, and wadlled away. Sometimes, in his heart of hearts, he wondered whether it wouldn't after all be nice to BELONG to someone. Not just be owned by them or chained up by them, but actally BELONG, so that you were glad to see them and carried slippers in your mouth and pined away when they died, etc.
Laddie actually liked that kind of stuff, if you could call it "liked"; it was more like something built into his bones. Gaspode wandered darkly if this was true dogness, and growled deep in his throat. It wasn't, if he had anything to do with it. Because true dogness wasn't about slippers and walkies and pining for people, Gaspode was sure. Dogness was about being tough and independent and mean.
Gaspode had heard that all canines could interbreed, even back to the original wolves, so that must mean that, down deep inside, every dog was a wolf. You could make a dog out of a wolf, but you couldn't take the wolf out of a dog. When the hardpad was acting up and the fleas were feisty and acting full of plumptiousness, it was a comforting thought.
Gaspode wondered how you went about mating with a wolf, and what happened to you when you stopped.
Well, that didn't matter. What mattered was that true dogs didn't go around going mad with pleasure just because a human said something to them.
He growled at a pile of trash and dared it to disagree.
Part of the pile moved, and a feline face with a defunct fish in its mouth peered out at him. He was just about to bark half-heartedly at it, for tradition's sake, when it spat the fish out and spoke to him.
"Hallo, Gathpode."
Gaspode relaxed. "Oh. Hallo, cat. No offence meant. Didn't know it was you."
"I hateth fisth," said the cat, "but at least they don't talk back."
Another part of the trash moved and Squeak the mouse emerged.
"What're you two doin' down here?" said Gaspode. "I thought you said it was safer on the hill."
"Not any more," said the cat. "It'sh getting too SHPOOKY."
Gaspode frowned. "You are a cat," he said disapprovingly. "You ort to be right alongside the idea of spooky."
"Yeah, but that doesh'nt exhtend to having golden sparks crackling off your fur and the ground shaking the whole time. And weird voices you think must be happening in your own head," said cat. "It's becoming ELDRITCH up there."

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Post #645 Subject: Re: RAP / COMMENT
Posted at: 02:50:37 31/10/13 [Quote]
johndoe666 [31303]

Level: 3,000
Posts: 349
1 moa 2 goa

haloween treat

DEATH in a Skid Row

There is a bar like it in every town. It is dimly-lit and the drinkers, although they talk, don't address their words to one another and they don't listen, either.
They just talk the hurt inside. It's a bar for the derelict and unlucky and all of those people who have been temporarily flagged off the racetrack of life and into the pits.
It always does a brisk trade. On this dawn the mourners sat ranged along the counter, each in his cloud of gloom, each certain that he was the most unfortunate individual in the whole world.
"I CREATED it"- said Silverfish, morosely. "I thought it would be educational. It could broaden people's horizons. I didn't intend for it to be a, a, a Show. With a thousand elephants!" - he added nastily.
"Yeah" - said Detritus. "She don't know what she wants. I do what she want, then she say, that not right, you are troll with no finer feelin', you don't understand what a girl wants. She say, Girl want sticky things to eat in box with bow around, I make box with bow around, she open box, she scream, she say flayed horse not what she mean. She don't know what she wants."
"Yeah," - said a voice from under Silverfishs stool. "It would serve 'em all right if I went off an' join the wolves."
"I mean, take this Blown Away thing" - said Silverfish. "It's not even real. It's not like things really were. It's just lies. Anyone can tell lies."
"Yeah," - said Detritus. "Like, she say, Girl want music under window, I play music under window, everyone in street wake up and shouting out of house, You bad troll, what you hitting rocks this time of night? And she never wake up."
"Yeah," - said Silverfish.
"Yeah," - said Detritus.
"Yeah," - said the voice under the stool.
The man who ran the bar was naturally cheerful. It wasn't hard to be cheerful, really, when your customers acted like lightning rods for any misery that happened to be floating around.
He would found that it wasnt good idea to say things like, "Never mind, look on the bright side," because theres never one, or "Cheer up, it may never happen," because often it already had. All that was expected of him was to keep the drinks coming.
He was a little puzzled this morning, though. There seemed to be an extra person in the bar, quite apart from whoever it was speaking up from the floor. He kept getting the feeling that he was serving an extra drink, and even getting paid for it, and even talking to the mysterious purchaser. But he couldn't see him. In fact he wasn't quite sure what he was seeing, or who he was talking to.
He wandered down to the far end of the bar. A glass slid towards him.
SAME AGAIN, - said a voice out of the shadows.
"Er," - said the barman. "Yeah, sure, What was it?"
The barman filled it with rum. It was pulled away. The barman sought for something to say. For some reason, he was feeling terrified.
"Dont see you in here, much," - he managed.
"Work in Holy Wood, do you?" - said the barman, topping up the glass quickly. It vanished again.
The barman hesitated. He was, at heart, a kindly soul.
"You don't think you have had enough, do you?" - he said.
"Everyone says that, though."
There was something very odd about that voice. The barman wasn't quite sure that he was hearing it with his ears. "Oh. Well, er," - he said. "Same again?"
A handful of coins slid across the counter. They felt icy cold, and most of them were heavily corroded.
"Oh, er -" - barman began.
The door opened and shut, letting in a cold blast of air despite the warmth of the night.
The barman wiped the top of the bar in a distracted way, carefully avoiding the coins.
"You see some funny types, running a bar," - he muttered.
A voice by his ear said, I FORGOT. A PACKET OF NUTS, PLEASE.

