Internal Monologues... of DOOM!

Argh, freaking buggers.
It's that time of the month again. Time for a haircut. I've always hated getting haircuts, this was no secret. But it was compulsory. In the rules, my teacher would say, before he would start snipping at my hair with those short, stubby blades his pair of scissors had. Some of my peers had found the punishment he meted out to be even better than getting a haircut where you actually had to pay. The teacher realized this, and for the past few months he'd been trying to cut their hairs badly.

It didn't go well though, and one day a lousy group of girls, the one every school was damned to have, or maybe not, squealed over a rebel with a haircut resembling some emotionally-unstable teenager from an animated series. Those lot seem to be hip these days. I ought to have a go at that, if only the package didn't come with a tendency to cut people(including myself) and death by handguns. Back to bad haircuts, I couldn't tell why my teacher shed tears later that day - it was either pride for his hair-cutting awesomeness or shame for his failure. I don't really get it. He failed doing something bad. Isn't that, uhh, good?

The bell hung over the front door greeted my entry into the shop. The barber took his time to get ready. The tabloid these days, he said, were truly unforgiving. Fun to read when you're not the one being screwed on the front page, though. He was in a good mood, and there was no one else due for a haircut that day, so he took his time snipping my messy hair. Humming about some tune I didn't recognize. I'm not the kind to mind. Although I can't say I wasn't thankful when a father came careening into the shop with his son in tow. The barber sped up, and minutes later I was already putting my cap back on and handing the mustached fellow a fiver. As I walked out the door I could see the boy taking his seat for his own monthly haircut.

Ever since I was a wee first-grader, there's something about getting haircuts that I've been hating. That something is the prickles of cut hair that stick to your clothes and jab your skin in tandem. Itchy, scratchy, just like that head-blowing(literally) cartoon in that cartoon. You know, the one with all those yellow people. Wiping the buggers off with a mere limb isn't enough, which is why a bath is always what's next in store for me.

Then it's the rest of my homework from last week, some philosophy, dinner, and sleep. Ah, ****, I don't even know why I'm having all these internal monologues. I guess I'm just reflecting on my life, and what's to come next. A bath? Yeah. That's it, a bath.
I'm gonna need it, especially now that I'm running to board the goddamn bus. That usually means I get to stand. In close proximity to someone's sweaty armpit. Yeah. ****.

A story IN a story?
I'm imagining all this to be like a topic on Supercheats. The high-and-mighty ones on writs and stuff would probably find it queer, the way the story is being told and all, and how short it is. I bet there won't be a comment until even the tenth view, and hey, I was right.

The funny thing is, the story hasn't even started yet.

I don't, for love of cheese, know why I titled it 'Internal Monologues... OF DOOM!'. I'm guessing it's because I'm trying to convey a message. A message that says things aren't always as they seem. The title isn't like the posts, that guy you saw handing out greens to a beggar might be God, an evil-looking man might be your ally, and that girl you befriended when you were little might be what the Mayans were warning us about. Things that make you say "Oh shi-" when you transit from 'about to read it' to 'having read it'. Either all of that or I was balancing myself halfway on the boundary of sleep the night I made this thread.

The world's just like that.
I don't know where to go from here, with that title stuck and all, but hey, watch out, a story's getting pieced together in my cranium.
And it may have something to do with a stapler with the words 'Omega' engraved on it.
****, the fuzz is on my trail for double-posting, gotta go!

Interesting first two, entries, to say the least. I'll keep reading if you keep posting.

Not the time for 'Omega' as of yet
Hell, I don't know what to write for the next entries.
"Why don't you write a story in there? Short ones, you know, something like that." suggested Pride, modest and all, which was pretty weird. He's usually spouting over 200 different types of cusses whenever I'm in a bind. My face was still bitter, but Pride's known me for quite some time to know that I'm going over the thought right now. "Thank the mate first." he said, before shutting himself back into his room. He's right.
Thanks Yogi_Bear.
Even though it's not much, but the decency to comment sure uplifts some of my spirit... It's now burning to write up something! Oh yeah, about Pride, well, maybe I'll tell you folks who, or what, he is, in some other story, but right now I'm gonna tell you a story of action!

