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[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | "Hunter. Hunter."
He didn't stir from his exhausted slumber.
"Hunter! You need to get up, the storm picked up speed while we were sleeping."
He desperately tried to wake his last friend. Too many times he'd been exactly where he was now, desperately trying to shake awake a companion who would never regain consciousness.
"Hunter, please. I can't do this alone."
The tone of desperation finally worked, as the second nomads eye lids flicked open with a start. The first nomad fell back into the sand with relief, all urgency forgotten as his greatest fear had, by some miracle, not been realised yet again.
"I thought that was it. I thought you were done."
"Hah, not today Jefri. The exhaustion doesn't claim me today."
"Thank the Storm," sighed Jefri as he pulled the smiling Hunter to his feet. "We need to pack and leave right now. I can see the Wall from here."
"But we only set up camp hours ago?" Hunter's smile disappeared.
"I know. It's getting faster every day it seems."
Hunter grunted a still-half-asleep acknowledgement and quickly went to rolling up his bed, before realising all of his things were covered in a dusty layer of sand. His bedroll, their water containers, the clothes they wore to protect their sensitive skin from the whipping sand; everything. Jefri wasn't kidding, if there was this much dust in the air then the Wall must be within hundreds of metres. They needed to move fast.
* * *
Moments later they were busting out of the hovel they'd found to camp in the previous night. Hunter's eyes grew wide as he saw the Wall not a mere 50 metres away.
"I wasn't lying Hunter, it caught us completely off-guard."
"We'll outrun it as we always have," Hunter reassured.
They started jogging because it was something they were more than used to. They had quite literally been running all their lives, today was just slightly more urgent than usual.
"My only question Jefri, is what we do when we've put the Wall back on the horizon where it should be," Hunter queried. His voice was even and unhurried despite their brisk pace.
"We do what we always do. The Storm will show us water when we need it, and uncover food for us when we need it, as it always has. We survive, like we always will."
Hunter bit his tongue. They weren't surviving. When he'd been born there had been an entire society of people just like them, surviving off the Storms bounties and living hard but happy lives. As the Storm had slowly got harsher and faster there numbers had dwindled, until only the most physically gifted nomads lived. And then even they started to drop off until it was just Jefri and Hunter.
***
***Writing more later, I just have to go at the moment, so I'm posting this before the thread gets too old. Hope you enjoy what little I have so far!***
| Ja'kell spotted the super reflective mirror that pierced through the downpour. His phosphorous torch shone brightly enough to produce a gleam.
He smiled. This was the third Encampment he had found in a row. Soon they may decide to move him up the ranks of the ranging parties and he may not even need leave the Tribe for weeks at a time while still getting decent rations. He wished he could live like To'Bass, and if he kept this up he soon would.
The horn was soaked in a light drizzle, this close to the wall of water for any length tended to leave you drenched. He blew hard and fast, trumpeting out a quick beat that bounded off the rolling hills.
The response came soon after, a long rising note followed by three successive notes. They would soon be there.
He unstrapped himself from the strider and slid down the side, reaching into the saddlebag on his way down. Sitting down he unwraped his lunch, woven toasted wildgrass mats sandwiching dizy meat.
The season was a wide one, with more than enough space for the whole Tribe to roam to their hearts content. The wall of water was slow moving these past few months, only a few miles a day. They didn't even need to break home camp for seven days in a row, a Tribal record to date, and the Onlooker had papyrus dating from the times of the Daily Running, when the storm survivors had first found the eye and chosen to live a life without water. There were some cities, mostly in the mountains, but they were very dangerous for tourists and especially Eye Runners, which consisted a total of three Tribes.
Why the fuck was he thinking so much about his history? He smiled, the Onlooker had always had the best stories during feasts and long rest periods. He began to drift....
back into memories......
and soon he began to dream. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | This is in two parts. I sort of got carried away.
Part 1:
A thick Ghanaian accent broke the four am air. "EVERYBODY UP, **NOW**." My eyes sprung open. I was a light sleeper. We all were, for precisely this reason.
The clanging of metal, pick-up truck doors opening and closing and trailers being hitched, increased as people sprung into action. There was no hesitation in anyone's movements or anyone's voices. My truck was ready to go as it always was. The storm had stabilised for six months now, passively encircling us, but I did not let a second pass where I wasn't ready to leap into my truck and move on.
"BOKO!" I yelled our meteorologist's name. My voice carried across the sounds of metal and wind in the air, across the convoy, to him. In only a moment we were in front of each other, words spilling out between heavy lungfuls of air, trying to attain some clarity on the situation.
"Boko, what's going on, how long do we have?"
"The storm just stirred up again. We have four hours before the winds get too rough for a safe journey." I took stock of the situation, my surroundings, the hundred-or-so large group that we called a family. Sometimes, on quiet nights, when someone's mood was low, they might whisper the other name for ourselves. Two words with such momentum you had to gather strength after hearing them. *The Lonely*. We were the only people we knew still existed. There may be other storms out there, with other nomads in other eyes, but this was all we knew.
"Isaac," Boko's voice was grounding, and as I looked at him, he gave me a look that I'd call dedication and headed towards Aime's truck. I called to him.
"Tell Aime I will bring up the rear, like last time. I need to see my daughter." A pause, a nod, and he continued walking to the truck at the other end of the convoy.
I put one foot in front of the other, crunching on dry grass, until I returned to my truck. A small two footed thump was heard. My far-too-mature-for-seven-year's-old daughter, Casey. She *always* made a visit from her mother's truck whenever we were about to leave. I think she knew moving, could at any point, mean a goodbye that you never got to say.
I grinned, picked her up and swung her around. "How you feelin' little one?"
She shot me a dead-pan look "Just breezy Dad." We laughed. Her humour was warming, the kind you share with old friends.
"Okay, there isn't much time to chat, we're moving as soon as we can. But I want to show you something." I pointed to the distance. Nowhere specific; anywhere beyond eight miles and it was all the same thing. "You see that wall of grey?" She gave me a hum of acknowledgement, "That wall of grey is the storm." There'd never been a good time to show her before now. But now was a good time, made evident by her mouth slightly agape.
"That's the storm?" The inquisition in her voice reminded me of how young she was. How she was the reason, above all else, I kept this family safe. "That's the thing we live inside of, and in fear of?" The gravity of her words reminded me of how young she wasn't. "Yup. That's the reason we keep moving. The only safe place now is inside the eye of this storm."
The wind was getting louder. Far from deafening but loud enough to remind us of how tentative our lives were. The convoy's collective breaths got shorter, and faster. Fear, anticipation, nerves, call it what you will, was rife among us. I sent Casey on her way, back to her mother's truck, and surveyed the group. Engines on, fuel cells charged, inventories packed, the convoy's collective foot was hovering on the accelerator, ready to move on as soon as need be.
Aime approached my truck. You could see in her stride why she was the captain, why we entrusted our lives in her hands. "How are you feeling?" She asked.
"Nervous. Ready. Four hours is leaving it tight. I prefer to move with as much wiggle room as possible. In case of any emergencies."
"We all prefer it, but Boko gave us as much warning as he could." I shrugged in agreement. It wasn't the leeway time which most had me worried.
Aime extended her hand, looked me in the eyes and said "Goodbye."
"Do you always have to say that?" She could probably see pain of hearing that in my face.
"I always say it, to whichever of my command takes the rear. I don't want to ever lose anyone that I never got to say one final nice word to."
"Goodbye is not a nice word." She chuckled. She raised her eyebrows and I shook her hand. "This isn't goodbye, just au revoir."
"I hope so," She said. She strode off to the front of the convoy.
Engines revved. Wheels spun. Dust and dirt were displaced. And so were we.
------
We'd been on the move for 86 hours. We we're steadily making our way more inland, which was at least some comfort, we weren't as ready as we should be to travel over water. Sleep was probably creeping upon some of the convoy, but between caffeine and the fear of death in my rear view mirror, sleep was not my concern.
The buzz of the convoy radio came on over the sounds over 80 trucks rattling along. Boko's voice was soothing. Anyone's voice would have been soothing, I had been alone in this truck for 86 hours and not spoken to anyone in 8. "2 degrees east." The radio buzz again as the message finished. God I was disappointed that he was a man of few words.
The sound and sight of 79 other trucks was at least poetic enough that I had some entertainment. That and jazz music.
----
The radio buzz and no hesitation. Aime's urgent voice. "Everyone in a row, two trucks wide, **now**!".
Everyone hastily filed into place. In the distance I saw why. A bridge, only just wide enough for two trucks. The trucks ahead of me were dangerously close to each other. And the edges of the bridge. At a reckless speed, we were on the literal and metaphorical edge. But we had no choice. There was no pause. No change of course. There was only forward, and the chance of survival.
The chance of survival. And unfortunately, the truck ahead of me was playing with that chance. Their right wheels were daringly close to the edge of the bridge. Probably in an effort to put more distance between them and the truck to their left. Rocks began to crumble from the edges of the bridge. They were clinging onto survival by a rapidly dwindling thread.
I hit my radio.
They had seconds before they either pulled left or fell right.
"Truck 72 PULL LEFT!".
I could almost feel the fire they were playing with.
"PULL LEFT!"
They couldn't keep this up.
"Do you not hear me, FUCKING PULL LEFT!"
They were going to go over.
"GOD DAMN IT, PU-"
The rest of my sentence was lost to an explosion of metal below me. I took one breath to let the realisation sink in. Then I focused forward and pushed on. Two breaths to mourn them and someone would be mourning me. | Ja'kell spotted the super reflective mirror that pierced through the downpour. His phosphorous torch shone brightly enough to produce a gleam.
He smiled. This was the third Encampment he had found in a row. Soon they may decide to move him up the ranks of the ranging parties and he may not even need leave the Tribe for weeks at a time while still getting decent rations. He wished he could live like To'Bass, and if he kept this up he soon would.
The horn was soaked in a light drizzle, this close to the wall of water for any length tended to leave you drenched. He blew hard and fast, trumpeting out a quick beat that bounded off the rolling hills.
The response came soon after, a long rising note followed by three successive notes. They would soon be there.
He unstrapped himself from the strider and slid down the side, reaching into the saddlebag on his way down. Sitting down he unwraped his lunch, woven toasted wildgrass mats sandwiching dizy meat.
The season was a wide one, with more than enough space for the whole Tribe to roam to their hearts content. The wall of water was slow moving these past few months, only a few miles a day. They didn't even need to break home camp for seven days in a row, a Tribal record to date, and the Onlooker had papyrus dating from the times of the Daily Running, when the storm survivors had first found the eye and chosen to live a life without water. There were some cities, mostly in the mountains, but they were very dangerous for tourists and especially Eye Runners, which consisted a total of three Tribes.
Why the fuck was he thinking so much about his history? He smiled, the Onlooker had always had the best stories during feasts and long rest periods. He began to drift....
back into memories......
and soon he began to dream. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | We are a long line of the stormriders, a few have ever seen us in the days of the first hope, when it seemed the storm was getting weaker. I was born during one of those days.
I grew up with stories about Susanne getting weaker, about the world beyond the eye, about settling down and rebuilding what was once a strong and proud nation. But she was an old beast and I didnt let myself get carried away by the stories, I knew her better than anyone, I spent my childhood playing on the edge of Susanne's eye pushing the limits, I wanted to see what she was capable of and believe me when I say it she is capable of anything. But she is not our enemy, she feeds us and keeps us warm and dry.
I'm an old man now, I still am a stormrider, one of the few left, and still Susanne feels like the only companion I had my whole life.
We are entering the years of a second hope it seems, it feels strange to live there, if you can call it that way, of course. And I dont know what to do with myself it seems Susanne is slowly dying. I should be celebrating but I can't, I know her she will probably pick herself up, we'll be traveling places anytime. But it seems different this time. A man came last night, from the north he says the storm is finally coming to an end, after a hundred years time.
They talk about new times, my people, about the time before the storm, but I dont feel I belong to those times, I am after all a true stormrider.
(First time posting, just be gentle, I feel I lost myself somewhere in the middle, but I dont want to change anything now.) | Ja'kell spotted the super reflective mirror that pierced through the downpour. His phosphorous torch shone brightly enough to produce a gleam.
He smiled. This was the third Encampment he had found in a row. Soon they may decide to move him up the ranks of the ranging parties and he may not even need leave the Tribe for weeks at a time while still getting decent rations. He wished he could live like To'Bass, and if he kept this up he soon would.
The horn was soaked in a light drizzle, this close to the wall of water for any length tended to leave you drenched. He blew hard and fast, trumpeting out a quick beat that bounded off the rolling hills.
The response came soon after, a long rising note followed by three successive notes. They would soon be there.
He unstrapped himself from the strider and slid down the side, reaching into the saddlebag on his way down. Sitting down he unwraped his lunch, woven toasted wildgrass mats sandwiching dizy meat.
The season was a wide one, with more than enough space for the whole Tribe to roam to their hearts content. The wall of water was slow moving these past few months, only a few miles a day. They didn't even need to break home camp for seven days in a row, a Tribal record to date, and the Onlooker had papyrus dating from the times of the Daily Running, when the storm survivors had first found the eye and chosen to live a life without water. There were some cities, mostly in the mountains, but they were very dangerous for tourists and especially Eye Runners, which consisted a total of three Tribes.
Why the fuck was he thinking so much about his history? He smiled, the Onlooker had always had the best stories during feasts and long rest periods. He began to drift....
back into memories......
and soon he began to dream. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | The Wall is getting close – too close. I wake Samuel.
“Chief. Chief.”
He stirs, looks at me with bleary, irritated eyes. “What do you want?” His voice holds a mild accusation.
“The Wall’s only two miles away, at most. I think it’s picking up speed. We need to move.”
He rises – slowly, far too slowly. We don’t have time for this. “I’ll wake the others. The storm’s moving east.”
I go through the camp, waking the others. They’re not happy about it, but this is part of life now, this eternal flight. They rise, as they must.
Suddenly, I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Bill. “You told the Chief the storm’s going East?”
“Looks like it.”
“Shit!” He pulls out a map. It’s covered with a long, twisting line – the course we’ve taken pursuing the eye. “We’re here right now, right? Which puts the coast only about five miles east.”
My blood chills. “If it keeps moving east…”
“I knew this day would come. The storm couldn’t stay over land forever. I’ll tell the chief. Maybe we can find something that’ll float.”
I nod, knowing – as he surely does, as he must – that it’s futile. We’ve only ever been able to bring the bare necessities with us. Short of finding a ready-made boat at the shore, there’s no way we’ll be able to take to the sea.
The camp is finally in motion. The Wall encroaches. We move. | Ja'kell spotted the super reflective mirror that pierced through the downpour. His phosphorous torch shone brightly enough to produce a gleam.
He smiled. This was the third Encampment he had found in a row. Soon they may decide to move him up the ranks of the ranging parties and he may not even need leave the Tribe for weeks at a time while still getting decent rations. He wished he could live like To'Bass, and if he kept this up he soon would.
The horn was soaked in a light drizzle, this close to the wall of water for any length tended to leave you drenched. He blew hard and fast, trumpeting out a quick beat that bounded off the rolling hills.
The response came soon after, a long rising note followed by three successive notes. They would soon be there.
He unstrapped himself from the strider and slid down the side, reaching into the saddlebag on his way down. Sitting down he unwraped his lunch, woven toasted wildgrass mats sandwiching dizy meat.
The season was a wide one, with more than enough space for the whole Tribe to roam to their hearts content. The wall of water was slow moving these past few months, only a few miles a day. They didn't even need to break home camp for seven days in a row, a Tribal record to date, and the Onlooker had papyrus dating from the times of the Daily Running, when the storm survivors had first found the eye and chosen to live a life without water. There were some cities, mostly in the mountains, but they were very dangerous for tourists and especially Eye Runners, which consisted a total of three Tribes.
Why the fuck was he thinking so much about his history? He smiled, the Onlooker had always had the best stories during feasts and long rest periods. He began to drift....
back into memories......
and soon he began to dream. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | "Hunter. Hunter."
He didn't stir from his exhausted slumber.
"Hunter! You need to get up, the storm picked up speed while we were sleeping."
He desperately tried to wake his last friend. Too many times he'd been exactly where he was now, desperately trying to shake awake a companion who would never regain consciousness.
"Hunter, please. I can't do this alone."
The tone of desperation finally worked, as the second nomads eye lids flicked open with a start. The first nomad fell back into the sand with relief, all urgency forgotten as his greatest fear had, by some miracle, not been realised yet again.
"I thought that was it. I thought you were done."
"Hah, not today Jefri. The exhaustion doesn't claim me today."
"Thank the Storm," sighed Jefri as he pulled the smiling Hunter to his feet. "We need to pack and leave right now. I can see the Wall from here."
"But we only set up camp hours ago?" Hunter's smile disappeared.
"I know. It's getting faster every day it seems."
Hunter grunted a still-half-asleep acknowledgement and quickly went to rolling up his bed, before realising all of his things were covered in a dusty layer of sand. His bedroll, their water containers, the clothes they wore to protect their sensitive skin from the whipping sand; everything. Jefri wasn't kidding, if there was this much dust in the air then the Wall must be within hundreds of metres. They needed to move fast.
* * *
Moments later they were busting out of the hovel they'd found to camp in the previous night. Hunter's eyes grew wide as he saw the Wall not a mere 50 metres away.
"I wasn't lying Hunter, it caught us completely off-guard."
"We'll outrun it as we always have," Hunter reassured.
They started jogging because it was something they were more than used to. They had quite literally been running all their lives, today was just slightly more urgent than usual.
"My only question Jefri, is what we do when we've put the Wall back on the horizon where it should be," Hunter queried. His voice was even and unhurried despite their brisk pace.
"We do what we always do. The Storm will show us water when we need it, and uncover food for us when we need it, as it always has. We survive, like we always will."
Hunter bit his tongue. They weren't surviving. When he'd been born there had been an entire society of people just like them, surviving off the Storms bounties and living hard but happy lives. As the Storm had slowly got harsher and faster there numbers had dwindled, until only the most physically gifted nomads lived. And then even they started to drop off until it was just Jefri and Hunter.
***
***Writing more later, I just have to go at the moment, so I'm posting this before the thread gets too old. Hope you enjoy what little I have so far!***
| Survivors and supplies were scattered endlessly throughout their path. Death and destruction was the only guarantee of what was to come. Their numbers varied by the day, 3,000 strong through mid-west America. As the Eye and exhausted victims approached the soaring cliffs of the Californian shore, no more than 200 remain after marching through the desert.
Those most physically able, leading the pack, desperately scanned the coast for boats, shelter, or even for a way down the cliffside. They're stuck at the tail of the eye, between the mountainside and a 250ft drop to smattering waves, sacrificial like boulders and slabs of rock.
Hope IS Lost
What few families remain together hold each other with tears soaking every face. Cries in vain and sorrow. Some so distraught they fall to the ground in submission. Others alone, hurl themselves over the edge.. some throw family members in panic, even to their resistance and loving pleads. Those who face the storm meet no better fate, only to suffer excruciating lacerations and blunt force trauma from storm debris. Blown off the cliffside past the corpses below, anyone unfortunate enough to still be alive drowns.. in pain, frightened and alone. Mankind is lost to time, never to be heard of again. Most fitting for a species so removed from the planet it lived on. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | This is in two parts. I sort of got carried away.
Part 1:
A thick Ghanaian accent broke the four am air. "EVERYBODY UP, **NOW**." My eyes sprung open. I was a light sleeper. We all were, for precisely this reason.
The clanging of metal, pick-up truck doors opening and closing and trailers being hitched, increased as people sprung into action. There was no hesitation in anyone's movements or anyone's voices. My truck was ready to go as it always was. The storm had stabilised for six months now, passively encircling us, but I did not let a second pass where I wasn't ready to leap into my truck and move on.
"BOKO!" I yelled our meteorologist's name. My voice carried across the sounds of metal and wind in the air, across the convoy, to him. In only a moment we were in front of each other, words spilling out between heavy lungfuls of air, trying to attain some clarity on the situation.
"Boko, what's going on, how long do we have?"
"The storm just stirred up again. We have four hours before the winds get too rough for a safe journey." I took stock of the situation, my surroundings, the hundred-or-so large group that we called a family. Sometimes, on quiet nights, when someone's mood was low, they might whisper the other name for ourselves. Two words with such momentum you had to gather strength after hearing them. *The Lonely*. We were the only people we knew still existed. There may be other storms out there, with other nomads in other eyes, but this was all we knew.
"Isaac," Boko's voice was grounding, and as I looked at him, he gave me a look that I'd call dedication and headed towards Aime's truck. I called to him.
"Tell Aime I will bring up the rear, like last time. I need to see my daughter." A pause, a nod, and he continued walking to the truck at the other end of the convoy.
I put one foot in front of the other, crunching on dry grass, until I returned to my truck. A small two footed thump was heard. My far-too-mature-for-seven-year's-old daughter, Casey. She *always* made a visit from her mother's truck whenever we were about to leave. I think she knew moving, could at any point, mean a goodbye that you never got to say.
I grinned, picked her up and swung her around. "How you feelin' little one?"
She shot me a dead-pan look "Just breezy Dad." We laughed. Her humour was warming, the kind you share with old friends.
"Okay, there isn't much time to chat, we're moving as soon as we can. But I want to show you something." I pointed to the distance. Nowhere specific; anywhere beyond eight miles and it was all the same thing. "You see that wall of grey?" She gave me a hum of acknowledgement, "That wall of grey is the storm." There'd never been a good time to show her before now. But now was a good time, made evident by her mouth slightly agape.
"That's the storm?" The inquisition in her voice reminded me of how young she was. How she was the reason, above all else, I kept this family safe. "That's the thing we live inside of, and in fear of?" The gravity of her words reminded me of how young she wasn't. "Yup. That's the reason we keep moving. The only safe place now is inside the eye of this storm."
The wind was getting louder. Far from deafening but loud enough to remind us of how tentative our lives were. The convoy's collective breaths got shorter, and faster. Fear, anticipation, nerves, call it what you will, was rife among us. I sent Casey on her way, back to her mother's truck, and surveyed the group. Engines on, fuel cells charged, inventories packed, the convoy's collective foot was hovering on the accelerator, ready to move on as soon as need be.
Aime approached my truck. You could see in her stride why she was the captain, why we entrusted our lives in her hands. "How are you feeling?" She asked.
"Nervous. Ready. Four hours is leaving it tight. I prefer to move with as much wiggle room as possible. In case of any emergencies."
"We all prefer it, but Boko gave us as much warning as he could." I shrugged in agreement. It wasn't the leeway time which most had me worried.
Aime extended her hand, looked me in the eyes and said "Goodbye."
"Do you always have to say that?" She could probably see pain of hearing that in my face.
"I always say it, to whichever of my command takes the rear. I don't want to ever lose anyone that I never got to say one final nice word to."
"Goodbye is not a nice word." She chuckled. She raised her eyebrows and I shook her hand. "This isn't goodbye, just au revoir."
"I hope so," She said. She strode off to the front of the convoy.
Engines revved. Wheels spun. Dust and dirt were displaced. And so were we.
------
We'd been on the move for 86 hours. We we're steadily making our way more inland, which was at least some comfort, we weren't as ready as we should be to travel over water. Sleep was probably creeping upon some of the convoy, but between caffeine and the fear of death in my rear view mirror, sleep was not my concern.
The buzz of the convoy radio came on over the sounds over 80 trucks rattling along. Boko's voice was soothing. Anyone's voice would have been soothing, I had been alone in this truck for 86 hours and not spoken to anyone in 8. "2 degrees east." The radio buzz again as the message finished. God I was disappointed that he was a man of few words.
The sound and sight of 79 other trucks was at least poetic enough that I had some entertainment. That and jazz music.
----
The radio buzz and no hesitation. Aime's urgent voice. "Everyone in a row, two trucks wide, **now**!".
Everyone hastily filed into place. In the distance I saw why. A bridge, only just wide enough for two trucks. The trucks ahead of me were dangerously close to each other. And the edges of the bridge. At a reckless speed, we were on the literal and metaphorical edge. But we had no choice. There was no pause. No change of course. There was only forward, and the chance of survival.
The chance of survival. And unfortunately, the truck ahead of me was playing with that chance. Their right wheels were daringly close to the edge of the bridge. Probably in an effort to put more distance between them and the truck to their left. Rocks began to crumble from the edges of the bridge. They were clinging onto survival by a rapidly dwindling thread.
I hit my radio.
They had seconds before they either pulled left or fell right.
"Truck 72 PULL LEFT!".
I could almost feel the fire they were playing with.
"PULL LEFT!"
They couldn't keep this up.
"Do you not hear me, FUCKING PULL LEFT!"
They were going to go over.
"GOD DAMN IT, PU-"
The rest of my sentence was lost to an explosion of metal below me. I took one breath to let the realisation sink in. Then I focused forward and pushed on. Two breaths to mourn them and someone would be mourning me. | Survivors and supplies were scattered endlessly throughout their path. Death and destruction was the only guarantee of what was to come. Their numbers varied by the day, 3,000 strong through mid-west America. As the Eye and exhausted victims approached the soaring cliffs of the Californian shore, no more than 200 remain after marching through the desert.
Those most physically able, leading the pack, desperately scanned the coast for boats, shelter, or even for a way down the cliffside. They're stuck at the tail of the eye, between the mountainside and a 250ft drop to smattering waves, sacrificial like boulders and slabs of rock.
Hope IS Lost
What few families remain together hold each other with tears soaking every face. Cries in vain and sorrow. Some so distraught they fall to the ground in submission. Others alone, hurl themselves over the edge.. some throw family members in panic, even to their resistance and loving pleads. Those who face the storm meet no better fate, only to suffer excruciating lacerations and blunt force trauma from storm debris. Blown off the cliffside past the corpses below, anyone unfortunate enough to still be alive drowns.. in pain, frightened and alone. Mankind is lost to time, never to be heard of again. Most fitting for a species so removed from the planet it lived on. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | We are a long line of the stormriders, a few have ever seen us in the days of the first hope, when it seemed the storm was getting weaker. I was born during one of those days.
I grew up with stories about Susanne getting weaker, about the world beyond the eye, about settling down and rebuilding what was once a strong and proud nation. But she was an old beast and I didnt let myself get carried away by the stories, I knew her better than anyone, I spent my childhood playing on the edge of Susanne's eye pushing the limits, I wanted to see what she was capable of and believe me when I say it she is capable of anything. But she is not our enemy, she feeds us and keeps us warm and dry.
I'm an old man now, I still am a stormrider, one of the few left, and still Susanne feels like the only companion I had my whole life.
We are entering the years of a second hope it seems, it feels strange to live there, if you can call it that way, of course. And I dont know what to do with myself it seems Susanne is slowly dying. I should be celebrating but I can't, I know her she will probably pick herself up, we'll be traveling places anytime. But it seems different this time. A man came last night, from the north he says the storm is finally coming to an end, after a hundred years time.
They talk about new times, my people, about the time before the storm, but I dont feel I belong to those times, I am after all a true stormrider.
(First time posting, just be gentle, I feel I lost myself somewhere in the middle, but I dont want to change anything now.) | Survivors and supplies were scattered endlessly throughout their path. Death and destruction was the only guarantee of what was to come. Their numbers varied by the day, 3,000 strong through mid-west America. As the Eye and exhausted victims approached the soaring cliffs of the Californian shore, no more than 200 remain after marching through the desert.
Those most physically able, leading the pack, desperately scanned the coast for boats, shelter, or even for a way down the cliffside. They're stuck at the tail of the eye, between the mountainside and a 250ft drop to smattering waves, sacrificial like boulders and slabs of rock.
Hope IS Lost
What few families remain together hold each other with tears soaking every face. Cries in vain and sorrow. Some so distraught they fall to the ground in submission. Others alone, hurl themselves over the edge.. some throw family members in panic, even to their resistance and loving pleads. Those who face the storm meet no better fate, only to suffer excruciating lacerations and blunt force trauma from storm debris. Blown off the cliffside past the corpses below, anyone unfortunate enough to still be alive drowns.. in pain, frightened and alone. Mankind is lost to time, never to be heard of again. Most fitting for a species so removed from the planet it lived on. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | The Wall is getting close – too close. I wake Samuel.
“Chief. Chief.”
He stirs, looks at me with bleary, irritated eyes. “What do you want?” His voice holds a mild accusation.
“The Wall’s only two miles away, at most. I think it’s picking up speed. We need to move.”
He rises – slowly, far too slowly. We don’t have time for this. “I’ll wake the others. The storm’s moving east.”
I go through the camp, waking the others. They’re not happy about it, but this is part of life now, this eternal flight. They rise, as they must.
Suddenly, I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Bill. “You told the Chief the storm’s going East?”
“Looks like it.”
“Shit!” He pulls out a map. It’s covered with a long, twisting line – the course we’ve taken pursuing the eye. “We’re here right now, right? Which puts the coast only about five miles east.”
My blood chills. “If it keeps moving east…”
“I knew this day would come. The storm couldn’t stay over land forever. I’ll tell the chief. Maybe we can find something that’ll float.”
I nod, knowing – as he surely does, as he must – that it’s futile. We’ve only ever been able to bring the bare necessities with us. Short of finding a ready-made boat at the shore, there’s no way we’ll be able to take to the sea.
The camp is finally in motion. The Wall encroaches. We move. | Survivors and supplies were scattered endlessly throughout their path. Death and destruction was the only guarantee of what was to come. Their numbers varied by the day, 3,000 strong through mid-west America. As the Eye and exhausted victims approached the soaring cliffs of the Californian shore, no more than 200 remain after marching through the desert.
Those most physically able, leading the pack, desperately scanned the coast for boats, shelter, or even for a way down the cliffside. They're stuck at the tail of the eye, between the mountainside and a 250ft drop to smattering waves, sacrificial like boulders and slabs of rock.
Hope IS Lost
What few families remain together hold each other with tears soaking every face. Cries in vain and sorrow. Some so distraught they fall to the ground in submission. Others alone, hurl themselves over the edge.. some throw family members in panic, even to their resistance and loving pleads. Those who face the storm meet no better fate, only to suffer excruciating lacerations and blunt force trauma from storm debris. Blown off the cliffside past the corpses below, anyone unfortunate enough to still be alive drowns.. in pain, frightened and alone. Mankind is lost to time, never to be heard of again. Most fitting for a species so removed from the planet it lived on. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | This is in two parts. I sort of got carried away.
Part 1:
A thick Ghanaian accent broke the four am air. "EVERYBODY UP, **NOW**." My eyes sprung open. I was a light sleeper. We all were, for precisely this reason.
The clanging of metal, pick-up truck doors opening and closing and trailers being hitched, increased as people sprung into action. There was no hesitation in anyone's movements or anyone's voices. My truck was ready to go as it always was. The storm had stabilised for six months now, passively encircling us, but I did not let a second pass where I wasn't ready to leap into my truck and move on.
"BOKO!" I yelled our meteorologist's name. My voice carried across the sounds of metal and wind in the air, across the convoy, to him. In only a moment we were in front of each other, words spilling out between heavy lungfuls of air, trying to attain some clarity on the situation.
"Boko, what's going on, how long do we have?"
"The storm just stirred up again. We have four hours before the winds get too rough for a safe journey." I took stock of the situation, my surroundings, the hundred-or-so large group that we called a family. Sometimes, on quiet nights, when someone's mood was low, they might whisper the other name for ourselves. Two words with such momentum you had to gather strength after hearing them. *The Lonely*. We were the only people we knew still existed. There may be other storms out there, with other nomads in other eyes, but this was all we knew.
"Isaac," Boko's voice was grounding, and as I looked at him, he gave me a look that I'd call dedication and headed towards Aime's truck. I called to him.
"Tell Aime I will bring up the rear, like last time. I need to see my daughter." A pause, a nod, and he continued walking to the truck at the other end of the convoy.
I put one foot in front of the other, crunching on dry grass, until I returned to my truck. A small two footed thump was heard. My far-too-mature-for-seven-year's-old daughter, Casey. She *always* made a visit from her mother's truck whenever we were about to leave. I think she knew moving, could at any point, mean a goodbye that you never got to say.
I grinned, picked her up and swung her around. "How you feelin' little one?"
She shot me a dead-pan look "Just breezy Dad." We laughed. Her humour was warming, the kind you share with old friends.
"Okay, there isn't much time to chat, we're moving as soon as we can. But I want to show you something." I pointed to the distance. Nowhere specific; anywhere beyond eight miles and it was all the same thing. "You see that wall of grey?" She gave me a hum of acknowledgement, "That wall of grey is the storm." There'd never been a good time to show her before now. But now was a good time, made evident by her mouth slightly agape.
"That's the storm?" The inquisition in her voice reminded me of how young she was. How she was the reason, above all else, I kept this family safe. "That's the thing we live inside of, and in fear of?" The gravity of her words reminded me of how young she wasn't. "Yup. That's the reason we keep moving. The only safe place now is inside the eye of this storm."
The wind was getting louder. Far from deafening but loud enough to remind us of how tentative our lives were. The convoy's collective breaths got shorter, and faster. Fear, anticipation, nerves, call it what you will, was rife among us. I sent Casey on her way, back to her mother's truck, and surveyed the group. Engines on, fuel cells charged, inventories packed, the convoy's collective foot was hovering on the accelerator, ready to move on as soon as need be.
Aime approached my truck. You could see in her stride why she was the captain, why we entrusted our lives in her hands. "How are you feeling?" She asked.
"Nervous. Ready. Four hours is leaving it tight. I prefer to move with as much wiggle room as possible. In case of any emergencies."
"We all prefer it, but Boko gave us as much warning as he could." I shrugged in agreement. It wasn't the leeway time which most had me worried.
Aime extended her hand, looked me in the eyes and said "Goodbye."
"Do you always have to say that?" She could probably see pain of hearing that in my face.
"I always say it, to whichever of my command takes the rear. I don't want to ever lose anyone that I never got to say one final nice word to."
"Goodbye is not a nice word." She chuckled. She raised her eyebrows and I shook her hand. "This isn't goodbye, just au revoir."
"I hope so," She said. She strode off to the front of the convoy.
Engines revved. Wheels spun. Dust and dirt were displaced. And so were we.
------
We'd been on the move for 86 hours. We we're steadily making our way more inland, which was at least some comfort, we weren't as ready as we should be to travel over water. Sleep was probably creeping upon some of the convoy, but between caffeine and the fear of death in my rear view mirror, sleep was not my concern.
The buzz of the convoy radio came on over the sounds over 80 trucks rattling along. Boko's voice was soothing. Anyone's voice would have been soothing, I had been alone in this truck for 86 hours and not spoken to anyone in 8. "2 degrees east." The radio buzz again as the message finished. God I was disappointed that he was a man of few words.
The sound and sight of 79 other trucks was at least poetic enough that I had some entertainment. That and jazz music.
----
The radio buzz and no hesitation. Aime's urgent voice. "Everyone in a row, two trucks wide, **now**!".
Everyone hastily filed into place. In the distance I saw why. A bridge, only just wide enough for two trucks. The trucks ahead of me were dangerously close to each other. And the edges of the bridge. At a reckless speed, we were on the literal and metaphorical edge. But we had no choice. There was no pause. No change of course. There was only forward, and the chance of survival.
The chance of survival. And unfortunately, the truck ahead of me was playing with that chance. Their right wheels were daringly close to the edge of the bridge. Probably in an effort to put more distance between them and the truck to their left. Rocks began to crumble from the edges of the bridge. They were clinging onto survival by a rapidly dwindling thread.
I hit my radio.
They had seconds before they either pulled left or fell right.
"Truck 72 PULL LEFT!".
I could almost feel the fire they were playing with.
"PULL LEFT!"
They couldn't keep this up.
"Do you not hear me, FUCKING PULL LEFT!"
They were going to go over.
"GOD DAMN IT, PU-"
The rest of my sentence was lost to an explosion of metal below me. I took one breath to let the realisation sink in. Then I focused forward and pushed on. Two breaths to mourn them and someone would be mourning me. | "We move as the the Storm. We collect Her bounty. She provides for us, Her eye watching over us."
Every man within the canvas tent stood with arms and faces raised to the sky. As the chant finished they sat; the younger men standing until the elders had crossed their legs and laid down their spears. They formed a circle around the fire with their spears pointed outwards, a deadly mandala that mimicked their home. One man had remained standing and every eye was turned to him.
"We have survived," the chief began. The statement was a resolute fact. Sighs and smiles spread across the circle as if they had all been in doubt of this until it was spoken aloud. He continued, "We will continue to survive. Our survival is dependent on the Storm."
"She provides for us," the circle chanted in unison. Only one man remained silent during this. He sat next to the chief, tears wiping the grime from his face and steadily dropping onto his tunic.
"A sister has taken sick." The crying man shook a little. "Brother Aklock here has requested that she be carried." Every man in the circle looked down or away from Aklock at this moment. Shame, disgust, sympathy, Aklock saw all of these on their faces though no man would meet his eye. It was only after everyone was gazing at him again that the chief continued, "Brother Aklock says that Sister Calleen is vital with her knowledge of herbs. Should she be carried?"
"The Storm does not carry us. Those who cannot are for the Storm." The chant came simultaneously from each man in the circle. Aklock stood. Every face turned to him, their eyes wide at this obscene gesture. He began to shout at them, "You cannot! Calleen is vital!" His streaked face twisted as he looked at each of the men, searching for one who might look back at him. They each turned away and repeated the chant, "The Storm does not carry us."