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Post #646 Subject: Re: RAP / COMMENT
Posted at: 23:45:30 23/02/14 [Quote]
izzy unarmed level up all you like please not mugging thanks [15855]

Level: 1,583
Posts: 61




001_rolleyes , this is actually the 1st poem i ever memorized back in 2nd grade, i don't know why it sticks in my mind lol. but it still does. lol. and if i get bored i might make some latino rap on hear lol, but not sure if it will be understood.
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Post #647 Subject: Re: RAP / COMMENT
Posted at: 05:20:07 02/03/14 [Quote]
LA QUEEN [17637]

Level: 1,542
Posts: 23
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Post #648 Subject: Re: RAP / COMMENT
Posted at: 05:05:56 11/05/14 [Quote]
~PIMPDADDY~ [17729]

Level: 2,098
Posts: 5,894
Ladies and Gentlemen, skinny and stout,
I'll tell you a tale I know nothing about;
The Admission is free, so pay at the door,
Now pull up a chair and sit on the floor.

One fine day in the middle of the night,
Two dead boys got up to fight;
Back to back they faced each other,
Drew their swords and shot each other.

A blind man came to watch fair play,
A mute man came to shout "Horray!"
A deaf policeman heard the noise and
Came to stop those two dead boys.

He lived on the corner in the middle of the block,
In a two-story house on a vacant lot;
A man with no legs came walking by,
and kicked the lawman in his thigh.

He crashed through a wall without making a sound,
into a dry creek bed and suddenly drowned;
The long black hearse came to cart him away,
But he ran for his life and is still gone today.

I watched from the corner of the big round table,
The only eyewitness to facts of my fable;
But if you doubt my lies are true,
Just ask the blind man, she saw it too.
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Post #649 Subject: Re: RAP / COMMENT
Posted at: 04:11:38 27/10/14 [Quote]
johndoe666 [31303]

Level: 3,000
Posts: 349
and now The final piece from this Terry's selection

enjoy it!