****************************************
Part 1 - Who the hell put a portable loo inside a candy factory?
The note specifically said the goddamn candy factory. "Where the hell is this turd, then?" thought the man. For the last two hours he's been standing with his back to the portable loo, and the smell was as bitter as hell. Nobody ever flushes in the portable loo. Nobody. The man pushed his shades up with his index finger. Hearing something just a few blocks away, he parted his coat a bit to make sure his gun was kept in place. He knew there would be heat. But he didn't care. He needed to know. What happened that day. More importantly, what happened to Tina.

It was a Saturday. They got a job, and it seemed normal, not unlike the others before. Usual espionage and stuff. Another white-collar employee, poking his nose in affairs which possibly infringed the law. Done with their breakfast at the cafe below his office, Morgan and Tina got ready to move out. Morgan took out a smoke while Tina went to pay. Then she would come out, only to find him killing his years again, and snatch the cigarette out of his mouth. Morgan would shrug off her advice, and they would start making their way to his car. It was something sort of a routine for them, but they enjoyed it, something each does not know of the other.

"His contact... is a bum in a back alley?" remarked Tina with a low voice. Morgan right beside her nodded, clutching the binoculars in his hand. From inside their parked car, they could see clearly, maybe too clearly, that the target - Leroy McMillan - is conversing with a bum that just showed up from out of nowhere. The bespectacled man kept looking around, as if worried, before the bum hands over an envelope, a thick one. Leroy nodded. And they parted ways. The bum vanished into the alleyways, and Leroy waltzed out in front of Morgan's car with a calm endeavor. He looked to his left, then to his right, before taking the right.

Morgan, already having pulled up the day's newspaper, said "****" without even looking away from the inked words. "What's wrong? It didn't seem like he found us suspicious." asked Tina, holding her mirror and lipstick as cover-up tools. "That's what he wants us to think..." replied Morgan in a low voice, shifting his attention slightly to take a glimpse at the rear view mirror. Leroy was looking directly at him. He could've sworn their eyes met. Another cuss finding its way out of his mouth, Morgan threw the paper to his side and rushed to open the door. Getting out, his feet crunched on something. An envelope. The same envelope Leroy had received from the bum.

How Morgan would be delighted to kick himself for being such an ignorant idiot.

His feet felt something edged inside, and Morgan knew what it was. He could hear Tina, still inside the car, say the words "What's wrong?" before he jumped into the car himself, slamming the door shut, bracing for what was coming next. Morgan felt like he was in the middle of a maelstrom. His ears were ringing from the explosion. He could feel the car turning on its side from the sudden impulse. Debris and dust from the pathway scattered all over, entering the car from the shattered windows. His vision started to blur. He saw, just before the bomb went off, on the rear view mirror - the sight of a smiling man. Leroy McMillan.

****************************************

Well, very nice. I'm liking this a lot actually. I will keep reading as you post new stuff.

Red Dead Redemption
Ignore the title, I just thought of that game for some reason because of how dead the FF/RP forums are. Man, years ago this section of the website was popular. People streamed everyday to RP mushy love and how to spill somebody's guts into their bowl of noodles. So to say, people were actually enthusiastic back then. Now, sigh...
But not all is lost. Every time I come on to find a new post by the folks back at Ragnorak II, a smile is strewn over my face. A smile that gets wider very time. I don't know, maybe it just reminds me of the days I role played under another name. Or maybe the belief that some people are born enthusiastic. KOG, loony, Yogi_Bear, T_F, Guy and pengy. Yeah, those guys don't know me, but hopefully they'll do. Soon.

Ahem, well, without further interruption, I guess it's time for another chapter of my title-less story. It's short, and done spontaneously, on the spot, with minimal editing and stuff, so forgive me if it isn't very on to par. Well here you go-
*Boop*

What the hell? Where did the lights go?
"Hello there buggers, I'd like some of your time for an intermission. So you think 1:2 is a nice guy? Do you even know what 1:2 means? It's his mental ratio."
The hell? Is that Pride? Goddamn it, not again.
"Yes, again. Here I'd like to show you a replay of how 1:2 reacted after learning of a certain member's 'warm welcome'. Please enjoy the show."