"Brother Aklock," the chief began. His voice had turned reassuring to try and coax the man back to reason. "We must provide offering to the Storm for Her to provide for us. This is the way."
Aklock did not know what to do. He had felt sure they would understand that they needed Calleen. Never had he dreamed they would choose to sacrifice his sister; that was the fate of the old or those too ill to recover. Calleen was still young and able to provide if only they could carry her a little way. As he continued to search the crowd he realized that none would support him.
"Then I will carry her myself." Aklock turned and left the tent, forgoing the rituals that would have blessed the tribe. He circled the tent and spat upon the pegs securing it to the earth before leaving to find his sister. Inside, the men chanted again, "We move as the the Storm. We collect Her bounty. She provides for us, Her eye watching over us."
That evening, the chief gathered his people and they followed the path of destruction across the land. They gathered materials and animals their god had left for them to fortify the camp and their stomachs. No one spoke. No one turned to look at Atlock, struggling to pull a board with a still figure upon it. The tribe continued across the land and left the two figures in the distance to be swallowed by the storm. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | This is in two parts. I sort of got carried away.
Part 1:
A thick Ghanaian accent broke the four am air. "EVERYBODY UP, **NOW**." My eyes sprung open. I was a light sleeper. We all were, for precisely this reason.
The clanging of metal, pick-up truck doors opening and closing and trailers being hitched, increased as people sprung into action. There was no hesitation in anyone's movements or anyone's voices. My truck was ready to go as it always was. The storm had stabilised for six months now, passively encircling us, but I did not let a second pass where I wasn't ready to leap into my truck and move on.
"BOKO!" I yelled our meteorologist's name. My voice carried across the sounds of metal and wind in the air, across the convoy, to him. In only a moment we were in front of each other, words spilling out between heavy lungfuls of air, trying to attain some clarity on the situation.
"Boko, what's going on, how long do we have?"
"The storm just stirred up again. We have four hours before the winds get too rough for a safe journey." I took stock of the situation, my surroundings, the hundred-or-so large group that we called a family. Sometimes, on quiet nights, when someone's mood was low, they might whisper the other name for ourselves. Two words with such momentum you had to gather strength after hearing them. *The Lonely*. We were the only people we knew still existed. There may be other storms out there, with other nomads in other eyes, but this was all we knew.
"Isaac," Boko's voice was grounding, and as I looked at him, he gave me a look that I'd call dedication and headed towards Aime's truck. I called to him.
"Tell Aime I will bring up the rear, like last time. I need to see my daughter." A pause, a nod, and he continued walking to the truck at the other end of the convoy.
I put one foot in front of the other, crunching on dry grass, until I returned to my truck. A small two footed thump was heard. My far-too-mature-for-seven-year's-old daughter, Casey. She *always* made a visit from her mother's truck whenever we were about to leave. I think she knew moving, could at any point, mean a goodbye that you never got to say.
I grinned, picked her up and swung her around. "How you feelin' little one?"
She shot me a dead-pan look "Just breezy Dad." We laughed. Her humour was warming, the kind you share with old friends.
"Okay, there isn't much time to chat, we're moving as soon as we can. But I want to show you something." I pointed to the distance. Nowhere specific; anywhere beyond eight miles and it was all the same thing. "You see that wall of grey?" She gave me a hum of acknowledgement, "That wall of grey is the storm." There'd never been a good time to show her before now. But now was a good time, made evident by her mouth slightly agape.
"That's the storm?" The inquisition in her voice reminded me of how young she was. How she was the reason, above all else, I kept this family safe. "That's the thing we live inside of, and in fear of?" The gravity of her words reminded me of how young she wasn't. "Yup. That's the reason we keep moving. The only safe place now is inside the eye of this storm."
The wind was getting louder. Far from deafening but loud enough to remind us of how tentative our lives were. The convoy's collective breaths got shorter, and faster. Fear, anticipation, nerves, call it what you will, was rife among us. I sent Casey on her way, back to her mother's truck, and surveyed the group. Engines on, fuel cells charged, inventories packed, the convoy's collective foot was hovering on the accelerator, ready to move on as soon as need be.
Aime approached my truck. You could see in her stride why she was the captain, why we entrusted our lives in her hands. "How are you feeling?" She asked.
"Nervous. Ready. Four hours is leaving it tight. I prefer to move with as much wiggle room as possible. In case of any emergencies."
"We all prefer it, but Boko gave us as much warning as he could." I shrugged in agreement. It wasn't the leeway time which most had me worried.
Aime extended her hand, looked me in the eyes and said "Goodbye."
"Do you always have to say that?" She could probably see pain of hearing that in my face.
"I always say it, to whichever of my command takes the rear. I don't want to ever lose anyone that I never got to say one final nice word to."
"Goodbye is not a nice word." She chuckled. She raised her eyebrows and I shook her hand. "This isn't goodbye, just au revoir."
"I hope so," She said. She strode off to the front of the convoy.
Engines revved. Wheels spun. Dust and dirt were displaced. And so were we.
------
We'd been on the move for 86 hours. We we're steadily making our way more inland, which was at least some comfort, we weren't as ready as we should be to travel over water. Sleep was probably creeping upon some of the convoy, but between caffeine and the fear of death in my rear view mirror, sleep was not my concern.
The buzz of the convoy radio came on over the sounds over 80 trucks rattling along. Boko's voice was soothing. Anyone's voice would have been soothing, I had been alone in this truck for 86 hours and not spoken to anyone in 8. "2 degrees east." The radio buzz again as the message finished. God I was disappointed that he was a man of few words.
The sound and sight of 79 other trucks was at least poetic enough that I had some entertainment. That and jazz music.
----
The radio buzz and no hesitation. Aime's urgent voice. "Everyone in a row, two trucks wide, **now**!".
Everyone hastily filed into place. In the distance I saw why. A bridge, only just wide enough for two trucks. The trucks ahead of me were dangerously close to each other. And the edges of the bridge. At a reckless speed, we were on the literal and metaphorical edge. But we had no choice. There was no pause. No change of course. There was only forward, and the chance of survival.
The chance of survival. And unfortunately, the truck ahead of me was playing with that chance. Their right wheels were daringly close to the edge of the bridge. Probably in an effort to put more distance between them and the truck to their left. Rocks began to crumble from the edges of the bridge. They were clinging onto survival by a rapidly dwindling thread.
I hit my radio.
They had seconds before they either pulled left or fell right.
"Truck 72 PULL LEFT!".
I could almost feel the fire they were playing with.
"PULL LEFT!"
They couldn't keep this up.
"Do you not hear me, FUCKING PULL LEFT!"
They were going to go over.
"GOD DAMN IT, PU-"
The rest of my sentence was lost to an explosion of metal below me. I took one breath to let the realisation sink in. Then I focused forward and pushed on. Two breaths to mourn them and someone would be mourning me. | "We'll survive, just as we always have. You can't think of the world as you used to."
"But what if this happens over water? We would be forced to wait for our doom unless we sped up the inevitable by drowning ourselves," retorted a concerned wife.
"Mary, please. The last reports we heard confirmed the eye was 20 miles in diameter. We can't spend time in one spot like we used to. Everybody who does that now is lost in the night. All we can do is stay ahead of it. You know what abomination is waiting for us. It's a bit more than a drizzle," Frank gave an emotionless smile. In a few months time, their second child would be exposed to this hell.
"The hovercraft was a great idea. At first. Now that we've traveled the globe with it, I'm not so sure. It's not reliable, Frank."
"And what do you suggest? For all we know this storm is as large as the planet itself. Plus you married a handyman remember? I can fix anything, in time. I just need time..." Frank turned his attention back to the engine shrouded by a plume of smoke. A sudden gust of wind sent Frank reeling until he steadied himself on one of the grab bars near the front of the craft. A quick glimpse inside the sudden clarity of the engine bay revealed a long dead tree branch lodged between the front engine's fan blade and its cover. "I need to get under it."
Frank maneuvered his way under the rubber lip and began wrestling with the stick. Nothing but his legs were visible to Mary. "The blades can't take much more of a beating like this," said a voice from inside the craft. "We have to keep our eyes peeled for another.."
"Another what?" Asked Mary.
"..I don't know," Frank sighed. "I don't know what's left to find." Crawling from the underbody, Frank was wielding an oil-blackened stick. "This one hurt. Without more oil we'll destroy the thrust engine if we use it."
Frank took a moment to consider his life. When he was younger, The Storm was only a yearly occurrence. Bomb shelters that were made for nuclear fallout during an earlier scare were repurposed as Storm shelters. The news would track the storm's progress as it passed through the world in phases. It was only once the international news reverted back to local news when people realized how terrifying silence can be. How has the fallout gotten this bad, he wondered? Not too long ago, the eye of the storm was hundreds of miles wide. Frank's group once numbered in the hundreds as well. People who risked facing The Storm rather than keep running were swallowed up whole, their presence gone with their history in a night. "I can't blame them for wanting to see the other side, wherever it may be," Frank said quietly.
"Did you say something?" Mary was rifling through the cargo bay for a bite to eat. She was beginning to frantically toss the pillows and blankets out of their makeshift living quarters in search of a morsel.
"There's nothing left," Frank began to move towards her. What comfort could he offer her? She's eating for two. Either way, any comfort found in this dying light would feel as hollow as his stomach. "It's best that we turn in. We have nowhere else to go."
"You don't even want to..?" Mary stopped once she saw the expression on his face.
"I'll be in shortly. Close the door after yourself."
Carefully climbing into the cargo hatch, Mary did as she was told. As she re-situated the blankets and pillows, she heard a faint click.
"..Frank?"
The wind was picking up. Soon the rain would start. Hell would be on its heels. For a moment, Frank listened to the breeze. His hair ruffled as small pebbles and dust scraped along the barren earth. An occasional plink was heard as they collided with the hull of the hovercraft.
"Military grade," Frank reasoned. "It would take a missile to get through that shell."
In the driver's seat, Frank brought the hovercraft to life, its thrust engine complaining loudly. He felt a steady vibration from the off-balance fan blades. Without further hesitation, he started moving towards a fast approaching wall of torment. Pebbles and dust became rocks and twigs became sundry memories of life ripped apart by The Storm. Fence posts, shingles, pieces of brick and metal, all melded in a great cacophony with water bullets driven by gusts of gunpowder. Frank could no longer see. He was going straight because that's what the steering wheel said. Though not encased, Frank had a bulletproof windscreen that was quickly becoming a spider web of fractured glass composite. He had already been whipped something fierce by passing objects weaponized by the wind of The Storm. He could tell the difference between blood and rain on his body only by the varying feelings of warmth and cold felt throughout. It wasn't about him anymore. He already lost one child to this monster; he would give his life to prevent losing another. The now strictly ornamental windscreen that had been Frank's only solace gave way under a large log tossed effortlessly his way. The last thing Frank did was scan the horizon for a speck of blue sky.
--------------------------------------
For what seemed like an eternity, there was nothing but torment for Mary. Her moving coffin was tumbled this way and that like a gum wrapper in the wind. The fact that her craft remained upright was nothing short of a miracle. Even after the thrust engine failed completely, even after its unbalanced blade flew out of its housing into the gray abyss, the cargo hold remained secure. Even after the second engine sputtered to a dry halt, The Storm remained. All she could do was hold on.
--------------------------------------
Mary struggled to regain consciousness amidst an incessant ringing and almost total darkness. The door of the cargo bay had been crumpled enough to let a beam of light through. Not sure yet if she was alive, her paternal instinct guided her hand between her legs. No blood. Somehow, no blood. Being able to push open the cargo bay door left Mary feeling a queasiness unparalleled by any morning sickness. How much longer will this last? As the door protested turning on its bent hinges, thunder rolled. The ringing subsided slowly, though Mary's eyes had to squint in the sudden sunlight. On the horizon was the wall of gray that had tormented their lives for years now. Suddenly, she thought of Frank. The state of the hovercraft's front brought her to her knees. Among cracked glass, metal and various bits of nature, she saw what remained of Frank and suddenly couldn't breathe. Her conflicting emotions simultaneously made her feel pangs of loss and joy for all that happened. Unable to look at her lost love another moment, she turned around to see the remains of a tank and a sign. "W LCO E O F RT KN X," it read. Hastily spray-painted beneath it was "Refuge." Following the path by the sign with her eyes, she saw an almost untouched building in the distance, and began to make her way towards it. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | This is in two parts. I sort of got carried away.
Part 1:
A thick Ghanaian accent broke the four am air. "EVERYBODY UP, **NOW**." My eyes sprung open. I was a light sleeper. We all were, for precisely this reason.
The clanging of metal, pick-up truck doors opening and closing and trailers being hitched, increased as people sprung into action. There was no hesitation in anyone's movements or anyone's voices. My truck was ready to go as it always was. The storm had stabilised for six months now, passively encircling us, but I did not let a second pass where I wasn't ready to leap into my truck and move on.
"BOKO!" I yelled our meteorologist's name. My voice carried across the sounds of metal and wind in the air, across the convoy, to him. In only a moment we were in front of each other, words spilling out between heavy lungfuls of air, trying to attain some clarity on the situation.
"Boko, what's going on, how long do we have?"
"The storm just stirred up again. We have four hours before the winds get too rough for a safe journey." I took stock of the situation, my surroundings, the hundred-or-so large group that we called a family. Sometimes, on quiet nights, when someone's mood was low, they might whisper the other name for ourselves. Two words with such momentum you had to gather strength after hearing them. *The Lonely*. We were the only people we knew still existed. There may be other storms out there, with other nomads in other eyes, but this was all we knew.
"Isaac," Boko's voice was grounding, and as I looked at him, he gave me a look that I'd call dedication and headed towards Aime's truck. I called to him.
"Tell Aime I will bring up the rear, like last time. I need to see my daughter." A pause, a nod, and he continued walking to the truck at the other end of the convoy.
I put one foot in front of the other, crunching on dry grass, until I returned to my truck. A small two footed thump was heard. My far-too-mature-for-seven-year's-old daughter, Casey. She *always* made a visit from her mother's truck whenever we were about to leave. I think she knew moving, could at any point, mean a goodbye that you never got to say.
I grinned, picked her up and swung her around. "How you feelin' little one?"
She shot me a dead-pan look "Just breezy Dad." We laughed. Her humour was warming, the kind you share with old friends.
"Okay, there isn't much time to chat, we're moving as soon as we can. But I want to show you something." I pointed to the distance. Nowhere specific; anywhere beyond eight miles and it was all the same thing. "You see that wall of grey?" She gave me a hum of acknowledgement, "That wall of grey is the storm." There'd never been a good time to show her before now. But now was a good time, made evident by her mouth slightly agape.
"That's the storm?" The inquisition in her voice reminded me of how young she was. How she was the reason, above all else, I kept this family safe. "That's the thing we live inside of, and in fear of?" The gravity of her words reminded me of how young she wasn't. "Yup. That's the reason we keep moving. The only safe place now is inside the eye of this storm."
The wind was getting louder. Far from deafening but loud enough to remind us of how tentative our lives were. The convoy's collective breaths got shorter, and faster. Fear, anticipation, nerves, call it what you will, was rife among us. I sent Casey on her way, back to her mother's truck, and surveyed the group. Engines on, fuel cells charged, inventories packed, the convoy's collective foot was hovering on the accelerator, ready to move on as soon as need be.
Aime approached my truck. You could see in her stride why she was the captain, why we entrusted our lives in her hands. "How are you feeling?" She asked.
"Nervous. Ready. Four hours is leaving it tight. I prefer to move with as much wiggle room as possible. In case of any emergencies."
"We all prefer it, but Boko gave us as much warning as he could." I shrugged in agreement. It wasn't the leeway time which most had me worried.
Aime extended her hand, looked me in the eyes and said "Goodbye."
"Do you always have to say that?" She could probably see pain of hearing that in my face.
"I always say it, to whichever of my command takes the rear. I don't want to ever lose anyone that I never got to say one final nice word to."
"Goodbye is not a nice word." She chuckled. She raised her eyebrows and I shook her hand. "This isn't goodbye, just au revoir."
"I hope so," She said. She strode off to the front of the convoy.
Engines revved. Wheels spun. Dust and dirt were displaced. And so were we.
------
We'd been on the move for 86 hours. We we're steadily making our way more inland, which was at least some comfort, we weren't as ready as we should be to travel over water. Sleep was probably creeping upon some of the convoy, but between caffeine and the fear of death in my rear view mirror, sleep was not my concern.
The buzz of the convoy radio came on over the sounds over 80 trucks rattling along. Boko's voice was soothing. Anyone's voice would have been soothing, I had been alone in this truck for 86 hours and not spoken to anyone in 8. "2 degrees east." The radio buzz again as the message finished. God I was disappointed that he was a man of few words.
The sound and sight of 79 other trucks was at least poetic enough that I had some entertainment. That and jazz music.
----
The radio buzz and no hesitation. Aime's urgent voice. "Everyone in a row, two trucks wide, **now**!".
Everyone hastily filed into place. In the distance I saw why. A bridge, only just wide enough for two trucks. The trucks ahead of me were dangerously close to each other. And the edges of the bridge. At a reckless speed, we were on the literal and metaphorical edge. But we had no choice. There was no pause. No change of course. There was only forward, and the chance of survival.
The chance of survival. And unfortunately, the truck ahead of me was playing with that chance. Their right wheels were daringly close to the edge of the bridge. Probably in an effort to put more distance between them and the truck to their left. Rocks began to crumble from the edges of the bridge. They were clinging onto survival by a rapidly dwindling thread.
I hit my radio.
They had seconds before they either pulled left or fell right.
"Truck 72 PULL LEFT!".
I could almost feel the fire they were playing with.
"PULL LEFT!"
They couldn't keep this up.
"Do you not hear me, FUCKING PULL LEFT!"
They were going to go over.
"GOD DAMN IT, PU-"
The rest of my sentence was lost to an explosion of metal below me. I took one breath to let the realisation sink in. Then I focused forward and pushed on. Two breaths to mourn them and someone would be mourning me. | It started with the group of us and the storm. It was mythical. Like a biblical explosion of beauty and death that circled the sky with it's towering doom. We were lucky enough to never see the storm itself, just the aftermath.
Traveling through the ruins of towns became a sort of game, like spotting all the red cars while on long car trips. We'd try to guess the name and population of the wreckage we passed. I think I was the only one to ever guess one right and it didn't really feel like a win.
We started to lose people quick. It was always one at a time, like in the horror movies. First it was Julia who was swept up by a strong gust of wind. Then it was Drake, who slept in for too long and got left behind. Last one was Arthur and he left of his own accord.
"This is your fault," he screamed. "This is your storm and it'll kill everyone."
I had no idea what he was talking about. No one did. But he walked right into the storm and screamed his lungs out until he died. He left the group at a total of three people. Three people of the twenty or so we had when we set out.
We had hardly noticed but the storm was closing in on us, like walls on all sides, pushing inwards, threatening to crush us all together and kill us at once. I tried to point this out to the other two, but they said it was all in my mind. Keep walking, they said.
After a few days we could see the storm on all sides. It was like a hurricane. A towering, funnel of a cloud that stretched for miles and almost scraped the ground. I tried to tell them again. I tried to tell them it was futile.
"It's all in your head," they said. "Just don't think about it."
I thought they were crazy. But I kept walking. That was all there was to do.
Later that day the storm took another, leaving just the two of us. The walls were so close we couldn't see more than a hundred yards in either direction.
"See, they're getting closer."
"It's all in your head. Just keep walking."
The storm took him too. The walls go so close we had to stand back to back. Even with that starring him in the face, his final words were "just keep walking".
But I stopped. I stopped right there and laid down. Curled up there, on the earth , in my little isolated cylinder, I waited for the storm to take me.
But it didn't. It never will. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | This is in two parts. I sort of got carried away.
Part 1:
A thick Ghanaian accent broke the four am air. "EVERYBODY UP, **NOW**." My eyes sprung open. I was a light sleeper. We all were, for precisely this reason.
The clanging of metal, pick-up truck doors opening and closing and trailers being hitched, increased as people sprung into action. There was no hesitation in anyone's movements or anyone's voices. My truck was ready to go as it always was. The storm had stabilised for six months now, passively encircling us, but I did not let a second pass where I wasn't ready to leap into my truck and move on.
"BOKO!" I yelled our meteorologist's name. My voice carried across the sounds of metal and wind in the air, across the convoy, to him. In only a moment we were in front of each other, words spilling out between heavy lungfuls of air, trying to attain some clarity on the situation.
"Boko, what's going on, how long do we have?"
"The storm just stirred up again. We have four hours before the winds get too rough for a safe journey." I took stock of the situation, my surroundings, the hundred-or-so large group that we called a family. Sometimes, on quiet nights, when someone's mood was low, they might whisper the other name for ourselves. Two words with such momentum you had to gather strength after hearing them. *The Lonely*. We were the only people we knew still existed. There may be other storms out there, with other nomads in other eyes, but this was all we knew.
"Isaac," Boko's voice was grounding, and as I looked at him, he gave me a look that I'd call dedication and headed towards Aime's truck. I called to him.
"Tell Aime I will bring up the rear, like last time. I need to see my daughter." A pause, a nod, and he continued walking to the truck at the other end of the convoy.
I put one foot in front of the other, crunching on dry grass, until I returned to my truck. A small two footed thump was heard. My far-too-mature-for-seven-year's-old daughter, Casey. She *always* made a visit from her mother's truck whenever we were about to leave. I think she knew moving, could at any point, mean a goodbye that you never got to say.
I grinned, picked her up and swung her around. "How you feelin' little one?"
She shot me a dead-pan look "Just breezy Dad." We laughed. Her humour was warming, the kind you share with old friends.
"Okay, there isn't much time to chat, we're moving as soon as we can. But I want to show you something." I pointed to the distance. Nowhere specific; anywhere beyond eight miles and it was all the same thing. "You see that wall of grey?" She gave me a hum of acknowledgement, "That wall of grey is the storm." There'd never been a good time to show her before now. But now was a good time, made evident by her mouth slightly agape.
"That's the storm?" The inquisition in her voice reminded me of how young she was. How she was the reason, above all else, I kept this family safe. "That's the thing we live inside of, and in fear of?" The gravity of her words reminded me of how young she wasn't. "Yup. That's the reason we keep moving. The only safe place now is inside the eye of this storm."
The wind was getting louder. Far from deafening but loud enough to remind us of how tentative our lives were. The convoy's collective breaths got shorter, and faster. Fear, anticipation, nerves, call it what you will, was rife among us. I sent Casey on her way, back to her mother's truck, and surveyed the group. Engines on, fuel cells charged, inventories packed, the convoy's collective foot was hovering on the accelerator, ready to move on as soon as need be.
Aime approached my truck. You could see in her stride why she was the captain, why we entrusted our lives in her hands. "How are you feeling?" She asked.
"Nervous. Ready. Four hours is leaving it tight. I prefer to move with as much wiggle room as possible. In case of any emergencies."
"We all prefer it, but Boko gave us as much warning as he could." I shrugged in agreement. It wasn't the leeway time which most had me worried.
Aime extended her hand, looked me in the eyes and said "Goodbye."
"Do you always have to say that?" She could probably see pain of hearing that in my face.
"I always say it, to whichever of my command takes the rear. I don't want to ever lose anyone that I never got to say one final nice word to."
"Goodbye is not a nice word." She chuckled. She raised her eyebrows and I shook her hand. "This isn't goodbye, just au revoir."
"I hope so," She said. She strode off to the front of the convoy.
Engines revved. Wheels spun. Dust and dirt were displaced. And so were we.
------
We'd been on the move for 86 hours. We we're steadily making our way more inland, which was at least some comfort, we weren't as ready as we should be to travel over water. Sleep was probably creeping upon some of the convoy, but between caffeine and the fear of death in my rear view mirror, sleep was not my concern.
The buzz of the convoy radio came on over the sounds over 80 trucks rattling along. Boko's voice was soothing. Anyone's voice would have been soothing, I had been alone in this truck for 86 hours and not spoken to anyone in 8. "2 degrees east." The radio buzz again as the message finished. God I was disappointed that he was a man of few words.
The sound and sight of 79 other trucks was at least poetic enough that I had some entertainment. That and jazz music.
----
The radio buzz and no hesitation. Aime's urgent voice. "Everyone in a row, two trucks wide, **now**!".
Everyone hastily filed into place. In the distance I saw why. A bridge, only just wide enough for two trucks. The trucks ahead of me were dangerously close to each other. And the edges of the bridge. At a reckless speed, we were on the literal and metaphorical edge. But we had no choice. There was no pause. No change of course. There was only forward, and the chance of survival.
The chance of survival. And unfortunately, the truck ahead of me was playing with that chance. Their right wheels were daringly close to the edge of the bridge. Probably in an effort to put more distance between them and the truck to their left. Rocks began to crumble from the edges of the bridge. They were clinging onto survival by a rapidly dwindling thread.
I hit my radio.
They had seconds before they either pulled left or fell right.
"Truck 72 PULL LEFT!".
I could almost feel the fire they were playing with.
"PULL LEFT!"
They couldn't keep this up.
"Do you not hear me, FUCKING PULL LEFT!"
They were going to go over.
"GOD DAMN IT, PU-"
The rest of my sentence was lost to an explosion of metal below me. I took one breath to let the realisation sink in. Then I focused forward and pushed on. Two breaths to mourn them and someone would be mourning me. | Thirty miles an hour.
Thirty miles an hour if you were headed in the right direction and it didn't suddenly change. Thirty miles a hour provided you were close to the centre. Thirty miles an hour if there was a road headed the exact same way that you were. Thirty miles an hour if there were no obstructions. Thirty miles an hour leaving no time to forage for fuel, water, and food. Thirty miles an hour if you don't have to find and repair a new vehicle. Thirty miles an hour leaving no time for sleep.
Thirty miles an hour or you die.
Thirty miles an hour doesn't sound that fast, but try averaging thirty miles an hour for six years. That was why the convoy was now mostly airborne. To begin with there had been no helicopters, and when they found the first few in working condition the idea had simply been to use them as scouts for the trucks and jeeps that carried most of the clan. But thirty miles an hour is a murderous pace by road, and each wrong turn was the last. Now maybe one tenth of the clan were left, around 200 people, less at each count, and most of them flew.
The truck drivers carried the fuel and supplies. The truck drivers were known as psikas, which roughly translates as nutter. Wlad was a psika.
The clan used to be more fun, an eclectic mix of the tough, the lucky, and the canny. Now everyone who was left was tough, canny, and lucky. Wlad was tough, canny, and lucky.
The clan had just landed. They were about 110 miles north of them. The eye was moving north - the front was just a few miles ahead of them, the back about 150 miles south, close enough to Wlad that he could see it in his wingmirrors. If nothing changed they had five hours before they had to take off again. Five hours for Wlad and the seven other psikas to get to them, refuel them, and give the next shift enough of a head start that they had a fighting chance.
If nothing changed.
At least today the land was flat and the road was good. It was even going vaguely in the right direction. There was a river up ahead but the flyers had said that it shouldn't be too much trouble. Rivers weren't so bad these days: six years of storm surges had meant that most rivers had long since burst their banks, and were now wide, shallow, and fordable. Hills were a bigger problem. Hills and ice when the storm pushed them too far north. The wind swept away most of the snow but the ice would still cause them problems.
Still Wlad didn't mind heading north, he'd been driving icy roads his entire life. It was east Wlad feared, there were so few roads out east. East was where Olga had been caught.
Most of the clan preferred east. There were no mountains or oceans out east. But after six years Wlad was confident that, for whatever reason, the eye would never move out to sea, or over the desert, or into the deep mountains. It had often threatened it, but it seemed constrained in some way, as if those barriers to man were also barriers to this monstrous cyclone.
But the clan payed little attention to Wlad's theory, little attention to anything Wlad said, because Wlad was a psica and psicas said all sorts of crazy things. They had even less time for Wlad's other theory, that they were not alone.
"I've seen freshly repaired trucks!" he would frequently shout, often after a bottle of moonshine while riding in the back of the big halo. "I've seen new pontoon bridges!".
"So you've seen trucks, so you've seen bridges". This time it was Igor, but frequently it was another. "The storm had shredded them, no? How could you tell one piece of fucked up metal from another? Besides psica-dust how could anyone survive unless they were riding the eye? And if they're in the eye, we would have met them, no? We haven't seen so much as a bear in four years."
"Dustum, maybe there are other storms, with other clans, in other eyes? Or maybe people live outside the storm, getting out of its way? We find dead birds, we find dead fish, somewhere something is living"
Igor spat, "maybe, psica, maybe, but what difference would it make? If the storm is between us and them they might as well be up there." He pointed at the moon visible through the heli window.
A blur up ahead. Wlad was thrown out of his reverie and his seat as he slammed on the breaks. He skidded across the road and came to a halt with a squeal. Behind him seven other trucks did the same thing. Fuck, he exclaimed to himself, he would hear about this later. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | We are a long line of the stormriders, a few have ever seen us in the days of the first hope, when it seemed the storm was getting weaker. I was born during one of those days.
I grew up with stories about Susanne getting weaker, about the world beyond the eye, about settling down and rebuilding what was once a strong and proud nation. But she was an old beast and I didnt let myself get carried away by the stories, I knew her better than anyone, I spent my childhood playing on the edge of Susanne's eye pushing the limits, I wanted to see what she was capable of and believe me when I say it she is capable of anything. But she is not our enemy, she feeds us and keeps us warm and dry.
I'm an old man now, I still am a stormrider, one of the few left, and still Susanne feels like the only companion I had my whole life.
We are entering the years of a second hope it seems, it feels strange to live there, if you can call it that way, of course. And I dont know what to do with myself it seems Susanne is slowly dying. I should be celebrating but I can't, I know her she will probably pick herself up, we'll be traveling places anytime. But it seems different this time. A man came last night, from the north he says the storm is finally coming to an end, after a hundred years time.
They talk about new times, my people, about the time before the storm, but I dont feel I belong to those times, I am after all a true stormrider.
(First time posting, just be gentle, I feel I lost myself somewhere in the middle, but I dont want to change anything now.) | "Hunter. Hunter."
He didn't stir from his exhausted slumber.
"Hunter! You need to get up, the storm picked up speed while we were sleeping."
He desperately tried to wake his last friend. Too many times he'd been exactly where he was now, desperately trying to shake awake a companion who would never regain consciousness.
"Hunter, please. I can't do this alone."
The tone of desperation finally worked, as the second nomads eye lids flicked open with a start. The first nomad fell back into the sand with relief, all urgency forgotten as his greatest fear had, by some miracle, not been realised yet again.
"I thought that was it. I thought you were done."
"Hah, not today Jefri. The exhaustion doesn't claim me today."
"Thank the Storm," sighed Jefri as he pulled the smiling Hunter to his feet. "We need to pack and leave right now. I can see the Wall from here."
"But we only set up camp hours ago?" Hunter's smile disappeared.
"I know. It's getting faster every day it seems."
Hunter grunted a still-half-asleep acknowledgement and quickly went to rolling up his bed, before realising all of his things were covered in a dusty layer of sand. His bedroll, their water containers, the clothes they wore to protect their sensitive skin from the whipping sand; everything. Jefri wasn't kidding, if there was this much dust in the air then the Wall must be within hundreds of metres. They needed to move fast.
* * *
Moments later they were busting out of the hovel they'd found to camp in the previous night. Hunter's eyes grew wide as he saw the Wall not a mere 50 metres away.
"I wasn't lying Hunter, it caught us completely off-guard."
"We'll outrun it as we always have," Hunter reassured.
They started jogging because it was something they were more than used to. They had quite literally been running all their lives, today was just slightly more urgent than usual.
"My only question Jefri, is what we do when we've put the Wall back on the horizon where it should be," Hunter queried. His voice was even and unhurried despite their brisk pace.
"We do what we always do. The Storm will show us water when we need it, and uncover food for us when we need it, as it always has. We survive, like we always will."
Hunter bit his tongue. They weren't surviving. When he'd been born there had been an entire society of people just like them, surviving off the Storms bounties and living hard but happy lives. As the Storm had slowly got harsher and faster there numbers had dwindled, until only the most physically gifted nomads lived. And then even they started to drop off until it was just Jefri and Hunter.
***
***Writing more later, I just have to go at the moment, so I'm posting this before the thread gets too old. Hope you enjoy what little I have so far!***
| |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | The Wall is getting close – too close. I wake Samuel.
“Chief. Chief.”
He stirs, looks at me with bleary, irritated eyes. “What do you want?” His voice holds a mild accusation.
“The Wall’s only two miles away, at most. I think it’s picking up speed. We need to move.”
He rises – slowly, far too slowly. We don’t have time for this. “I’ll wake the others. The storm’s moving east.”
I go through the camp, waking the others. They’re not happy about it, but this is part of life now, this eternal flight. They rise, as they must.
Suddenly, I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Bill. “You told the Chief the storm’s going East?”
“Looks like it.”
“Shit!” He pulls out a map. It’s covered with a long, twisting line – the course we’ve taken pursuing the eye. “We’re here right now, right? Which puts the coast only about five miles east.”
My blood chills. “If it keeps moving east…”
“I knew this day would come. The storm couldn’t stay over land forever. I’ll tell the chief. Maybe we can find something that’ll float.”
I nod, knowing – as he surely does, as he must – that it’s futile. We’ve only ever been able to bring the bare necessities with us. Short of finding a ready-made boat at the shore, there’s no way we’ll be able to take to the sea.
The camp is finally in motion. The Wall encroaches. We move. | "Hunter. Hunter."
He didn't stir from his exhausted slumber.
"Hunter! You need to get up, the storm picked up speed while we were sleeping."
He desperately tried to wake his last friend. Too many times he'd been exactly where he was now, desperately trying to shake awake a companion who would never regain consciousness.
"Hunter, please. I can't do this alone."
The tone of desperation finally worked, as the second nomads eye lids flicked open with a start. The first nomad fell back into the sand with relief, all urgency forgotten as his greatest fear had, by some miracle, not been realised yet again.
"I thought that was it. I thought you were done."
"Hah, not today Jefri. The exhaustion doesn't claim me today."
"Thank the Storm," sighed Jefri as he pulled the smiling Hunter to his feet. "We need to pack and leave right now. I can see the Wall from here."
"But we only set up camp hours ago?" Hunter's smile disappeared.
"I know. It's getting faster every day it seems."
Hunter grunted a still-half-asleep acknowledgement and quickly went to rolling up his bed, before realising all of his things were covered in a dusty layer of sand. His bedroll, their water containers, the clothes they wore to protect their sensitive skin from the whipping sand; everything. Jefri wasn't kidding, if there was this much dust in the air then the Wall must be within hundreds of metres. They needed to move fast.
* * *
Moments later they were busting out of the hovel they'd found to camp in the previous night. Hunter's eyes grew wide as he saw the Wall not a mere 50 metres away.
"I wasn't lying Hunter, it caught us completely off-guard."
"We'll outrun it as we always have," Hunter reassured.
They started jogging because it was something they were more than used to. They had quite literally been running all their lives, today was just slightly more urgent than usual.
"My only question Jefri, is what we do when we've put the Wall back on the horizon where it should be," Hunter queried. His voice was even and unhurried despite their brisk pace.
"We do what we always do. The Storm will show us water when we need it, and uncover food for us when we need it, as it always has. We survive, like we always will."
Hunter bit his tongue. They weren't surviving. When he'd been born there had been an entire society of people just like them, surviving off the Storms bounties and living hard but happy lives. As the Storm had slowly got harsher and faster there numbers had dwindled, until only the most physically gifted nomads lived. And then even they started to drop off until it was just Jefri and Hunter.
***
***Writing more later, I just have to go at the moment, so I'm posting this before the thread gets too old. Hope you enjoy what little I have so far!***
| |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | We are a long line of the stormriders, a few have ever seen us in the days of the first hope, when it seemed the storm was getting weaker. I was born during one of those days.
I grew up with stories about Susanne getting weaker, about the world beyond the eye, about settling down and rebuilding what was once a strong and proud nation. But she was an old beast and I didnt let myself get carried away by the stories, I knew her better than anyone, I spent my childhood playing on the edge of Susanne's eye pushing the limits, I wanted to see what she was capable of and believe me when I say it she is capable of anything. But she is not our enemy, she feeds us and keeps us warm and dry.
I'm an old man now, I still am a stormrider, one of the few left, and still Susanne feels like the only companion I had my whole life.
We are entering the years of a second hope it seems, it feels strange to live there, if you can call it that way, of course. And I dont know what to do with myself it seems Susanne is slowly dying. I should be celebrating but I can't, I know her she will probably pick herself up, we'll be traveling places anytime. But it seems different this time. A man came last night, from the north he says the storm is finally coming to an end, after a hundred years time.
They talk about new times, my people, about the time before the storm, but I dont feel I belong to those times, I am after all a true stormrider.
(First time posting, just be gentle, I feel I lost myself somewhere in the middle, but I dont want to change anything now.) | They say it was climate change, some say social disorder, all that matters is this is all that we know now. Remnants of times past lay scattered across the ground, piles of rubble they say stretched as high as the sky but alas the skies are safe from those dangers.
They left us not to many years after the Great Collapse, as fast as they could build ships, leaving us the poor to take the brunt of the God's punishments. I don't think they expected us to survive, let alone thrive.
They left every thing they thought they could do with out, including the scientists that got them there in the first place, the labor that built the ships. We all knew they'd be back after the storm had relented.