Commercials 2

Ginger had been ushered off to the changing tents before Victor had a chance to speak to her, and then shooting started and it was too late.
Century of the Fruitbat (and now it said on the sign, in slightly smaller type: More Stars than There Are in the Heavens (1)) believed that a click should be made in less then ten times the time it took to watch. BLOWN AWAY was going to be different. There were battles. There were night scenes, the imps painting away furiously by torchlight. Dwarfs worked merrily in a mine never seen before or since, where fake gold nuggets the size of chickens had been stuck in the plaster walls. Since Soll demanded that their lips should be seen to move they sang a RISQUE version of the "Hihohiho" song, which had rather caught on among Holy Wood's dwarf population.
It was just possible that Soll knew how it all fitted together. Victor didn't. It was always best, he had learned, never to try to follow the plot of any click you were in, and in any case Soll wasn't just shooting back to front but sides to middle as well. It was totally confusing, just like real life.
When he did get a chance to talk to Ginger, two handlemen and everyone else in the cast who currently had nothing to do were watching them.
"OK, people," said Soll. "This is the scene near the end where Victor meets Ginger after all they've been through together, and on the card he'll be saying - " He stared at the big black oblong handed to him. "Yes, he'll be saying "Frankly, my dear, I'd give anything for one of . . . Harga's . . . prime . . . pork . . . ribs . . . in . . . special . . . curry . . . sauce . . . " "
Soll's voice slowed and stopped. When he breathed in, it was like a whale surfacing.
"WHO wrote THIS?"
One of the artists cautiously raised a hand.
"Mr Dibbler told me to," he said quickly.
Soll leafed through the big heap of cards that represented the dialogue for a large part of the click. His lips tightened.
He nodded to one of the people with clipboards and said, "Could you just run over to the office and ask my uncle to stroll over here, if he's got a moment?"
Soll pulled a card out of the stack and read, "I sure miss the old mine but for a taste of real country cooking I always . . . go . . . to . . . Harga's . . . House . . . Of . . . "I SEE."
He selected another at random. "Ah. I see here a wounded Royalist soldier's last words are "What I wouldn't give right now for a $1 Eat-Till-It-Hurts special at . . . Harga's . . . House . . . of . . . Ribs . . . Mother!""
"I think it's very moving," said Dibbler, behind him. "There won't be a dry eye in the house, you'll see."
"Uncle - " Soll began.
Dibbler raised his hands. "I said I'd raise the money somehow," he said, "and Sham Harga's even helping us with the food for the barbeque scene."
"You said you weren't going to interfere with the script!"
"That's not interfering," said Dibbler stolidly. "I don't see how THAT could be considered interfering. I just polished it up here and there. I think it's rather an improvement. Besides, Harga's All-You-Can-Goggle-For-A-Dollar is amazing value these days."
"But the click is set hundreds of years ago!" shouted Soll.
"We-ell," said Dibbler. "I suppose someone could say, "I wonder if the food at Harga's House of Ribs will still be as good in hundreds of years' time-"
"That isn't moving pictures. That is crass commerce!"
"I hope so," said Dibbler. "We're in real trouble if it isn't."
"Now look -" Soll began, threateningly.
Ginger turned to Victor.
"Can we go somewhere and talk?" she said quietly. "Without your dog," she added, in her normal voice. "Definitely without your dog."
"You want to talk to ME?" said Victor.
"There hasn't been much of a chance, has there?"
"Right. Certainly. Gaspode, STAY. There's a good dog." Victor derived a quiet satisfaction from the brief look of pure disgust that flashed Gaspode's face.
Behind them the eternal Holy Wood argument had wound up to cruising speed, with Soll and C.M.O.T. standing nose to nose and arguing in a circle of amused and interested staff.
Ginger and Victor sat down on the steps of canvas and wood mansion. They had absolute privacy. No-one was going to bother to watch them with rip-snorter of a row going on a few yards away.
"Er," said Gnger. Her fingers twisted among themselves. Victor couldn't help noticing that the nails were worn down.
"Er," she said again. Her face was a picture of anguish, and pale under make-up. She isn't beautiful, Victor felt himself think, but you could have real trouble believing it.
"I, er, don't know how to say this," she said, "but, er, has anyone noticed me walking in my sleep?"
"To the hill?" said Victor.
Her head whipped around like a snake.
"You know? How do you know? Have you been spying on me?" she snapped. It was old Ginger again, all fire and venom and aggressiveness of paranoia.
"Laddie found you . . . asleep yesterday afternoon," said Victor, leaning back.
"During the DAY?"
She put her hands to her mouth. "It's worse than I thought," she whispered. "It's getting worse! You know when you met me up the hill? Just before Dibbler found us, and thought we were . . . spooning . . . " she blushed. "Well, I didn't even know how I'd got there!"
"And you went back last night," said Victor.
"The dog told you, did he?" she said, dully.
"Yes. Sorry."
"It's every night now," moaned Ginger. "I know, because even if I go back to bed there's sand all over the floor and my nails are all broken! I go there every night and I don't know why!"
"You're trying to open the door," said Victor. "There's this big ancient door now, where part of the hill has slid away, and -"
"Yes, I've seen it, but WHY?"
"Well, I've got a couple of ideas," said Victor cautiously.
"Tell me!"
"Um. Well, have you heard of something called a GENIUS LOCI?"