___________________________________________________
*1:2 has logged in*
1:2 - Alright, let's see what we can do today. Hmm... nothing to do in both RPs... Hey, looks like somebody made a new RP! Uh, crap. I didn't play Ocarina of Time. Sigh, well, should log out I guess. Hey, I've never been to my profile page since the site revamp... Wonder how it's like?
*Clicks on own link, browser loads profile page*
1:2 - Haha, nothing in here. I might just write something when... Hey. What's this now? Comments? That's new.
1:2 - ...
1:2 - What the *bleep* hell? I'm not a *bleeping* new guy! Argh! What a *bleep*!
___________________________________________________
END OF REPLAY

"See, folks, that's how he's like in reality."
WHAT THE HELL PRIDE. THAT WAS YOUR REACTION, NOT MINE.
"Yeah, I know. I need some fun too you know."

Well, I promise, next time's gonna be the 2nd part. This time, however, I have urgent 'business' to attend to. Sorry, but the monologue ends here for now!

« Last edited by 1 : 2 on Aug 14th 2011 »

This is really... interesting. I'm not sure what it is about it, but you have definately caught my attention. I can tell you're a really good author, and I'm really curious to see how this pans out. Ill keep looking in to this thread as you post more.

Of Pitchforks and Gods of Wars
Yeah, smash my door down with pitchforks and torches in your hands if you want to. Seriously, do it, I'm lonely. *Insert Forever Alone Face*
Back to the topic at hand, forgive me for seemingly to have given up on this topic. A friend of mine saw the Omega symbol I had as my avatar and asked me if I played God of War. I declined. Handing me his copy of the game and saying that I was getting too addicted to RPGs, he promised that 'pushing a blade through a Minotaur's throat is darn good fun'. I only took the game out of the moment's thought, but that night I was sucked into ancient Greece where the local currency were my two Flaming-Blades-of-Flaming-Chaos. It took me some days in my life. Even the shut-in Wrath came out to cheer for the gore I had manifested. Hence his name, eh?
While I still cannot come to the logic of shagging(until the vase falls if I might add) to gain souls which you use to upgrade the stuff you use to kill stuff to gain more souls to upgrade more stuff to kill more stuff to gain more more souls, I have to admit that sticking one of my blades into a Minotaur's pharynx was, indeed, darn good fun.
*************************************
Part 2 - This ain't my car keys you're talking about.
Morgan could only see white. In the center, which seemed distant, was a bright light. He couldn't resist to quote the phrase 'don't go near the light' in his head. His lips moved. "I won't... go near... the light!"
"Don't go near the light." a voice spoke. "Who... who is that?" he asked. "God."

He opened his eyes. He was on a hospital bed. To his left he saw the face of a well-built adult man, complete with facial hair. His sight was blurry, but he could make out who it was. "Fawkes...?" he asked. "Yeah, it's me. Good to see that 'God' thing did the trick." he replied. "My eyes... They're... they're doing the shimmy."

"A bomb went off about the length of a ruler from your feet." the officer replied. "What... what happened..."
"Get some more rest. The shimmies are a sign you need it."

Morgan couldn't say anything else. His head was starting to move from left to right. He had to close his eyes, to rest, but the questions never left his mind.

He didn't lose any limbs. He didn't lose any organs. To speak, he didn't lose anything on him. But that day he lost something. Well, two things. One was Tina. The other...

"Well, look who's punctual." a voice said. Morgan grunted, his flashback interrupted by the Turd and the Chocolate Factory. Well, candy factory, actually. "Why a goddamn candy factory?" he asked, turning towards the voice, folding his sunglasses. "Hey, everyone loves candy, don't you?" the man replied, stepping into the light. A well suited man Morgan once recognized as a client. "Well, I've gotten to loathing portable loos..."

"Well, I certainly see you aren't loathing wearing shades at night."

Morgan didn't reply. He walked slowly towards the man, clutching the pair of shades in his hand. "What, no more funny questions?" the man flashed a smile. "Oh, there'll be questions alright. But they'll be one sided." Morgan replied, stopping some feet from the man. "Who are they?"

"The American Government." the man replied without pause. Morgan made a look of skepticism. "I... can tell you're telling the truth."

"Honesty is the best policy, I always say." the man smiled. "**** that, what I want you to say is something else." Morgan snapped, but with the calm, collected demeanor reflective in his eyes. "What the hell happened that day?"