First we gathered what we could, the necessary materials, we made our home in what was once known as Switzerland and we begun construction deep underground. only going out for supplies every 2 years when the eye of the storm passed over us, the mountains served to quell the winds substantially.
The first blimp to take off into the air was like a thousand winds taken off the back, we could finally rest easy. We could have stayed in Switzerland but we couldn't resist our selves. We were a strong people that persevered for one reason. Our resolve was strong, and our will rock solid.
After a short while every one was loaded into our new homes, much like those that left us behind, but we would only skim the coast as they crossed the ocean. 60,000 Miles in the sky nothing was recognizable from up here. 15 ships in all, 5 for housing, 3 for growing food and 7 to be left as way points marking each prospective landing sites.
We drifted with the eye for 2 years before the first klaxon wailed through the night, double, triple and quadruple checking made sure. They were coming back just as the Prophets of Wind had said so many years ago. T-Minus six months until they would be in the NEZ. Every thing was in on a closed system, noting made it out of our network, not a byte of data emanated from earth, there would be no signs of life.
It was quite easy as they passed by my blimp I didn't think twice before I flipped my switch enacting three generations worth of revenge in a foul flick of the finger. The message was emergency. Soon it was silent as I watched a small moons worth of metal start to spin laterally in the sky. Pods leaked, flew, then fell out of the sky like birds hit by a stray gust of frigged wind. Frozen solid on the out side, heart racing on the inside.
Just like the Prophets of Wind had predicted, they mighty would crawl back and fall to they're knees before The Meek, For that the Meek shall inherit the world. One down 4 more to go. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | The Wall is getting close – too close. I wake Samuel.
“Chief. Chief.”
He stirs, looks at me with bleary, irritated eyes. “What do you want?” His voice holds a mild accusation.
“The Wall’s only two miles away, at most. I think it’s picking up speed. We need to move.”
He rises – slowly, far too slowly. We don’t have time for this. “I’ll wake the others. The storm’s moving east.”
I go through the camp, waking the others. They’re not happy about it, but this is part of life now, this eternal flight. They rise, as they must.
Suddenly, I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Bill. “You told the Chief the storm’s going East?”
“Looks like it.”
“Shit!” He pulls out a map. It’s covered with a long, twisting line – the course we’ve taken pursuing the eye. “We’re here right now, right? Which puts the coast only about five miles east.”
My blood chills. “If it keeps moving east…”
“I knew this day would come. The storm couldn’t stay over land forever. I’ll tell the chief. Maybe we can find something that’ll float.”
I nod, knowing – as he surely does, as he must – that it’s futile. We’ve only ever been able to bring the bare necessities with us. Short of finding a ready-made boat at the shore, there’s no way we’ll be able to take to the sea.
The camp is finally in motion. The Wall encroaches. We move. | They say it was climate change, some say social disorder, all that matters is this is all that we know now. Remnants of times past lay scattered across the ground, piles of rubble they say stretched as high as the sky but alas the skies are safe from those dangers.
They left us not to many years after the Great Collapse, as fast as they could build ships, leaving us the poor to take the brunt of the God's punishments. I don't think they expected us to survive, let alone thrive.
They left every thing they thought they could do with out, including the scientists that got them there in the first place, the labor that built the ships. We all knew they'd be back after the storm had relented.
First we gathered what we could, the necessary materials, we made our home in what was once known as Switzerland and we begun construction deep underground. only going out for supplies every 2 years when the eye of the storm passed over us, the mountains served to quell the winds substantially.
The first blimp to take off into the air was like a thousand winds taken off the back, we could finally rest easy. We could have stayed in Switzerland but we couldn't resist our selves. We were a strong people that persevered for one reason. Our resolve was strong, and our will rock solid.
After a short while every one was loaded into our new homes, much like those that left us behind, but we would only skim the coast as they crossed the ocean. 60,000 Miles in the sky nothing was recognizable from up here. 15 ships in all, 5 for housing, 3 for growing food and 7 to be left as way points marking each prospective landing sites.
We drifted with the eye for 2 years before the first klaxon wailed through the night, double, triple and quadruple checking made sure. They were coming back just as the Prophets of Wind had said so many years ago. T-Minus six months until they would be in the NEZ. Every thing was in on a closed system, noting made it out of our network, not a byte of data emanated from earth, there would be no signs of life.
It was quite easy as they passed by my blimp I didn't think twice before I flipped my switch enacting three generations worth of revenge in a foul flick of the finger. The message was emergency. Soon it was silent as I watched a small moons worth of metal start to spin laterally in the sky. Pods leaked, flew, then fell out of the sky like birds hit by a stray gust of frigged wind. Frozen solid on the out side, heart racing on the inside.
Just like the Prophets of Wind had predicted, they mighty would crawl back and fall to they're knees before The Meek, For that the Meek shall inherit the world. One down 4 more to go. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | The Wall is getting close – too close. I wake Samuel.
“Chief. Chief.”
He stirs, looks at me with bleary, irritated eyes. “What do you want?” His voice holds a mild accusation.
“The Wall’s only two miles away, at most. I think it’s picking up speed. We need to move.”
He rises – slowly, far too slowly. We don’t have time for this. “I’ll wake the others. The storm’s moving east.”
I go through the camp, waking the others. They’re not happy about it, but this is part of life now, this eternal flight. They rise, as they must.
Suddenly, I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Bill. “You told the Chief the storm’s going East?”
“Looks like it.”
“Shit!” He pulls out a map. It’s covered with a long, twisting line – the course we’ve taken pursuing the eye. “We’re here right now, right? Which puts the coast only about five miles east.”
My blood chills. “If it keeps moving east…”
“I knew this day would come. The storm couldn’t stay over land forever. I’ll tell the chief. Maybe we can find something that’ll float.”
I nod, knowing – as he surely does, as he must – that it’s futile. We’ve only ever been able to bring the bare necessities with us. Short of finding a ready-made boat at the shore, there’s no way we’ll be able to take to the sea.
The camp is finally in motion. The Wall encroaches. We move. | We are a long line of the stormriders, a few have ever seen us in the days of the first hope, when it seemed the storm was getting weaker. I was born during one of those days.
I grew up with stories about Susanne getting weaker, about the world beyond the eye, about settling down and rebuilding what was once a strong and proud nation. But she was an old beast and I didnt let myself get carried away by the stories, I knew her better than anyone, I spent my childhood playing on the edge of Susanne's eye pushing the limits, I wanted to see what she was capable of and believe me when I say it she is capable of anything. But she is not our enemy, she feeds us and keeps us warm and dry.
I'm an old man now, I still am a stormrider, one of the few left, and still Susanne feels like the only companion I had my whole life.
We are entering the years of a second hope it seems, it feels strange to live there, if you can call it that way, of course. And I dont know what to do with myself it seems Susanne is slowly dying. I should be celebrating but I can't, I know her she will probably pick herself up, we'll be traveling places anytime. But it seems different this time. A man came last night, from the north he says the storm is finally coming to an end, after a hundred years time.
They talk about new times, my people, about the time before the storm, but I dont feel I belong to those times, I am after all a true stormrider.
(First time posting, just be gentle, I feel I lost myself somewhere in the middle, but I dont want to change anything now.) | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | "Viktor, we have to move. Come on, get up."
The winds had picked up since I had gone to sleep. The air was still then, but now, it was whipping my hair around. The next time we found some scissors, I'd need to clip it, I made a mental note for that as I stood up. It was as dark as it always seemed to be nowadays, and the dust and dirt was starting to grate against my skin.
"How long was I asleep?" I asked, Nala was looking up at me as I slipped my dusty leather jacket over my arms and pulled it forwards. The cobwebs were starting to invade my mind, but I had to shake them free.
"About four hours, I couldn't sleep. The storm front started to approach after you fell asleep." She responded, there were forty other people lying down behind her, and the bikes were even beyond them.
"Ok. You should get some sleep when you're not on watch. If you don't get your rest, you will miss a step later on." I whispered to her. I looked around and kicked Brian awake. He popped up as I had, and looked around. I nodded to him, and he went on his way, waking everyone up.
The storm was approaching, slowly but steadily. It would be upon us in an hour if we didn't get moving. Luckily, the eye of the storm was about 2 hundred miles wide, and every fifty miles we rode, the storm would approach six miles, so we always needed to stop every 4 and a half hours of riding or so. I hated this damn storm, always had.
The first engine kicked to life, reminding me of what I needed to do. I grabbed my water bottle and my pack, throwing the pack over my shoulder, I walked to my bike, a long piped thing, with a huge double tank, and a bucket seat.
"How long do you reckon we'll be going like this, Vik?" Brian said to me, everyone was stirring now, some a little, some were up and moving. I thought about it for a second, but then I started formulating some kind of plan of what to say.
"Couldn't tell ya, man. We've been going for a couple of months. As near I can tell, we're gonna keep moving until we all start dropping dead, and we'll be gone and this fekkin' storm will just keep moving." I chuckled, taking a drink of my water.
Brian was ruminating on that, when suddenly a nasally voice of a young man rang out behind him. I turned around, and saw a man who's name fit him perfectly. Eugene had a jacket on that was far too big for him, a belt that was pulled out to it's max, and a pair of goggles with prescription sunglasses on underneath them. "Hey Viktor, does the other wall look like it's moving?"
I knew he was referring to the other wall of the storm, opposite of the one we were running from. It wasn't moving now, it always looked like it was at least starting to move, but now it was just sitting there, spinning, but sitting there nonetheless. It was peculiar. "No, I don't think it is."
"That's what I thought." Eugene said, kicking the dirt underneath him. I continued "But, that doesn't change the fact that we need to go that way, this side is still moving in on us." We climbed onto our bikes as the last of them roared to life. I lowered my goggles down and started moving along, building up speed until I was cruising at fifty miles and hour. The blessing and the curse of this whole thing was that now I had a lot of time to think, to work out the kinks of my knowledge, philosophy, or something. It also gave me time to ruminate on my mistakes and my life, before the storm.
Finally, we slowed to a stop, a mere mile from the wall that we were far from earlier in the day. Night was approaching, which was terrifying per usual, I always feared getting caught in a night storm or going in the wrong direction or something. Hopefully we'd be able to sleep here and get a move on in a couple of days, or hours. We set up camp as night started to approach.
"I hate all this running." Nala said, looking up at me. I was tired, tired from riding, tired of torturing myself a thousand times using the same demons who had tortured me for years. I needed to sleep. As I was expecting, the wall wasn't moving away, still spinning and whipping air up, but not moving away.
"I hate it too, trust me. But, we can't be eaten by that storm, we'd all die. And as far as I know, our little gang is the only thing that's left of humanity, and we can't let humanity die." I said, grunting. I took another drink from my bottle of water, let it sit in my mouth and then swallowed it. I looked up at the dark wall of the storm, then I noticed something. The wall was thinner looking than it always had been.
I looked down at Nala, then over at Brian. "Does the wall look... Thinner to you?"
"Yeah, kinda." Brian responded, hesitant. Nala didn't say anything, she just looked up at the wall and thought about it for a few minutes. It was during this silence when suddenly, the wall, or a section of it, disappeared. The section was a hundred feet wide and stretched up to the blackening sky. It was completely gone, replaced by an open area. I was bewildered by this, unaware of what I was watching. Suddenly, the wall closed again. "What... The fuck... Was that?" Brian said, one, maybe two words at a time.
"Couldn-" Nala said before she was interrupted by the wall opening up again, this time miles wide. I was stunned by this, and suddenly, I saw moment on the other side. Someone stood up, their face was shrouded by what looked like a turban. They nudged a person to his side, who stood up groggily, gripping what looked like... A broadsword?
More people stood up, until they stopped. It was a group, slightly smaller than ours, and armed in a similar fashion. They all looked tired and were wearing turbans. Behind them, there was a pack of camels? None of this was making any sense to me.
Suddenly, the one that stood up first started running at me. I thought he was trying to make it before the wall closed again, then it all started to click as he raised his weapon.
There were two storms, the eyes of which were meeting. His group of nomads was now meeting ours, and they were scared. I would be lying if I said my group wasn't, but we weren't ready to attack these folk.
Unless, of course, they attacked first... | What you have to do is keep that smooth wall in sight on all sides, at all times. You can go down to the ground for short periods of time, but really, it's not a great idea; it's hard to gauge how fast Big Wind is moving in your direction, and what's down there anyway? Twisted debris, scoured bedrock, the occasional Time Before clutch of ruins poking from the mud like eroded sets of dentures. Me and Farragut have found quite a few underground shelters, but they're always flooded, anything once of use inside long ago rotted away.
The only thing to do is bob here, precariously, in the Eye of the Big Wind, watching the smooth black walls of the Eye always, ever ready to flee before them. The Flotilla at present comprises 49 airships (and their innumerable swarms of tender autogyros and balloons) lashed together into a great lifeboat floating on an ephemeral sea. But once, we were 500 vessels, as many as a thousand in my dad's day. Time, weather, squabbles, failing equipment and the devil did for the rest.
This is what I know; this is all I know. To say that I must have some sort of hope for the future misunderstands what my past was, and what my present is. It has always been and probably always will be this for me. And it's not a bad life- still plenty of food and fuel, no plagues at present, and I have one of the most envied posts in the Flotilla, librarian aboard the bookship Urartu, a dim, heaving space filled with thousands of books, one of five bookships spread throughout the inner Flotilla. A quiet job, but an important one. I preserve past knowledge for a living, work with my buddy Farragut, and still manage to be in my quarters by 1730 every day. I'm contented, and I look with all confidence to the leadership of the Admiral and his people. Without them, who'd keep the lights on and the engines running? Sacrifice is something we all need to keep in mind, and the Admiral is admirable at helping the ungrateful understand its purpose and submit to the will of the Many.
That's what my dad never understood, that there are no more individual men, there is only the Many. Everything must serve the security and function of Flotilla, because if it doesn't, what is there? My dad, ever the romantic, poisoned himself in the Church of the Eye, praying and rattling beads and bells to an atmospheric feature with a bunch of clucking hens. He filled in whatever metaphysics he could of this life, and him a survivor of the Time Before. His fear and superstition made a fool of him, and he began trusting dangerous people. Life is dangerous enough, I think, without seeking danger out and courting it actively. We're all, as the saying goes, just hanging by a thread. But my dad wished to cut it in the name of the Eye of God, and the Admiral's men threw him over the side for his meddling, a smeary blue eye symbol still painted on his forehead; it was the last thing I saw before he disappeared from view. I'm not sorry I spoke up; it was in the interest of the Many, of course, no room wasted on sentimentality or superstitious sedition.
One day I'd like to move closer to the inner Flotilla, always lit, alive and exciting. But my real work is so much more important than my wish to get drunk with swells in paper-lantern-festooned saloon blimps and dance with wealthy ladies from the Admiral's ships- we must, for the Admiral, the Flotilla and the Many, find out how to read these mounds of books. Nobody knows what they say. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | For the last year, this is how we have lived. The slow, but ever-moving storm around us. For days, we would walk ceaselessly until we reached the leading edge of the eye. Then we would be able to make camp for a few weeks until the trailing edge caught up to us again.
When the government began their weather control program, the whole world was behind it. We looked forward to the moderate winters, the year round growing seasons, and the mountain skiing in July. The few people that saw this coming were written off as crackpots.
But it only took 10 years to prove the crackpots right. It started slowly, the sudden hurricanes popping up out of nowhere, the stray tornado that followed the planned rainstorms. That was how I'd lost my parents. The government said it was a fluke, but they became more frequent within months.
Eventually, the tornados disappeared but the hurricanes got stronger. Soon, any cities within a hundred miles of the coastlines were decimated. As people started moving inland, the riots and killings began. The looting and ration-hoarding was expected, but as the storms grew even stronger, moving further inland, people started trying to find any reprieve. A storm shelter, a leftover Cold War bunker, mountain caves. These were the only places you could be safe.
Then came the big storm. It started in the Atlantic and moved west, towards North America, destroying everything in its path. It moved so slowly, it took six months to cross the ocean. By the time it reached land, the eye was almost 250 miles across. The winds topped 150 miles an hour, ripping houses apart and tearing trees from the ground.
I was living in upstate New York when the front edge hit. Some of the neighbors had a storm shelter where we rode out the storm. We thought that it would dissipate when it hit land, but that wasn't the case. It just kept coming.
After two months underground, we heard the winds stop. After a couple more days of nothing, we risked going topside. The devastation was utter and complete. In the west, we could see the wall of clouds,maybe only twenty miles away, and we knew the storm had passed. Thank god! We scavenged what we could and brought it back to the shelter, our home base while we rebuilt.
We quickly erected some simple shelters from lumber scraps. We watched as the storm moved slowly westward until it seemed a distant memory. We quickly hit the lull after the storm. But, that too was short lived.
After a few weeks, the skies in the east began to darken once more. The winds slowly began to rise. We knew what was coming. The clear skies didn't mean the storm was over, we were merely in the middle of it. The eye of the storm had grown so large, and it was moving so slowly, that we were spared for weeks.
We knew we couldn't last through another storm, so we took a few days to pack what we could carry, and moved on. We were one of the lucky groups. We had no infirm, no elderly, nothing to slow us down. We caught up with, and passed, several groups that did. I hate to think of what happened when the storm overtook them.
This is how we've lived. A few weeks on the march, a few weeks of rest, always trying to stay ahead of the storm. As I write this note, we sit at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. The storm is catching up to us.
Some have decided to sail the ocean, building boats out of whatever scraps they can find. Not me. The eye may be calm, but the waves are still there and they will destroy the rickety crafts quickly. This is how I will die. I can hear the waves crashing below me, the jagged rocks offering me a quick demise. Perhaps I will see you in a better world. | What you have to do is keep that smooth wall in sight on all sides, at all times. You can go down to the ground for short periods of time, but really, it's not a great idea; it's hard to gauge how fast Big Wind is moving in your direction, and what's down there anyway? Twisted debris, scoured bedrock, the occasional Time Before clutch of ruins poking from the mud like eroded sets of dentures. Me and Farragut have found quite a few underground shelters, but they're always flooded, anything once of use inside long ago rotted away.
The only thing to do is bob here, precariously, in the Eye of the Big Wind, watching the smooth black walls of the Eye always, ever ready to flee before them. The Flotilla at present comprises 49 airships (and their innumerable swarms of tender autogyros and balloons) lashed together into a great lifeboat floating on an ephemeral sea. But once, we were 500 vessels, as many as a thousand in my dad's day. Time, weather, squabbles, failing equipment and the devil did for the rest.
This is what I know; this is all I know. To say that I must have some sort of hope for the future misunderstands what my past was, and what my present is. It has always been and probably always will be this for me. And it's not a bad life- still plenty of food and fuel, no plagues at present, and I have one of the most envied posts in the Flotilla, librarian aboard the bookship Urartu, a dim, heaving space filled with thousands of books, one of five bookships spread throughout the inner Flotilla. A quiet job, but an important one. I preserve past knowledge for a living, work with my buddy Farragut, and still manage to be in my quarters by 1730 every day. I'm contented, and I look with all confidence to the leadership of the Admiral and his people. Without them, who'd keep the lights on and the engines running? Sacrifice is something we all need to keep in mind, and the Admiral is admirable at helping the ungrateful understand its purpose and submit to the will of the Many.
That's what my dad never understood, that there are no more individual men, there is only the Many. Everything must serve the security and function of Flotilla, because if it doesn't, what is there? My dad, ever the romantic, poisoned himself in the Church of the Eye, praying and rattling beads and bells to an atmospheric feature with a bunch of clucking hens. He filled in whatever metaphysics he could of this life, and him a survivor of the Time Before. His fear and superstition made a fool of him, and he began trusting dangerous people. Life is dangerous enough, I think, without seeking danger out and courting it actively. We're all, as the saying goes, just hanging by a thread. But my dad wished to cut it in the name of the Eye of God, and the Admiral's men threw him over the side for his meddling, a smeary blue eye symbol still painted on his forehead; it was the last thing I saw before he disappeared from view. I'm not sorry I spoke up; it was in the interest of the Many, of course, no room wasted on sentimentality or superstitious sedition.
One day I'd like to move closer to the inner Flotilla, always lit, alive and exciting. But my real work is so much more important than my wish to get drunk with swells in paper-lantern-festooned saloon blimps and dance with wealthy ladies from the Admiral's ships- we must, for the Admiral, the Flotilla and the Many, find out how to read these mounds of books. Nobody knows what they say. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | The cords cut deep into my wrists. The man tying me to the post grunted, as his strained to pull them even tighter. Standing in front of me, David oversaw the work, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Any last words?” He asked. “Before the sands come to strip your body of its unclean flesh?”
I just stared at him. All the words I had for him, I had already said in front of the council. It had made no difference. I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of any more pleading.
“I thought not.”
The man behind me finished tying my bonds, and rejoined David.
“All done, sir.”
“You are sure they are tight enough?”
“As tight as I could make them.”
“Well, then, let’s make sure, shall we?”
David stepped up to me, and delivered a punch to my gut. My body tried to double over, but was held back by the restrains. The only effect was to drive splinters from the rough post into my back.
“Hmm...not bad.” David said. “But a good craftsman always double-checks his work.”
Another punch landed. I tried to retch, but nothing came up. I hadn’t eaten in three days. No one is permitted to eat during a capital trial. Why waste food on a person you may be killing in just a few days?
“Yes. That will do.”
David wrenched my head so that my eyes met his.
“When the wind comes and peels the flesh from your bones, I want you to remember: you deserve this.”
He spat on my face, and then left.
***
It didn’t take long for them to mount up and ride off. I was left alone, with my thoughts. I had about twenty minutes left -- part of the punishment. The condemned were always staked far enough from the storm front to allow a plenty of anticipation and reflection.
It worked. When you have minutes left to live, what other option is there but to review your life -- no matter how brief. The focus was, naturally, on my crime.
To be fair, it had been my fault. My mother had always warned me to be careful, to keep an eye out, and to stay away from men after they had been drinking fermented milk. But, the night of my crime had been one of celebration tribe-wide. I spent the night dancing with Sayir, and had thought we had become friends. I let my guard down, and today I would pay the price for that.
I had cried for him to stop, to no avail, as he forced himself on me. God, how it hurt -- why would anyone choose to do this voluntarily? Was having a child such a great gift that one would endure this?
Even with the circulation in my arms cut off, I could still feel his hands upon them holding me down. I could feel him thrusting against me -- over and over, his sour breath upon my face. I could hear his gasp, as he came to fruition, and lay against me, breathing heavy. I could see him rise, and then stumble off, back to the party, without so much as a glance backwards.
I should have left. I should have run back to our tent, but I couldn’t force myself to stand. I stayed, curled into a ball. Even my sobs refused my command to come.
It was there that David found me. I don’t know if Sayir had sent him or not. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.
“Bitch!” David said, hauling me to my feet. “How could you disobey the Chief? Don’t you know he owns your body, as the Gods own your soul? You will pay for this insolence.”
***
The trial was quick -- no more than a day. It is not hard to verify when woman has lost her virtue. I argued for mercy. I claimed that I had been forced upon. But how does one prove this? Does sex leave a mark on a man, as it does a woman?
No. I could prove nothing. And so Sayir suffered only the disapproving glances of his elders, and I was sentenced to the stake.
It took another day to fashion the stake, and by then it was too late. Tradition dictated that the condemned enter the storm at midday.
And so, three days since I had been violated, I waited, tied, naked, in the heat of the sun. I waited for the sand to come and claim my worthless body.
***
The wind was picking up. Soon, it would be over. The edges of the storm were sharp, and moved quickly. It took only minutes for one to move from complete calm to the full rage of the wind.
Soon, the wind would coax the grains of the desert into drifting along the ground. Then, into flying through the air. The sand would first burn, and then strip the skin from my body. It would seek out the soft spots, remove my eyes from their sockets. Closing my eyelids would only delay this fate. The sand would grind at the meat of my body, and then finally the bones. If I were lucky, I would die before the bones were reached.
This is what I had been told. Of course, no one *knew*. Who could survive the storm to tell the tale? The farthest anyone had gone in, and lived to return, had been mere tens of meters. And he had lived but for days.
Yes, my fate was clear. And so, as the sand began to lift from the ground, I gritted my teeth, and tried my best to accept my fate.
***
I came awake in a tent. The cloth was dyed a solid purple. I had never seen such extravagant use of the color before. I must be in the afterlife.
I tried to rise, and the pain that shot out from every inch of my skin brought cry from my mouth. Pain? In the afterlife? What cruel jest did the Gods play?
“Hush, little one. Hush.” The voice came from behind me. I tried to turn my head to find its source. Before I could, an old woman appeared before me. She wore a robe of a simple cut. It too was purple. A goddess, then?
“Be still,” She said, in the same voice. “ I know it hurts, but you are safe here.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but it was too parched to work.
“Don’t try to talk, dear.” The old woman said. Concern wrinkled her brow. She brought a water skin to my lips. Never, before or since, did anything taste as sweet as that water. “You wish to know where you are?”
I nodded.
“Then I will tell you. Though, I suspect you will not believe. Few do in their first few days. But know this first: you are not dead.”
I opened my mouth again.
“Hush, child.” She said. “You have passed through the storm. You are free.” | What you have to do is keep that smooth wall in sight on all sides, at all times. You can go down to the ground for short periods of time, but really, it's not a great idea; it's hard to gauge how fast Big Wind is moving in your direction, and what's down there anyway? Twisted debris, scoured bedrock, the occasional Time Before clutch of ruins poking from the mud like eroded sets of dentures. Me and Farragut have found quite a few underground shelters, but they're always flooded, anything once of use inside long ago rotted away.
The only thing to do is bob here, precariously, in the Eye of the Big Wind, watching the smooth black walls of the Eye always, ever ready to flee before them. The Flotilla at present comprises 49 airships (and their innumerable swarms of tender autogyros and balloons) lashed together into a great lifeboat floating on an ephemeral sea. But once, we were 500 vessels, as many as a thousand in my dad's day. Time, weather, squabbles, failing equipment and the devil did for the rest.
This is what I know; this is all I know. To say that I must have some sort of hope for the future misunderstands what my past was, and what my present is. It has always been and probably always will be this for me. And it's not a bad life- still plenty of food and fuel, no plagues at present, and I have one of the most envied posts in the Flotilla, librarian aboard the bookship Urartu, a dim, heaving space filled with thousands of books, one of five bookships spread throughout the inner Flotilla. A quiet job, but an important one. I preserve past knowledge for a living, work with my buddy Farragut, and still manage to be in my quarters by 1730 every day. I'm contented, and I look with all confidence to the leadership of the Admiral and his people. Without them, who'd keep the lights on and the engines running? Sacrifice is something we all need to keep in mind, and the Admiral is admirable at helping the ungrateful understand its purpose and submit to the will of the Many.
That's what my dad never understood, that there are no more individual men, there is only the Many. Everything must serve the security and function of Flotilla, because if it doesn't, what is there? My dad, ever the romantic, poisoned himself in the Church of the Eye, praying and rattling beads and bells to an atmospheric feature with a bunch of clucking hens. He filled in whatever metaphysics he could of this life, and him a survivor of the Time Before. His fear and superstition made a fool of him, and he began trusting dangerous people. Life is dangerous enough, I think, without seeking danger out and courting it actively. We're all, as the saying goes, just hanging by a thread. But my dad wished to cut it in the name of the Eye of God, and the Admiral's men threw him over the side for his meddling, a smeary blue eye symbol still painted on his forehead; it was the last thing I saw before he disappeared from view. I'm not sorry I spoke up; it was in the interest of the Many, of course, no room wasted on sentimentality or superstitious sedition.
One day I'd like to move closer to the inner Flotilla, always lit, alive and exciting. But my real work is so much more important than my wish to get drunk with swells in paper-lantern-festooned saloon blimps and dance with wealthy ladies from the Admiral's ships- we must, for the Admiral, the Flotilla and the Many, find out how to read these mounds of books. Nobody knows what they say. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | "Viktor, we have to move. Come on, get up."
The winds had picked up since I had gone to sleep. The air was still then, but now, it was whipping my hair around. The next time we found some scissors, I'd need to clip it, I made a mental note for that as I stood up. It was as dark as it always seemed to be nowadays, and the dust and dirt was starting to grate against my skin.
"How long was I asleep?" I asked, Nala was looking up at me as I slipped my dusty leather jacket over my arms and pulled it forwards. The cobwebs were starting to invade my mind, but I had to shake them free.
"About four hours, I couldn't sleep. The storm front started to approach after you fell asleep." She responded, there were forty other people lying down behind her, and the bikes were even beyond them.
"Ok. You should get some sleep when you're not on watch. If you don't get your rest, you will miss a step later on." I whispered to her. I looked around and kicked Brian awake. He popped up as I had, and looked around. I nodded to him, and he went on his way, waking everyone up.
The storm was approaching, slowly but steadily. It would be upon us in an hour if we didn't get moving. Luckily, the eye of the storm was about 2 hundred miles wide, and every fifty miles we rode, the storm would approach six miles, so we always needed to stop every 4 and a half hours of riding or so. I hated this damn storm, always had.
The first engine kicked to life, reminding me of what I needed to do. I grabbed my water bottle and my pack, throwing the pack over my shoulder, I walked to my bike, a long piped thing, with a huge double tank, and a bucket seat.
"How long do you reckon we'll be going like this, Vik?" Brian said to me, everyone was stirring now, some a little, some were up and moving. I thought about it for a second, but then I started formulating some kind of plan of what to say.
"Couldn't tell ya, man. We've been going for a couple of months. As near I can tell, we're gonna keep moving until we all start dropping dead, and we'll be gone and this fekkin' storm will just keep moving." I chuckled, taking a drink of my water.
Brian was ruminating on that, when suddenly a nasally voice of a young man rang out behind him. I turned around, and saw a man who's name fit him perfectly. Eugene had a jacket on that was far too big for him, a belt that was pulled out to it's max, and a pair of goggles with prescription sunglasses on underneath them. "Hey Viktor, does the other wall look like it's moving?"
I knew he was referring to the other wall of the storm, opposite of the one we were running from. It wasn't moving now, it always looked like it was at least starting to move, but now it was just sitting there, spinning, but sitting there nonetheless. It was peculiar. "No, I don't think it is."
"That's what I thought." Eugene said, kicking the dirt underneath him. I continued "But, that doesn't change the fact that we need to go that way, this side is still moving in on us." We climbed onto our bikes as the last of them roared to life. I lowered my goggles down and started moving along, building up speed until I was cruising at fifty miles and hour. The blessing and the curse of this whole thing was that now I had a lot of time to think, to work out the kinks of my knowledge, philosophy, or something. It also gave me time to ruminate on my mistakes and my life, before the storm.
Finally, we slowed to a stop, a mere mile from the wall that we were far from earlier in the day. Night was approaching, which was terrifying per usual, I always feared getting caught in a night storm or going in the wrong direction or something. Hopefully we'd be able to sleep here and get a move on in a couple of days, or hours. We set up camp as night started to approach.
"I hate all this running." Nala said, looking up at me. I was tired, tired from riding, tired of torturing myself a thousand times using the same demons who had tortured me for years. I needed to sleep. As I was expecting, the wall wasn't moving away, still spinning and whipping air up, but not moving away.
"I hate it too, trust me. But, we can't be eaten by that storm, we'd all die. And as far as I know, our little gang is the only thing that's left of humanity, and we can't let humanity die." I said, grunting. I took another drink from my bottle of water, let it sit in my mouth and then swallowed it. I looked up at the dark wall of the storm, then I noticed something. The wall was thinner looking than it always had been.
I looked down at Nala, then over at Brian. "Does the wall look... Thinner to you?"
"Yeah, kinda." Brian responded, hesitant. Nala didn't say anything, she just looked up at the wall and thought about it for a few minutes. It was during this silence when suddenly, the wall, or a section of it, disappeared. The section was a hundred feet wide and stretched up to the blackening sky. It was completely gone, replaced by an open area. I was bewildered by this, unaware of what I was watching. Suddenly, the wall closed again. "What... The fuck... Was that?" Brian said, one, maybe two words at a time.
"Couldn-" Nala said before she was interrupted by the wall opening up again, this time miles wide. I was stunned by this, and suddenly, I saw moment on the other side. Someone stood up, their face was shrouded by what looked like a turban. They nudged a person to his side, who stood up groggily, gripping what looked like... A broadsword?
More people stood up, until they stopped. It was a group, slightly smaller than ours, and armed in a similar fashion. They all looked tired and were wearing turbans. Behind them, there was a pack of camels? None of this was making any sense to me.
Suddenly, the one that stood up first started running at me. I thought he was trying to make it before the wall closed again, then it all started to click as he raised his weapon.
There were two storms, the eyes of which were meeting. His group of nomads was now meeting ours, and they were scared. I would be lying if I said my group wasn't, but we weren't ready to attack these folk.
Unless, of course, they attacked first... | The tent moved lightly in the slight breeze. A young woman opened the entrance and ran inside. A boy was asleep under a woven blanket.
„Come quickly, Herok! The elders are announcing their decision! Wake up!“
Herok turned around slowly and drowsily. „All right I‘m coming. But I‘ve only been sleeping for an hour. I still have two more.“
„You‘ll get your sleep, just come!“
Herok put on his woolen pants and strutted out of the tent. His sister Hera went ahead of him.
All around him now was the familiar permanent slight breeze and sound of winds in the distance. He had long since gotten used to the sight of the grey stormy wall that enclosed them all. But the constant buzzing noise was always there, always present. The winds seemed unusually strong today as the wall was slightly closer than usual – albeit still half a kilometer away.
The dim light managed to illuminate enough of the large gathering of people in the near distance – presumably the two-hundred or so members of the community.
They ran to the crowd and sat down on the grey, barren ground. In front of them all was the Council: the ten wisest men around. One of them, an elderly man of about 80 years old, stood up and spoke.
„Dear people, praise be to the One who gives us life. We have convened the last few days regarding the urgent matter of nourishment for the cattle. The One has been angry with us for what‘s near three months now and we have to come to a solution. The decision is to head for The Cave at the nearest opportunity, which is according to our estimates within the next few days.“
A chatter went through the crowd. A man stood up, seemingly upset, but managing to restrain his voice. „But Holy one, none of us has ever been to The Cave and managed to return. It is a forbidden zone. This has been the will of our people for centuries since it was discovered.“
The council leader raised his already weak voice. „There is no life here. The cattle is perishing. Our fate, should we continue our ancient methods of living, will decide our fate for us, if we won‘t. We will face The Cave and the fate it offers, even if it will be our death.“
Another man stood up his seat and stood in front of the crowd. This was Kordor, the tribal leader. „The council has spoken. There will be no doubting this decision. Everyone is to be prepared to leave to The Cave at a moment‘s notice.“
Herok and Hera looked at each other, and then to their mother, who was sitting nearby. The mother stood up and walked to them. „Come now kids, it will be alright. We‘re just moving to a better place, that‘s all.“
The days pass. Kordor has received word that the entrance has been spotted at the edge of the storm. The storm‘s movement was a steady few metres per day and at this rate, the entrance should be visible only today. He asked several men to tell everyone to move. The council leader, Gardar, sat behind him in the large tent. Kordor turned around. „I dearly hope we are doing the right thing.“ Gardar was unfazed. „When god abandons us, we abandon him. There will be new blessings ahead of us.“
The Cave opening itself was a few dozen metres tall, but the cave itself was much smaller. Hera watched as the long line of people ahead of her disappeared into the ground, slowly but surely.
Once inside, a pitch-black darkness engulfed her. Soon after a torch was carried to them by one of the leader‘s men and she could see the wet rock which defined the interior of the cave. However no life or growth was to be seen anywhere. She didn‘t understand why they were going there and neither did Herok.
„Mom, how far are we gonna go inside?“ „Just a little bit longer honey. We have to find a place to stay.“
An hour passes, and then another. The cave walls seem not to be growing any larger, still being only few metres high and the path somewhat narrow.
Hera was scanning the wall to the left of her, counting the number of rocks who stuck out. Suddenly she stopped. The long line of people continued on right by her and the light went dimmer as the torch went ahead, but she could still glimpse something on the wall.
On it was a red colored drawing. It was too blurry to be recent and high enough that people in front of her could miss it. The drawing was of a human stick figure, with their arms up in the air, seemingly running away from something. She looked beneath the figure to find what it was running away from. It was a drawing of a worm, around ten times the length of the figure and twice as thick. And beneath it, the severed heads and limbs of other stick figures.
---
Thanks for reading! | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | For the last year, this is how we have lived. The slow, but ever-moving storm around us. For days, we would walk ceaselessly until we reached the leading edge of the eye. Then we would be able to make camp for a few weeks until the trailing edge caught up to us again.
When the government began their weather control program, the whole world was behind it. We looked forward to the moderate winters, the year round growing seasons, and the mountain skiing in July. The few people that saw this coming were written off as crackpots.
But it only took 10 years to prove the crackpots right. It started slowly, the sudden hurricanes popping up out of nowhere, the stray tornado that followed the planned rainstorms. That was how I'd lost my parents. The government said it was a fluke, but they became more frequent within months.
Eventually, the tornados disappeared but the hurricanes got stronger. Soon, any cities within a hundred miles of the coastlines were decimated. As people started moving inland, the riots and killings began. The looting and ration-hoarding was expected, but as the storms grew even stronger, moving further inland, people started trying to find any reprieve. A storm shelter, a leftover Cold War bunker, mountain caves. These were the only places you could be safe.