"No." Her brow wrinkled. "It's clever, is it?"
"It's the sort of soul of a place. It can be quite strong. It can be MADE strong, by worship or love or hate, if it goes on long enough. And I'm wondering if the spirit of a place can call to people. And animals, too. I mean, Holy Wood is a different sort of place, isn't it? People act differently here. Everywhere else, the most important things are gods or money or cattle. Here, the most important thing is to be important."
He had her full attention. "Yes?" she said encouragingly, and, "It doesn't sound too bad so far."
"I'm getting to the bad bit."
Victor swallowed. His brain was bubbling like a bouillon. Half-remembered facts surfaced tantalizingly and sunk again. Dry old tutors in high old rooms had been telling him dull old things which were suddenly as urgent as a knife, and he dredged desperately for them.
"I'm not-" he croaked. He cleared his throat. "I'm not sure it's right, though," he managed. "It's come from SOMEWHERE ELSE. It can happen. You've heard of ideas whose time has come?"
"Well, they're the tame ones. There's other ones. Ideas so full of vigour they don't even wait for their time. Wild ideas. Escaped ideas. And the trouble is, when you get something like that, you get a hole -"
He looked at her polite, blank expression. Analogies bubbled to the surface like soggy croutons. Imagine all the worlds that have ever been are in one sense pressed together like a sandwich . . . a pack of cards . . . a book . . . a folded sheet . . . if conditions are right, things can go THROUGH rather than ALONG . . . but if you open a gate between worlds, there are terrible dangers, as for instance . . .
As for instance . . .
As for instance . . .
As for instance what?
It rose up in his memory like suddenly-discovered bit of suspicious tentacle just when you thought it was safe to eat the paella.
"It could be that something else is trying to come through the same way," he ventured. "In the, uh, in the nowhere between the somewhere there are creatures which on the whole I'd rather not describe to you."
"You already have," said Ginger, in a tense voice.
"And, uh, they're generally quite keen to get into real worlds and perhaps they're somehow making contact with you when you're asleep and . . . " He gave up. He couldn't bear her expression any more.
"I could be entirely wrong," he said quickly.
"You've got to stop me opening the door," she whispered. "I could be one of Them."
"Oh, I don't think so," said Victor loftily. "They've generally got too many arms, I think."
"I tried putting tacks on the floor to wake myself up," said Ginger.
"Sounds awful. Did it work?"
"No. They were all back in their bag in the morning. I must have picked them up again."
Victor pursed his lips. "That could be a good sign," he said.
"If you were being summoned by, uh, unpleasant things, I think they wouldn't bother what you walked over."
"You haven't got any idea why it's all happening, have you?" Victor said.
"No! But I always get the same dream." Her eyes narrowed. "Hey, how come you know all this stuff?"
"I - a wizard told me, once," said Victor.
"You're not a wizard yourself?"
"Absolutely not. No wizards in Holy Wood. And this dream?"
"Oh, it's too strange to mean anything. Anyway, I used to dream it even when I was small. It starts off with this mountain, only it's not a normal mountain, because -"
Detritus the troll loomed over them.
"Young Mr Dibbler says it's time to start shooting again," he rumbled.
"Will you come to my room tonight?" hissed Ginger. "Please? You can wake me up if I start sleepwalking again."
"Well, er, yes, but your landlady might not like it -" Victor began.
"Oh, Mrs Cosmopilite is very broadminded," said Ginger.
"She is?"
"She'll just think we're having sex," said Ginger.
"Ah," said Victor hollowly. "That's all right, then."
"Young Mr Dibbler don't like being kept waiting," said Detritus.
"Oh, shut up," said Ginger. She stood up and brushed the dust off her dress. Detritus blinked. People didn't usually tell him to shut up. A few worried fault-lines appeared on his brow. He turned and tried another loom, this time aimed at Victor.
"Young Mr Dibbler don't like -"
"Oh, go away," snapped Victor, and wandered off after her.
Detritus stood alone and screwed up his eyes in the effort of thought.
Of course, people did occasionally say things like "Go away" and "Shut up" to him, but always with the tremor of terrified bravado in their voice, and so naturally he always riposted "Hur hur" and hit them. But no-one had ever spoken to him as if his existence was the last thing in the world they could possibly be persuaded to worry about. His massive shoulders sagged. Perhaps all this hanging around Ruby was bad for him.
Soll was standing over the artist who lettered the cards. He looked up as Victor and Ginger approached.
"Right," he said, "places, everyone. We'll go straight on to the ballroom scene." He looked pleased with himself.
"Are the words all sorted out?" said Victor.
"NO problem," said Soll proudly. He glanced at the sun. "We've lost a lot of time," he added, "so let's not waste any more."
"Fancy you being able to get C.M.O.T. to give in like that," said Victor.
"He had no argument at all. He's gone back to his office to sulk, I expect," said Soll, loftily. "OK, everyone, let's get -"
The lettering artist tugged at his sleeve.
"I was just wandering, Mr Soll, what you wanted me to put in the scene now Victor doesn't mention ribs -"
"Don't worry me now, man!"
"But if you could just give me an idea -"
Soll firmly unhooked the man's hand from his sleeve. "Frankly," he said, "I don't give a damn," and he strode off towards the set.
The artist was left alone. He picked up his paintbrush. His lips moved silently, shaping themselves around the words.
Then he said, "Hmm. Nice one."