"Look, I'm nothing but a pawn. My path in life is determined by the hand bearing the name the United States of America."

"What the hell is with all the symbolism?!" Morgan went forward and grabbed the man by his collar. The pair of shades hit the ground. Morgan could hear a click coming from below. The man had a gun pressed against his stomach. "...And the hand gave me a gun." the man's eyes shadowed in the light, a deranged smile forming on his face. The gunshot echoed through the night, but where it come into being, only the unseen creatures hiding in the shadow would hear of it.

"The weird tasks they give me these days..." the man thought, waiting for Morgan's body to slump to the ground. But he realized something even weirder than his task at hand. There was no blood. It wasn't a blank; he had checked. And while they chit-chatted he made sure the private eye wasn't wearing anything special. He could hear Morgan drawing breath. "I know what you're thinking."

The other thing Morgan lost that day...

"I guess you could say I'm wearing a bullet-proof coat that isn't a bullet-proof coat."

It wasn't something one could easily lose.

"Nah, scratch that."

It was something he believed one couldn't lose. Well, at least in the past.

"I guess you could say I'm wearing an everything-proof coat."

That day, he lost his death.
One hard fist to the jaw and the Turd and the Chocolate Factory went off to sleep. Morgan picked up the shades of his. He always knew these government turds weren't very sturdy.
*************************************

« Last edited by 1 : 2 on Aug 28th 2011 »

Okay.... interesting. Some of the dialogue is a little confusing, it usually helps to split it up, while having one characters lines in one paragraph, and another's lines in another paragraph. For example this:
"Well, look who's punctual." a voice said. Morgan grunted, his flashback interrupted by the Turd and the Chocolate Factory. Well, candy factory, actually. "Why a goddamn candy factory?" he asked, turning towards the voice, folding his sunglasses. "Hey, everyone loves candy, don't you?" the man replied, stepping into the light. A well suited man Morgan once recognized as a client. "Well, I've gotten to loathing portable loos..."

could be changed to this:
"Well, look who's punctual." a voice said.

Morgan grunted, his flashback interrupted by the Turd and the Chocolate Factory. Well, candy factory, actually. "Why a goddamn candy factory?" he asked, turning towards the voice, folding his sunglasses.

"Hey, everyone loves candy, don't you?" the man replied, stepping into the light. A well suited man Morgan once recognized as a client.

"Well, I've gotten to loathing portable loos..."

Rivalry Systems Activated
No way am I leaving this for dead. As long as my body binds my soul!
-Extremely cheesy powers activated-
AWWWWWWWW YEAAAAAHHHH LITERARY POWAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH

...
Well, ahem, back to business then...
*************************************
Part 3 - My brain's so filthy, even bullets steer clear of it.
Monday, 7.43 am, 41 hours before the contact meeting
Barnaby Jones fired up his 1963 Buick Riviera. Fingers leaving the hand brake, he reversed out of his narrow driveway into the road. Time for work. He'd done good for the past few months, and he can feel that raise coming in any time now. He'd been known for his great punctual record and he was in no mood to change that. In his head he thought of that cute office girl's look on her face when she sees him, yet again, as the first to be sitting at his cubicle. Maybe it was time, he thought.

"I can't stay single forever. Time to make the move."

Turning into downtown for his usual 'secret' shortcut would soon be an act that changed his day. Something got into his eye, and he professionally(as he believed it) steered with only one hand, with the other mending his left eye. Suddenly his right eye caught something too, and soon he felt troubled. But he kept his cool, and kept on driving, believing that there would be no one else on the road at this time, especially in these parts of town. What a shock he had when his eyes finally cleared to see a man standing in the middle of the road, right in the path of his car. At the speed he was going, it was too late to hit the brakes. A loud bang was all he heard before Jones went out cold.

The next time he opened his eyes he was lying inside a hospital ward. His head was spinning, and it was quite some time before he remembered about the man he'd hit. Stumbling out of the ward, he went up to a nearby doctor.

"Hmm? Aren't you that young man in that car accident? How are you feeling?"
"No time for me, doc. There was that other man I hit - where is he? Is he dead?"
"Man...? What are you talking about? You're the only one we've received. And from the looks of your car, I don't think it was a man you ran into. Unless he was made out of bricks."
"Wha- What? What do you mean, doc?"
"It's Doctor Bellman. And there was never any chance that running into a man could've caused you to hit your head that badly. There're stitches under those bandages on that there head of yours, you know."