Then came the big storm. It started in the Atlantic and moved west, towards North America, destroying everything in its path. It moved so slowly, it took six months to cross the ocean. By the time it reached land, the eye was almost 250 miles across. The winds topped 150 miles an hour, ripping houses apart and tearing trees from the ground.
I was living in upstate New York when the front edge hit. Some of the neighbors had a storm shelter where we rode out the storm. We thought that it would dissipate when it hit land, but that wasn't the case. It just kept coming.
After two months underground, we heard the winds stop. After a couple more days of nothing, we risked going topside. The devastation was utter and complete. In the west, we could see the wall of clouds,maybe only twenty miles away, and we knew the storm had passed. Thank god! We scavenged what we could and brought it back to the shelter, our home base while we rebuilt.
We quickly erected some simple shelters from lumber scraps. We watched as the storm moved slowly westward until it seemed a distant memory. We quickly hit the lull after the storm. But, that too was short lived.
After a few weeks, the skies in the east began to darken once more. The winds slowly began to rise. We knew what was coming. The clear skies didn't mean the storm was over, we were merely in the middle of it. The eye of the storm had grown so large, and it was moving so slowly, that we were spared for weeks.
We knew we couldn't last through another storm, so we took a few days to pack what we could carry, and moved on. We were one of the lucky groups. We had no infirm, no elderly, nothing to slow us down. We caught up with, and passed, several groups that did. I hate to think of what happened when the storm overtook them.
This is how we've lived. A few weeks on the march, a few weeks of rest, always trying to stay ahead of the storm. As I write this note, we sit at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. The storm is catching up to us.
Some have decided to sail the ocean, building boats out of whatever scraps they can find. Not me. The eye may be calm, but the waves are still there and they will destroy the rickety crafts quickly. This is how I will die. I can hear the waves crashing below me, the jagged rocks offering me a quick demise. Perhaps I will see you in a better world. | The tent moved lightly in the slight breeze. A young woman opened the entrance and ran inside. A boy was asleep under a woven blanket.
„Come quickly, Herok! The elders are announcing their decision! Wake up!“
Herok turned around slowly and drowsily. „All right I‘m coming. But I‘ve only been sleeping for an hour. I still have two more.“
„You‘ll get your sleep, just come!“
Herok put on his woolen pants and strutted out of the tent. His sister Hera went ahead of him.
All around him now was the familiar permanent slight breeze and sound of winds in the distance. He had long since gotten used to the sight of the grey stormy wall that enclosed them all. But the constant buzzing noise was always there, always present. The winds seemed unusually strong today as the wall was slightly closer than usual – albeit still half a kilometer away.
The dim light managed to illuminate enough of the large gathering of people in the near distance – presumably the two-hundred or so members of the community.
They ran to the crowd and sat down on the grey, barren ground. In front of them all was the Council: the ten wisest men around. One of them, an elderly man of about 80 years old, stood up and spoke.
„Dear people, praise be to the One who gives us life. We have convened the last few days regarding the urgent matter of nourishment for the cattle. The One has been angry with us for what‘s near three months now and we have to come to a solution. The decision is to head for The Cave at the nearest opportunity, which is according to our estimates within the next few days.“
A chatter went through the crowd. A man stood up, seemingly upset, but managing to restrain his voice. „But Holy one, none of us has ever been to The Cave and managed to return. It is a forbidden zone. This has been the will of our people for centuries since it was discovered.“
The council leader raised his already weak voice. „There is no life here. The cattle is perishing. Our fate, should we continue our ancient methods of living, will decide our fate for us, if we won‘t. We will face The Cave and the fate it offers, even if it will be our death.“
Another man stood up his seat and stood in front of the crowd. This was Kordor, the tribal leader. „The council has spoken. There will be no doubting this decision. Everyone is to be prepared to leave to The Cave at a moment‘s notice.“
Herok and Hera looked at each other, and then to their mother, who was sitting nearby. The mother stood up and walked to them. „Come now kids, it will be alright. We‘re just moving to a better place, that‘s all.“
The days pass. Kordor has received word that the entrance has been spotted at the edge of the storm. The storm‘s movement was a steady few metres per day and at this rate, the entrance should be visible only today. He asked several men to tell everyone to move. The council leader, Gardar, sat behind him in the large tent. Kordor turned around. „I dearly hope we are doing the right thing.“ Gardar was unfazed. „When god abandons us, we abandon him. There will be new blessings ahead of us.“
The Cave opening itself was a few dozen metres tall, but the cave itself was much smaller. Hera watched as the long line of people ahead of her disappeared into the ground, slowly but surely.
Once inside, a pitch-black darkness engulfed her. Soon after a torch was carried to them by one of the leader‘s men and she could see the wet rock which defined the interior of the cave. However no life or growth was to be seen anywhere. She didn‘t understand why they were going there and neither did Herok.
„Mom, how far are we gonna go inside?“ „Just a little bit longer honey. We have to find a place to stay.“
An hour passes, and then another. The cave walls seem not to be growing any larger, still being only few metres high and the path somewhat narrow.
Hera was scanning the wall to the left of her, counting the number of rocks who stuck out. Suddenly she stopped. The long line of people continued on right by her and the light went dimmer as the torch went ahead, but she could still glimpse something on the wall.
On it was a red colored drawing. It was too blurry to be recent and high enough that people in front of her could miss it. The drawing was of a human stick figure, with their arms up in the air, seemingly running away from something. She looked beneath the figure to find what it was running away from. It was a drawing of a worm, around ten times the length of the figure and twice as thick. And beneath it, the severed heads and limbs of other stick figures.
---
Thanks for reading! | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | "Viktor, we have to move. Come on, get up."
The winds had picked up since I had gone to sleep. The air was still then, but now, it was whipping my hair around. The next time we found some scissors, I'd need to clip it, I made a mental note for that as I stood up. It was as dark as it always seemed to be nowadays, and the dust and dirt was starting to grate against my skin.
"How long was I asleep?" I asked, Nala was looking up at me as I slipped my dusty leather jacket over my arms and pulled it forwards. The cobwebs were starting to invade my mind, but I had to shake them free.
"About four hours, I couldn't sleep. The storm front started to approach after you fell asleep." She responded, there were forty other people lying down behind her, and the bikes were even beyond them.
"Ok. You should get some sleep when you're not on watch. If you don't get your rest, you will miss a step later on." I whispered to her. I looked around and kicked Brian awake. He popped up as I had, and looked around. I nodded to him, and he went on his way, waking everyone up.
The storm was approaching, slowly but steadily. It would be upon us in an hour if we didn't get moving. Luckily, the eye of the storm was about 2 hundred miles wide, and every fifty miles we rode, the storm would approach six miles, so we always needed to stop every 4 and a half hours of riding or so. I hated this damn storm, always had.
The first engine kicked to life, reminding me of what I needed to do. I grabbed my water bottle and my pack, throwing the pack over my shoulder, I walked to my bike, a long piped thing, with a huge double tank, and a bucket seat.
"How long do you reckon we'll be going like this, Vik?" Brian said to me, everyone was stirring now, some a little, some were up and moving. I thought about it for a second, but then I started formulating some kind of plan of what to say.
"Couldn't tell ya, man. We've been going for a couple of months. As near I can tell, we're gonna keep moving until we all start dropping dead, and we'll be gone and this fekkin' storm will just keep moving." I chuckled, taking a drink of my water.
Brian was ruminating on that, when suddenly a nasally voice of a young man rang out behind him. I turned around, and saw a man who's name fit him perfectly. Eugene had a jacket on that was far too big for him, a belt that was pulled out to it's max, and a pair of goggles with prescription sunglasses on underneath them. "Hey Viktor, does the other wall look like it's moving?"
I knew he was referring to the other wall of the storm, opposite of the one we were running from. It wasn't moving now, it always looked like it was at least starting to move, but now it was just sitting there, spinning, but sitting there nonetheless. It was peculiar. "No, I don't think it is."
"That's what I thought." Eugene said, kicking the dirt underneath him. I continued "But, that doesn't change the fact that we need to go that way, this side is still moving in on us." We climbed onto our bikes as the last of them roared to life. I lowered my goggles down and started moving along, building up speed until I was cruising at fifty miles and hour. The blessing and the curse of this whole thing was that now I had a lot of time to think, to work out the kinks of my knowledge, philosophy, or something. It also gave me time to ruminate on my mistakes and my life, before the storm.
Finally, we slowed to a stop, a mere mile from the wall that we were far from earlier in the day. Night was approaching, which was terrifying per usual, I always feared getting caught in a night storm or going in the wrong direction or something. Hopefully we'd be able to sleep here and get a move on in a couple of days, or hours. We set up camp as night started to approach.
"I hate all this running." Nala said, looking up at me. I was tired, tired from riding, tired of torturing myself a thousand times using the same demons who had tortured me for years. I needed to sleep. As I was expecting, the wall wasn't moving away, still spinning and whipping air up, but not moving away.
"I hate it too, trust me. But, we can't be eaten by that storm, we'd all die. And as far as I know, our little gang is the only thing that's left of humanity, and we can't let humanity die." I said, grunting. I took another drink from my bottle of water, let it sit in my mouth and then swallowed it. I looked up at the dark wall of the storm, then I noticed something. The wall was thinner looking than it always had been.
I looked down at Nala, then over at Brian. "Does the wall look... Thinner to you?"
"Yeah, kinda." Brian responded, hesitant. Nala didn't say anything, she just looked up at the wall and thought about it for a few minutes. It was during this silence when suddenly, the wall, or a section of it, disappeared. The section was a hundred feet wide and stretched up to the blackening sky. It was completely gone, replaced by an open area. I was bewildered by this, unaware of what I was watching. Suddenly, the wall closed again. "What... The fuck... Was that?" Brian said, one, maybe two words at a time.
"Couldn-" Nala said before she was interrupted by the wall opening up again, this time miles wide. I was stunned by this, and suddenly, I saw moment on the other side. Someone stood up, their face was shrouded by what looked like a turban. They nudged a person to his side, who stood up groggily, gripping what looked like... A broadsword?
More people stood up, until they stopped. It was a group, slightly smaller than ours, and armed in a similar fashion. They all looked tired and were wearing turbans. Behind them, there was a pack of camels? None of this was making any sense to me.
Suddenly, the one that stood up first started running at me. I thought he was trying to make it before the wall closed again, then it all started to click as he raised his weapon.
There were two storms, the eyes of which were meeting. His group of nomads was now meeting ours, and they were scared. I would be lying if I said my group wasn't, but we weren't ready to attack these folk.
Unless, of course, they attacked first... | Clouds heavy with rain rose threateningly to the night, blocking the beauty of the stars with their slow but endless journey, creeping up to the camp set amongst the thin trees of the forest. Blacker than the night sky the clouds were not seen, rather the shadow they cast gave away their position. Power untold hid beyond that invisible wall, no stories could be told of but they lived every day in the destruction of its wake. Beyond the storm was even more of a mystery, for everything they saw as tarnished by the indiscriminate force of their meteorological prison.
Silam was sat looking through the canopy at the mesmerizingly clear stars when he felt the almost imperceptible change in the air. It was time to move. They didn’t have long, not today.
He took the horn from his shoulder and blew as hard as he could, the long, deep sound breaking the silence of the night. The huge effort propelled the call along through the trees, waking his clan and expelling all the air from his lungs. Gasping to get his breath back Silam began walking, letting hid lungs fill with air before he began his run back.
Leena was already awake when the warning came, it was Silam’s first night as watchman on the eve of the Sprint and he’d never run this far back before, but she knew they could not wait for him if he was late. Worry however, only clouded the mind; she forced herself to push the thoughts to the back of her mind. “There’s no use worrying about events you cannot change”. She heard her mothers’ words now and knew making herself busy with packing would help take her mind from it.
She worked quick, first lighting the lean to she had just slept in to leave a beacon of smoke for Silam. Then she headed over to load her belongings on to Poe, her horse whom she had lovingly travelled with for three years now. Horses of the tribe so often died young, all they did was carry, and the long fast days of the summer always claimed the weak. Descending from the highlands had taken its toll on Poe, days of gravely mud in the mornings and the hot sun of the afternoon beating down on her relentlessly sapped strength and moral. Respite was just a day away now; by dark they should have reached banks of the river, just below the rapids. Today was the Sprint, the heat of the summer injecting so much energy into the storm that it doubled in speed and dumped enough rain to turn a desert into a swamp making land travel impossible, the only way to stay in the eye was to make it to a river. Tomorrow was the race to a point on the river Reppis, just below a major rapid system, the most difficult journey of the year.
Camp was just a short walk from the river but this close to the highlands it cut a deep gorge through the forest and rapids churned the water into an unwelcoming torrent. Heavy rains of the summer swelled the river transforming it into an inconsolable serpent nonetheless displaying only a hint of the power of the storm. Danger was always closest in the morning, the storm at it’s nearest, it was a time for haste without recklessness, and too many times a careless step had cost a life. Be that as it may lives were ultimately to the mercy of Mother Nature, and she was in fowl mood this morning.
Securing the boats between the communal horses was the last job before departure but Silam was still nowhere to be seen. Falor saw the Leenas pained face and knew what exactly what she was thinking.
“You can’t wait here Leena, if you must wait anywhere at least down in the gorge.” Not far from camp was the day’s biggest challenge, a steep descent halfway into the gorge, this led to a flat ledge that was followed for 9 miles until it gradually levelled out at the wide meanders at the opening to the great plains.
“I can’t leave him, I don’t want him to come back to an empty camp, for his last realisation to be that I abandoned him.”
Falor stared at her frowning. For a few seconds he remained silent, thinking through scenarios. Eventually he spoke, “You can’t stay, you’re skills are too valuable, I know it’s hard but you must go. In spite of that I will stay for two minutes after the caravan departs, you will take mine and Silams horses. Without having to lead them we will catch you I’m sure. Now please go.” Tears were rolling down Leenas face as she threw her arms around Falor. “Thank you so much.” She tried to say more but Falor pulled her off. “It’s ok now go, we really don’t have much time.”
With that she departed and Falor looked up at the storm, the clear sky of the eye was now a deep shade of blue, the caravan had left slightly early this year but the weather was worse and the gorge path would be treacherous.
Leena was towards at the back of the caravan which was now a queue at the start of the gorge path. She couldn’t take her eyes of the trail they had just come down, her heart pounded as more time went past with no sign of either Talor or Silam. She hoped the fact that Talor was still absent was evidence he was walking with Silam. As the great towering wall of cloud closed in she had to work harder to suppress her worries, when finally it was her turn to walking onto the gorge path with still no sign of Silam she felt sick. Solemly Leena began her descent into the gorge. Progress was slow, leading the horses carrying the boats was difficult and the rain this year had been exceptionally heavy. Eventually they made it to the ledge, now the pace picked up and the chances of seeing Silam again were vanishing fast. Silam and Talor would be travelling lighter but he will have been exhausted from running back form watch duty.
The going on the ledge was relatively easy despite the dreadful conditions caused by the storm the night before. It was light now but the Sun had not yet had time to dry the rock. Two miles after they had reached the ledge this year’s abnormal storm strength became obvious. Streams of mud ran of the top of the gorge, parts of the ledge had recently collapsed in landslides or rock falls. Quick progress was needed but some of the horses ahead had slowed. Up ahead a short but substantial waterfall was cascading onto the ledge causing the horses to hesitate. Suddenly there was a huge shout farther along the line of travellers.
“Rock fall!” A huge boulder had been dislodged by the fall. As it crashed into the ledge it took a huge chunk of the side. Three horses and a boat followed the boulder down. Where it had struck a crack appeared. The weakness was quickly exploited by the water and began to grow. Faced with imminent collapse of the path nomads left behind rushed forward knowing to be trapped be hind a rock fall would mean to die in the storm.
None of them made it. The crack propagated too quickly and a complete collapse of the ledge carried 6 people down into the raging torrent below.
Leena looked on stunned, her tribe split apart. She was now cut off, helpless. Realising what this meant she turned and ran. She had to go back as far as she could. She had to see if she could see Silam one last time, spend her last moments with the man she loved.
Leena was swift and agile on her feet but the conditions were becoming impossible. The wall of cloud was now looming up above her, intimidating and seemingly endless. She had never been this close to the edge of the eye before. Darkness now washed over her as the huge storm blocked the Sun. The rain was pounding down harder than she knew was possible. Leena carried on struggling forwards, the wind picking up. She didn’t want to stop, Silam could be just around the next corner, she still had hope, until the wind blew of balance and she tumbled into the cold rapids below.
(Wow, that took ages to write, about 4 hours I think :) This is my first one of these but I still want your harshest critique. As far as grammar and spelling goes though it's 3:30 am now and I'm tired so I may have missed a bit.
Great prompt though.
| |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | For the last year, this is how we have lived. The slow, but ever-moving storm around us. For days, we would walk ceaselessly until we reached the leading edge of the eye. Then we would be able to make camp for a few weeks until the trailing edge caught up to us again.
When the government began their weather control program, the whole world was behind it. We looked forward to the moderate winters, the year round growing seasons, and the mountain skiing in July. The few people that saw this coming were written off as crackpots.
But it only took 10 years to prove the crackpots right. It started slowly, the sudden hurricanes popping up out of nowhere, the stray tornado that followed the planned rainstorms. That was how I'd lost my parents. The government said it was a fluke, but they became more frequent within months.
Eventually, the tornados disappeared but the hurricanes got stronger. Soon, any cities within a hundred miles of the coastlines were decimated. As people started moving inland, the riots and killings began. The looting and ration-hoarding was expected, but as the storms grew even stronger, moving further inland, people started trying to find any reprieve. A storm shelter, a leftover Cold War bunker, mountain caves. These were the only places you could be safe.
Then came the big storm. It started in the Atlantic and moved west, towards North America, destroying everything in its path. It moved so slowly, it took six months to cross the ocean. By the time it reached land, the eye was almost 250 miles across. The winds topped 150 miles an hour, ripping houses apart and tearing trees from the ground.
I was living in upstate New York when the front edge hit. Some of the neighbors had a storm shelter where we rode out the storm. We thought that it would dissipate when it hit land, but that wasn't the case. It just kept coming.
After two months underground, we heard the winds stop. After a couple more days of nothing, we risked going topside. The devastation was utter and complete. In the west, we could see the wall of clouds,maybe only twenty miles away, and we knew the storm had passed. Thank god! We scavenged what we could and brought it back to the shelter, our home base while we rebuilt.
We quickly erected some simple shelters from lumber scraps. We watched as the storm moved slowly westward until it seemed a distant memory. We quickly hit the lull after the storm. But, that too was short lived.
After a few weeks, the skies in the east began to darken once more. The winds slowly began to rise. We knew what was coming. The clear skies didn't mean the storm was over, we were merely in the middle of it. The eye of the storm had grown so large, and it was moving so slowly, that we were spared for weeks.
We knew we couldn't last through another storm, so we took a few days to pack what we could carry, and moved on. We were one of the lucky groups. We had no infirm, no elderly, nothing to slow us down. We caught up with, and passed, several groups that did. I hate to think of what happened when the storm overtook them.
This is how we've lived. A few weeks on the march, a few weeks of rest, always trying to stay ahead of the storm. As I write this note, we sit at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. The storm is catching up to us.
Some have decided to sail the ocean, building boats out of whatever scraps they can find. Not me. The eye may be calm, but the waves are still there and they will destroy the rickety crafts quickly. This is how I will die. I can hear the waves crashing below me, the jagged rocks offering me a quick demise. Perhaps I will see you in a better world. | Clouds heavy with rain rose threateningly to the night, blocking the beauty of the stars with their slow but endless journey, creeping up to the camp set amongst the thin trees of the forest. Blacker than the night sky the clouds were not seen, rather the shadow they cast gave away their position. Power untold hid beyond that invisible wall, no stories could be told of but they lived every day in the destruction of its wake. Beyond the storm was even more of a mystery, for everything they saw as tarnished by the indiscriminate force of their meteorological prison.
Silam was sat looking through the canopy at the mesmerizingly clear stars when he felt the almost imperceptible change in the air. It was time to move. They didn’t have long, not today.
He took the horn from his shoulder and blew as hard as he could, the long, deep sound breaking the silence of the night. The huge effort propelled the call along through the trees, waking his clan and expelling all the air from his lungs. Gasping to get his breath back Silam began walking, letting hid lungs fill with air before he began his run back.
Leena was already awake when the warning came, it was Silam’s first night as watchman on the eve of the Sprint and he’d never run this far back before, but she knew they could not wait for him if he was late. Worry however, only clouded the mind; she forced herself to push the thoughts to the back of her mind. “There’s no use worrying about events you cannot change”. She heard her mothers’ words now and knew making herself busy with packing would help take her mind from it.
She worked quick, first lighting the lean to she had just slept in to leave a beacon of smoke for Silam. Then she headed over to load her belongings on to Poe, her horse whom she had lovingly travelled with for three years now. Horses of the tribe so often died young, all they did was carry, and the long fast days of the summer always claimed the weak. Descending from the highlands had taken its toll on Poe, days of gravely mud in the mornings and the hot sun of the afternoon beating down on her relentlessly sapped strength and moral. Respite was just a day away now; by dark they should have reached banks of the river, just below the rapids. Today was the Sprint, the heat of the summer injecting so much energy into the storm that it doubled in speed and dumped enough rain to turn a desert into a swamp making land travel impossible, the only way to stay in the eye was to make it to a river. Tomorrow was the race to a point on the river Reppis, just below a major rapid system, the most difficult journey of the year.
Camp was just a short walk from the river but this close to the highlands it cut a deep gorge through the forest and rapids churned the water into an unwelcoming torrent. Heavy rains of the summer swelled the river transforming it into an inconsolable serpent nonetheless displaying only a hint of the power of the storm. Danger was always closest in the morning, the storm at it’s nearest, it was a time for haste without recklessness, and too many times a careless step had cost a life. Be that as it may lives were ultimately to the mercy of Mother Nature, and she was in fowl mood this morning.
Securing the boats between the communal horses was the last job before departure but Silam was still nowhere to be seen. Falor saw the Leenas pained face and knew what exactly what she was thinking.
“You can’t wait here Leena, if you must wait anywhere at least down in the gorge.” Not far from camp was the day’s biggest challenge, a steep descent halfway into the gorge, this led to a flat ledge that was followed for 9 miles until it gradually levelled out at the wide meanders at the opening to the great plains.
“I can’t leave him, I don’t want him to come back to an empty camp, for his last realisation to be that I abandoned him.”
Falor stared at her frowning. For a few seconds he remained silent, thinking through scenarios. Eventually he spoke, “You can’t stay, you’re skills are too valuable, I know it’s hard but you must go. In spite of that I will stay for two minutes after the caravan departs, you will take mine and Silams horses. Without having to lead them we will catch you I’m sure. Now please go.” Tears were rolling down Leenas face as she threw her arms around Falor. “Thank you so much.” She tried to say more but Falor pulled her off. “It’s ok now go, we really don’t have much time.”
With that she departed and Falor looked up at the storm, the clear sky of the eye was now a deep shade of blue, the caravan had left slightly early this year but the weather was worse and the gorge path would be treacherous.
Leena was towards at the back of the caravan which was now a queue at the start of the gorge path. She couldn’t take her eyes of the trail they had just come down, her heart pounded as more time went past with no sign of either Talor or Silam. She hoped the fact that Talor was still absent was evidence he was walking with Silam. As the great towering wall of cloud closed in she had to work harder to suppress her worries, when finally it was her turn to walking onto the gorge path with still no sign of Silam she felt sick. Solemly Leena began her descent into the gorge. Progress was slow, leading the horses carrying the boats was difficult and the rain this year had been exceptionally heavy. Eventually they made it to the ledge, now the pace picked up and the chances of seeing Silam again were vanishing fast. Silam and Talor would be travelling lighter but he will have been exhausted from running back form watch duty.
The going on the ledge was relatively easy despite the dreadful conditions caused by the storm the night before. It was light now but the Sun had not yet had time to dry the rock. Two miles after they had reached the ledge this year’s abnormal storm strength became obvious. Streams of mud ran of the top of the gorge, parts of the ledge had recently collapsed in landslides or rock falls. Quick progress was needed but some of the horses ahead had slowed. Up ahead a short but substantial waterfall was cascading onto the ledge causing the horses to hesitate. Suddenly there was a huge shout farther along the line of travellers.
“Rock fall!” A huge boulder had been dislodged by the fall. As it crashed into the ledge it took a huge chunk of the side. Three horses and a boat followed the boulder down. Where it had struck a crack appeared. The weakness was quickly exploited by the water and began to grow. Faced with imminent collapse of the path nomads left behind rushed forward knowing to be trapped be hind a rock fall would mean to die in the storm.
None of them made it. The crack propagated too quickly and a complete collapse of the ledge carried 6 people down into the raging torrent below.
Leena looked on stunned, her tribe split apart. She was now cut off, helpless. Realising what this meant she turned and ran. She had to go back as far as she could. She had to see if she could see Silam one last time, spend her last moments with the man she loved.
Leena was swift and agile on her feet but the conditions were becoming impossible. The wall of cloud was now looming up above her, intimidating and seemingly endless. She had never been this close to the edge of the eye before. Darkness now washed over her as the huge storm blocked the Sun. The rain was pounding down harder than she knew was possible. Leena carried on struggling forwards, the wind picking up. She didn’t want to stop, Silam could be just around the next corner, she still had hope, until the wind blew of balance and she tumbled into the cold rapids below.
(Wow, that took ages to write, about 4 hours I think :) This is my first one of these but I still want your harshest critique. As far as grammar and spelling goes though it's 3:30 am now and I'm tired so I may have missed a bit.
Great prompt though.
| |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | The Vultures were returning from the outlying suburbs when Kira approached the Elder’s wagon to report. The old man’s advisor was stabbing his finger at piles of crumpled maps, shouting to be heard above the groaning generator.
“-s been fifteen years since She last chose this path. There’s no way we can know if the charging station is even there, let alone intact!”
“And what would you have me do, Malik? We are no more free to walk from Her guidance as we ever have been. If the station no longer stands, we shall adapt. This is our way.”
Fists clenching, Malik stepped closer until he was only inches from the Elder’s face. “And how, old fool, do you expect our way to survive without power? It’s- ”
Noticing Kira’s presence, the advisor hurriedly stepped back and cleared his throat. Even to those with power, the Stormchasers reputation held respect above all. Glaring meaningfully at the Elder, he turned to vault from the wagon and back into the dust.
The Elder turned to Kira with an apologetic smile.
“Malik grows concerned about our dwindling fuel supply,” he said, tapping lightly on the vibrating generator. “He lacks faith that She will guide us on the right path, as She always has.”
Grunting with the effort, he slowly lowered himself into his chair. “Truly, I do not blame him for his worries. The year has not been kind to us.” He gestured to the seat opposite. “Please, sit.”
Shifting uncomfortably on her feet, Kira did not move.
“If it would please you Elder, I would give you my report. There is… a matter of some urgency for you to attend to.”
The Elder nodded and waved his hand for her to continue.
“Her walls breached the outer city at dusk the day before last, as we predicted. As instructed, Petyr and I scouted the northernmost edge of the ruins as swiftly as the Storm allowed.”
Her gaze dropping to the floor uncertainly, Kira hesitated. The situation was new ground for her; for them all.
Sitting forward in his chair impatiently, the Elder hurried her on. “And the station? The charging station – does it stand?”
“I… we did not reach the station before I was forced to return, Elder.”
The Elder’s chair was nearly knocked over when he rose to his feet.
“Forced? The station is our highest priority!”
“Yes, Elder. Though Petyr remains to search the city, I had no choice but to return with what we found. You… you will understand when I show you. Please, follow.”
Ahead of the Elder’s wagon, Kira’s wheel was surrounded by a shouting throng of nomads. Supported by Kira, the Elder limped along the street towards it. He could see them staring and gesticulating at something lying on the floor in front of the vehicle. As the crowd noticed his presence and respectfully parted to allow him through, the object on the floor came into horrifying focus. He froze.
“It can’t be…”
Kira knelt beside down beside it, brushing off dust that had blown up from the street.
“We found it in an old building only a few hours into the city. It must have been there for days, but the Storm had only just breached the outer city last night.” She stood and turned to the Elder, who was still staring open mouthed at the ground. “How can this be possible? What could have done this to her?”
Without responding, the Elder fell to his knees.
Lying limp on the floor, with a chest punctured with dozens of bloodied holes, was the broken body of a young girl.
| I awoke to the clanging of the water bell along with the rest of my tribe. With practiced motions, I removed the webbing from my face and carefully packed it into its dust-proof sleeve. In seconds, water jugs in hand, I joined the line with every other able-bodied person. Behind us, in the dim morning light, I could see the graves we had dug the previous day fading into the storm.
Water was a rare and valuable resource. Sometimes it would just skirt the edge of the Circle, giving us only precious moments to collect it. Though for now it seemed forward was towards the water, it could veer away at any moment.
As nomads, we were slave to the Circle's whims. It would take us where it pleased. Every light cycle was an unfamiliar landscape. The Old Ones occasionally claimed to recognize places we had gone before, but we had to leave them behind many moon cycles ago while we scaled the cliff.
Of my two water jugs, I was most proud of the Outsider one. It was quite a bit larger than most others in the tribe, and colorfully decorated. I had salvaged it from one of the Outsider tents, tents with straight walls and flat roofs, made from clay and wood and hay. We always wondered what foolish person would spend so much time on something they couldn't bring with them the next day, but we had yet to encounter anyone outside our tribe.
I knelt down to fill the jugs, and took a quick taste. Salt water! A rare treat, this would be the first time many of the younger ones had tasted salt. It would take time the purify the water, but our meals for the next moon cycle would be delicious!
---
I awoke again to more commotion. In the morning, after collecting water, we had moved our tents closer to the front and returned to sleep. Now, half a day later, the water crowded two thirds of the Circle. We had only a few watercraft, bound to ropes, to help cross deep rivers. But we could see no opposite shore.
Night fell as quickly as we were running out of land. We were far too crowded to the edge of the water. The few boats we had were already floating out on the water, laden with as many provisions as they could fit. The young and healthiest members of the tribe hung off the edge of them, hoping to survive until land revealed itself again.
Behind us, many had already run into the storm, too impatient to wait for it to claim them. Their cries echoed in the howling wind, quickly swept away like the graves behind us. Many more crowded into what few tents remained, waiting for Circle's edge to engulf them.
I looked up to the stars for the last time. My mind wandered back to the criminals we had condemned to the cave two moon cycles ago. It was our ultimate punishment. Left behind in the cave, trapped forever. We left them enough provisions for a month, a month for them to suffer as they gaze out at the infinite storm that makes their prison. And then the wind gods would claim them. What mercy! To die from hunger, instead of by drowning or choking.
I entered the nearest tent and sealed the flap behind me. Together, we sat huddled in the dark, nobody speaking, as we waited for the raging storm to take us. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | "Viktor, we have to move. Come on, get up."
The winds had picked up since I had gone to sleep. The air was still then, but now, it was whipping my hair around. The next time we found some scissors, I'd need to clip it, I made a mental note for that as I stood up. It was as dark as it always seemed to be nowadays, and the dust and dirt was starting to grate against my skin.
"How long was I asleep?" I asked, Nala was looking up at me as I slipped my dusty leather jacket over my arms and pulled it forwards. The cobwebs were starting to invade my mind, but I had to shake them free.
"About four hours, I couldn't sleep. The storm front started to approach after you fell asleep." She responded, there were forty other people lying down behind her, and the bikes were even beyond them.
"Ok. You should get some sleep when you're not on watch. If you don't get your rest, you will miss a step later on." I whispered to her. I looked around and kicked Brian awake. He popped up as I had, and looked around. I nodded to him, and he went on his way, waking everyone up.
The storm was approaching, slowly but steadily. It would be upon us in an hour if we didn't get moving. Luckily, the eye of the storm was about 2 hundred miles wide, and every fifty miles we rode, the storm would approach six miles, so we always needed to stop every 4 and a half hours of riding or so. I hated this damn storm, always had.
The first engine kicked to life, reminding me of what I needed to do. I grabbed my water bottle and my pack, throwing the pack over my shoulder, I walked to my bike, a long piped thing, with a huge double tank, and a bucket seat.
"How long do you reckon we'll be going like this, Vik?" Brian said to me, everyone was stirring now, some a little, some were up and moving. I thought about it for a second, but then I started formulating some kind of plan of what to say.
"Couldn't tell ya, man. We've been going for a couple of months. As near I can tell, we're gonna keep moving until we all start dropping dead, and we'll be gone and this fekkin' storm will just keep moving." I chuckled, taking a drink of my water.
Brian was ruminating on that, when suddenly a nasally voice of a young man rang out behind him. I turned around, and saw a man who's name fit him perfectly. Eugene had a jacket on that was far too big for him, a belt that was pulled out to it's max, and a pair of goggles with prescription sunglasses on underneath them. "Hey Viktor, does the other wall look like it's moving?"
I knew he was referring to the other wall of the storm, opposite of the one we were running from. It wasn't moving now, it always looked like it was at least starting to move, but now it was just sitting there, spinning, but sitting there nonetheless. It was peculiar. "No, I don't think it is."
"That's what I thought." Eugene said, kicking the dirt underneath him. I continued "But, that doesn't change the fact that we need to go that way, this side is still moving in on us." We climbed onto our bikes as the last of them roared to life. I lowered my goggles down and started moving along, building up speed until I was cruising at fifty miles and hour. The blessing and the curse of this whole thing was that now I had a lot of time to think, to work out the kinks of my knowledge, philosophy, or something. It also gave me time to ruminate on my mistakes and my life, before the storm.
Finally, we slowed to a stop, a mere mile from the wall that we were far from earlier in the day. Night was approaching, which was terrifying per usual, I always feared getting caught in a night storm or going in the wrong direction or something. Hopefully we'd be able to sleep here and get a move on in a couple of days, or hours. We set up camp as night started to approach.
"I hate all this running." Nala said, looking up at me. I was tired, tired from riding, tired of torturing myself a thousand times using the same demons who had tortured me for years. I needed to sleep. As I was expecting, the wall wasn't moving away, still spinning and whipping air up, but not moving away.
"I hate it too, trust me. But, we can't be eaten by that storm, we'd all die. And as far as I know, our little gang is the only thing that's left of humanity, and we can't let humanity die." I said, grunting. I took another drink from my bottle of water, let it sit in my mouth and then swallowed it. I looked up at the dark wall of the storm, then I noticed something. The wall was thinner looking than it always had been.
I looked down at Nala, then over at Brian. "Does the wall look... Thinner to you?"
"Yeah, kinda." Brian responded, hesitant. Nala didn't say anything, she just looked up at the wall and thought about it for a few minutes. It was during this silence when suddenly, the wall, or a section of it, disappeared. The section was a hundred feet wide and stretched up to the blackening sky. It was completely gone, replaced by an open area. I was bewildered by this, unaware of what I was watching. Suddenly, the wall closed again. "What... The fuck... Was that?" Brian said, one, maybe two words at a time.
"Couldn-" Nala said before she was interrupted by the wall opening up again, this time miles wide. I was stunned by this, and suddenly, I saw moment on the other side. Someone stood up, their face was shrouded by what looked like a turban. They nudged a person to his side, who stood up groggily, gripping what looked like... A broadsword?
More people stood up, until they stopped. It was a group, slightly smaller than ours, and armed in a similar fashion. They all looked tired and were wearing turbans. Behind them, there was a pack of camels? None of this was making any sense to me.
Suddenly, the one that stood up first started running at me. I thought he was trying to make it before the wall closed again, then it all started to click as he raised his weapon.
There were two storms, the eyes of which were meeting. His group of nomads was now meeting ours, and they were scared. I would be lying if I said my group wasn't, but we weren't ready to attack these folk.
Unless, of course, they attacked first... | I awoke to the clanging of the water bell along with the rest of my tribe. With practiced motions, I removed the webbing from my face and carefully packed it into its dust-proof sleeve. In seconds, water jugs in hand, I joined the line with every other able-bodied person. Behind us, in the dim morning light, I could see the graves we had dug the previous day fading into the storm.
Water was a rare and valuable resource. Sometimes it would just skirt the edge of the Circle, giving us only precious moments to collect it. Though for now it seemed forward was towards the water, it could veer away at any moment.
As nomads, we were slave to the Circle's whims. It would take us where it pleased. Every light cycle was an unfamiliar landscape. The Old Ones occasionally claimed to recognize places we had gone before, but we had to leave them behind many moon cycles ago while we scaled the cliff.
Of my two water jugs, I was most proud of the Outsider one. It was quite a bit larger than most others in the tribe, and colorfully decorated. I had salvaged it from one of the Outsider tents, tents with straight walls and flat roofs, made from clay and wood and hay. We always wondered what foolish person would spend so much time on something they couldn't bring with them the next day, but we had yet to encounter anyone outside our tribe.
I knelt down to fill the jugs, and took a quick taste. Salt water! A rare treat, this would be the first time many of the younger ones had tasted salt. It would take time the purify the water, but our meals for the next moon cycle would be delicious!
---
I awoke again to more commotion. In the morning, after collecting water, we had moved our tents closer to the front and returned to sleep. Now, half a day later, the water crowded two thirds of the Circle. We had only a few watercraft, bound to ropes, to help cross deep rivers. But we could see no opposite shore.
Night fell as quickly as we were running out of land. We were far too crowded to the edge of the water. The few boats we had were already floating out on the water, laden with as many provisions as they could fit. The young and healthiest members of the tribe hung off the edge of them, hoping to survive until land revealed itself again.