(1) 49873, according to Numbers Riktor's clockwork Celestial Enumerator
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Post #650 Subject: Re: RAP / COMMENT
Posted at: 02:08:18 27/12/14 [Quote]
Deªth wisH™ [24466]

Level: 810
Posts: 323
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Post #651 Subject: Re: RAP / COMMENT
Posted at: 12:14:04 27/06/15 [Quote]
johndoe666 [31303]

Level: 3,000
Posts: 349
4 dose whoo care...Terry is still among Us...lil something 4 dee OLE Witchez around,...and Terry o'course...
Of course, Granny Weatherwax made a great play of independence and self-reliance. But the point about that kind of stuff was that you needed someone around to be proudly independent and self-reliant AT. People whoo didn't need people needed people around to know thAt they were the kind of people whoo didn't need people.
It was like hermits. There was no point freezing your nadgers off on top of some mountain while communing with the Infinite unless you could rely on a lot of impressionable young women to come along occasionally and say "Gosh".
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Post #652 Subject: Re: RAP / COMMENT
Posted at: 17:57:58 31/10/15 [Quote]
johndoe666 [31303]

Level: 3,000
Posts: 349
Helloween treat 4 thru OM world...not 4 crybabies...

The Maiden, the Mother, The Crone
Three was a natural number for witches.
And they'd lost one.Well, not lost, exactly. Magrat was queen now, and queens were hard to mislay. But . . . that meant that there were only two of them instead of three.
When you had three, you had one to run around getting people to make up when there'd been a row. Magrat had been good for that. Without Magrat, Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax got on one another's nerves. With her, all three had been able to get on the nerves of absolutely everyone else in the whole world, which had been a lot more fun.
And there was no having Magrat back . . . at least, to be precise about it, there was no having Magrat back YET.
Because, while three was a good number for witches . . . it had to be the RIGHT sort of three. The right sort of . . . TYPES.
Nanny Ogg found herself embarrassed even to think about this, and this was unusual because embarrassement normally came as naturally to Nanny as altruism comes to a cat.
As a witch, she naturally didn't believe in any occult nonsense of any sort. But there were one or two truths down below to bedrock of the soul which had to be faced, and right in among them was this business of, well, of the maiden, the mother and the . . . other one.
There. She'd put words around it.
picked from Mascerade by Terry Pratchett

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Post #653 Subject: Re: RAP / COMMENT
Posted at: 18:42:58 01/12/16 [Quote]

Level: 951
Posts: 2,981
the bear went over the mountain to see what he could see
the other side of the mountain was all that he could see
so he went back over the mountain to see what he could see
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Post #654 Subject: Re: RAP / COMMENT
Posted at: 16:14:35 26/04/19 [Quote]
johndoe666 [31303]

Level: 3,000
Posts: 349
“One of Zaphod's heads looked away. The other turned round to see what the first was looking at, but it wasn't looking at anything very much.”
― Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy devil2
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Post #655 Subject: Re: RAP / COMMENT
Posted at: 14:01:32 12/07/20 [Quote]
johndoe666 [31303]

Level: 3,000
Posts: 349
Hand picked from „Ham on rye“ by Charles Bukowski

A coulpe of night later Becker walked in. I guess my parents gave him my address or he located me through college. I had my name and address listed with the employment division at the college, under „unskilled labor.“ „I will do anything honest or otherwise,“ I had written on my card. No calls.