His head given a scar, his fine collector's car wrecked, and the chance he'd wanted with the office girl ruined, there was nothing else Barnaby Jones wished to do then but slump into his hospital bed and sleep the day off.

In an alleyway on the opposite end of town, a figure sat down against the wall, silent. The gray wall in front of him were full of fist marks and cracks, and bits were falling off, revealing a small part of the red bricks which laid under. The figure looked at his two hands. There were no signs of injury. Not even the smallest scratch. At this sight, his hands began to tremble, his eyes widening almost in similarity to someone on the brink of insanity. He could feel it. He could feel his heart racing, but his breath didn't change pace. There was no sweat tracing down from his forehead. He'd never felt this feeling before, but it was a feeling he wanted to be rid of. It was a feeling of dread. Of death.

His hands shaking, he pulled out a gun from his pocket, determined to try it again. The silencer in place, and the bullets loaded, he placed it against his temple, pulling the trigger almost immediately. A muffled sound and a bit of air was all he heard and felt. Nothing more.

The gun fell to the ground. Minutes later people started crowding around the alleyway, bewildered at the damage made on the wall, and of the scream they heard a few minutes past, of a man in full wrath.

Back at the hospital, Jones only gave an empty look when the nurse told him he had a visitor.
"Hi, Jones. The office got word of what happened to you. It was terrible. I... I got worried, so I came to check up on you. You don't mind, do you?" smiled the blond girl intimately.
"Not at all." replied Jones, his face forming into a smile.
*************************************

« Last edited by 1 : 2 on Sep 22nd 2011 »

Good chapter. Interesting. Good job progressing the story. One grammatical thing that jumped out of me, was saying "good" when you should have said "well". It was in the sentence, "He'd done good for the past few months..." That good should say well, but other than that minor thing, which always bugs me, it looks good. Great ideas, the new guy is interesting too.

Le Gran Zombi
Thanks for picking that out, man. I usually don't see those small things because I write at whim, and I keep the editing to a minimum.
Alright, time for another part I think. Then I should start killing more Gorgons.

*************************************
Part 4 - Now there's a name, and an address, too
Monday, 1.17 pm, 35 hours before the contact meeting
The sun shone brightest in the afternoon. A little boy ran laughing, headed for the slides with a little girl running after him. Suddenly, he stopped, noticing somebody sitting down on the dirt, with his back to one of the monkey bars.

"Hey, mister. You okay?" asked the little boy, a plastic bag in his hands.
Morgan didn't answer. He glared straight up at the two kids who approached him just now, intending to scare them away.
"Maybe he's hurt? We should call granny." the little girl spoke next.
"Tch. I'm fine. Leave me alone, you runts." Morgan snarled, clenching his teeth.
"But, you're all dirty, and dusty..."the girl took notice.
"And smelly, too!" spoke the boy.

Morgan sighed and dropped his head down. He noticed a pair of feet walking towards him.
"Now'ere kids, whatcha doin' this far from you're grandmama?" spoke a voice.
"Granny, I don't think this man is feeling well." the girl turned around to face her grandmother.
"I don't think it's just his feelings that aren't well, Linda." the little boy turned towards his sister.

"Smart-ass." Morgan muttered under his breath, his head still dropped low.
"Now, don't ya go using that kind o' language around kids." the female voice spoke.
This surprised Morgan somewhat. He raised his head. Behind the two kids were a, short, fat, elderly woman of color wearing a pair of black glasses that made her look like she was sight-impaired. In her hands she had more plastic bags, with the same shop banner on the boy's bag.

"Hoo whee. Right as right you swee' angels were. He don't look right by a long shot." the elderly woman spoke.
"Yep, she's blind." Morgan thought.
The elderly woman took off her glasses and continued to fix her eyes on Morgan. He could tell that she found something wrong with him.
"What's on your mind, lady?" he asked.
She didn't reply, but kept her gaze on him. The kids had moved into standing behind her, as if not to disturb what she's doing. Suddenly, a smile came over her face, and she started laughing. Morgan could hear the words 'amazing, very amazing' coming out of her mouth.