Behind us, many had already run into the storm, too impatient to wait for it to claim them. Their cries echoed in the howling wind, quickly swept away like the graves behind us. Many more crowded into what few tents remained, waiting for Circle's edge to engulf them.
I looked up to the stars for the last time. My mind wandered back to the criminals we had condemned to the cave two moon cycles ago. It was our ultimate punishment. Left behind in the cave, trapped forever. We left them enough provisions for a month, a month for them to suffer as they gaze out at the infinite storm that makes their prison. And then the wind gods would claim them. What mercy! To die from hunger, instead of by drowning or choking.
I entered the nearest tent and sealed the flap behind me. Together, we sat huddled in the dark, nobody speaking, as we waited for the raging storm to take us. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | For the last year, this is how we have lived. The slow, but ever-moving storm around us. For days, we would walk ceaselessly until we reached the leading edge of the eye. Then we would be able to make camp for a few weeks until the trailing edge caught up to us again.
When the government began their weather control program, the whole world was behind it. We looked forward to the moderate winters, the year round growing seasons, and the mountain skiing in July. The few people that saw this coming were written off as crackpots.
But it only took 10 years to prove the crackpots right. It started slowly, the sudden hurricanes popping up out of nowhere, the stray tornado that followed the planned rainstorms. That was how I'd lost my parents. The government said it was a fluke, but they became more frequent within months.
Eventually, the tornados disappeared but the hurricanes got stronger. Soon, any cities within a hundred miles of the coastlines were decimated. As people started moving inland, the riots and killings began. The looting and ration-hoarding was expected, but as the storms grew even stronger, moving further inland, people started trying to find any reprieve. A storm shelter, a leftover Cold War bunker, mountain caves. These were the only places you could be safe.
Then came the big storm. It started in the Atlantic and moved west, towards North America, destroying everything in its path. It moved so slowly, it took six months to cross the ocean. By the time it reached land, the eye was almost 250 miles across. The winds topped 150 miles an hour, ripping houses apart and tearing trees from the ground.
I was living in upstate New York when the front edge hit. Some of the neighbors had a storm shelter where we rode out the storm. We thought that it would dissipate when it hit land, but that wasn't the case. It just kept coming.
After two months underground, we heard the winds stop. After a couple more days of nothing, we risked going topside. The devastation was utter and complete. In the west, we could see the wall of clouds,maybe only twenty miles away, and we knew the storm had passed. Thank god! We scavenged what we could and brought it back to the shelter, our home base while we rebuilt.
We quickly erected some simple shelters from lumber scraps. We watched as the storm moved slowly westward until it seemed a distant memory. We quickly hit the lull after the storm. But, that too was short lived.
After a few weeks, the skies in the east began to darken once more. The winds slowly began to rise. We knew what was coming. The clear skies didn't mean the storm was over, we were merely in the middle of it. The eye of the storm had grown so large, and it was moving so slowly, that we were spared for weeks.
We knew we couldn't last through another storm, so we took a few days to pack what we could carry, and moved on. We were one of the lucky groups. We had no infirm, no elderly, nothing to slow us down. We caught up with, and passed, several groups that did. I hate to think of what happened when the storm overtook them.
This is how we've lived. A few weeks on the march, a few weeks of rest, always trying to stay ahead of the storm. As I write this note, we sit at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. The storm is catching up to us.
Some have decided to sail the ocean, building boats out of whatever scraps they can find. Not me. The eye may be calm, but the waves are still there and they will destroy the rickety crafts quickly. This is how I will die. I can hear the waves crashing below me, the jagged rocks offering me a quick demise. Perhaps I will see you in a better world. | I awoke to the clanging of the water bell along with the rest of my tribe. With practiced motions, I removed the webbing from my face and carefully packed it into its dust-proof sleeve. In seconds, water jugs in hand, I joined the line with every other able-bodied person. Behind us, in the dim morning light, I could see the graves we had dug the previous day fading into the storm.
Water was a rare and valuable resource. Sometimes it would just skirt the edge of the Circle, giving us only precious moments to collect it. Though for now it seemed forward was towards the water, it could veer away at any moment.
As nomads, we were slave to the Circle's whims. It would take us where it pleased. Every light cycle was an unfamiliar landscape. The Old Ones occasionally claimed to recognize places we had gone before, but we had to leave them behind many moon cycles ago while we scaled the cliff.
Of my two water jugs, I was most proud of the Outsider one. It was quite a bit larger than most others in the tribe, and colorfully decorated. I had salvaged it from one of the Outsider tents, tents with straight walls and flat roofs, made from clay and wood and hay. We always wondered what foolish person would spend so much time on something they couldn't bring with them the next day, but we had yet to encounter anyone outside our tribe.
I knelt down to fill the jugs, and took a quick taste. Salt water! A rare treat, this would be the first time many of the younger ones had tasted salt. It would take time the purify the water, but our meals for the next moon cycle would be delicious!
---
I awoke again to more commotion. In the morning, after collecting water, we had moved our tents closer to the front and returned to sleep. Now, half a day later, the water crowded two thirds of the Circle. We had only a few watercraft, bound to ropes, to help cross deep rivers. But we could see no opposite shore.
Night fell as quickly as we were running out of land. We were far too crowded to the edge of the water. The few boats we had were already floating out on the water, laden with as many provisions as they could fit. The young and healthiest members of the tribe hung off the edge of them, hoping to survive until land revealed itself again.
Behind us, many had already run into the storm, too impatient to wait for it to claim them. Their cries echoed in the howling wind, quickly swept away like the graves behind us. Many more crowded into what few tents remained, waiting for Circle's edge to engulf them.
I looked up to the stars for the last time. My mind wandered back to the criminals we had condemned to the cave two moon cycles ago. It was our ultimate punishment. Left behind in the cave, trapped forever. We left them enough provisions for a month, a month for them to suffer as they gaze out at the infinite storm that makes their prison. And then the wind gods would claim them. What mercy! To die from hunger, instead of by drowning or choking.
I entered the nearest tent and sealed the flap behind me. Together, we sat huddled in the dark, nobody speaking, as we waited for the raging storm to take us. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | The cords cut deep into my wrists. The man tying me to the post grunted, as his strained to pull them even tighter. Standing in front of me, David oversaw the work, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Any last words?” He asked. “Before the sands come to strip your body of its unclean flesh?”
I just stared at him. All the words I had for him, I had already said in front of the council. It had made no difference. I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of any more pleading.
“I thought not.”
The man behind me finished tying my bonds, and rejoined David.
“All done, sir.”
“You are sure they are tight enough?”
“As tight as I could make them.”
“Well, then, let’s make sure, shall we?”
David stepped up to me, and delivered a punch to my gut. My body tried to double over, but was held back by the restrains. The only effect was to drive splinters from the rough post into my back.
“Hmm...not bad.” David said. “But a good craftsman always double-checks his work.”
Another punch landed. I tried to retch, but nothing came up. I hadn’t eaten in three days. No one is permitted to eat during a capital trial. Why waste food on a person you may be killing in just a few days?
“Yes. That will do.”
David wrenched my head so that my eyes met his.
“When the wind comes and peels the flesh from your bones, I want you to remember: you deserve this.”
He spat on my face, and then left.
***
It didn’t take long for them to mount up and ride off. I was left alone, with my thoughts. I had about twenty minutes left -- part of the punishment. The condemned were always staked far enough from the storm front to allow a plenty of anticipation and reflection.
It worked. When you have minutes left to live, what other option is there but to review your life -- no matter how brief. The focus was, naturally, on my crime.
To be fair, it had been my fault. My mother had always warned me to be careful, to keep an eye out, and to stay away from men after they had been drinking fermented milk. But, the night of my crime had been one of celebration tribe-wide. I spent the night dancing with Sayir, and had thought we had become friends. I let my guard down, and today I would pay the price for that.
I had cried for him to stop, to no avail, as he forced himself on me. God, how it hurt -- why would anyone choose to do this voluntarily? Was having a child such a great gift that one would endure this?
Even with the circulation in my arms cut off, I could still feel his hands upon them holding me down. I could feel him thrusting against me -- over and over, his sour breath upon my face. I could hear his gasp, as he came to fruition, and lay against me, breathing heavy. I could see him rise, and then stumble off, back to the party, without so much as a glance backwards.
I should have left. I should have run back to our tent, but I couldn’t force myself to stand. I stayed, curled into a ball. Even my sobs refused my command to come.
It was there that David found me. I don’t know if Sayir had sent him or not. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.
“Bitch!” David said, hauling me to my feet. “How could you disobey the Chief? Don’t you know he owns your body, as the Gods own your soul? You will pay for this insolence.”
***
The trial was quick -- no more than a day. It is not hard to verify when woman has lost her virtue. I argued for mercy. I claimed that I had been forced upon. But how does one prove this? Does sex leave a mark on a man, as it does a woman?
No. I could prove nothing. And so Sayir suffered only the disapproving glances of his elders, and I was sentenced to the stake.
It took another day to fashion the stake, and by then it was too late. Tradition dictated that the condemned enter the storm at midday.
And so, three days since I had been violated, I waited, tied, naked, in the heat of the sun. I waited for the sand to come and claim my worthless body.
***
The wind was picking up. Soon, it would be over. The edges of the storm were sharp, and moved quickly. It took only minutes for one to move from complete calm to the full rage of the wind.
Soon, the wind would coax the grains of the desert into drifting along the ground. Then, into flying through the air. The sand would first burn, and then strip the skin from my body. It would seek out the soft spots, remove my eyes from their sockets. Closing my eyelids would only delay this fate. The sand would grind at the meat of my body, and then finally the bones. If I were lucky, I would die before the bones were reached.
This is what I had been told. Of course, no one *knew*. Who could survive the storm to tell the tale? The farthest anyone had gone in, and lived to return, had been mere tens of meters. And he had lived but for days.
Yes, my fate was clear. And so, as the sand began to lift from the ground, I gritted my teeth, and tried my best to accept my fate.
***
I came awake in a tent. The cloth was dyed a solid purple. I had never seen such extravagant use of the color before. I must be in the afterlife.
I tried to rise, and the pain that shot out from every inch of my skin brought cry from my mouth. Pain? In the afterlife? What cruel jest did the Gods play?
“Hush, little one. Hush.” The voice came from behind me. I tried to turn my head to find its source. Before I could, an old woman appeared before me. She wore a robe of a simple cut. It too was purple. A goddess, then?
“Be still,” She said, in the same voice. “ I know it hurts, but you are safe here.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but it was too parched to work.
“Don’t try to talk, dear.” The old woman said. Concern wrinkled her brow. She brought a water skin to my lips. Never, before or since, did anything taste as sweet as that water. “You wish to know where you are?”
I nodded.
“Then I will tell you. Though, I suspect you will not believe. Few do in their first few days. But know this first: you are not dead.”
I opened my mouth again.
“Hush, child.” She said. “You have passed through the storm. You are free.” | I awoke to the clanging of the water bell along with the rest of my tribe. With practiced motions, I removed the webbing from my face and carefully packed it into its dust-proof sleeve. In seconds, water jugs in hand, I joined the line with every other able-bodied person. Behind us, in the dim morning light, I could see the graves we had dug the previous day fading into the storm.
Water was a rare and valuable resource. Sometimes it would just skirt the edge of the Circle, giving us only precious moments to collect it. Though for now it seemed forward was towards the water, it could veer away at any moment.
As nomads, we were slave to the Circle's whims. It would take us where it pleased. Every light cycle was an unfamiliar landscape. The Old Ones occasionally claimed to recognize places we had gone before, but we had to leave them behind many moon cycles ago while we scaled the cliff.
Of my two water jugs, I was most proud of the Outsider one. It was quite a bit larger than most others in the tribe, and colorfully decorated. I had salvaged it from one of the Outsider tents, tents with straight walls and flat roofs, made from clay and wood and hay. We always wondered what foolish person would spend so much time on something they couldn't bring with them the next day, but we had yet to encounter anyone outside our tribe.
I knelt down to fill the jugs, and took a quick taste. Salt water! A rare treat, this would be the first time many of the younger ones had tasted salt. It would take time the purify the water, but our meals for the next moon cycle would be delicious!
---
I awoke again to more commotion. In the morning, after collecting water, we had moved our tents closer to the front and returned to sleep. Now, half a day later, the water crowded two thirds of the Circle. We had only a few watercraft, bound to ropes, to help cross deep rivers. But we could see no opposite shore.
Night fell as quickly as we were running out of land. We were far too crowded to the edge of the water. The few boats we had were already floating out on the water, laden with as many provisions as they could fit. The young and healthiest members of the tribe hung off the edge of them, hoping to survive until land revealed itself again.
Behind us, many had already run into the storm, too impatient to wait for it to claim them. Their cries echoed in the howling wind, quickly swept away like the graves behind us. Many more crowded into what few tents remained, waiting for Circle's edge to engulf them.
I looked up to the stars for the last time. My mind wandered back to the criminals we had condemned to the cave two moon cycles ago. It was our ultimate punishment. Left behind in the cave, trapped forever. We left them enough provisions for a month, a month for them to suffer as they gaze out at the infinite storm that makes their prison. And then the wind gods would claim them. What mercy! To die from hunger, instead of by drowning or choking.
I entered the nearest tent and sealed the flap behind me. Together, we sat huddled in the dark, nobody speaking, as we waited for the raging storm to take us. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | The Vultures were returning from the outlying suburbs when Kira approached the Elder’s wagon to report. The old man’s advisor was stabbing his finger at piles of crumpled maps, shouting to be heard above the groaning generator.
“-s been fifteen years since She last chose this path. There’s no way we can know if the charging station is even there, let alone intact!”
“And what would you have me do, Malik? We are no more free to walk from Her guidance as we ever have been. If the station no longer stands, we shall adapt. This is our way.”
Fists clenching, Malik stepped closer until he was only inches from the Elder’s face. “And how, old fool, do you expect our way to survive without power? It’s- ”
Noticing Kira’s presence, the advisor hurriedly stepped back and cleared his throat. Even to those with power, the Stormchasers reputation held respect above all. Glaring meaningfully at the Elder, he turned to vault from the wagon and back into the dust.
The Elder turned to Kira with an apologetic smile.
“Malik grows concerned about our dwindling fuel supply,” he said, tapping lightly on the vibrating generator. “He lacks faith that She will guide us on the right path, as She always has.”
Grunting with the effort, he slowly lowered himself into his chair. “Truly, I do not blame him for his worries. The year has not been kind to us.” He gestured to the seat opposite. “Please, sit.”
Shifting uncomfortably on her feet, Kira did not move.
“If it would please you Elder, I would give you my report. There is… a matter of some urgency for you to attend to.”
The Elder nodded and waved his hand for her to continue.
“Her walls breached the outer city at dusk the day before last, as we predicted. As instructed, Petyr and I scouted the northernmost edge of the ruins as swiftly as the Storm allowed.”
Her gaze dropping to the floor uncertainly, Kira hesitated. The situation was new ground for her; for them all.
Sitting forward in his chair impatiently, the Elder hurried her on. “And the station? The charging station – does it stand?”
“I… we did not reach the station before I was forced to return, Elder.”
The Elder’s chair was nearly knocked over when he rose to his feet.
“Forced? The station is our highest priority!”
“Yes, Elder. Though Petyr remains to search the city, I had no choice but to return with what we found. You… you will understand when I show you. Please, follow.”
Ahead of the Elder’s wagon, Kira’s wheel was surrounded by a shouting throng of nomads. Supported by Kira, the Elder limped along the street towards it. He could see them staring and gesticulating at something lying on the floor in front of the vehicle. As the crowd noticed his presence and respectfully parted to allow him through, the object on the floor came into horrifying focus. He froze.
“It can’t be…”
Kira knelt beside down beside it, brushing off dust that had blown up from the street.
“We found it in an old building only a few hours into the city. It must have been there for days, but the Storm had only just breached the outer city last night.” She stood and turned to the Elder, who was still staring open mouthed at the ground. “How can this be possible? What could have done this to her?”
Without responding, the Elder fell to his knees.
Lying limp on the floor, with a chest punctured with dozens of bloodied holes, was the broken body of a young girl.
| “...LEAVE HIM, HE'S NOT WAKING!”
I opened my eyes—but the world was still dark. I tried to scream but when the sand started to fill my lungs I started coughing and quickly had to cover my mouth with the fabric of my hoodie so that I could cough without inhaling more of the sand.
It was the first time I had been by myself in probably all of my existence. The eye had gotten smaller day after day, and although the elder said that it was just a seasonal thing, none of the laymen had believed him. The edge, my fellows had abandoned me at the edge and left me for dead. I almost tried screaming again, but another cough kept me from it. I started crawling like mad. I had to still be close enough to the eye that I wasn't being torn to bits, but the noise that was churning in my ear and the crap that was flying around me told me that I wouldn't be safe if I took my time relaxing. If I got up and ran I might make it, but the likelihood that I would just get picked up in a stray gust of wind and carried deeper into the storm was too high for my liking.
I crawled for what seemed like hours, then days, then weeks, with the landscape around me getting no lighter. I cursed my luck. We all knew that the edge was as simple as death to us, yet me and my clan hadn't heeded the warning of the tribe when we got to close so that we could hunt the elusive Wurm. The Wurms were the only things we knew that could move freely between the edge and the eye, and their tough skin was perfect for utensils, armors, and weapons.
“We'll be the kings of the tribe!”, one of my clansmen had said.
“...Too bad you guys left me for dead.” I wish I could mutter, but just ended up thinking to myself.
As the time wore on, I began to notice a scratching feeling in my throat and also that my arms and legs were beginning to get less responsive. I had been lucky enough to not be hit by any flying rocks on the way, but all the tiny scratches that had found their way onto my body had taken their toll, and I began to have to take short pauses in-between my strides, realizing this was putting me all the more away from the possibility of making it back to the other side. I thought back to my life, the things I would miss, the people who I feel would break my heart if I concentrated on for too long, and I began to wonder if they would miss me as much as I would miss them. It was almost an unspoken rule that once someone was swallowed by the edge, that was their funeral then and there. There was no mourning, no time to be sad, nothing. Time like that was better spent moving, because the edge catches you if you slow down for too long. As I thought about this, how I would most likely not be missed, how everything I had done till now comes up to simply running away from something I could not beat, how the only thing awaiting me in this perennial darkness was death, I didn't notice the steepness of the land changing, until I slid down what felt like a whirlpool, knocking into what felt like lead and passing out on a bed of sand.
Now if you are reading this, most likely you did not end up outside of the storm, and you stumbled upon this after the eye happened upon this location. Look around you. See the tunnels. These weren't made by some beast. These were made by man. Before us, before the tribes began their everlasting journey to extinction within the storm, there were people thriving, living underground. I don't know what caused them to leave, but you can finally stop, you can rest, you do not have to travel anymore! I tried to move and see what else there was to offer, but on the way down, I broke my legs, and I could no longer move. It took all my remaining energy to write this note. Please if you are reading this, end our struggle. We can change, we can prosper, we no longer have to ignore the deaths of the elderly and the weak as they are taken by the edge. Please heed my plea.
Sincerly,
Damasus.
--- Billy crumpled the letter, tossing it back among the bones and the sands. “Don't tell me how to live my life gramps,” he snickered. He was surrounded by massive tunnels, and the other members of his clan were also making their way down with him.
“We're going to raid these tunnels for all the useful crap, and then we're going to get outta here in style!” Billy declared as his fellow clan members cheered, marching down each of the tunnels.
And deep within, the 2nd executioner of man stirred.
********************************
P.S. It's my first post here, so feedback would be nice. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | "Viktor, we have to move. Come on, get up."
The winds had picked up since I had gone to sleep. The air was still then, but now, it was whipping my hair around. The next time we found some scissors, I'd need to clip it, I made a mental note for that as I stood up. It was as dark as it always seemed to be nowadays, and the dust and dirt was starting to grate against my skin.
"How long was I asleep?" I asked, Nala was looking up at me as I slipped my dusty leather jacket over my arms and pulled it forwards. The cobwebs were starting to invade my mind, but I had to shake them free.
"About four hours, I couldn't sleep. The storm front started to approach after you fell asleep." She responded, there were forty other people lying down behind her, and the bikes were even beyond them.
"Ok. You should get some sleep when you're not on watch. If you don't get your rest, you will miss a step later on." I whispered to her. I looked around and kicked Brian awake. He popped up as I had, and looked around. I nodded to him, and he went on his way, waking everyone up.
The storm was approaching, slowly but steadily. It would be upon us in an hour if we didn't get moving. Luckily, the eye of the storm was about 2 hundred miles wide, and every fifty miles we rode, the storm would approach six miles, so we always needed to stop every 4 and a half hours of riding or so. I hated this damn storm, always had.
The first engine kicked to life, reminding me of what I needed to do. I grabbed my water bottle and my pack, throwing the pack over my shoulder, I walked to my bike, a long piped thing, with a huge double tank, and a bucket seat.
"How long do you reckon we'll be going like this, Vik?" Brian said to me, everyone was stirring now, some a little, some were up and moving. I thought about it for a second, but then I started formulating some kind of plan of what to say.
"Couldn't tell ya, man. We've been going for a couple of months. As near I can tell, we're gonna keep moving until we all start dropping dead, and we'll be gone and this fekkin' storm will just keep moving." I chuckled, taking a drink of my water.
Brian was ruminating on that, when suddenly a nasally voice of a young man rang out behind him. I turned around, and saw a man who's name fit him perfectly. Eugene had a jacket on that was far too big for him, a belt that was pulled out to it's max, and a pair of goggles with prescription sunglasses on underneath them. "Hey Viktor, does the other wall look like it's moving?"
I knew he was referring to the other wall of the storm, opposite of the one we were running from. It wasn't moving now, it always looked like it was at least starting to move, but now it was just sitting there, spinning, but sitting there nonetheless. It was peculiar. "No, I don't think it is."
"That's what I thought." Eugene said, kicking the dirt underneath him. I continued "But, that doesn't change the fact that we need to go that way, this side is still moving in on us." We climbed onto our bikes as the last of them roared to life. I lowered my goggles down and started moving along, building up speed until I was cruising at fifty miles and hour. The blessing and the curse of this whole thing was that now I had a lot of time to think, to work out the kinks of my knowledge, philosophy, or something. It also gave me time to ruminate on my mistakes and my life, before the storm.
Finally, we slowed to a stop, a mere mile from the wall that we were far from earlier in the day. Night was approaching, which was terrifying per usual, I always feared getting caught in a night storm or going in the wrong direction or something. Hopefully we'd be able to sleep here and get a move on in a couple of days, or hours. We set up camp as night started to approach.
"I hate all this running." Nala said, looking up at me. I was tired, tired from riding, tired of torturing myself a thousand times using the same demons who had tortured me for years. I needed to sleep. As I was expecting, the wall wasn't moving away, still spinning and whipping air up, but not moving away.
"I hate it too, trust me. But, we can't be eaten by that storm, we'd all die. And as far as I know, our little gang is the only thing that's left of humanity, and we can't let humanity die." I said, grunting. I took another drink from my bottle of water, let it sit in my mouth and then swallowed it. I looked up at the dark wall of the storm, then I noticed something. The wall was thinner looking than it always had been.
I looked down at Nala, then over at Brian. "Does the wall look... Thinner to you?"
"Yeah, kinda." Brian responded, hesitant. Nala didn't say anything, she just looked up at the wall and thought about it for a few minutes. It was during this silence when suddenly, the wall, or a section of it, disappeared. The section was a hundred feet wide and stretched up to the blackening sky. It was completely gone, replaced by an open area. I was bewildered by this, unaware of what I was watching. Suddenly, the wall closed again. "What... The fuck... Was that?" Brian said, one, maybe two words at a time.
"Couldn-" Nala said before she was interrupted by the wall opening up again, this time miles wide. I was stunned by this, and suddenly, I saw moment on the other side. Someone stood up, their face was shrouded by what looked like a turban. They nudged a person to his side, who stood up groggily, gripping what looked like... A broadsword?
More people stood up, until they stopped. It was a group, slightly smaller than ours, and armed in a similar fashion. They all looked tired and were wearing turbans. Behind them, there was a pack of camels? None of this was making any sense to me.
Suddenly, the one that stood up first started running at me. I thought he was trying to make it before the wall closed again, then it all started to click as he raised his weapon.
There were two storms, the eyes of which were meeting. His group of nomads was now meeting ours, and they were scared. I would be lying if I said my group wasn't, but we weren't ready to attack these folk.
Unless, of course, they attacked first... | “...LEAVE HIM, HE'S NOT WAKING!”
I opened my eyes—but the world was still dark. I tried to scream but when the sand started to fill my lungs I started coughing and quickly had to cover my mouth with the fabric of my hoodie so that I could cough without inhaling more of the sand.
It was the first time I had been by myself in probably all of my existence. The eye had gotten smaller day after day, and although the elder said that it was just a seasonal thing, none of the laymen had believed him. The edge, my fellows had abandoned me at the edge and left me for dead. I almost tried screaming again, but another cough kept me from it. I started crawling like mad. I had to still be close enough to the eye that I wasn't being torn to bits, but the noise that was churning in my ear and the crap that was flying around me told me that I wouldn't be safe if I took my time relaxing. If I got up and ran I might make it, but the likelihood that I would just get picked up in a stray gust of wind and carried deeper into the storm was too high for my liking.
I crawled for what seemed like hours, then days, then weeks, with the landscape around me getting no lighter. I cursed my luck. We all knew that the edge was as simple as death to us, yet me and my clan hadn't heeded the warning of the tribe when we got to close so that we could hunt the elusive Wurm. The Wurms were the only things we knew that could move freely between the edge and the eye, and their tough skin was perfect for utensils, armors, and weapons.
“We'll be the kings of the tribe!”, one of my clansmen had said.
“...Too bad you guys left me for dead.” I wish I could mutter, but just ended up thinking to myself.
As the time wore on, I began to notice a scratching feeling in my throat and also that my arms and legs were beginning to get less responsive. I had been lucky enough to not be hit by any flying rocks on the way, but all the tiny scratches that had found their way onto my body had taken their toll, and I began to have to take short pauses in-between my strides, realizing this was putting me all the more away from the possibility of making it back to the other side. I thought back to my life, the things I would miss, the people who I feel would break my heart if I concentrated on for too long, and I began to wonder if they would miss me as much as I would miss them. It was almost an unspoken rule that once someone was swallowed by the edge, that was their funeral then and there. There was no mourning, no time to be sad, nothing. Time like that was better spent moving, because the edge catches you if you slow down for too long. As I thought about this, how I would most likely not be missed, how everything I had done till now comes up to simply running away from something I could not beat, how the only thing awaiting me in this perennial darkness was death, I didn't notice the steepness of the land changing, until I slid down what felt like a whirlpool, knocking into what felt like lead and passing out on a bed of sand.
Now if you are reading this, most likely you did not end up outside of the storm, and you stumbled upon this after the eye happened upon this location. Look around you. See the tunnels. These weren't made by some beast. These were made by man. Before us, before the tribes began their everlasting journey to extinction within the storm, there were people thriving, living underground. I don't know what caused them to leave, but you can finally stop, you can rest, you do not have to travel anymore! I tried to move and see what else there was to offer, but on the way down, I broke my legs, and I could no longer move. It took all my remaining energy to write this note. Please if you are reading this, end our struggle. We can change, we can prosper, we no longer have to ignore the deaths of the elderly and the weak as they are taken by the edge. Please heed my plea.
Sincerly,
Damasus.
--- Billy crumpled the letter, tossing it back among the bones and the sands. “Don't tell me how to live my life gramps,” he snickered. He was surrounded by massive tunnels, and the other members of his clan were also making their way down with him.
“We're going to raid these tunnels for all the useful crap, and then we're going to get outta here in style!” Billy declared as his fellow clan members cheered, marching down each of the tunnels.
And deep within, the 2nd executioner of man stirred.
********************************
P.S. It's my first post here, so feedback would be nice. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | For the last year, this is how we have lived. The slow, but ever-moving storm around us. For days, we would walk ceaselessly until we reached the leading edge of the eye. Then we would be able to make camp for a few weeks until the trailing edge caught up to us again.
When the government began their weather control program, the whole world was behind it. We looked forward to the moderate winters, the year round growing seasons, and the mountain skiing in July. The few people that saw this coming were written off as crackpots.
But it only took 10 years to prove the crackpots right. It started slowly, the sudden hurricanes popping up out of nowhere, the stray tornado that followed the planned rainstorms. That was how I'd lost my parents. The government said it was a fluke, but they became more frequent within months.
Eventually, the tornados disappeared but the hurricanes got stronger. Soon, any cities within a hundred miles of the coastlines were decimated. As people started moving inland, the riots and killings began. The looting and ration-hoarding was expected, but as the storms grew even stronger, moving further inland, people started trying to find any reprieve. A storm shelter, a leftover Cold War bunker, mountain caves. These were the only places you could be safe.
Then came the big storm. It started in the Atlantic and moved west, towards North America, destroying everything in its path. It moved so slowly, it took six months to cross the ocean. By the time it reached land, the eye was almost 250 miles across. The winds topped 150 miles an hour, ripping houses apart and tearing trees from the ground.
I was living in upstate New York when the front edge hit. Some of the neighbors had a storm shelter where we rode out the storm. We thought that it would dissipate when it hit land, but that wasn't the case. It just kept coming.
After two months underground, we heard the winds stop. After a couple more days of nothing, we risked going topside. The devastation was utter and complete. In the west, we could see the wall of clouds,maybe only twenty miles away, and we knew the storm had passed. Thank god! We scavenged what we could and brought it back to the shelter, our home base while we rebuilt.
We quickly erected some simple shelters from lumber scraps. We watched as the storm moved slowly westward until it seemed a distant memory. We quickly hit the lull after the storm. But, that too was short lived.
After a few weeks, the skies in the east began to darken once more. The winds slowly began to rise. We knew what was coming. The clear skies didn't mean the storm was over, we were merely in the middle of it. The eye of the storm had grown so large, and it was moving so slowly, that we were spared for weeks.
We knew we couldn't last through another storm, so we took a few days to pack what we could carry, and moved on. We were one of the lucky groups. We had no infirm, no elderly, nothing to slow us down. We caught up with, and passed, several groups that did. I hate to think of what happened when the storm overtook them.
This is how we've lived. A few weeks on the march, a few weeks of rest, always trying to stay ahead of the storm. As I write this note, we sit at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. The storm is catching up to us.
Some have decided to sail the ocean, building boats out of whatever scraps they can find. Not me. The eye may be calm, but the waves are still there and they will destroy the rickety crafts quickly. This is how I will die. I can hear the waves crashing below me, the jagged rocks offering me a quick demise. Perhaps I will see you in a better world. | “...LEAVE HIM, HE'S NOT WAKING!”
I opened my eyes—but the world was still dark. I tried to scream but when the sand started to fill my lungs I started coughing and quickly had to cover my mouth with the fabric of my hoodie so that I could cough without inhaling more of the sand.
It was the first time I had been by myself in probably all of my existence. The eye had gotten smaller day after day, and although the elder said that it was just a seasonal thing, none of the laymen had believed him. The edge, my fellows had abandoned me at the edge and left me for dead. I almost tried screaming again, but another cough kept me from it. I started crawling like mad. I had to still be close enough to the eye that I wasn't being torn to bits, but the noise that was churning in my ear and the crap that was flying around me told me that I wouldn't be safe if I took my time relaxing. If I got up and ran I might make it, but the likelihood that I would just get picked up in a stray gust of wind and carried deeper into the storm was too high for my liking.
I crawled for what seemed like hours, then days, then weeks, with the landscape around me getting no lighter. I cursed my luck. We all knew that the edge was as simple as death to us, yet me and my clan hadn't heeded the warning of the tribe when we got to close so that we could hunt the elusive Wurm. The Wurms were the only things we knew that could move freely between the edge and the eye, and their tough skin was perfect for utensils, armors, and weapons.
“We'll be the kings of the tribe!”, one of my clansmen had said.
“...Too bad you guys left me for dead.” I wish I could mutter, but just ended up thinking to myself.
As the time wore on, I began to notice a scratching feeling in my throat and also that my arms and legs were beginning to get less responsive. I had been lucky enough to not be hit by any flying rocks on the way, but all the tiny scratches that had found their way onto my body had taken their toll, and I began to have to take short pauses in-between my strides, realizing this was putting me all the more away from the possibility of making it back to the other side. I thought back to my life, the things I would miss, the people who I feel would break my heart if I concentrated on for too long, and I began to wonder if they would miss me as much as I would miss them. It was almost an unspoken rule that once someone was swallowed by the edge, that was their funeral then and there. There was no mourning, no time to be sad, nothing. Time like that was better spent moving, because the edge catches you if you slow down for too long. As I thought about this, how I would most likely not be missed, how everything I had done till now comes up to simply running away from something I could not beat, how the only thing awaiting me in this perennial darkness was death, I didn't notice the steepness of the land changing, until I slid down what felt like a whirlpool, knocking into what felt like lead and passing out on a bed of sand.
Now if you are reading this, most likely you did not end up outside of the storm, and you stumbled upon this after the eye happened upon this location. Look around you. See the tunnels. These weren't made by some beast. These were made by man. Before us, before the tribes began their everlasting journey to extinction within the storm, there were people thriving, living underground. I don't know what caused them to leave, but you can finally stop, you can rest, you do not have to travel anymore! I tried to move and see what else there was to offer, but on the way down, I broke my legs, and I could no longer move. It took all my remaining energy to write this note. Please if you are reading this, end our struggle. We can change, we can prosper, we no longer have to ignore the deaths of the elderly and the weak as they are taken by the edge. Please heed my plea.
Sincerly,
Damasus.
--- Billy crumpled the letter, tossing it back among the bones and the sands. “Don't tell me how to live my life gramps,” he snickered. He was surrounded by massive tunnels, and the other members of his clan were also making their way down with him.
“We're going to raid these tunnels for all the useful crap, and then we're going to get outta here in style!” Billy declared as his fellow clan members cheered, marching down each of the tunnels.
And deep within, the 2nd executioner of man stirred.
********************************
P.S. It's my first post here, so feedback would be nice. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | The cords cut deep into my wrists. The man tying me to the post grunted, as his strained to pull them even tighter. Standing in front of me, David oversaw the work, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Any last words?” He asked. “Before the sands come to strip your body of its unclean flesh?”
I just stared at him. All the words I had for him, I had already said in front of the council. It had made no difference. I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of any more pleading.
“I thought not.”
The man behind me finished tying my bonds, and rejoined David.
“All done, sir.”
“You are sure they are tight enough?”
“As tight as I could make them.”
“Well, then, let’s make sure, shall we?”
David stepped up to me, and delivered a punch to my gut. My body tried to double over, but was held back by the restrains. The only effect was to drive splinters from the rough post into my back.
“Hmm...not bad.” David said. “But a good craftsman always double-checks his work.”
Another punch landed. I tried to retch, but nothing came up. I hadn’t eaten in three days. No one is permitted to eat during a capital trial. Why waste food on a person you may be killing in just a few days?
“Yes. That will do.”
David wrenched my head so that my eyes met his.
“When the wind comes and peels the flesh from your bones, I want you to remember: you deserve this.”
He spat on my face, and then left.
***
It didn’t take long for them to mount up and ride off. I was left alone, with my thoughts. I had about twenty minutes left -- part of the punishment. The condemned were always staked far enough from the storm front to allow a plenty of anticipation and reflection.
It worked. When you have minutes left to live, what other option is there but to review your life -- no matter how brief. The focus was, naturally, on my crime.
To be fair, it had been my fault. My mother had always warned me to be careful, to keep an eye out, and to stay away from men after they had been drinking fermented milk. But, the night of my crime had been one of celebration tribe-wide. I spent the night dancing with Sayir, and had thought we had become friends. I let my guard down, and today I would pay the price for that.
I had cried for him to stop, to no avail, as he forced himself on me. God, how it hurt -- why would anyone choose to do this voluntarily? Was having a child such a great gift that one would endure this?
Even with the circulation in my arms cut off, I could still feel his hands upon them holding me down. I could feel him thrusting against me -- over and over, his sour breath upon my face. I could hear his gasp, as he came to fruition, and lay against me, breathing heavy. I could see him rise, and then stumble off, back to the party, without so much as a glance backwards.
I should have left. I should have run back to our tent, but I couldn’t force myself to stand. I stayed, curled into a ball. Even my sobs refused my command to come.
It was there that David found me. I don’t know if Sayir had sent him or not. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.
“Bitch!” David said, hauling me to my feet. “How could you disobey the Chief? Don’t you know he owns your body, as the Gods own your soul? You will pay for this insolence.”
***
The trial was quick -- no more than a day. It is not hard to verify when woman has lost her virtue. I argued for mercy. I claimed that I had been forced upon. But how does one prove this? Does sex leave a mark on a man, as it does a woman?
No. I could prove nothing. And so Sayir suffered only the disapproving glances of his elders, and I was sentenced to the stake.
It took another day to fashion the stake, and by then it was too late. Tradition dictated that the condemned enter the storm at midday.
And so, three days since I had been violated, I waited, tied, naked, in the heat of the sun. I waited for the sand to come and claim my worthless body.
***
The wind was picking up. Soon, it would be over. The edges of the storm were sharp, and moved quickly. It took only minutes for one to move from complete calm to the full rage of the wind.