Becker sat in a chair as I poured the wine. He had on a Marine uniform.

„I see they sucked you in,“ I said.

„I lost my Western Union job. It was all that was left.“

I handed him his drink. „You're not a patriot then?“

„Hell no.“

„Why the Marines?“

„I heard about boot camp. I wanted to see if I could get through it.“

„And you did.“

„I did. There are some crazy guys there. There's a fight almost every night. Nobody stops it. They almost kill each other.“

„I like that.“

„Why don't you join?“

„I don't like to get up early in the morning and I don't like to take orders.“

„How are you going to make it?“

„I don't know. When I get down to my last dime I'll just walk over to skid row.“

„There are some real weirdos down there.“

„They're everywhere.“

I poured Becker another wine.

„The problem is,“ he said, „that there's not much time to write.“

„You still want to be a writter?“

„Sure. How about you?“

„Yeah,“ I said, „but it's pretty hopeless.“

„You mean you're not good enough?“

„No, they're not good enough.“

„What do you mean?“

„You read the magazines? The 'Best Short Stories of the Year' books? There are at least a dozen of them.“

„Yeah, I read them . . .“

„You read The New Yorker“ Harper's? The Atlantic?“

„Yeah ...“

„This is 1940. They're still publishing 19th Century stuff, heavy, labored, pretentious. You either get a headache reading the stuff or you fall asleep.“

„What's wrong?“

„It's a trick, it's a con, a little inside game.“

„Sounds like you've been rejected.“

„I knew I WOULD be. Why waste the stamps? I need wine.“

„I'm going to break through,“ said Becker. „You'll see my books on library shelves one day.“

„Let's not talk about writting.“

„I've read your stuff,“ said Becker. „You're too bitter and you hate everything.“

„Let's not talk about writting.“

„Now you take Thomas Wolfe . . .“

„God damn Thomas Wolfe! He sounds like an old woman on the telephone!“

„O.K., who's your boy?“

„James Thurber.“

„All that upper-middle-class folderol . . .“

„He KNOWS that everyone is crazy.“

„Thomas Wolfe is of the earth . . .“

„Only assholes talk about the writting . . .“

„You calling me an asshole?“

„Yes ...“

I poured him another wine and myself another wine.

„You're a fool for getting into that uniform.“

„You call me an asshole and you call me a fool. I thought we were friends.“

„We are. I just don't think you're protecting yourself.“

„Every time I see you you have a drink in your hand. You call THAT protecting yourself?“

„It's the best way I know. Without drink I would have long ago cut my god-damned throat.“

„That's bullshit.“

„Nothing's bullshit that works. The Pershing Square preachers have their God. I have the blood of my god!“

„You're just hiding from reality,“ Becker said.

„Why not?“

„You'll never be a writter if you hide from reality.“

„What are you talking about? That's what writters DO.“

Becker stood up. „When you talk to me, don't raise your voice.“

„What do you want to do, raise my dick?“

„You don't have a dick!“

I caught him unexpectedly with a right that landed behind his ear. The glass flew out of his hand and he staggered across the room. Becker was a powerfull man, much stronger than I was. He hit the edge of the dresser, turned, and I landed another straight right to the side of his face. He staggered over near the window which was open and I was affraid to hit him then because he might fall into the street.

Becker gathered himself together and shook his head to clear it.

„All right now,“ I said, „let's have a little drink. Violence nauseates me.“

„O.K.,“ said Becker.

He walked over and picked up his glass. The cheap wine I drank didn't have corks, the tops just unscrewed. I unscrewed a new bottle. Becker held out his glass and I poured him one. I poured myself one, set the bottle down. Becker emptied his. I emptied mine.

„No hard feelins,“ I said.

„Hell, no, buddy,“ said Becker, putting down his glass. Then he dug a right into my gut. I doubled over and as I did he pushed down on the back of my head and brought his knee up into my face. I dropped to my knees, blood running from my nose all over my shirt.