"What is it? Why are you laughing? Do I look funny or something?" Morgan asked, getting irritated.
"Get up, my boy, get up. I got a good knowledge you're gettin' next."
"What... the hell?"
"Ho ho, sorry my boy, hell may not be for you. Now git up!"
"Okay, fine, I'm getting up. Now can you get the hell out of here?"

Morgan got on his feet, but before he could wipe the dust off his pants the old lady took his hand and placed a folded piece of paper onto his palm.

"What... what is this?"
"You go where I writ. You'll find help there. Very good help, trust me."
"Help? What, a police station?"

Morgan unfolded the piece of paper. Inside was written the name 'Eldrich Gertreimer' and an address.
"He he, you go there, alright? This kind o' knowledge don't come often. You're lucky you ran into Mama Hoowee."
"Wait, wait, what is this all about? Who is this guy? And what do I have waiting for me in Philadelphia?" Morgan asked in a puzzled voice, his eyes still locked on the written words. When he raised his head the woman was already walking away, her two grandchildren following behind. They turned around to wave him goodbye, and not knowing why, he waved back. Soon they were out of sight.

"Hell. Maybe she's just pulling my leg. I did call one of her grand kids a smart-ass." Morgan thought. He looked at the piece of paper in his hands, now a bit crumpled, and closed the hand into a fist.
"It's not like I have anything to lose, though. Philadelphia, huh?" Morgan turned around and started walking, headed for his office. He could feel his senses coming back to him. Maybe it was thanks to the old lady and those two kids. His hand did not shook the slightest anymore.
*************************************

"His hand did not shake" :P It probably wouldn't kill you to check over your writing at least once. But another nice chapter, good work. Keep it up, it's starting to get interesting.

Yiazmat is seriously bad-ass!
Man, 2 hours a minimum to beat that guy! What am I supposed to do in the mean time?
Time for another chapter, then! Oh, and about that little thing, Yogi.
This might be come as a surprise to you, but English is only my second language, so, yeah...
Thanks for putting that one on the deck, though.

*************************************
Part 5 - Cross my palm with silver
Tuesday, 11.32 am, 13 hours before the contact meeting
There the colored man stood, in front of the age worn door, tattered with nails and tapes, putting a key into the keyhole and turning the doorknob.

"Mama Hoowee, you in here?" spoke the man, turning his head from to left to right, looking into the room he knew well. It was the room at the back of Mama Hoowee's shop, in which she sells amulets, advice, and provides fortune telling for those inquisitive of their future. The room was filled with strange items, instruments, and books, lined in piles on the corners and against the walls. Two cupboards on opposite sides of the room both hold mysterious, enigmatic instruments one can tell to be important to their owner. They were placed in an organized matter, contrasting the objects on the floor.

Strange scents filled the air, but the man had not find it bothersome on all his other visits before. He wouldn't find it such this time as well, even more so because something was on his mind. The man walked into the center of the room after locking the door behind him and looked around.

"Mama Hoowee, you in here?" he raised his voice a bit.
"In the 'ere kitchen!" replied a voice.

The man turned around to face a door after getting the response. He immediately smelled cookies after turning the doorknob and opening the door. He walked through a dim corridor and pushed open the door at the end which was already ajar. The cookie smell got stronger.

"Whum di dee, whum di dee. What've you got today, Miles?" asked the elderly woman.
"Hello Mama Hoowee. I heard something the other day..." the man took off his hat.
"Yes...?"
"You talked to the loa again."
"And what of it, Miles?"
"Mama Hoowee, you know well talking with them cuts out years of your life!"
"Don't worry, kiddo. This mama ain't sleeping in the coffin before I see my sweet grandkids get married!"
"You have to stop asking them favors!"
"What was I supposed to do? It wasn't no average day last day."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, let's just say I once thought I'd be the one to live the farthest."
"...Who is it? A hougan? Another mambo?"

"Nay. It be a normal man. But one the loa can't be touchin, nor can the death himself." spoke mama Hoowee casually, grabbing her mittens.
"Are you serious?! Was it him you asked the loa about? What did you do?" Miles' eyes widened.
"I helped 'im through knowledge. He may gain his life back, he may not."
"Just tell me where he is and you'll be the one to live the longest again!" Miles got up from the chair, not believing what Mama Hoowee is saying, but not denying it at the same time.
"I'd rather not, boyo. You might be the one to lose yer life."
"So that's it? We're just gonna leave him alone?"
"We're going to sit back and watch how things go. Go with the flow, they say."