Soon, the wind would coax the grains of the desert into drifting along the ground. Then, into flying through the air. The sand would first burn, and then strip the skin from my body. It would seek out the soft spots, remove my eyes from their sockets. Closing my eyelids would only delay this fate. The sand would grind at the meat of my body, and then finally the bones. If I were lucky, I would die before the bones were reached.
This is what I had been told. Of course, no one *knew*. Who could survive the storm to tell the tale? The farthest anyone had gone in, and lived to return, had been mere tens of meters. And he had lived but for days.
Yes, my fate was clear. And so, as the sand began to lift from the ground, I gritted my teeth, and tried my best to accept my fate.
***
I came awake in a tent. The cloth was dyed a solid purple. I had never seen such extravagant use of the color before. I must be in the afterlife.
I tried to rise, and the pain that shot out from every inch of my skin brought cry from my mouth. Pain? In the afterlife? What cruel jest did the Gods play?
“Hush, little one. Hush.” The voice came from behind me. I tried to turn my head to find its source. Before I could, an old woman appeared before me. She wore a robe of a simple cut. It too was purple. A goddess, then?
“Be still,” She said, in the same voice. “ I know it hurts, but you are safe here.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but it was too parched to work.
“Don’t try to talk, dear.” The old woman said. Concern wrinkled her brow. She brought a water skin to my lips. Never, before or since, did anything taste as sweet as that water. “You wish to know where you are?”
I nodded.
“Then I will tell you. Though, I suspect you will not believe. Few do in their first few days. But know this first: you are not dead.”
I opened my mouth again.
“Hush, child.” She said. “You have passed through the storm. You are free.” | “...LEAVE HIM, HE'S NOT WAKING!”
I opened my eyes—but the world was still dark. I tried to scream but when the sand started to fill my lungs I started coughing and quickly had to cover my mouth with the fabric of my hoodie so that I could cough without inhaling more of the sand.
It was the first time I had been by myself in probably all of my existence. The eye had gotten smaller day after day, and although the elder said that it was just a seasonal thing, none of the laymen had believed him. The edge, my fellows had abandoned me at the edge and left me for dead. I almost tried screaming again, but another cough kept me from it. I started crawling like mad. I had to still be close enough to the eye that I wasn't being torn to bits, but the noise that was churning in my ear and the crap that was flying around me told me that I wouldn't be safe if I took my time relaxing. If I got up and ran I might make it, but the likelihood that I would just get picked up in a stray gust of wind and carried deeper into the storm was too high for my liking.
I crawled for what seemed like hours, then days, then weeks, with the landscape around me getting no lighter. I cursed my luck. We all knew that the edge was as simple as death to us, yet me and my clan hadn't heeded the warning of the tribe when we got to close so that we could hunt the elusive Wurm. The Wurms were the only things we knew that could move freely between the edge and the eye, and their tough skin was perfect for utensils, armors, and weapons.
“We'll be the kings of the tribe!”, one of my clansmen had said.
“...Too bad you guys left me for dead.” I wish I could mutter, but just ended up thinking to myself.
As the time wore on, I began to notice a scratching feeling in my throat and also that my arms and legs were beginning to get less responsive. I had been lucky enough to not be hit by any flying rocks on the way, but all the tiny scratches that had found their way onto my body had taken their toll, and I began to have to take short pauses in-between my strides, realizing this was putting me all the more away from the possibility of making it back to the other side. I thought back to my life, the things I would miss, the people who I feel would break my heart if I concentrated on for too long, and I began to wonder if they would miss me as much as I would miss them. It was almost an unspoken rule that once someone was swallowed by the edge, that was their funeral then and there. There was no mourning, no time to be sad, nothing. Time like that was better spent moving, because the edge catches you if you slow down for too long. As I thought about this, how I would most likely not be missed, how everything I had done till now comes up to simply running away from something I could not beat, how the only thing awaiting me in this perennial darkness was death, I didn't notice the steepness of the land changing, until I slid down what felt like a whirlpool, knocking into what felt like lead and passing out on a bed of sand.
Now if you are reading this, most likely you did not end up outside of the storm, and you stumbled upon this after the eye happened upon this location. Look around you. See the tunnels. These weren't made by some beast. These were made by man. Before us, before the tribes began their everlasting journey to extinction within the storm, there were people thriving, living underground. I don't know what caused them to leave, but you can finally stop, you can rest, you do not have to travel anymore! I tried to move and see what else there was to offer, but on the way down, I broke my legs, and I could no longer move. It took all my remaining energy to write this note. Please if you are reading this, end our struggle. We can change, we can prosper, we no longer have to ignore the deaths of the elderly and the weak as they are taken by the edge. Please heed my plea.
Sincerly,
Damasus.
--- Billy crumpled the letter, tossing it back among the bones and the sands. “Don't tell me how to live my life gramps,” he snickered. He was surrounded by massive tunnels, and the other members of his clan were also making their way down with him.
“We're going to raid these tunnels for all the useful crap, and then we're going to get outta here in style!” Billy declared as his fellow clan members cheered, marching down each of the tunnels.
And deep within, the 2nd executioner of man stirred.
********************************
P.S. It's my first post here, so feedback would be nice. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | For the last year, this is how we have lived. The slow, but ever-moving storm around us. For days, we would walk ceaselessly until we reached the leading edge of the eye. Then we would be able to make camp for a few weeks until the trailing edge caught up to us again.
When the government began their weather control program, the whole world was behind it. We looked forward to the moderate winters, the year round growing seasons, and the mountain skiing in July. The few people that saw this coming were written off as crackpots.
But it only took 10 years to prove the crackpots right. It started slowly, the sudden hurricanes popping up out of nowhere, the stray tornado that followed the planned rainstorms. That was how I'd lost my parents. The government said it was a fluke, but they became more frequent within months.
Eventually, the tornados disappeared but the hurricanes got stronger. Soon, any cities within a hundred miles of the coastlines were decimated. As people started moving inland, the riots and killings began. The looting and ration-hoarding was expected, but as the storms grew even stronger, moving further inland, people started trying to find any reprieve. A storm shelter, a leftover Cold War bunker, mountain caves. These were the only places you could be safe.
Then came the big storm. It started in the Atlantic and moved west, towards North America, destroying everything in its path. It moved so slowly, it took six months to cross the ocean. By the time it reached land, the eye was almost 250 miles across. The winds topped 150 miles an hour, ripping houses apart and tearing trees from the ground.
I was living in upstate New York when the front edge hit. Some of the neighbors had a storm shelter where we rode out the storm. We thought that it would dissipate when it hit land, but that wasn't the case. It just kept coming.
After two months underground, we heard the winds stop. After a couple more days of nothing, we risked going topside. The devastation was utter and complete. In the west, we could see the wall of clouds,maybe only twenty miles away, and we knew the storm had passed. Thank god! We scavenged what we could and brought it back to the shelter, our home base while we rebuilt.
We quickly erected some simple shelters from lumber scraps. We watched as the storm moved slowly westward until it seemed a distant memory. We quickly hit the lull after the storm. But, that too was short lived.
After a few weeks, the skies in the east began to darken once more. The winds slowly began to rise. We knew what was coming. The clear skies didn't mean the storm was over, we were merely in the middle of it. The eye of the storm had grown so large, and it was moving so slowly, that we were spared for weeks.
We knew we couldn't last through another storm, so we took a few days to pack what we could carry, and moved on. We were one of the lucky groups. We had no infirm, no elderly, nothing to slow us down. We caught up with, and passed, several groups that did. I hate to think of what happened when the storm overtook them.
This is how we've lived. A few weeks on the march, a few weeks of rest, always trying to stay ahead of the storm. As I write this note, we sit at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. The storm is catching up to us.
Some have decided to sail the ocean, building boats out of whatever scraps they can find. Not me. The eye may be calm, but the waves are still there and they will destroy the rickety crafts quickly. This is how I will die. I can hear the waves crashing below me, the jagged rocks offering me a quick demise. Perhaps I will see you in a better world. | The Vultures were returning from the outlying suburbs when Kira approached the Elder’s wagon to report. The old man’s advisor was stabbing his finger at piles of crumpled maps, shouting to be heard above the groaning generator.
“-s been fifteen years since She last chose this path. There’s no way we can know if the charging station is even there, let alone intact!”
“And what would you have me do, Malik? We are no more free to walk from Her guidance as we ever have been. If the station no longer stands, we shall adapt. This is our way.”
Fists clenching, Malik stepped closer until he was only inches from the Elder’s face. “And how, old fool, do you expect our way to survive without power? It’s- ”
Noticing Kira’s presence, the advisor hurriedly stepped back and cleared his throat. Even to those with power, the Stormchasers reputation held respect above all. Glaring meaningfully at the Elder, he turned to vault from the wagon and back into the dust.
The Elder turned to Kira with an apologetic smile.
“Malik grows concerned about our dwindling fuel supply,” he said, tapping lightly on the vibrating generator. “He lacks faith that She will guide us on the right path, as She always has.”
Grunting with the effort, he slowly lowered himself into his chair. “Truly, I do not blame him for his worries. The year has not been kind to us.” He gestured to the seat opposite. “Please, sit.”
Shifting uncomfortably on her feet, Kira did not move.
“If it would please you Elder, I would give you my report. There is… a matter of some urgency for you to attend to.”
The Elder nodded and waved his hand for her to continue.
“Her walls breached the outer city at dusk the day before last, as we predicted. As instructed, Petyr and I scouted the northernmost edge of the ruins as swiftly as the Storm allowed.”
Her gaze dropping to the floor uncertainly, Kira hesitated. The situation was new ground for her; for them all.
Sitting forward in his chair impatiently, the Elder hurried her on. “And the station? The charging station – does it stand?”
“I… we did not reach the station before I was forced to return, Elder.”
The Elder’s chair was nearly knocked over when he rose to his feet.
“Forced? The station is our highest priority!”
“Yes, Elder. Though Petyr remains to search the city, I had no choice but to return with what we found. You… you will understand when I show you. Please, follow.”
Ahead of the Elder’s wagon, Kira’s wheel was surrounded by a shouting throng of nomads. Supported by Kira, the Elder limped along the street towards it. He could see them staring and gesticulating at something lying on the floor in front of the vehicle. As the crowd noticed his presence and respectfully parted to allow him through, the object on the floor came into horrifying focus. He froze.
“It can’t be…”
Kira knelt beside down beside it, brushing off dust that had blown up from the street.
“We found it in an old building only a few hours into the city. It must have been there for days, but the Storm had only just breached the outer city last night.” She stood and turned to the Elder, who was still staring open mouthed at the ground. “How can this be possible? What could have done this to her?”
Without responding, the Elder fell to his knees.
Lying limp on the floor, with a chest punctured with dozens of bloodied holes, was the broken body of a young girl.
| |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | The cords cut deep into my wrists. The man tying me to the post grunted, as his strained to pull them even tighter. Standing in front of me, David oversaw the work, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Any last words?” He asked. “Before the sands come to strip your body of its unclean flesh?”
I just stared at him. All the words I had for him, I had already said in front of the council. It had made no difference. I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of any more pleading.
“I thought not.”
The man behind me finished tying my bonds, and rejoined David.
“All done, sir.”
“You are sure they are tight enough?”
“As tight as I could make them.”
“Well, then, let’s make sure, shall we?”
David stepped up to me, and delivered a punch to my gut. My body tried to double over, but was held back by the restrains. The only effect was to drive splinters from the rough post into my back.
“Hmm...not bad.” David said. “But a good craftsman always double-checks his work.”
Another punch landed. I tried to retch, but nothing came up. I hadn’t eaten in three days. No one is permitted to eat during a capital trial. Why waste food on a person you may be killing in just a few days?
“Yes. That will do.”
David wrenched my head so that my eyes met his.
“When the wind comes and peels the flesh from your bones, I want you to remember: you deserve this.”
He spat on my face, and then left.
***
It didn’t take long for them to mount up and ride off. I was left alone, with my thoughts. I had about twenty minutes left -- part of the punishment. The condemned were always staked far enough from the storm front to allow a plenty of anticipation and reflection.
It worked. When you have minutes left to live, what other option is there but to review your life -- no matter how brief. The focus was, naturally, on my crime.
To be fair, it had been my fault. My mother had always warned me to be careful, to keep an eye out, and to stay away from men after they had been drinking fermented milk. But, the night of my crime had been one of celebration tribe-wide. I spent the night dancing with Sayir, and had thought we had become friends. I let my guard down, and today I would pay the price for that.
I had cried for him to stop, to no avail, as he forced himself on me. God, how it hurt -- why would anyone choose to do this voluntarily? Was having a child such a great gift that one would endure this?
Even with the circulation in my arms cut off, I could still feel his hands upon them holding me down. I could feel him thrusting against me -- over and over, his sour breath upon my face. I could hear his gasp, as he came to fruition, and lay against me, breathing heavy. I could see him rise, and then stumble off, back to the party, without so much as a glance backwards.
I should have left. I should have run back to our tent, but I couldn’t force myself to stand. I stayed, curled into a ball. Even my sobs refused my command to come.
It was there that David found me. I don’t know if Sayir had sent him or not. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.
“Bitch!” David said, hauling me to my feet. “How could you disobey the Chief? Don’t you know he owns your body, as the Gods own your soul? You will pay for this insolence.”
***
The trial was quick -- no more than a day. It is not hard to verify when woman has lost her virtue. I argued for mercy. I claimed that I had been forced upon. But how does one prove this? Does sex leave a mark on a man, as it does a woman?
No. I could prove nothing. And so Sayir suffered only the disapproving glances of his elders, and I was sentenced to the stake.
It took another day to fashion the stake, and by then it was too late. Tradition dictated that the condemned enter the storm at midday.
And so, three days since I had been violated, I waited, tied, naked, in the heat of the sun. I waited for the sand to come and claim my worthless body.
***
The wind was picking up. Soon, it would be over. The edges of the storm were sharp, and moved quickly. It took only minutes for one to move from complete calm to the full rage of the wind.
Soon, the wind would coax the grains of the desert into drifting along the ground. Then, into flying through the air. The sand would first burn, and then strip the skin from my body. It would seek out the soft spots, remove my eyes from their sockets. Closing my eyelids would only delay this fate. The sand would grind at the meat of my body, and then finally the bones. If I were lucky, I would die before the bones were reached.
This is what I had been told. Of course, no one *knew*. Who could survive the storm to tell the tale? The farthest anyone had gone in, and lived to return, had been mere tens of meters. And he had lived but for days.
Yes, my fate was clear. And so, as the sand began to lift from the ground, I gritted my teeth, and tried my best to accept my fate.
***
I came awake in a tent. The cloth was dyed a solid purple. I had never seen such extravagant use of the color before. I must be in the afterlife.
I tried to rise, and the pain that shot out from every inch of my skin brought cry from my mouth. Pain? In the afterlife? What cruel jest did the Gods play?
“Hush, little one. Hush.” The voice came from behind me. I tried to turn my head to find its source. Before I could, an old woman appeared before me. She wore a robe of a simple cut. It too was purple. A goddess, then?
“Be still,” She said, in the same voice. “ I know it hurts, but you are safe here.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but it was too parched to work.
“Don’t try to talk, dear.” The old woman said. Concern wrinkled her brow. She brought a water skin to my lips. Never, before or since, did anything taste as sweet as that water. “You wish to know where you are?”
I nodded.
“Then I will tell you. Though, I suspect you will not believe. Few do in their first few days. But know this first: you are not dead.”
I opened my mouth again.
“Hush, child.” She said. “You have passed through the storm. You are free.” | The Vultures were returning from the outlying suburbs when Kira approached the Elder’s wagon to report. The old man’s advisor was stabbing his finger at piles of crumpled maps, shouting to be heard above the groaning generator.
“-s been fifteen years since She last chose this path. There’s no way we can know if the charging station is even there, let alone intact!”
“And what would you have me do, Malik? We are no more free to walk from Her guidance as we ever have been. If the station no longer stands, we shall adapt. This is our way.”
Fists clenching, Malik stepped closer until he was only inches from the Elder’s face. “And how, old fool, do you expect our way to survive without power? It’s- ”
Noticing Kira’s presence, the advisor hurriedly stepped back and cleared his throat. Even to those with power, the Stormchasers reputation held respect above all. Glaring meaningfully at the Elder, he turned to vault from the wagon and back into the dust.
The Elder turned to Kira with an apologetic smile.
“Malik grows concerned about our dwindling fuel supply,” he said, tapping lightly on the vibrating generator. “He lacks faith that She will guide us on the right path, as She always has.”
Grunting with the effort, he slowly lowered himself into his chair. “Truly, I do not blame him for his worries. The year has not been kind to us.” He gestured to the seat opposite. “Please, sit.”
Shifting uncomfortably on her feet, Kira did not move.
“If it would please you Elder, I would give you my report. There is… a matter of some urgency for you to attend to.”
The Elder nodded and waved his hand for her to continue.
“Her walls breached the outer city at dusk the day before last, as we predicted. As instructed, Petyr and I scouted the northernmost edge of the ruins as swiftly as the Storm allowed.”
Her gaze dropping to the floor uncertainly, Kira hesitated. The situation was new ground for her; for them all.
Sitting forward in his chair impatiently, the Elder hurried her on. “And the station? The charging station – does it stand?”
“I… we did not reach the station before I was forced to return, Elder.”
The Elder’s chair was nearly knocked over when he rose to his feet.
“Forced? The station is our highest priority!”
“Yes, Elder. Though Petyr remains to search the city, I had no choice but to return with what we found. You… you will understand when I show you. Please, follow.”
Ahead of the Elder’s wagon, Kira’s wheel was surrounded by a shouting throng of nomads. Supported by Kira, the Elder limped along the street towards it. He could see them staring and gesticulating at something lying on the floor in front of the vehicle. As the crowd noticed his presence and respectfully parted to allow him through, the object on the floor came into horrifying focus. He froze.
“It can’t be…”
Kira knelt beside down beside it, brushing off dust that had blown up from the street.
“We found it in an old building only a few hours into the city. It must have been there for days, but the Storm had only just breached the outer city last night.” She stood and turned to the Elder, who was still staring open mouthed at the ground. “How can this be possible? What could have done this to her?”
Without responding, the Elder fell to his knees.
Lying limp on the floor, with a chest punctured with dozens of bloodied holes, was the broken body of a young girl.
| |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | The cords cut deep into my wrists. The man tying me to the post grunted, as his strained to pull them even tighter. Standing in front of me, David oversaw the work, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Any last words?” He asked. “Before the sands come to strip your body of its unclean flesh?”
I just stared at him. All the words I had for him, I had already said in front of the council. It had made no difference. I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of any more pleading.
“I thought not.”
The man behind me finished tying my bonds, and rejoined David.
“All done, sir.”
“You are sure they are tight enough?”
“As tight as I could make them.”
“Well, then, let’s make sure, shall we?”
David stepped up to me, and delivered a punch to my gut. My body tried to double over, but was held back by the restrains. The only effect was to drive splinters from the rough post into my back.
“Hmm...not bad.” David said. “But a good craftsman always double-checks his work.”
Another punch landed. I tried to retch, but nothing came up. I hadn’t eaten in three days. No one is permitted to eat during a capital trial. Why waste food on a person you may be killing in just a few days?
“Yes. That will do.”
David wrenched my head so that my eyes met his.
“When the wind comes and peels the flesh from your bones, I want you to remember: you deserve this.”
He spat on my face, and then left.
***
It didn’t take long for them to mount up and ride off. I was left alone, with my thoughts. I had about twenty minutes left -- part of the punishment. The condemned were always staked far enough from the storm front to allow a plenty of anticipation and reflection.
It worked. When you have minutes left to live, what other option is there but to review your life -- no matter how brief. The focus was, naturally, on my crime.
To be fair, it had been my fault. My mother had always warned me to be careful, to keep an eye out, and to stay away from men after they had been drinking fermented milk. But, the night of my crime had been one of celebration tribe-wide. I spent the night dancing with Sayir, and had thought we had become friends. I let my guard down, and today I would pay the price for that.
I had cried for him to stop, to no avail, as he forced himself on me. God, how it hurt -- why would anyone choose to do this voluntarily? Was having a child such a great gift that one would endure this?
Even with the circulation in my arms cut off, I could still feel his hands upon them holding me down. I could feel him thrusting against me -- over and over, his sour breath upon my face. I could hear his gasp, as he came to fruition, and lay against me, breathing heavy. I could see him rise, and then stumble off, back to the party, without so much as a glance backwards.
I should have left. I should have run back to our tent, but I couldn’t force myself to stand. I stayed, curled into a ball. Even my sobs refused my command to come.
It was there that David found me. I don’t know if Sayir had sent him or not. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.
“Bitch!” David said, hauling me to my feet. “How could you disobey the Chief? Don’t you know he owns your body, as the Gods own your soul? You will pay for this insolence.”
***
The trial was quick -- no more than a day. It is not hard to verify when woman has lost her virtue. I argued for mercy. I claimed that I had been forced upon. But how does one prove this? Does sex leave a mark on a man, as it does a woman?
No. I could prove nothing. And so Sayir suffered only the disapproving glances of his elders, and I was sentenced to the stake.
It took another day to fashion the stake, and by then it was too late. Tradition dictated that the condemned enter the storm at midday.
And so, three days since I had been violated, I waited, tied, naked, in the heat of the sun. I waited for the sand to come and claim my worthless body.
***
The wind was picking up. Soon, it would be over. The edges of the storm were sharp, and moved quickly. It took only minutes for one to move from complete calm to the full rage of the wind.
Soon, the wind would coax the grains of the desert into drifting along the ground. Then, into flying through the air. The sand would first burn, and then strip the skin from my body. It would seek out the soft spots, remove my eyes from their sockets. Closing my eyelids would only delay this fate. The sand would grind at the meat of my body, and then finally the bones. If I were lucky, I would die before the bones were reached.
This is what I had been told. Of course, no one *knew*. Who could survive the storm to tell the tale? The farthest anyone had gone in, and lived to return, had been mere tens of meters. And he had lived but for days.
Yes, my fate was clear. And so, as the sand began to lift from the ground, I gritted my teeth, and tried my best to accept my fate.
***
I came awake in a tent. The cloth was dyed a solid purple. I had never seen such extravagant use of the color before. I must be in the afterlife.
I tried to rise, and the pain that shot out from every inch of my skin brought cry from my mouth. Pain? In the afterlife? What cruel jest did the Gods play?
“Hush, little one. Hush.” The voice came from behind me. I tried to turn my head to find its source. Before I could, an old woman appeared before me. She wore a robe of a simple cut. It too was purple. A goddess, then?
“Be still,” She said, in the same voice. “ I know it hurts, but you are safe here.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but it was too parched to work.
“Don’t try to talk, dear.” The old woman said. Concern wrinkled her brow. She brought a water skin to my lips. Never, before or since, did anything taste as sweet as that water. “You wish to know where you are?”
I nodded.
“Then I will tell you. Though, I suspect you will not believe. Few do in their first few days. But know this first: you are not dead.”
I opened my mouth again.
“Hush, child.” She said. “You have passed through the storm. You are free.” | It's moving day again. People are darting back and forth preparing for the move. We hope that this time the eye will stabilize over an area with food. We've only ate sand lizards for the past month. Trust me when I say that is not what you want to eat. Even with this steady supply of leather morsels we are all weak. Not to mention the lack of water supply at this new camp. We've sent a few runners into the sands to see if they could find anything, but sadly that was for naught. It's good that the eye is getting ready to move our remaining water stores have finally ran dry, but I'm sure the next spot we will have a bit more luck. I'm not to worried about myself though. It's the elders that I'm scarred for. They are the last ones that remember the times before our planet was nothing but a harsh sandstorm. They saw the Earth when it was green and rich. I sometimes hope that an area like that is still left. I hope that they can guide us to an area like that again. Just like they always guided us.
Our move has begun. Everyone is weak, but it's not our first time. We were able to outpace the storm. We scavenged the ruins of the old world as we passed them by. It's amazing how rich they still are, but I guess we are the only people left to raid them.
We kept up our pace until the eye settled. This area was better, but not that much better. We would make do though. I was thinking of the elders when they summoned me. I left to go meet with the council. What could they possibly want with me? It turns out that one of our elders got a broken transmission on one of their machines. A rumor of a safe haven. They wanted me to take a group of our best runners and go 200 miles south to something they called a military base. I asked them why me? I'm nothing special. I'm not even a runner. They said I was chosen based off of some sort of test? A test I took right before the collapse. I don't remember anything about it, or the world pre-storm for that matter. But I trusted them. The elders know much more than I do. They've been keeping this group of thousands alive through these hard times for decades. Why should I question their choice.
Me and my team departed a week later. As the last and only safe refuge left my sight it dawned on me the tribulations we would face. The team was assembled mostly of the rough type. I never payed much attention to them. They annoyed me to no end, but mixed in with this group was someone that stood out. Not just because she was a girl and not nearly as buffed up as the rest, but because of here age. She couldn't be any older than 13. I approached her, but her icy eyes defeated my advance. I kept walking through the sand alone and silent. Later that night we managed to find a decent spot to camp. An underground tunnel of sorts. It was dark and strange. It looked like hundreds of people used to move through it a day, but I stopped thinking about it. I was too exhausted to contemplate why the old society needs this place. I ate my cold rations and drank the little water I had left and fell asleep.
A week after that first night and our group is down from 10 to 4. This journey is seeming even more bleak. The remaining members including myself want to just lie down and die like the rest. All except for that girl. She keeps moving, and so do we. Then the next falls. I didn't even bother learning his name, but out of the group of grizzly men, he had to be the one I disliked the least. There wasn't much I could do for him though. I've been out of water for a day now myself. I kept going for some reason. We were 50 miles out. We can do it I chanted to myself under my breath. Then the next fell. I didn't even turn I just kept stumbling forward.
Then my motivation fell. The small girl that I believe had kept this group going. Even though she didn't utter a word her strength seemed to permeate us. I lean next to her. Those cold eyes glare back, but they are fading. She whispers to me her name, or begins to whisper I should say. She passed out before she could finish the first syllable. I heard the beginnings of an S I believe.
I stood up and began to stumble onward. I couldn't let it end like this I just couldn't. I barely made it a hundred yards before I fell. As I felt the life draining from me I saw something. A light brighter than any fire I've ever seen before. A rumbling in the Earth. This strange machine pulled up before me, and then it all went black. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | “Engine four down,” screamed Stork.
Alarms screamed at us. Klaxons rang on as our ship began to fail. “Make sure the stragglers are in the lifeboats.”
“Engine three is failing,” said Stork.
So we were down to four engines. Our cruiser wouldn’t last much longer. “How long until we have passed over the Burning Sea?”
“Two hours. Approximately seven hundred and fifty miles,” said Anders. She turned back to her screen. “We’re receiving confirmation from The God’s Hand that they can take thirty percent of our refugees.”
We couldn’t set down. It Burning Sea would eat through the hull in a matter of minutes. “Fire off forty percent of our lifeboats to The God’s Hand.”
“They said thirty,” said Anders.
“Fuck them,” I screamed. “They can take forty.”
“The Snout of the Hog can take fifteen percent,” said Anders.
I nodded. “Fire off fifteen.”
“Engine three failed,” said Stork. It looked like his composure had begun to fail. His hands shook and sweat poured down his brow.
“Get to a lifeboat, Stork,” I said.
He didn’t wait. The sound of his footsteps echoed back to us from the hallway off the bridge.
“The Enterprising Solution will take the remainder of our refugees,” said Anders.
“Good. Get on a lifeboat. Radio back to me when you are secure. I will fire off the remaining lifeboats,” I said.
“I’ve fired off all of the remaining lifeboats,” said Anders.
I looked over my shoulder. Anders locked eyes with me. It was only the two of us on this dying vessel.
The ship shuddered. I could feel our speed decreasing. Everything rattled and shook. The Burning Sea grew large in the view screen. “What is the status of the lifeboats?”
“Ninety-five percent have found safe harbor,” said Anders.
“Good,” I said. I gripped the armrests of the captain’s chair. I had made sure as many of my people as possible had survived. Now it would be a race between the Burning Sea and the eye wall to destroy us.
“If you have a Hail Mary, Anders, now would be the time.” I laughed.
She cleared her throat. “There might be something with everyone off. We’d have to jettison most everything though.”
I smiled. “Fuck it. Might as well try.”
**Edit:** [Part Two can be found here.](http://www.reddit.com/r/Puns_are_Lazy/comments/2v8i3p/eye_of_the_storm_cont/). [Part Three can be found here.](http://www.reddit.com/r/Puns_are_Lazy/comments/2vddan/eye_of_the_storm_part_3/) | It's moving day again. People are darting back and forth preparing for the move. We hope that this time the eye will stabilize over an area with food. We've only ate sand lizards for the past month. Trust me when I say that is not what you want to eat. Even with this steady supply of leather morsels we are all weak. Not to mention the lack of water supply at this new camp. We've sent a few runners into the sands to see if they could find anything, but sadly that was for naught. It's good that the eye is getting ready to move our remaining water stores have finally ran dry, but I'm sure the next spot we will have a bit more luck. I'm not to worried about myself though. It's the elders that I'm scarred for. They are the last ones that remember the times before our planet was nothing but a harsh sandstorm. They saw the Earth when it was green and rich. I sometimes hope that an area like that is still left. I hope that they can guide us to an area like that again. Just like they always guided us.
Our move has begun. Everyone is weak, but it's not our first time. We were able to outpace the storm. We scavenged the ruins of the old world as we passed them by. It's amazing how rich they still are, but I guess we are the only people left to raid them.
We kept up our pace until the eye settled. This area was better, but not that much better. We would make do though. I was thinking of the elders when they summoned me. I left to go meet with the council. What could they possibly want with me? It turns out that one of our elders got a broken transmission on one of their machines. A rumor of a safe haven. They wanted me to take a group of our best runners and go 200 miles south to something they called a military base. I asked them why me? I'm nothing special. I'm not even a runner. They said I was chosen based off of some sort of test? A test I took right before the collapse. I don't remember anything about it, or the world pre-storm for that matter. But I trusted them. The elders know much more than I do. They've been keeping this group of thousands alive through these hard times for decades. Why should I question their choice.
Me and my team departed a week later. As the last and only safe refuge left my sight it dawned on me the tribulations we would face. The team was assembled mostly of the rough type. I never payed much attention to them. They annoyed me to no end, but mixed in with this group was someone that stood out. Not just because she was a girl and not nearly as buffed up as the rest, but because of here age. She couldn't be any older than 13. I approached her, but her icy eyes defeated my advance. I kept walking through the sand alone and silent. Later that night we managed to find a decent spot to camp. An underground tunnel of sorts. It was dark and strange. It looked like hundreds of people used to move through it a day, but I stopped thinking about it. I was too exhausted to contemplate why the old society needs this place. I ate my cold rations and drank the little water I had left and fell asleep.
A week after that first night and our group is down from 10 to 4. This journey is seeming even more bleak. The remaining members including myself want to just lie down and die like the rest. All except for that girl. She keeps moving, and so do we. Then the next falls. I didn't even bother learning his name, but out of the group of grizzly men, he had to be the one I disliked the least. There wasn't much I could do for him though. I've been out of water for a day now myself. I kept going for some reason. We were 50 miles out. We can do it I chanted to myself under my breath. Then the next fell. I didn't even turn I just kept stumbling forward.
Then my motivation fell. The small girl that I believe had kept this group going. Even though she didn't utter a word her strength seemed to permeate us. I lean next to her. Those cold eyes glare back, but they are fading. She whispers to me her name, or begins to whisper I should say. She passed out before she could finish the first syllable. I heard the beginnings of an S I believe.
I stood up and began to stumble onward. I couldn't let it end like this I just couldn't. I barely made it a hundred yards before I fell. As I felt the life draining from me I saw something. A light brighter than any fire I've ever seen before. A rumbling in the Earth. This strange machine pulled up before me, and then it all went black. | |
[WP] A permanent storm rages across a planet. The only inhabitants are nomads who constantly travel inside the eye of the storm. | "We must keep moving!"
"We can't! Our people are tired! Please! We must stop and rest! Just for a little while!" Yelled the elder as he hunched with hundreds hurdled in the snow.
"No! Look! The eye is closing, we must stay in the eye!"
I pointed in the distance past the snow capped mountains, dark grey clouds loomed closer and closer bringing cold wind and rain. I stared at the elder, his eyes red with tears. We had to keep moving.
"My people! We must be always moving! We must stay in the sun! I know it's been a long time. You are tired. You must trust me! I know the caves are close! It is our death we are trying to outrun.You must not let it catch you now!"
The elder burrowed his eyes in his hands.
"I cannot go any further."
I walked to the elder kneeling down beside him.
"Then stay. Stay here. Meet the Gods, but give me a chance to bring our people to life."
He began to cry heavily. I brought myself up and boomed.
"My people! We must move! Now! The caves are close, I can feel it!"
Hundreds gathered themselves up and begin to move forward, I rushed ahead. I know the caves are close. We must keep going. We will find the caves.
I looked up at the sun, it glared down brightly on us but brought us little warmth. I walked faster and faster as we began to make our accent up the last towering hill.
"My people! The caves are near! We must not lose hope! Over this last hill we will find the caves! I'm sure of it!"
I could hear them all behind me. Breathing heavy. They were tired. I began to run up the hill. I had the energy. I had the hope. I began to run. Cold wind burned my face as I began to increase my pace with excite. I saw the summit. We were close. We were so close. This would buy us time, I turned back towards my people.
"We are almost there! Please do not lose hope!"
I began to run faster. The summit only feet away. Finally victory. All these months we've have moved. All these months with little rest. Little food. We've lost hundreds. I would not let mother nature beat us. I would not let her beat me. I gave my last energy to eat up the last couple feet remaining of the hill.
We had finally made it. I have done it.
I came to the summit and stared.
And stared.
And stared.
And stared.
I felt them behind me. Their footsteps fell silent as they stop and waited. I heard their eager ears clammering for the good news.
"What do you see! Do you see the caves?"
They asked with excitement.
"No."
They began to mutter among themselves as I turned and bowed my head.
"What do you see? What is it?"
I looked down at them. All their eyes bright with hope looked up at me. I spoke.
"The coast."
| She’d been gone too long, well over a day now. I couldn’t be sure how many hours had passed exactly, the night had simply bled into the morning. Any semblance of a sun, any notion of light, had escaped us for the past few months.
It hadn’t always been this bad—there were days, weeks even, where we could see where we walked. Days where we didn’t leave things behind—didn’t leave people behind—in the sheer darkness that engulfed us. There were days where I woke up and could see the details of her face: the blue of her eyes; the unwashed, amber curls of her hair; the contours of her dirt-scarred, red-stained skin. Yet it had been so long now since light brought its comforting rays.
She’d left to get what we lost, still suborn and brave as the day I’d met her. I told her to stay, we all did. You never go back, not for anything. Not for anyone. She knew that, I knew that. Everybody knew that. Still, despite our cries, despite my hand wrapped around her dusted wrists, she slipped away and ran. She bolted toward the darkness, her body fading to a silhouette before vanishing entirely. I chased her for a moment, I tried to stop her. I called her name, I told the emptiness that I loved her. I did what I could, but she was gone. I could have kept running, of course I could have. I could have chased her in the direction she went, losing myself in the darkness that raged beyond. But I didn’t. Instead I fell to the floor, my knees scratching into the dry, dirt-caked ground, and then kept going.
No one ever came back from beyond the eye of the storm. Those that got lost in the darkness, those that strayed from our pack, those that simply were too much to carry—they were gone. Only rumors survived the outside: stories of the endless night, the piercing rains, the stabbing ice, the eternal winds. Late at night, as we allowed ourselves our momentary breaks from our constant walking, we could hear the sounds of the storm just mere miles away. It never stopped, it never ceased. It raged throughout the night, the eternal night.
Still, I believed she would return. I believed she would survive the storm, she would find a way. She’d always been the strongest of us. Perhaps it was simple naiveté, or perhaps it was idiocy, or perhaps it was love. Whatever the case, I’d fallen back from the front of the pack. No longer was I leading the eternal march within the center of the eye. No longer was I in the safety of the numbers, the voices of those I’d known my entire life filling the emptiness around me. I’d slipped behind, the air growing colder as the wind whipped my back. She was out there, somewhere.
I took another step forward, then paused. They others were so many steps ahead, the details of their torn clothing no longer visible. None of them had turned back toward me, none of them had so much as glanced in my direction. They were just walking, marching toward the calmness that forever evaded them. I resumed walking, the sound of the darkness behind me growing louder with each missed step.
She wasn’t the first person to venture into the storm, to run from the comfort in which we wandered. There had been so many more of us just a year prior, so many people who simply vanished. The elderly, their footsteps grew slower with time, our eyes staring straight ahead as their bodies faded from our peripherals. We couldn’t save them, couldn’t fight for them while we tried to keep ourselves alive. Sure, some tried, wrapping their parents addled arms around their shoulders as they walked, but it was always short-lived. A day, maybe two, before the reality of survival set in. Then they were gone.
Other people simply chose to enter the storm. Tired of walking, tired of running, tired of simply never stopping. Instead, they chose to embrace the winds and the darkness that forever perused us. We knew when it was happening, knew they had made up their minds. Sometimes they spoke, said their goodbyes, but they never really needed to say a word. They simply slowed their pace or stopped entirely, the rest of marching forward with our eyes locked on whatever lay ahead.