„Pour me a drink, buddy,“ I said, „let's think this thing over.“

„Get up,“ said Becker, „that was just chapter one.“

I got up and moved toward Becker. I blocked his jab, caught his right on my elbow, and punch a short straight right to his nose. Becker stepped back. We both had bloody noses.

I rushed him. We were both swinging blindly. I caught some good shots. He hit me with another good right to the belly. I doubled over but came up with the uppercut. It landed. It was a beautiful shot, a lucky shot. Becker lurched backwards and fell against the dresser. The back of his head hit the mirror. The mirror shattered. He was stunned. I had him. I grabbed him by the shirt front and hit him with a hard right behind his left ear. He dropped on the rug, and knelt there on all fours. I walked over and unsteadily poured myself a drink.

„Becker,“ I told him, „I kick ass around here about twice a week. You just showed up on the wrong day.“

I emptied my glass. Becker got up. He stood a while looking at me. Then he came forward.

„Becker,“ I said, „listen . . .“

He started a right lead, pulled it back and slammed a left to my mouth. We started in again. There wasn't much defense. It was just punch, punch, punch. He pushed me over a chair and the chair flattened. I got up, caught him coming in. He stumbled backwards and I landed another right. He crashed backwards into the wall and the whole room shook. He bounced off and landed a right high on my forehead and I saw lights: gree, yellow, red . . . Then he landed a left to the ribs and a right to the face. I swung and missed.

God damn, I thought, doesn't anybody HEAR all this noise? Why don't they come and stop it? Why don't they call the police?

Becker rushed me again. I missed a roundhouse right and then that was it for me . . .

When I regain consciousness it was dark, it was night. I was under the bed, just my head was sticking out. I must have crawled under there. I was a coward. I had puked all over myself. I crawled out from under the bed.

I looked at the smashed dresser mirror and the chair. The table was upside down. I walked over and tried to set it upright. It fell over. Two of the legs wouldn't hold. I tried to fix them as best I could. I set the table up. It stood a moment, then fell over again. The rug was wet with wine and puke. I found a wine bottle lying on its side. There was a bit left. I drank that down and looked around for more. There was nothing. There was nothing to drink. I put the chain on the door. I found a cigarette, lit it and stood in the window, staring donn at Temple Street. It was a nice night out.

Then there was a knock on the door. „Mr. Chinaski?“ It was Mrs. Kansas. She wasn't alone. I heard other voices whispering. She was with her little dark friends.

„Mr. Chinaski?“


„I want to come into your room.“

„What for?“

„I want to change the sheets.“

„I'm sick now. I can't let you in.“

„I just want to change the sheets. It'll be just a few minutes.“

„No. I can't let you in. Come in the morning.“

I heard them whispering. Then I heard them walking down the hall. I went over and sat on the bed. I needed a drink, bad. It was a Saturday night, the whole town was drunk. Maybe I could sneak out?

I walked to the door and and opened it a crack, leaving the chain on, and I peeked out. At the top of the stairway there was a Filipino, one of Mrs. Kansas' friends. He had a hammer in his hand. He was down on his knees. He looked up at me, grinned, and then pounded a nail into the rug. He was pretending to fix the rug. I closed the door.

I really needed a drink. I paced the floor. Why could everybody in the world have a drink but me? How long was I going to have to stay in that god-damned room? I opened the door again. It was the same. He looked up at me, grinned, then hammered another another nail into the floor. I closed the door.

I got out my suitcase and began throwing my few clothes in there. I still had quite a bit of money I had won gambling but i knew that I could never pay for the damages to the room. Nor did I want to. It really hadn't been my fault. They should have stopped the fight. And Becker had broken the mirror . . .

I was packed. I had the suitcase in one hand and my portable typewritter in its case in the other. I stood in front of the door for some time. I looked out again. He was still there. I slipped the chain off the door. Then I pulled the dorr open and burst out. I ran toward the stairway.

„HEY! WHERE YOU GO?“ the little guy asked. He was still down on one knee. He started to raise his hammer. I swung the portable typewritter hard against the side of his head. It made a horible sound. I was down the steps and through the lobby and out the door.

Maybe I had killed the guy.

I started running down Temple Street. The I saw a cab. He was empty. I leaped in. „Bunker Hill,“ I said, „FAST!" gunsmilie
Last edited by johndoe666 at 14:04:02 12/07/20, edited 1 times in total.
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