Miles was silent for a while. Then he sat back down, sighing.

"At the mean time, why not try some of these cookies?" the elderly woman held out the tray out in front of the man.
"Sure, Mama Hoowee. Thanks." Miles said, picking up one of the cinnamon cookies lined on the tray in front of him.
"How about you bring some of them over to your dear old mother, 'kay?"
"Sure. She'd love them." replied Miles, looking on as Mama Hoowee placed some of the cookies into a paper bag.
*************************************

« Last edited by 1 : 2 on Sep 28th 2011 »

Good chapter as always. I did not know that English was your second language, you write in it very well, albeit with few mistakes. It's getting very interesting.

Most interesting, dude. I'm starting to see where this is going somewhat, and I'm enjoying it. "Lost his death" lol I thought that was an awesome quote.

About the past
Exams have been delaying my presence on the site, but I'm still keeping my word; this thing ain't down for the count yet. I even had to drop out of MHP3rd and stay away from my PS2 because of said exam. Frustrating, all this is. But hey, why take mind of it?

Anyway, those two posts from you guys are enough to make me sit in front of this comp of mine (for hours) to think up the next chapter. I might even stop the spontaneous writing if I get far enough into this. Gotta think up things that aren't too cliched... Oh, also, some terms from the last chapter are connected to voodooism, such as hougan, mambo, and loa. That's all I can tell you guys, though. You could Google them up. Unless you already did that. Or, unless you're already acquainted with the terms.

*************************************
Part 6 - A Look into the Times of Now
Present
It was raining heavily in the city's heart. Spotting a brightly lit coffee shop on the other side of the road, the man reached into his pocket to make sure his phone was alright and crossed the road, intent on getting a nice cup of coffee. Once inside he didn't hesitate to call the waitress and order one. The other customers looked at him warily, but he responded by saying "Good day" to all of them.

His warm smile played its part and they soon turned their attention back to their own doings, smiling. Some even responded to him warmly. Finding a seat, the man took off his coat and placed it at his side as he sat down. He took out his cellphone and flicked a few drops of water off of it. As if on cue, the phone rang.
"Sorry, I couldn't talk to you in the middle of that downpour." the man spoke into the mouthpiece.
"Your phone's waterproof." replied a female voice on the other end.
"Ehh, I don't want any bolt of lightning to strike down on me."
"Quit joking around. He's got Michael."
"What?? So he really has become one of us?"
"He didn't die from point-blank gunfire. You tell me. I'm not one of you."
"So it's time for me to enter the fray, then."
"So it is." the female voice replied. "Try convincing him first." she spoke, before hanging up.
"Tch, no sweet goodbye?" the man joked, having withdrawn his phone.
The coffee that arrived moments later accompanied him as water rained down upon the earth for the hours to come.

Morgan drove into the silent neighborhood, darkness abundant as it was night. Looking into the mirror, he could see the contact squirming about in the dim light.
"Hey, take it easy. You're gonna help me confirm a few things. That's all."
The contact didn't reply, which Morgan had expected. That tape over his mouth wasn't for nothing, he grinned.
Soon he had driven onto a driveway at the end of the row of houses, with only rows of bushes available on the other side.
Getting out of the car, a young woman came walking out of the house, and into his view, her face half-hidden in the darkness. But Morgan could see she was distraught. He knew she wanted to ask him questions like "Who is that?" and "What did you do?".
"How is he?" Morgan asked before she could do so.
She was silent for a while.

"Father's fine." she replied, her eyes caught on the man Morgan was carrying on his shoulders.
"Come inside. I'll explain what you see here." Morgan placed his hand on her shoulder, ignoring the squirming and muffled qualms the contact was making.
The young woman can only stay silent and comply.
*************************************

« Last edited by 1 : 2 on Oct 13th 2011 »

Well... interesting. Good job. I don't know what to say other than that, but good work. Keep it up, I'll keep reading.

A conspiracy I'm sensing. Very interesting, keep writing please. Also, exams freaking suck, huh?