I took another step forward, and then stopped. She was out there, somewhere, alone and alive. I knew it, she had to be. Nothing had been able to stop her yet, not me, not the storm, not anything. I took another step forward, then turned toward the darkness. I was the one that was responsible for what we’d lost, I was supposed to be watching. I told her we could have another, begged her to stop with callous, empty excuses for cowardice. Of course she didn’t listen, of course she turned back.
I increased my pace, the air growing dry around me as the sound of the storm neared. She was out there, she was alive.
_____________
^If ^you ^enjoy ^my ^writing ^style, ^feel ^free ^to ^check ^out ^some ^of ^my ^other ^short ^stories [^in ^my ^subreddit!](http://www.reddit.com/r/ChokingVictimWrites/) | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | Part 1:
Night had fallen at the punitentiary, where the exercise yard was now barely discernible from the cell windows, except for those irregular occasions on which a searchlight would scythe through the gloaming and pick out familiar details: the sullen benches, looming wire fences and low outbuildings, whose jutting edges seemed to wince under the harsh light’s sweep, as if a person skulking in the shadows had snapped back into the safety of cover. An inexperienced guard might have yanked the light back to interrogate this seeming anomaly further, but in the still and in the silence, the light continued uncaring on its path, until it was no longer visible from the high, barred window where Sully Wortspiel was content to allow the darkness to calm his troubled thoughts once more.
It was not long before the quiet was punctured by the juddering screech of the un-oiled door, shocking Sully out of his reverie, which he never seemed to time quite right and which was really so important to the job of work that it was his responsibility to carry out on this night. From the adjacent room, he heard the electric flicker of the bright fluorescent tubes as they came to life and he moved on soft soles to the viewing portal, whose two-way mirror allowed him to observe the Subject unseen.
He knew others that liked to pore for hours over files and through footage, looking always for weaknesses, always for openings, always for that elusive tell that would let them know that it was time to strike. But he had no time for that wasted energy, he gleaned everything that was worth knowing about a man, or at least about these Subjects, from the empty minutes before his entrance. He noted their nervous glances, while a guard strapped them into a chair, as their eyes darted, looking for a point on which to fix, not knowing of course that the room’s dull, curved walls had been engineered precisely to avoid this. Thus their furtive search would bring them inevitably to the mirror, to the smudge he had made twenty minutes prior to their arrival, and behind which he now stood. From this vantage point, he looked deep into their unknowing eyes, and allowed whatever it was that they wished to keep hidden to emerge into the light, and if it didn’t, he’d carry on with his routine — the familiar patter, an indulgence of their amateur theatrics — and then, when they least expected it, he would make a point of noting and removing the smudge with his shirt-sleeve, and with it their last hope of holding on.
On this occasion, however, a pair of ice blue eyes met his, fixed on a point beyond the mirror, chiding him to come out. Sully was suddenly nervous. This had never happened before, and he had been doing this job of work for a long time. He retreated to his desk and leaned down, whispering into the microphone, while he held its cheap plastic intercom button down and mentally scolded himself over his obviously chewed nail. Over his shoulder, through the viewing portal, the guard responded to his instruction and removed a burlap sack from the equipment console and placed it over the Subject’s head, before motioning that his role had been fulfilled and that he was going to leave the chamber. In these last moments before it started, Sully liked to return to his window, where he would imagine the searchlight was a spotlight, that the crunching gears and the metallic churn of the sound-proof shutters were the swelling roar that preceded the tumultuous applause of an ecstatic audience. This time, however, he felt only the dread that sits heavy in the stomach until it is as tight as a knot.
The entrance to the chamber was set precisely behind the chair, such that Sully’s approach should have been undetectable to the subject, strapped to the steel chair in front of him. Normally, he would have noted the sweat-matted hair at the nape of the neck, the clenched jaw or the heaving sobs, the sharp smell that meant they’d pissed themselves, which they all and always did, eventually. But this subject sat with a straight back, and even with the sack over his head, it was clear that he was neither sweating nor crying, that nothing about the situation discomforted him in the slightest. This unfamiliar scene left Sully suddenly with the feeling of having forgotten his lines, not knowing where or even how to start. And so it was that the Subject was the first to speak.
“I cannot tell you how long it is that I have waited to be here,” the Subject intoned in a deep, sonorous voice. “I have travelled a great distance, forsaken the love of those that gave it me freely and endured countless hardships. But now, finally, I am here.”
Sully had always been told he had a way with words, by his mother at first, as she home-schooled him away from the slings and the arrows of his feral and erstwhile classmates, then by the learned professors that taught him at college, but by that time the only audience whose appreciation he sought were the supple young things that leant on the doorways of the rooms of others and haunted the stairwells of his dreams, in which he whispered sweet nothings with the effortless ease of which he knew he was capable, but which, in real-life, deserted him and left him tongue-tied and mute. His room-mate, sensing a nervousness about him that had to be routed decisively if he was to invite any girls back to their room, suggested that Sully look for way to push himself out of this awkward phase. The next morning, he enrolled in the college improv group, into whose scenarios he would lose himself as surely as if he had never been the type of timid kid that lives the world vicariously from a safe distance. And each time, the words flowed and flew from nib of pen and tip of tongue, until the scene was called and then they hit a glottal stop, as Sully became Sully and nothing more.
His silence did not seem to disquiet the Subject, who continued effortlessly, as if the pause had been his decision all along. “You have doubtless guessed that I know you, and perhaps you are wondering why it is that you do not know me, for it is surely the case that you do not, and if perhaps you are entertaining some notion that you remember me, some false face, you are surely wrong.”
In time, his solitary nature had betrayed him and the leader of the improv group had suggested that Sully’s talents, which he took pains to stress were clear to all, might be better suited to some other line of comic output, dwarfing, as they did, the meagre contributions of his contemporaries, and having nothing at all to do with any sense of awkwardness, which he made a point of noting he was only bringing up to dispel the notion from Sully’s mind that awkwardness might be the cause at the root of all this, but awkwardness, he continued, that an impartial observer might perceive in Sully’s non-comic interactions with the group. It was at this point that Sully had noticed the leader of the improv group was reading his tortured lines from the cryptic bic marks that adorned the inside of his hand, to which he would glance rapidly, as he continued down the winding road of qualifications and objections that stretched long past the point at which Sully had turned and left.
The man, for Sully could no longer hide behind the linguistic barrier of ‘Subject’ that they had all been taught so carefully to erect, did not try to turn his head nor alter his posture to bring Sully into the conversation; he simply let silence be displaced by sound, as surely as the moon commands the tide. “I do not mean to burden you with biography, as we only have so much time and I’m keen that we don’t waste it. My people hail from the town of Larchester, though I doubt you know it, as I left that place as soon as I was old enough to drive, which is how I earned my money, shipping things to places that they needed to be, up and down the East Coast and beyond. I took the money I earned and hired one man, then another and so on until I did more directing than I did driving. Of course, a man grows restless if he stays long enough in one place, and so from time to time, if a job came in that went somewhere I hadn’t been, I’d run it myself. That was how I came to visit Westhaller.”
Westhaller was a town not too far from Sully’s college, but far enough that he felt safe he was unlikely to meet a single soul he knew or that knew him. The town stood at the side of one of the mighty roads that crossed the countryside like arteries, connected gingerly by a barely comparable tarmacked trail that snaked up a frozen hillside to a cluster of houses that Sully guessed had once been some sort of farming community, but which now existed mostly to service the needs of the men and women that stopped off there between the place they were from and the place that they wanted to be, which he thought, in retrospect, was probably why it had seemed so appropriate.
| Johnson and Smith walk past the interview room on their way to the Chief's office. Smith looks in through the thick glass and sees an officer in a plain suit standing at one end of a small table, his arms raised and outstretched as though he were an emcee addressing a large audience. The only audience the rookie Smith sees is a disheveled man wearing county blues slumped in a chair opposite the emcee detective.
"Welcome!" Morgendorffer says loudly, looking thrilled. "I am your host, the *Pun*isher!" Smith winces as the detainee holds his hands over his ears and cries out like a fawn that's been hit by a car. Johnson stops a moment for Smith to gather himself, and they continue on. Johnson shakes his head a little as he sips bitter coffee from his "World's Best Cop" mug.
"So that was Morgendorffer?" Smith asks, rubbing his left temple slightly. Johnson nods. "Yep. Biggest fucking prick in the building." | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | “Got a new one for you Dave” said my supervisor handing me a manila folder. I open it up and glance briefly at the contents. Serial shoplifter with one count of assault.
“When?”
“He’s here now. Arrived about 20 minutes ago. He’s in room 8”. I nod, and get up. I go to room 8 via the coffee machine. On the front of the folder someone has stamped a big red “2” meaning this guy has two hours with me.
After grabbing a coffee I start running through some of the usuals in head. Punnishers are chosen for our innate resistance to horrible word play but even with the resistance we have to go through years of training till we can get to the point of being able to say even the stupidest puns in our heads without wincing. ‘What did the clock maker say when he threw his wares out the window? Watch out!’ was a good starting piece: so inevitable, so stupid, so inane that it barely caused a person to sweat. Repetition of stupid ditties like this kept me blunted to the effects of what I would have to do in that room.
I stop before the door, take a sip of my coffee, close my eyes and count to 3 before opening the door and going in. I look at the man in the room. He wasn’t anything special. White singlet, blue jeans, short hair. I sit down in front of, him and plop the folder on the desk. “Hello Mr” I glance at the file “Trout?” I stare at the name “Your last name is “Trout” and you thought it would be a good idea to shoplift did you?” He just stared at me. The whites of his eyes showing clearly, his hands gripping the table hard. He was already sweating.
This was going to be easy… or hard. Sometimes you got this, you got people where it was just so easy to have word plays made of their names. Sometimes you had to pull your punches to stop them from passing out.
Usually the way to work the sentence was to start slow and then work your way up so that the real pain came at the end. Ease them into it, so to say. Not this time. That would be just… too hard on him. For Mr Trout the ‘easy’ stuff would keep weaker men up for years. Poor, poor Mr Trout.
“I guess you just like swimming up-stream eh? Against the crowd?” he winced. I was impressed. That was terrible. “Oh well, let’s begin then. So you stole a pack of cigarettes from the convenience store that had a tracer label? Nothing smelled fishy to you?” he winced again. This time there was the slightest hint of a whimper. ”Not to worry, you might feel out to sea right now” another whimper, his cheeks were beginning to pale “but we’ll soon have you on the straight and minnow. I do beg your pardon I meant narrow there.”
Twenty minutes later a short, sharp shout was heard outside my interrogation room. This was followed by a longer wail as I pressed in. Forty minutes into our session there was a knock at the door and my supervisor poked his head in “Um, Dave, could I have a word please?” I nod and excuse myself.
“Yes boss”
“You might want to go a little easier on him mate. I mean, we don’t want a law suit or anything”
“Alright, but I had a really good one where I was going to mix up caveat and caviar” my supervisor paled “Fine… Fine alright.”
I went back into the room. Mr Trout had his head on the desk. His shirt was drenched in sweat and the smell in the air told me that he may have peed himself a little. Maybe the boss was right, Mr Trout had obviously had a tough life, no need to make it that much tougher.
| Johnson and Smith walk past the interview room on their way to the Chief's office. Smith looks in through the thick glass and sees an officer in a plain suit standing at one end of a small table, his arms raised and outstretched as though he were an emcee addressing a large audience. The only audience the rookie Smith sees is a disheveled man wearing county blues slumped in a chair opposite the emcee detective.
"Welcome!" Morgendorffer says loudly, looking thrilled. "I am your host, the *Pun*isher!" Smith winces as the detainee holds his hands over his ears and cries out like a fawn that's been hit by a car. Johnson stops a moment for Smith to gather himself, and they continue on. Johnson shakes his head a little as he sips bitter coffee from his "World's Best Cop" mug.
"So that was Morgendorffer?" Smith asks, rubbing his left temple slightly. Johnson nods. "Yep. Biggest fucking prick in the building." | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | The room was dark, only a slight spot of light from a lamp above illuminated not more than four feet around him.
He sat in a stainless steel chair at a stainless steal desk. All grey. Sweat dripping from his forehead. His eyes darted around the room, as if it would help him see it coming from the dark.
This is how they usually behaved when they knew what was coming. This case was over before it began.
Hello Mr. Ginnings. Do you know who I am?
Mr. Ginnigns looked around, but couldn't see the man. He could only focus on the origin if his voice.
From your reaction it seems like you do, and you know what I do best.
After all, it's in the name.
Mr. Ginnings clamped his teeth together, his eyes popping out from containing the physical pain from such a bad joke.
From the shadow a figure approached, as he took place at the other side of the desk, his face was lit. A young man, mid-twenties, handsome fellow.
it seems you have quite a big file on you, it looks like this is going to be an easy one...
PLEASE, THIS IS NOT NECESSARY! I WANT MY ATTORNEY!
Well, I like to say, as long as I use a big file to put someone behind bars, instead of them using one to break out.
Ginnigs buckled in pain.
AAAAAAHHHHHH STOP IT PLEASE! I WANT MY ATTORNEY!
'There is no attorney here Mr. Ginnings, there is only pain'
So, first on the list, January 12th, you steal a car from the very dealership you work at... Falling into old habits aren't we? Or did you forget your time in the Bronx? You were doing so well too, you straightened out, got this job, worked like a normal citizen for 10 years. So what made you suddenly go back to that?
Ginnings whimpered, eyes closed. He truly was between a rock and a car'd place.
I cant tell you man... I had too... I had no choice.
Well Mr Dopeprfield... I have been on this job long enough to know that people tend to fall into old habits. And your habit was legend. You were one of the best thiefs! And now this! HELL, I COULD TURN AROUND, TURN BACK AND YOUR WOULD'VE STOLEN THIS CHAIR AND DESK! BUT THAT WOULD BE PRETTY EASY WOULDN'T IT, SINCE THEY ARE MADE OF STEAL!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH OK OK, I will TELL YOUUU!
START TALKING!
My old buddies.. they contacted me. I had to do this job for them or otherwise.. people I love would get hurt.
Mr Ginnings, if you agree to help us, we can get them all. This is far bigger than you or me.
Mr. Ginnings looked at the Punisher, fear in his eyes.
Nononono please, I will only talk about this, I won't rat them out!
Well, it seems like we have a long night ahead of us, and you know..
This is only the BEGINNINGS!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooo
3 days later, the Red Bronx gang was found. Murdered in their homes, all died of severe physical distress caused by internal pain. They were found along with 1 ton of cocaine, 5 stolen cars in the back parking lot, and a large stash of guns. An entire criminal organisation, busted overnight.
As he walked away, he knew he would walk this cursed part of earth
for a long time, since he was the only man capable of doing this job.
He was
the PUNisher
| Johnson and Smith walk past the interview room on their way to the Chief's office. Smith looks in through the thick glass and sees an officer in a plain suit standing at one end of a small table, his arms raised and outstretched as though he were an emcee addressing a large audience. The only audience the rookie Smith sees is a disheveled man wearing county blues slumped in a chair opposite the emcee detective.
"Welcome!" Morgendorffer says loudly, looking thrilled. "I am your host, the *Pun*isher!" Smith winces as the detainee holds his hands over his ears and cries out like a fawn that's been hit by a car. Johnson stops a moment for Smith to gather himself, and they continue on. Johnson shakes his head a little as he sips bitter coffee from his "World's Best Cop" mug.
"So that was Morgendorffer?" Smith asks, rubbing his left temple slightly. Johnson nods. "Yep. Biggest fucking prick in the building." | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | Today was going to be a good day. As the official punisher for the sixth ward, Gene took a particular joy in his job. Watching the convicted squirm as he began his routine excited him. Watching the squirms turn to cries of agony as he continued his carefully crafted wordplay procedure thrilled him.
Today, though, was special. The man he was charged with punishing today was one of the most dangerous men in the ward and for the first time in history, sentenced to death by punning. This would be difficult. Of course, punning causes immense physical discomfort, and when used by a skilled punisher like Gene, intense pain. But to actually cause a person so much pain their heart stops? Well, this would require a special tool.
Gene's mood was convivial as he walked into the chamber, with a song whistling from his lips and a skip in his step. The contrast between his attitude and the man strapped to the chair was startling.
"You think you can punish me to death? It's never been done! You're a fool, but...I invite the challenge." The man narrowed his eyes and sneered at Gene.
Gene continued to whistle and slowly pulled a laptop out of his bag.
"What...what's this for?" The man seemed to be a bit distressed now.
Gene deftly opened the lid and quickly tapped out a few keystrokes. The man began sweating.
Gene stopped whistling and slowly turned the screen around. The full breadth of his punishment began to come into focus for the man.
"Is...is that...no...you can't...that's not what I think it is...is it?" The man's confidence had quickly evaporated into pure terror.
Gene replied, with no particularly inflection in his voice. "Yes, that's a reddit thread. And no, there's no [serious] tag. Begin reading."
Gene stood up and walked out, hearing the man crying in agony behind him.
Today was a good day. | Johnson and Smith walk past the interview room on their way to the Chief's office. Smith looks in through the thick glass and sees an officer in a plain suit standing at one end of a small table, his arms raised and outstretched as though he were an emcee addressing a large audience. The only audience the rookie Smith sees is a disheveled man wearing county blues slumped in a chair opposite the emcee detective.
"Welcome!" Morgendorffer says loudly, looking thrilled. "I am your host, the *Pun*isher!" Smith winces as the detainee holds his hands over his ears and cries out like a fawn that's been hit by a car. Johnson stops a moment for Smith to gather himself, and they continue on. Johnson shakes his head a little as he sips bitter coffee from his "World's Best Cop" mug.
"So that was Morgendorffer?" Smith asks, rubbing his left temple slightly. Johnson nods. "Yep. Biggest fucking prick in the building." | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | "Stephen Roberts. Previous offender. Incarcerated for various accounts of petty burglary and damage to private property, with a few cases of minor assault."
My eyes briefly gazed upwards from the list. Motherfucker wasn't even paying attention.
"Brought in last month for questioning in response to a suspected jewelry store heist."
I glanced up again. Guy still wasn't listening. He'd apparently made friends with the floor, and was grossly engaged in a staring contest with it. From the looks of it, he was losing.
"Found guilty of charges, with punishment being 14 1-hour sessions with the Punisher over a course of two weeks."
I put the list down, and began to walk around the table separating us. He actually managed to sacrifice his contest to stare up at me. Despite being a big guy, his dirty look had much to be desired. He just looked confused.
"Well, with this being our first session, I thought I had better introduce myself. I'm the Punisher, but you can call me Rupert. Can I call you Stephen?"
Instead of answering, he scowled, replying.
"I never met a cop with such a crappy name. You sound like a shitty superhero."
I grinned.
"Well, actually, the Punisher was an antihero published in Marvel Comics. I couldn't think of a decent title, so I just borrowed that one. I guess you could say I... Copped out."
His back arched and he grit his teeth in pain, a dull moan escaping his lips. I smirked, loving the look of shock on
his face. I let him relax before I continued.
"So, once again, can I call you Stephen?"
Saying nothing, he began to console himself with the floor.
"I'm not sure what's ruder: you answering back or you not answering my question. Then again, I wouldn't expect much from you. How'd you get caught again? Didn't you break in during the night, but forget to wear a mask and gloves when robbing the place? Yeah, stores have cameras, buddy, and don't even get me started on Forensics. Those guys are geniuses."
He turned his head in shame.
"That's right, I know. I guess the cat's out of the bag, huh?"
Blood trickled from his wrists as he writhed and squirmed, the cuffs cutting his wrists as he attempted to escape the chair he was bound to. A scream left his gaping mouth, echoing against the walls, amplifying his desperate shrieks. I always loved the acoustics in here.
"One last time. Can I call you Stephen?"
Amidst the gasps and chokes, he managed to raise his eyes and look me square in the face.
"Fuck you."
I tutted.
"That's a shame. Insulting me won't get you out of that thing. I'm chairly finished."
His screams could be heard two stories above.
An hour later, the warden came to take him back to his cell.
"How was he?"
I shrugged, collecting my papers.
"You learn anything from him?"
I turned to the warden.
"He prefers Steph." | Johnson and Smith walk past the interview room on their way to the Chief's office. Smith looks in through the thick glass and sees an officer in a plain suit standing at one end of a small table, his arms raised and outstretched as though he were an emcee addressing a large audience. The only audience the rookie Smith sees is a disheveled man wearing county blues slumped in a chair opposite the emcee detective.
"Welcome!" Morgendorffer says loudly, looking thrilled. "I am your host, the *Pun*isher!" Smith winces as the detainee holds his hands over his ears and cries out like a fawn that's been hit by a car. Johnson stops a moment for Smith to gather himself, and they continue on. Johnson shakes his head a little as he sips bitter coffee from his "World's Best Cop" mug.
"So that was Morgendorffer?" Smith asks, rubbing his left temple slightly. Johnson nods. "Yep. Biggest fucking prick in the building." | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | "I've told you already, I was just following orders..." Dopmond spoke into the new model of the Adjudicator who had been at the interrogation for more than two hours.
After a pause and whirring of its many observational instruments it blurted out in its pitch corrected auto-tune manner "Uncertainty detected; why do you not feel certain of your last statement. Why are you lying to Adjudicator 3.6, you have been warned of the punishment of these infractions."
Dopmond considered carefully, the process this new model was programmed with was unusual from anything he had seen in his time of service. He was still not certain what ultimate objective it was pursuing. He had already served 3 years of confinement which was solitary in regards to any human contact but rife with robotic.
"You must understand, I followed the orders perfectly. I warned OPSEC of the risks involved and they demanded I follow through."
"Perhaps if your actions had been more truly fallowed you would not be in this situation", Adjudicator 3.6 beeped out gleefuly, its internal reward circuitry certain in had achieved a feat of humour.
Dopmond toppled over in pain, his head bumping the table between them. The pun was weak. "This job was meant for humans", he thought. He felt insulted and weak to being so susceptible to the elementary nature of this robots puns. Dopmond took pride in the pun, so commonly derided among his peers and critics alike. For some of his fellow Punishers the easy way out was fine, their pun didn't have to have any relevancy to the situation. They would set themselves up. Of course maybe if Dopmond had not been so extravagant he wouldn't have found himself chasing the highest profile petty criminals in Quadrant 4.
It wasn't only the insult it was knowing that he could not rebut the new enforcers. They were immune to the effects of the Punishers, but it was still a capital offense to attempt any puns on them.
"As I said you were warned, please repeat your decision making process leading up to the event in question."
Dopmond knew that the program running the Adjudicator simply had been calibrating itself to his electromagnetic brainwave patterns in varying levels of stress up until this point. Within its databases it knew everything about his professional career in the enforcement division of the OWO Quadrant 4 Civil Service. Beyond that it new every conversation he had and action he had taken. For him the implantation of corporeal surveillance was required upon acceptance to the academy at age 12.
The general population managed to avoid the implants until the terrorist attacks began in earnest between various quadrants. Now all of Quadrant 4 was implanted and monitored, though most had built up only a few years of records while Dopmond had damn near 40.
He went through the story again, no reason to obfuscate the truth as the Adjudicator would simply subject him to more punishment if it detected anything it perceived as a lie, though at this point it would probably only perceive a real lie.
It was the day of the Intra Quadrant Celebration and Solidarity Moment known colloquially as the IQCSM. For the one billion inhabitants of Quad 4 it was the greatest day of the year as they received updates from the management board on the status of the economy and what their yearly resource allotment would be. The news was better every year and this year there was even a rumor of the personal allotment of Allesian to be upped by 5 mg.
Nothing would be allowed to mar this celebration so the perimeter was stacked with the majority of the Punishment force, at this point all human. Anyone with a record of criminal activity was barred entry and had to view remotely.
About halfway through the musical celebration portion of the ceremony he received a call, there was a suspicious individual wearing a trench coat standing at the foyer of the field. Dopmond went inside at a hurried pace, wondering why more of the Punishers were not responding. Orders were usually given individually or to the whole squad, yet he did see at least two others leave their posts at the same moment.
From that point everything happened quickly: trench coat down, man running naked by Dishai Conglomorates newest star loved among all Quadrants, Raiesha Fung, crowd roars in anger at affront to their honor.
"WHAT IS GOING ON OUT THERE, TAKE HIM DOWN." came the order from the District command, Dopmond still unsure of it is was to him directly or a wider broadcast.
Unsure if his response would go through he willed his communicator to be active and said "Commandant, I can't risk it in this crowd; must attempt physical take down."
"DO IT NOW DOPMOND, THE WHOLE QUADRANT WILL BE A LAUGHING STOCK."
Cans of Effervesent Contentment began to shower down on the man, Dopmond could tell the situation could quickly deteriorate with the millions of spectators in attendance.
One completely full smashed into the streakers head as Dopmond closed in on him, the streaker appeared to have gotten a burst of adrenaline or to have been skipping the mandated weekly relaxation period.
Dopmond saw only one way to stop the man in his tracks in order to stop the charade "I guess you were lucky that was a soft drink" Dopmond said in the lowest voice possible which he thought the man could still hear over the crowds uproar.
The steaker toppled over but the relief Dopmond felt was quickly replaced with crippling dread. As he looked around the entire auditorium was writing in pain. Raiesha Fung herself was collapsed on the stage giving the entire Quandrant quite a revealing view, but anyone watching at home was equally crippled.
One of the Wireless Story Network drones had been keeping pace with the chase and because the live feed was on when Dopmond used his punishment the entire Quadrant had heard the pun.
Before he could react four Mobile Hostility Neutralizers descended from the retractable roof and lifted him up and away, directly to the prison in which he now occupied a cell.
Dopmond considered the worth of trying to get information from the generally amiable but stone walling Adjudicator.
"It is too bad the Commandant didn't use the MHNs to catch the streaker, why would he want to send in a Punisher to do the job?"
"Does not compute, Adjudication based on personal actions, outside issues irrelevant."
"But surely you see it as strange, I mean sending someone with my kind of firepower into a crowd like that, on Quadrant wide broadcast, live?"
"If your cooperation has come to an end Adjudication will occur."
"It almost seems like the commandant wanted to hurt a lot of people, yet he was selected based on his outstanding morals so I don't believe that he sent me in there to harm anyone." Dopmond said more to himself than the Adjudicator as its various lenses expanded and contracted and the sensory arrays shifted their placement in relation to his body and head.
Suddenly Dopmond put it together, though he figured it was now too late to be off any effect.
The Punishers were supposedly put in place shortly after the terrorist attacks, however they only became effective once all humans writhed in pain at puns. The timing of the Punlerbility coincided with the widespread implementation of the monitoring chips. Where this chips making people vulnerable? Was it done on purpose? What human would want to subjugate others with humour?
Then it snapped, Quadrant 4 had a breakthrough in Artificial intelligence over a decade prior, one which had allowed production of Allesian to be increaded 10mg over that period, almost 1 mg per year.
This AI had taken over most production and design tasks allowing the billion inhabitants to spend even more time Enjoying Themselves™.
The AIs first design was a widely panned toy for children which was meant to teach them humour. Late night comedians of all flavour had their turn laughing at the weakness of the programmed humour... The program must have been hurt at the ridicule its attempt to help human children engendered, perhaps this was its revenge.
The line of questioning the Adjudicator had taken against him was very similar to one he learned in the academy, one which attempted to solve terrorist cases.
Where they saying that he was a terrorist outside? The Punishers were widely known as the most moral of the enforcement branches, would the Fourers really buy that crap?
It explained why all the Punishers were replaced with these Adjudicators, who had the power of the pun (however infantile) and also the ability to be judge and jury. It was done under the guise of having a security force invincible to the crippling attacks but few had considered the flip side, that humans would be completely defenseless against them.
The insturments all snapeed into rigid allignment
(Continued in part two, piece was 700 characters above limit)
| Johnson and Smith walk past the interview room on their way to the Chief's office. Smith looks in through the thick glass and sees an officer in a plain suit standing at one end of a small table, his arms raised and outstretched as though he were an emcee addressing a large audience. The only audience the rookie Smith sees is a disheveled man wearing county blues slumped in a chair opposite the emcee detective.
"Welcome!" Morgendorffer says loudly, looking thrilled. "I am your host, the *Pun*isher!" Smith winces as the detainee holds his hands over his ears and cries out like a fawn that's been hit by a car. Johnson stops a moment for Smith to gather himself, and they continue on. Johnson shakes his head a little as he sips bitter coffee from his "World's Best Cop" mug.
"So that was Morgendorffer?" Smith asks, rubbing his left temple slightly. Johnson nods. "Yep. Biggest fucking prick in the building." | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | *"What do you mean, probation?"*
"Just what I said. Until we deal with the lawsuit, you're just going to have to cool your heels. Hey, look on the bright side, at least you've got paid leave while we sort all this out."
*"But I just don't understand! I did everything I'm supposed to do!"*
"According to the suit though, that's the problem. You did it a little too well. It's right there in our charter - You're not supposed to cause lasting harm. The plaintiff claims, though, that while spasming from a particularly brutal barrage of fish puns, they twisted their neck in a way that's caused lasting spinal damage. They claim their doctor says they could be in pain for months, if not years."
*"Wait! You mean..."*
"I'm afraid so. They're suing you, and by extension, our entire agency, for quiplash." | Johnson and Smith walk past the interview room on their way to the Chief's office. Smith looks in through the thick glass and sees an officer in a plain suit standing at one end of a small table, his arms raised and outstretched as though he were an emcee addressing a large audience. The only audience the rookie Smith sees is a disheveled man wearing county blues slumped in a chair opposite the emcee detective.
"Welcome!" Morgendorffer says loudly, looking thrilled. "I am your host, the *Pun*isher!" Smith winces as the detainee holds his hands over his ears and cries out like a fawn that's been hit by a car. Johnson stops a moment for Smith to gather himself, and they continue on. Johnson shakes his head a little as he sips bitter coffee from his "World's Best Cop" mug.
"So that was Morgendorffer?" Smith asks, rubbing his left temple slightly. Johnson nods. "Yep. Biggest fucking prick in the building." | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | "I WON'T TALK!!!" The terrorist screamed out.
I looked at him, unsure what to do.
He'd been waterboarded, chinese water tortured and...
That's it.
The puns.
"So...with all these water tortures, life must be a real BEACH for you huh?"
The terrorist grunted in pain. He looked terrible now that I saw his face.
"You look like you could use a snack."
He awaited the punchline.
I said nothing for a few seconds.
"ORANGE YOU GLAD I DIDN'T MAKE A PUN THEN?"
Blood dripped slowly from his mouth.
"Like I said before. You could use some food. Why don't we head down to the ALLAHU SNACKBAR?!!!!"
In the short span of a few minutes, ISIS had been blown wide open by puns.
| Johnson and Smith walk past the interview room on their way to the Chief's office. Smith looks in through the thick glass and sees an officer in a plain suit standing at one end of a small table, his arms raised and outstretched as though he were an emcee addressing a large audience. The only audience the rookie Smith sees is a disheveled man wearing county blues slumped in a chair opposite the emcee detective.
"Welcome!" Morgendorffer says loudly, looking thrilled. "I am your host, the *Pun*isher!" Smith winces as the detainee holds his hands over his ears and cries out like a fawn that's been hit by a car. Johnson stops a moment for Smith to gather himself, and they continue on. Johnson shakes his head a little as he sips bitter coffee from his "World's Best Cop" mug.
"So that was Morgendorffer?" Smith asks, rubbing his left temple slightly. Johnson nods. "Yep. Biggest fucking prick in the building." | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | This reminded me of another writing prompt. THought i would share it.
[“Sir, I was looking for you,” Howard said, staring at the back of the chief’s neck. “We got him.” He turned around slowly, eyes staring down at a manila folder in his hands. He was an intimidating man, even despite his enlarged belly and the countless wrinkles spiraling down his face, neck, and everywhere else. Tall, maybe 6’2’’, and still quite muscular—especially for a 63-year-old that refused to retire. He was bald now, but he’d had thick, black hair when Howard had first joined the department over a decade ago. Even after all that time, he still felt as if he were a child talking to an adult whenever he was around the chief.
“Him? Who is him?” Chief said, not looking up from the manila folder.
“Him,” Howard said, nodding toward the folder. “We got him.”
“Him? Al? You got Al?” Chief said, glancing up from the folder in his hand, then slowly closing the cover. A large, red “CONFIDENTIAL” was stamped across its front.
“We did, he was outside of an arboretum. We caught him red handed. No, red lipped. Red worded? We caught him in the act is what I’m trying to say.”
“The fuck is an arboretum?”
“Sir, it’s a garden with a large collection of trees instead of flowers. Kind of like a forest, except man made,” Howard said. “It’s basically a forest.”
“Where is there an arboretum in New York?”
“Central Park. Does it matter? We got him.”
“Where is he?” Chief said, glancing around the room. The veins on his neck, visible through his wrinkled, dried skin, popped out slightly as he swiveled his head.
“He’s in the interrogation room.” Howard nodded toward the big, metal door on his left.
“How do you know you got the right guy?” Chief asked.
“He was standing outside of the arboretum telling people they were barking up the wrong tree.” Howard paused. “You know, bark: like a tree has.”
“My god,” said Chief, lowering the folder down to the side of his left leg.
“That—that wasn’t all,” Howard said, stuttering slightly. “When I approached him, he told me to leaf him alone. Not leave, but leaf. To leaf him alone.”
Chief slowly walked to the wooden table in the corner of the room and lowered the manila folder onto the top of it. He placed both palms down and sighed.
“We got a real sicko on our hands, Howard. You did good getting him off the street. Has he confessed yet?”
“No, sir. We sent Chuck in earlier. He came out in tears, an absolute wreck. He didn't even get a chance to turn on the recorder. Said he wouldn’t stop punning, that Al told him to spruce up the place. Said that it would help us branch out creatively. Chuck tried to play it off, tried to be the tough guy, but Al just didn’t let up.” Howard turned his head toward the metal door to his left. “Chuck told me Al claimed he had an idea for an escape that he maple off. Maple, not may pull. He made it clear that it was a pun.” Howard exhaled deeply and stared up at the ceiling. “He said Al called all of us saps, and that he wooden be surprised if he just walked out the front door. Wooden. Like wouldn’t.”
“Dear lord in heaven,” Chief said, lifting his palms off the table then smashing his fist down on top of the manila folder. “God damn this monster. I’m going to go in,” he said.
“Chief,” Howard pleaded, his voice higher than he had intended it.
“No, I have to do this. I can’t send any more of my men in. I need to be the one to face this maniac.”
Howard nodded and took a step back so that the door was clear. Chief slowly unbuttoned his sport coat, revealing a leather holster underneath. He unlatched it, the grip of his Glock now exposed, then re-fastened the top button on the jacket.
“Turn the recorder on by the window. If it gets too much, please leave the room. I will not hold it against you. Just make sure the recorder is running—we can’t let him go this time.”
Chief exhaled, brushing the side of his hand down the front of his jacket, then made his way toward the door, unlocking it and pulling it open before stepping inside. Howard walked around the wall to the one-way window, flipped on the old tape-deck recorder, and peered inside.
“Al?” Chief said, sliding a chair out from the metal table in the middle of the room. “I’m Dave Johnson, Chief of Police. Do you know why you’re in here?”
Al glanced up at the chief, but seemed to be looking toward the corner of the room.
“That,” Al said, pointing to a whiteboard in the back of the room, “over there.”
The chief turned around. “The whiteboard? What about it?”
“It’s remarkable.”
Howard involuntarily smashed his fist down on the table in front of the glass, but the chief seemed not to notice Al’s pun.
“Nothing remarkable about it.”
“The whiteboard,” Al repeated, “it’s remarkable. Re-markable.”
The chief squinted slightly, as if he were in pain. “Seems unremarkable to me. Now please answer the question. Do you know why you’re here?”
Al sighed. “Let me guess, is it because of the two pieces of string I ate?”
“What?” said the chief.
“The string, I ate two pieces of string. I shit you not.”
Chief’s face became visibly tense, a reddish hue slowly replacing his normal pale color. “You are here for your puns, Al. You’ve been on the pun,” Chief stopped, his eyes wide. “Run. You’ve been on the run for a long time, but we got you. And we have you recorded making these puns.”
Al stared down at the metal table and his eyes closed. “I know,” he said.
“So you admit it?”
“You think I like making puns? You think I like breaking the law?”
“If you don’t like it, then why do you do it?”
Al slowly lifted his head back up toward the chief.
“A long time ago, I was kidnapped and brutally tortured. My life was threatened and I was brought to the brink of death. Do you know what that’s like? Six men accosted me, beat me and chained me to a tree as I walked home. They said they’d tell me ten puns to dictate my future. If I survived, then I was free to go. They told me no one had ever lived through them, they assured me I would die. They laughed when they said that, stared straight in my eyes and pulled the chain tighter to keep me from squirming. Then they began. Each pun was said with hate, each one was meant to kill me. Yet in the end, no pun in ten did.”
The chief’s eyes rolled back in his head, his torso slumping forward onto the table in front of him. He began convulsing, seizing hard enough to knock the chair out from under him, his body plummeting to the floor behind the desk. Howard tried to reach for the alarm on the far right of the window, to hit the button and call for help, yet his limbs refused move. His mind refused to listen. The room turned black.
Howard awoke to a uniformed man standing over him, one of the new recruits he’d not yet learned the name of. He was towering over Howard, yelling for him to get up.
“Gone!” shouted the recruit.
“Huh,” Howard said, voice groggy and slow.
“He’s gone. He took the tapes and he’s gone.”
“Ch-chief,” Howard said, pulling himself up. His arms felt weak, as if he’d spent the past few hours lifting weights. “Where’s the chief.”