« Last edited by Nonentity on Oct 15th 2011 »

Yeah, don't get your hopes up
...about me leaving this to die. The title got you good, huh? Well, the three-week exam that has been keeping me busy has finally ended. You read right, the exam was held over the span of three weeks. Sheesh. But I'm here not to ramble, I'm here to write. So take in this new chapter of a story that has evolved numerous times in my head. Still no title, though.

Oh, and in response; yes, exams freaking suck. And sadly the conspiracy might not be what you hope for.
*************************************
Part 7 - Midnight Visitor
"You can cut my tongue off if you want, I'm not saying anything." said the contact.
"Of course you're not. How could you say anything if your tongue's lopped off?" replied Morgan without turning to the man. "You're quite loaded... Typical for a 'hand' of the government. But maybe you're not all that honest with your job?" Morgan remarked, going through the man's belongings. They weren't very distinguishing for someone he thought to be from the Federal Bureau, but he guess it kind of makes sense. Putting down the firearm belonging to the man on the table, Morgan picked up his wallet next. Flicking through notes of varying value, he found a note hidden amongst them that was rolled up and flattened, possibly due to being kept where it was. He unfolded it and viewed the small white item. He thought of it for a while.

"Okay, I'm gonna go up for a while now. Don't make too much noise; the neighbors are sleeping." Morgan joked, but the tone of his voice and his glaring eye implied no humor. He turned to his left and took the stairs leading up, out of the basement. The moment Morgan closed the door behind him, the contact started to struggle against the ropes tying to him to the brown steel chair he found 'rusty'.

"Damn, that *******... How is it that he didn't die from that shot? Pointblank, damn it!" he thought, continuing to struggle. If anyone finds out he got strapped to a rusty chair in only his boxers and singlet, he'd be laughed at! He noticed Morgan leaving the gun on the table and smirked. "One-time use... one-time use only, I'll bet! He's not going to survive a second shot!" he thought, putting more strength into his arms.

Meanwhile, the young woman upstairs turned her attention to Morgan, who had just come up from the basement. "So?" asked the young woman. "I haven't asked him anything yet, but I found something very interesting in his wallet." Morgan replied.

"Wait, you searched an officer's wallet?
"Anne, I don't think he's an officer... or anything of the like."
"You told me yourself just half an hour ago, he was working for the government!"
"Yes, I did, but I doubt he that now. Look, this is what I found. A piece of paper with the words "Ask for the woman" and this... strange phone number." he showed the opened piece of paper to Anne. Anne parted her golden hair that covered her left eye to have a better look.
"It doesn't look like it's for anywhere here in the US... Maybe it's foreign?" she asked.
"No, it doesn't look like any kind of phone number in the world... It's got too many digits, and the structure is different." thought Morgan.
"Well, looks like you have quite the past with phone numbers." the young woman smiled, continuing to fold the clothes just as she had done before Morgan came up.
"Kinda. I can't recall how much digits I've dialed in my line of work. It's just as much before that." Morgan lowered his hand holding the piece of paper and looked around. "Where's everyone gone to?" he asked.

"Miles is in the guestroom with Mama Hoowee and father. Barnaby is upstairs, in his bedroom, trying to call his girlfriend." she paused. Then she turned to look in the direction of the guestroom. "They're still tending to father... They've been in that room for some time..." her face showed worry.
"She's some lady. She led me to your father when she didn't even know me nor him. He'll be walking again in no time under her care." said Morgan, walking to the door, but stopping in front of it, thinking.
"When he's fine again, Anne... I need you to call me." he said to Anne, looking over his shoulder.

"Okay." came the reply from Anne. She knew where he was going, he was leaving to call the number, or maybe even find out more about it. She wanted to say more, but couldn't.

"Oh? Leaving again, Mr. Greets?" spoke a voice, seeing Morgan stand in front of the main door. It was Barnaby Jones, coming down the stairs.
"...Not yet." replied Morgan. He suddenly remembered about the contact in the basement, and thought that he could kick himself for being too rushed; he also left the man's gun down there. He turned to head for the basement, but was stopped in his tracks when the doorbell echoed throughout the room. Morgan looked over his shoulder at the brown wooden door.

Immediately did he sense what was behind that door... trouble.
*************************************

« Last edited by 1 : 2 on Nov 4th 2011 »