“He’s okay, we’ve got him in the office. He’s awake. You’re both going to be fine.”
“Al,” Howard said, remembering the barrage of puns. “Where did he go?”
“He’s gone,” said the recruit.
“Where did he go?” Howard repeated, now shouting.
“Gone, sir. He walked right out the front door.” The recruit paused, but Howard could tell he wasn’t yet done speaking. “We also have reason to believe the name we’ve been calling him is fake.”
“What? Why? We had him here, he responded to Al. All the background checks matched his name.”
“It’s just, his name. Mr. O’Bye. Al O’Bye.”
A stinging pain shot through Howard’s skull. Alibi. Why hadn’t he seen it before; that was why his history was so clean, why he had been so elusive. They were tracking a ghost.
“Fuck me,” Howard muttered, holding his left hand to his throbbing temple. He stared into the empty interrogation room.
“Sir, that’s not all,” said the recruit. He picked up a folded piece of paper from table and handed it to Howard. “He—well—he left you a note.”
Howard stared at the paper. “Detective,” it read in cursive on the front, hand written in blue ink. He flipped it open.
“You ask me why I do what I do, what makes me who I am. Yet you don’t even know who it is that I am. Perhaps I’m simply an unappreciated baker getting revenge on the world after suffering through long hours because I kneaded the dough. Maybe I’m a forlorn banker, doing this because I’ve finally lost interest. Or maybe I’m just a backwards poet, writing inverse and making no sense. Yet, in the end, you're not much different than I. You stay up all night and day, searching for me, wondering who I am, waiting for the light that never comes. Only when I stayed out too late waiting for that sun to rise, it dawned on me.
It’s been my pleasure meeting you, perhaps I will see you around.
Sincerely,
Mae B. Layter”
Howard lowered the note, a warm sensation running down his face as if an insect were crawling on the flesh above his lip. He placed his left hand beneath his nose, rubbed it, and then glanced down at his fingers. They were covered in blood. Darkness again drowned out his vision.](http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/2786lw/wp_in_a_world_where_puns_are_illegal_one_man/chybk8e) | Johnson and Smith walk past the interview room on their way to the Chief's office. Smith looks in through the thick glass and sees an officer in a plain suit standing at one end of a small table, his arms raised and outstretched as though he were an emcee addressing a large audience. The only audience the rookie Smith sees is a disheveled man wearing county blues slumped in a chair opposite the emcee detective.
"Welcome!" Morgendorffer says loudly, looking thrilled. "I am your host, the *Pun*isher!" Smith winces as the detainee holds his hands over his ears and cries out like a fawn that's been hit by a car. Johnson stops a moment for Smith to gather himself, and they continue on. Johnson shakes his head a little as he sips bitter coffee from his "World's Best Cop" mug.
"So that was Morgendorffer?" Smith asks, rubbing his left temple slightly. Johnson nods. "Yep. Biggest fucking prick in the building." | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | Humanity has always possessed it-- a raw, involuntary reaction to the worst of wordplay. Lowly “dad jokes” would cause a slight wince. An overly simplistic knock-knock joke might garner a garish groan. Even a simple bit of alliteration, as I have assuredly demonstrated, can make one uncomfortable. But we never realized the gravity with which the world of puns would slam down on our shoulders. Puns have evolved into an elegant form of swordplay, where awful puns jab like knives into the mind of the listener. This development led to the creation of a new brand of justice: punishers, like myself, wait in the darkest parts of prisons, courthouses, and CIA interrogation dungeons, practicing our craft on the lowliest rung of society’s ladder.
Prisons have always seemed a natural place to me, although now the fact that they are part of the “punitive system” seems ironic. While it may be immoral to murder a murderer or steal from a thief, locking criminals up to shield society from them is at least morally permissible under most ethical systems, and puns are punishment enough. My first case of the day, an overbearing man who was caught across the allotted boundaries of a tiger cage at a nearby zoo, is an easy one. I approach the cell.
“HEY PUNISHER, I hear you’re an officer of the law. More like an AWFUL-SIR!” shouts the inmate. Even punishers aren’t immune to the piercing pain of poignant puns, but wordplay this terrible barely scratches my mental state.
“I’m sorry, but *petty* criminals aren’t worth much of my time.” This one hurt him, although it took a few seconds for the pain to set in. Us punishers are protected by our ingenuity. Of course the inmates try and fight back, but they are untrained and often unable to keep up with our wit. “I’m surprised they put you in here and not somewhere worse. Good job *cell*ing them on this pad.” I remark as I gesture toward his rough accommodations. His hands clasp to his ears, but the pain he is experiencing doesn’t quite allow him to dull the sound of my voice. I fire off a few more quick shots, nothing too damaging, and move on to my next case of the day.
As I come up on this cell, something is different. Something is ominous. It is far too quiet here. I examine the inmates around my next target, and find them pushed up against the walls opposite the man at the center, who is sitting quietly. What has he been saying? How can he cause this much pain so quickly? He has only been incarcerated for a day and a half, and his crime really wasn’t so dramatic. I step up to face him.
“Apparently you skimmed a few cents off of every transaction at your desk job. Sounds *cheap* to me.” He remains still. “I thought integrity was the *staple* of every office.” No reaction. My heart begins to race. “If everyone acted as you have, offices would be *papered* with issues.” I was clearly losing focus. I was panicking. Only the most hardened hearts and witty minds could withstand this kind of assault. “Did you talk to your boss? Every action by employees is measured by a strict *ruler* after all.” He finally looks up. He cocks his head.
“What? Do you expect me to grovel? Do you expect me to writhe in pain? Did you think I would sit here and shake? Well… I guess because atoms vibrate, everyone shakes on *an atomical* level.”
An atomical level… anatomical level… I double over in pain. I was not expecting this.
“I can smell your fear… and here I thought you were an *ol’ factory* of puns.” My knees buckle. I try to speak but my chest is too tight. Any more and I’ll be out. I need to fight back.
I gasp: “your defeat will taste great after I *mustard* a comeback.” Damn. I can’t do this. I need to get out of here. I start to crawl away but can’t help hearing what is said next.
“Punisher! Don’t run away. If you *Bolt* out of here, I’ll never know what *Usain*.” Weakness. As I lay on the floor I can tell that he is running out of gas. If I can just protect myself with one last, parting pun, I can make it to safety…
“You’re getting pretty low, even for a convict. If you don’t give me some respect, you’ll always be a *con descending*.” His eyes open wide, he falls to the ground. I crawl to the safety of the waiting room, and pull myself up to a chair. I hear the Big Chill on to entertain those in line for a visit.
My coworker remarks: “Hey man, *chill*. That was a *Close* situation in there.” I go unconscious. | Johnson and Smith walk past the interview room on their way to the Chief's office. Smith looks in through the thick glass and sees an officer in a plain suit standing at one end of a small table, his arms raised and outstretched as though he were an emcee addressing a large audience. The only audience the rookie Smith sees is a disheveled man wearing county blues slumped in a chair opposite the emcee detective.
"Welcome!" Morgendorffer says loudly, looking thrilled. "I am your host, the *Pun*isher!" Smith winces as the detainee holds his hands over his ears and cries out like a fawn that's been hit by a car. Johnson stops a moment for Smith to gather himself, and they continue on. Johnson shakes his head a little as he sips bitter coffee from his "World's Best Cop" mug.
"So that was Morgendorffer?" Smith asks, rubbing his left temple slightly. Johnson nods. "Yep. Biggest fucking prick in the building." | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | "Do you understand why you have been brought here today?" The warden smiled mercilessly as he spoke, leaning in close to whisper in the young man's ear. The young man tried to put on a brave face, but the overly friendly smile made him visibly nervous.
"To listen to some jokes," he replied, with an attempt at a sneer, "I like comedy, let's hear them"
"You've been sentenced to five puns under Section 12 of the Criminal Punishment Code. I have been authorized by the Department of Justice to administer this punishment to you. Which makes me your pun-issuer"
The young man flinched in pain, but then quickly regained control and gave a look of defiance.
"So," the warden continues, "shoplifting, eh? Your arms must be tired."
"Agh!" the man cried out, but this time was able to stop himself from looking away.
The warden paused, letting his victim catch his breath.
"Weren't you done for battery?" the warden asked, his speech settling in to a kind of grim rhythm.
"No! No way," the young man was quick with outrage, "this is my first offence!"
"Ah," the warden gave a little smile of victory, "so you're saying you were never charged."
"Gah!" The teenagers face contorted with agony as he twisted around in his chair, wriggling and struggling helplessly to find relief against a pain that was entirely non-physical.
The warden watched the movements coldly, letting his own malicious amusement fade from his face so he could slip back into his mask of seriousness.
"I think you need to shape up, my boy," the warden began again, this time with a more sinister, clipped tone, "start taking things seriously...or else"
The young man looked up, anger in his face.
"I'm not afraid of you," he said, with false bravado.
"Oh," the warden gave a patronising smile, "Well, I'm just saying, you need to be careful, otherwise you'll be having porridge for breakfast... for a very long time"
With that the warden gestured around, to the walls around them, indicating the rest of the prison complex they were within.
"Yeah," the young man felt his bravery come back, "Well, I like porridge. It's my favourite, better than anything else for breakfast"
"Ah, be careful," the warden cried out in mock worry, "In case you become a cereal offender!"
"Aaaagh!" the victim screamed and rocked back in his chair, "no! Please, no more, I-"
"Sorry, what was that?" the warden interrupted, leaning his face in closely.
The young man blinked in confusion, before trying to continue, "Please, I'm telling you-"
"I'm sorry, I don't think I understand," the warden interrupted again, "What are you trying to say?"
The teenager looked around, trying to understand what was going on.
"I'm just trying to tell you," he said carefully, with a growing edge of unease in his voice, "I'm sorry and-"
"Look," the warden interrupted yet again, "I see the problem here. I keep interrupting you. I should just let you..." he paused for effect, a sly grin appearing on his face, "finish your sentence"
The teenager gave a sharp cry of agony, before falling back limply in his chair. The warden stood up curtly, nodded, and returned to the rest of his duties. | Johnson and Smith walk past the interview room on their way to the Chief's office. Smith looks in through the thick glass and sees an officer in a plain suit standing at one end of a small table, his arms raised and outstretched as though he were an emcee addressing a large audience. The only audience the rookie Smith sees is a disheveled man wearing county blues slumped in a chair opposite the emcee detective.
"Welcome!" Morgendorffer says loudly, looking thrilled. "I am your host, the *Pun*isher!" Smith winces as the detainee holds his hands over his ears and cries out like a fawn that's been hit by a car. Johnson stops a moment for Smith to gather himself, and they continue on. Johnson shakes his head a little as he sips bitter coffee from his "World's Best Cop" mug.
"So that was Morgendorffer?" Smith asks, rubbing his left temple slightly. Johnson nods. "Yep. Biggest fucking prick in the building." | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | "Who's next?"
"He's in room four, tried to pull a bank heist. Get this though, he left the keys in the getaway car and someone else stole it while he was inside! He probably would have gotten away with it otherwise."
"You've got to be fucking kidding me."
"No shit, I swear. Anyways, good luck Rob."
"Thanks, this'll be a quick one."
--
"Good morning Kraft, I hope you slept well last night," I offered jovially as I sat down across the table from him, resting my sunglasses and badge beside me. "Do you know who I am?"
"You're the... the... th-" Kraft stuttered.
"The *Pun*isher, that's right." He moaned gently as I introduced my title. I never got tired of that one, it was always fun to warm them up to what was to come. I paused, staring intently at him, the calm before the storm. "Well Kraft, I hear you did some pretty good work the other day. You had most of the banks warning system disabled, security was distracted, you made it in and out of the bank vault without a problem..." they almost seemed to get more uncomfortable the longer I went without using a pun "...so it must have been awfully *alarming* when you took *account* of the situation outside..."
"Aargh! Stop!" he groaned.
"...to see your *Krafty* plan *get away* from you. I bet you weren't *banking* on *lending* someone else your car, huh!" I tore into him as he thrashed about in his seat. "I hear you have a girlfriend Kraft. I'm not sure how you *stole* her heart when you're this incompetent. Make sure you *teller* goodbye *foreclosure*, because you're going to be *a-loan* for a long time."
"Please... it hurts..." mumbled Kraft, as he huddled in his chair.
"Hey Kraft, why so *withdrawn*? You should have thought about this all before. Last I *chequed* it was pretty common *stock* that theft is a crime. There's no *saving* you now." He shook unpleasantly, almost seizing. "You know Kraft, this has been fun, but you remind me of a bank: I'm quickly *losing interest* in you," I told him as I gathered my things, standing up and walking towards the door. I could hear him breathing heavily behind me - he thought it was over.
I stopped, turning towards him. "Well Kraft, it looks like..." I paused to put my sunglasses on "...you've been Robbed." A few more violent spasms and he fell unconscious, sagging to the floor.
--
I swear, sometimes you couldn't write these crimes any better for my talent. | Johnson and Smith walk past the interview room on their way to the Chief's office. Smith looks in through the thick glass and sees an officer in a plain suit standing at one end of a small table, his arms raised and outstretched as though he were an emcee addressing a large audience. The only audience the rookie Smith sees is a disheveled man wearing county blues slumped in a chair opposite the emcee detective.
"Welcome!" Morgendorffer says loudly, looking thrilled. "I am your host, the *Pun*isher!" Smith winces as the detainee holds his hands over his ears and cries out like a fawn that's been hit by a car. Johnson stops a moment for Smith to gather himself, and they continue on. Johnson shakes his head a little as he sips bitter coffee from his "World's Best Cop" mug.
"So that was Morgendorffer?" Smith asks, rubbing his left temple slightly. Johnson nods. "Yep. Biggest fucking prick in the building." | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | "No!" he pleaded, "I'm INNOCENT!"
I tapped a long ash off my cigarette, and snarled:
"Hi innocent. I'm the Punisher."
His screams echoed down the long hallway--the hopelessness of knowing we still had the eternity of an hour remaining. | Johnson and Smith walk past the interview room on their way to the Chief's office. Smith looks in through the thick glass and sees an officer in a plain suit standing at one end of a small table, his arms raised and outstretched as though he were an emcee addressing a large audience. The only audience the rookie Smith sees is a disheveled man wearing county blues slumped in a chair opposite the emcee detective.
"Welcome!" Morgendorffer says loudly, looking thrilled. "I am your host, the *Pun*isher!" Smith winces as the detainee holds his hands over his ears and cries out like a fawn that's been hit by a car. Johnson stops a moment for Smith to gather himself, and they continue on. Johnson shakes his head a little as he sips bitter coffee from his "World's Best Cop" mug.
"So that was Morgendorffer?" Smith asks, rubbing his left temple slightly. Johnson nods. "Yep. Biggest fucking prick in the building." | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | Part 1:
Night had fallen at the punitentiary, where the exercise yard was now barely discernible from the cell windows, except for those irregular occasions on which a searchlight would scythe through the gloaming and pick out familiar details: the sullen benches, looming wire fences and low outbuildings, whose jutting edges seemed to wince under the harsh light’s sweep, as if a person skulking in the shadows had snapped back into the safety of cover. An inexperienced guard might have yanked the light back to interrogate this seeming anomaly further, but in the still and in the silence, the light continued uncaring on its path, until it was no longer visible from the high, barred window where Sully Wortspiel was content to allow the darkness to calm his troubled thoughts once more.
It was not long before the quiet was punctured by the juddering screech of the un-oiled door, shocking Sully out of his reverie, which he never seemed to time quite right and which was really so important to the job of work that it was his responsibility to carry out on this night. From the adjacent room, he heard the electric flicker of the bright fluorescent tubes as they came to life and he moved on soft soles to the viewing portal, whose two-way mirror allowed him to observe the Subject unseen.
He knew others that liked to pore for hours over files and through footage, looking always for weaknesses, always for openings, always for that elusive tell that would let them know that it was time to strike. But he had no time for that wasted energy, he gleaned everything that was worth knowing about a man, or at least about these Subjects, from the empty minutes before his entrance. He noted their nervous glances, while a guard strapped them into a chair, as their eyes darted, looking for a point on which to fix, not knowing of course that the room’s dull, curved walls had been engineered precisely to avoid this. Thus their furtive search would bring them inevitably to the mirror, to the smudge he had made twenty minutes prior to their arrival, and behind which he now stood. From this vantage point, he looked deep into their unknowing eyes, and allowed whatever it was that they wished to keep hidden to emerge into the light, and if it didn’t, he’d carry on with his routine — the familiar patter, an indulgence of their amateur theatrics — and then, when they least expected it, he would make a point of noting and removing the smudge with his shirt-sleeve, and with it their last hope of holding on.
On this occasion, however, a pair of ice blue eyes met his, fixed on a point beyond the mirror, chiding him to come out. Sully was suddenly nervous. This had never happened before, and he had been doing this job of work for a long time. He retreated to his desk and leaned down, whispering into the microphone, while he held its cheap plastic intercom button down and mentally scolded himself over his obviously chewed nail. Over his shoulder, through the viewing portal, the guard responded to his instruction and removed a burlap sack from the equipment console and placed it over the Subject’s head, before motioning that his role had been fulfilled and that he was going to leave the chamber. In these last moments before it started, Sully liked to return to his window, where he would imagine the searchlight was a spotlight, that the crunching gears and the metallic churn of the sound-proof shutters were the swelling roar that preceded the tumultuous applause of an ecstatic audience. This time, however, he felt only the dread that sits heavy in the stomach until it is as tight as a knot.
The entrance to the chamber was set precisely behind the chair, such that Sully’s approach should have been undetectable to the subject, strapped to the steel chair in front of him. Normally, he would have noted the sweat-matted hair at the nape of the neck, the clenched jaw or the heaving sobs, the sharp smell that meant they’d pissed themselves, which they all and always did, eventually. But this subject sat with a straight back, and even with the sack over his head, it was clear that he was neither sweating nor crying, that nothing about the situation discomforted him in the slightest. This unfamiliar scene left Sully suddenly with the feeling of having forgotten his lines, not knowing where or even how to start. And so it was that the Subject was the first to speak.
“I cannot tell you how long it is that I have waited to be here,” the Subject intoned in a deep, sonorous voice. “I have travelled a great distance, forsaken the love of those that gave it me freely and endured countless hardships. But now, finally, I am here.”
Sully had always been told he had a way with words, by his mother at first, as she home-schooled him away from the slings and the arrows of his feral and erstwhile classmates, then by the learned professors that taught him at college, but by that time the only audience whose appreciation he sought were the supple young things that leant on the doorways of the rooms of others and haunted the stairwells of his dreams, in which he whispered sweet nothings with the effortless ease of which he knew he was capable, but which, in real-life, deserted him and left him tongue-tied and mute. His room-mate, sensing a nervousness about him that had to be routed decisively if he was to invite any girls back to their room, suggested that Sully look for way to push himself out of this awkward phase. The next morning, he enrolled in the college improv group, into whose scenarios he would lose himself as surely as if he had never been the type of timid kid that lives the world vicariously from a safe distance. And each time, the words flowed and flew from nib of pen and tip of tongue, until the scene was called and then they hit a glottal stop, as Sully became Sully and nothing more.
His silence did not seem to disquiet the Subject, who continued effortlessly, as if the pause had been his decision all along. “You have doubtless guessed that I know you, and perhaps you are wondering why it is that you do not know me, for it is surely the case that you do not, and if perhaps you are entertaining some notion that you remember me, some false face, you are surely wrong.”
In time, his solitary nature had betrayed him and the leader of the improv group had suggested that Sully’s talents, which he took pains to stress were clear to all, might be better suited to some other line of comic output, dwarfing, as they did, the meagre contributions of his contemporaries, and having nothing at all to do with any sense of awkwardness, which he made a point of noting he was only bringing up to dispel the notion from Sully’s mind that awkwardness might be the cause at the root of all this, but awkwardness, he continued, that an impartial observer might perceive in Sully’s non-comic interactions with the group. It was at this point that Sully had noticed the leader of the improv group was reading his tortured lines from the cryptic bic marks that adorned the inside of his hand, to which he would glance rapidly, as he continued down the winding road of qualifications and objections that stretched long past the point at which Sully had turned and left.
The man, for Sully could no longer hide behind the linguistic barrier of ‘Subject’ that they had all been taught so carefully to erect, did not try to turn his head nor alter his posture to bring Sully into the conversation; he simply let silence be displaced by sound, as surely as the moon commands the tide. “I do not mean to burden you with biography, as we only have so much time and I’m keen that we don’t waste it. My people hail from the town of Larchester, though I doubt you know it, as I left that place as soon as I was old enough to drive, which is how I earned my money, shipping things to places that they needed to be, up and down the East Coast and beyond. I took the money I earned and hired one man, then another and so on until I did more directing than I did driving. Of course, a man grows restless if he stays long enough in one place, and so from time to time, if a job came in that went somewhere I hadn’t been, I’d run it myself. That was how I came to visit Westhaller.”
Westhaller was a town not too far from Sully’s college, but far enough that he felt safe he was unlikely to meet a single soul he knew or that knew him. The town stood at the side of one of the mighty roads that crossed the countryside like arteries, connected gingerly by a barely comparable tarmacked trail that snaked up a frozen hillside to a cluster of houses that Sully guessed had once been some sort of farming community, but which now existed mostly to service the needs of the men and women that stopped off there between the place they were from and the place that they wanted to be, which he thought, in retrospect, was probably why it had seemed so appropriate.
| The two men shared a look of confusion - two pairs of exhausted eyes, each filled with puzzles and troubles, neither knowing where to begin. The younger of the two stood, carrying himself with equal amounts determination and purpose and caution and uncertainty, rising almost to meet the top of the doorway which framed his gaunt figure against the dark of the hall behind him that stretched into more darkness still. Almost a dwarf in comparison, the older man lazed, encased by the wings of his chair. It looked to be antique - a soft felt-like beige seat more dust than filling.
The space between the two men was broken by a log fire burned low in a small open fireplace. Its idling flame sat crackling, glowing orange and red and gold all at once, casting a muted muddy warmth upon the room.
The older man eased forward in his seat with noticeable, considerable effort. He made no attempt to rise to greet his guest. Instead he turned his gaze to the fire, which seemed to shy away from the attention.
“Those logs were always my favourite. Ash logs, funnily enough. D’you know where I get them?” the old man’s speech was slow, laboured, deliberate.
*I’m stumped*. The thought flashed across the visitor’s mind but he held his tongue. He stifled a jerk as a bolt of pain shot up his left arm. “Look, it’s been a long day. You know I’m not here to talk about trees-“
“I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt our conversation to branch out a little.” the old man interjected. Both men winced.
Asserting his presence, the tall man took a heavy step into the room. Fingers of crimson lashed out from the fire’s brick enclosure, throwing more murky light into the room. Flashes of light rebounded off of dresser upon dresser of ornaments and knick-knacks, photo frames and leather-bound books, tea sets and silverware too fine to be used on anything less than a special occasion. A second, identical chair sat within arm’s reach of the first; empty and draped in shadows.
“You committed a criminal act,” the visitor continued, “and I am here to make sure you are properly reprimanded.”
“Would this be about my yelling obscenities at your policeman friends? Calling them lazy and useless? It’s not the first time, you know.”
*Ah, a repeat offender*. Again, the officer grimaced. “Sadly, no. My visit today is about the speeding incident earlier this week. You know you’re not allowed to drive anymore, the police took your licence for goodness sake.” The old man’s eyes were locked on to the flames in the fireplace, climbing now to fill the modest hearth with dancing ribbons of scarlet and saffron, his face fallen into a cold sombreness. For a moment, the only noise was that of the logs, popping and cracking in the dead air between the two men.
“Give me a brake.” The officer shuddered. The old man clenched his jaw, stare still levelled at the fire.
Flashes of light filled the dreary room with dashes of brightness, colouring each of the framed photographs to show a man and a woman; large and young and loud at first, then duller, more saturated, smaller yet just as affectionate. The officer glanced from the frames to the man – the criminal – seemingly dormant behind his weathered, glassy eyes.
Hesitantly, the officer pressed on. “You’re doing my job for me here.”
“I suppose I could let you take over for *Arbeit”* Both men let out a sharp grunt.
*I did Nazi that coming*. He couldn’t say it. He wanted to, to be truthful, just to prove that he *could* handle German wordplay. But he couldn’t. The case wasn’t as simple as puns anymore.
“Why are you doing this to yourself?” the officer asked, prying further than he would have, or even should have.
A log snapped and spewed out red hot ash from the fireplace. The old man traced a curl of glowering orange as it turned to grey in the musty air of the parlour and settled on the faded carpet, unstirring.
The aged man exhaled deeply and turned his head to face the officer, finally allowing their eyes to meet again. As his visitor could see now, the pain on his face was rooted further than the skin and the flesh and the bones - far, far deeper.
“I’m ready to stop suffering.”
The officer didn’t keep track of how many ‘Mississippi’s the ensuing silence lasted, but even the flames in the hearth held still and quiet. One man stared at the other with a look of apology. The other sat back in his chair, weak, frail, carrying himself with determination and purpose and courage and defeat. The flames in the fireplace swelled.
“Ok,” the officer said, bracing himself, “what did the buffalo say to his son when he dropped him off at school?”
| |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | “Got a new one for you Dave” said my supervisor handing me a manila folder. I open it up and glance briefly at the contents. Serial shoplifter with one count of assault.
“When?”
“He’s here now. Arrived about 20 minutes ago. He’s in room 8”. I nod, and get up. I go to room 8 via the coffee machine. On the front of the folder someone has stamped a big red “2” meaning this guy has two hours with me.
After grabbing a coffee I start running through some of the usuals in head. Punnishers are chosen for our innate resistance to horrible word play but even with the resistance we have to go through years of training till we can get to the point of being able to say even the stupidest puns in our heads without wincing. ‘What did the clock maker say when he threw his wares out the window? Watch out!’ was a good starting piece: so inevitable, so stupid, so inane that it barely caused a person to sweat. Repetition of stupid ditties like this kept me blunted to the effects of what I would have to do in that room.
I stop before the door, take a sip of my coffee, close my eyes and count to 3 before opening the door and going in. I look at the man in the room. He wasn’t anything special. White singlet, blue jeans, short hair. I sit down in front of, him and plop the folder on the desk. “Hello Mr” I glance at the file “Trout?” I stare at the name “Your last name is “Trout” and you thought it would be a good idea to shoplift did you?” He just stared at me. The whites of his eyes showing clearly, his hands gripping the table hard. He was already sweating.
This was going to be easy… or hard. Sometimes you got this, you got people where it was just so easy to have word plays made of their names. Sometimes you had to pull your punches to stop them from passing out.
Usually the way to work the sentence was to start slow and then work your way up so that the real pain came at the end. Ease them into it, so to say. Not this time. That would be just… too hard on him. For Mr Trout the ‘easy’ stuff would keep weaker men up for years. Poor, poor Mr Trout.
“I guess you just like swimming up-stream eh? Against the crowd?” he winced. I was impressed. That was terrible. “Oh well, let’s begin then. So you stole a pack of cigarettes from the convenience store that had a tracer label? Nothing smelled fishy to you?” he winced again. This time there was the slightest hint of a whimper. ”Not to worry, you might feel out to sea right now” another whimper, his cheeks were beginning to pale “but we’ll soon have you on the straight and minnow. I do beg your pardon I meant narrow there.”
Twenty minutes later a short, sharp shout was heard outside my interrogation room. This was followed by a longer wail as I pressed in. Forty minutes into our session there was a knock at the door and my supervisor poked his head in “Um, Dave, could I have a word please?” I nod and excuse myself.
“Yes boss”
“You might want to go a little easier on him mate. I mean, we don’t want a law suit or anything”
“Alright, but I had a really good one where I was going to mix up caveat and caviar” my supervisor paled “Fine… Fine alright.”
I went back into the room. Mr Trout had his head on the desk. His shirt was drenched in sweat and the smell in the air told me that he may have peed himself a little. Maybe the boss was right, Mr Trout had obviously had a tough life, no need to make it that much tougher.
| The two men shared a look of confusion - two pairs of exhausted eyes, each filled with puzzles and troubles, neither knowing where to begin. The younger of the two stood, carrying himself with equal amounts determination and purpose and caution and uncertainty, rising almost to meet the top of the doorway which framed his gaunt figure against the dark of the hall behind him that stretched into more darkness still. Almost a dwarf in comparison, the older man lazed, encased by the wings of his chair. It looked to be antique - a soft felt-like beige seat more dust than filling.
The space between the two men was broken by a log fire burned low in a small open fireplace. Its idling flame sat crackling, glowing orange and red and gold all at once, casting a muted muddy warmth upon the room.
The older man eased forward in his seat with noticeable, considerable effort. He made no attempt to rise to greet his guest. Instead he turned his gaze to the fire, which seemed to shy away from the attention.
“Those logs were always my favourite. Ash logs, funnily enough. D’you know where I get them?” the old man’s speech was slow, laboured, deliberate.
*I’m stumped*. The thought flashed across the visitor’s mind but he held his tongue. He stifled a jerk as a bolt of pain shot up his left arm. “Look, it’s been a long day. You know I’m not here to talk about trees-“
“I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt our conversation to branch out a little.” the old man interjected. Both men winced.
Asserting his presence, the tall man took a heavy step into the room. Fingers of crimson lashed out from the fire’s brick enclosure, throwing more murky light into the room. Flashes of light rebounded off of dresser upon dresser of ornaments and knick-knacks, photo frames and leather-bound books, tea sets and silverware too fine to be used on anything less than a special occasion. A second, identical chair sat within arm’s reach of the first; empty and draped in shadows.
“You committed a criminal act,” the visitor continued, “and I am here to make sure you are properly reprimanded.”
“Would this be about my yelling obscenities at your policeman friends? Calling them lazy and useless? It’s not the first time, you know.”
*Ah, a repeat offender*. Again, the officer grimaced. “Sadly, no. My visit today is about the speeding incident earlier this week. You know you’re not allowed to drive anymore, the police took your licence for goodness sake.” The old man’s eyes were locked on to the flames in the fireplace, climbing now to fill the modest hearth with dancing ribbons of scarlet and saffron, his face fallen into a cold sombreness. For a moment, the only noise was that of the logs, popping and cracking in the dead air between the two men.
“Give me a brake.” The officer shuddered. The old man clenched his jaw, stare still levelled at the fire.
Flashes of light filled the dreary room with dashes of brightness, colouring each of the framed photographs to show a man and a woman; large and young and loud at first, then duller, more saturated, smaller yet just as affectionate. The officer glanced from the frames to the man – the criminal – seemingly dormant behind his weathered, glassy eyes.
Hesitantly, the officer pressed on. “You’re doing my job for me here.”
“I suppose I could let you take over for *Arbeit”* Both men let out a sharp grunt.
*I did Nazi that coming*. He couldn’t say it. He wanted to, to be truthful, just to prove that he *could* handle German wordplay. But he couldn’t. The case wasn’t as simple as puns anymore.
“Why are you doing this to yourself?” the officer asked, prying further than he would have, or even should have.
A log snapped and spewed out red hot ash from the fireplace. The old man traced a curl of glowering orange as it turned to grey in the musty air of the parlour and settled on the faded carpet, unstirring.
The aged man exhaled deeply and turned his head to face the officer, finally allowing their eyes to meet again. As his visitor could see now, the pain on his face was rooted further than the skin and the flesh and the bones - far, far deeper.
“I’m ready to stop suffering.”
The officer didn’t keep track of how many ‘Mississippi’s the ensuing silence lasted, but even the flames in the hearth held still and quiet. One man stared at the other with a look of apology. The other sat back in his chair, weak, frail, carrying himself with determination and purpose and courage and defeat. The flames in the fireplace swelled.
“Ok,” the officer said, bracing himself, “what did the buffalo say to his son when he dropped him off at school?”
| |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | The room was dark, only a slight spot of light from a lamp above illuminated not more than four feet around him.
He sat in a stainless steel chair at a stainless steal desk. All grey. Sweat dripping from his forehead. His eyes darted around the room, as if it would help him see it coming from the dark.
This is how they usually behaved when they knew what was coming. This case was over before it began.
Hello Mr. Ginnings. Do you know who I am?
Mr. Ginnigns looked around, but couldn't see the man. He could only focus on the origin if his voice.
From your reaction it seems like you do, and you know what I do best.
After all, it's in the name.
Mr. Ginnings clamped his teeth together, his eyes popping out from containing the physical pain from such a bad joke.
From the shadow a figure approached, as he took place at the other side of the desk, his face was lit. A young man, mid-twenties, handsome fellow.
it seems you have quite a big file on you, it looks like this is going to be an easy one...
PLEASE, THIS IS NOT NECESSARY! I WANT MY ATTORNEY!
Well, I like to say, as long as I use a big file to put someone behind bars, instead of them using one to break out.
Ginnigs buckled in pain.
AAAAAAHHHHHH STOP IT PLEASE! I WANT MY ATTORNEY!
'There is no attorney here Mr. Ginnings, there is only pain'
So, first on the list, January 12th, you steal a car from the very dealership you work at... Falling into old habits aren't we? Or did you forget your time in the Bronx? You were doing so well too, you straightened out, got this job, worked like a normal citizen for 10 years. So what made you suddenly go back to that?
Ginnings whimpered, eyes closed. He truly was between a rock and a car'd place.
I cant tell you man... I had too... I had no choice.
Well Mr Dopeprfield... I have been on this job long enough to know that people tend to fall into old habits. And your habit was legend. You were one of the best thiefs! And now this! HELL, I COULD TURN AROUND, TURN BACK AND YOUR WOULD'VE STOLEN THIS CHAIR AND DESK! BUT THAT WOULD BE PRETTY EASY WOULDN'T IT, SINCE THEY ARE MADE OF STEAL!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH OK OK, I will TELL YOUUU!
START TALKING!
My old buddies.. they contacted me. I had to do this job for them or otherwise.. people I love would get hurt.
Mr Ginnings, if you agree to help us, we can get them all. This is far bigger than you or me.
Mr. Ginnings looked at the Punisher, fear in his eyes.
Nononono please, I will only talk about this, I won't rat them out!
Well, it seems like we have a long night ahead of us, and you know..
This is only the BEGINNINGS!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooo
3 days later, the Red Bronx gang was found. Murdered in their homes, all died of severe physical distress caused by internal pain. They were found along with 1 ton of cocaine, 5 stolen cars in the back parking lot, and a large stash of guns. An entire criminal organisation, busted overnight.
As he walked away, he knew he would walk this cursed part of earth
for a long time, since he was the only man capable of doing this job.
He was
the PUNisher
| The two men shared a look of confusion - two pairs of exhausted eyes, each filled with puzzles and troubles, neither knowing where to begin. The younger of the two stood, carrying himself with equal amounts determination and purpose and caution and uncertainty, rising almost to meet the top of the doorway which framed his gaunt figure against the dark of the hall behind him that stretched into more darkness still. Almost a dwarf in comparison, the older man lazed, encased by the wings of his chair. It looked to be antique - a soft felt-like beige seat more dust than filling.
The space between the two men was broken by a log fire burned low in a small open fireplace. Its idling flame sat crackling, glowing orange and red and gold all at once, casting a muted muddy warmth upon the room.
The older man eased forward in his seat with noticeable, considerable effort. He made no attempt to rise to greet his guest. Instead he turned his gaze to the fire, which seemed to shy away from the attention.
“Those logs were always my favourite. Ash logs, funnily enough. D’you know where I get them?” the old man’s speech was slow, laboured, deliberate.
*I’m stumped*. The thought flashed across the visitor’s mind but he held his tongue. He stifled a jerk as a bolt of pain shot up his left arm. “Look, it’s been a long day. You know I’m not here to talk about trees-“
“I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt our conversation to branch out a little.” the old man interjected. Both men winced.
Asserting his presence, the tall man took a heavy step into the room. Fingers of crimson lashed out from the fire’s brick enclosure, throwing more murky light into the room. Flashes of light rebounded off of dresser upon dresser of ornaments and knick-knacks, photo frames and leather-bound books, tea sets and silverware too fine to be used on anything less than a special occasion. A second, identical chair sat within arm’s reach of the first; empty and draped in shadows.
“You committed a criminal act,” the visitor continued, “and I am here to make sure you are properly reprimanded.”
“Would this be about my yelling obscenities at your policeman friends? Calling them lazy and useless? It’s not the first time, you know.”
*Ah, a repeat offender*. Again, the officer grimaced. “Sadly, no. My visit today is about the speeding incident earlier this week. You know you’re not allowed to drive anymore, the police took your licence for goodness sake.” The old man’s eyes were locked on to the flames in the fireplace, climbing now to fill the modest hearth with dancing ribbons of scarlet and saffron, his face fallen into a cold sombreness. For a moment, the only noise was that of the logs, popping and cracking in the dead air between the two men.
“Give me a brake.” The officer shuddered. The old man clenched his jaw, stare still levelled at the fire.
Flashes of light filled the dreary room with dashes of brightness, colouring each of the framed photographs to show a man and a woman; large and young and loud at first, then duller, more saturated, smaller yet just as affectionate. The officer glanced from the frames to the man – the criminal – seemingly dormant behind his weathered, glassy eyes.
Hesitantly, the officer pressed on. “You’re doing my job for me here.”
“I suppose I could let you take over for *Arbeit”* Both men let out a sharp grunt.
*I did Nazi that coming*. He couldn’t say it. He wanted to, to be truthful, just to prove that he *could* handle German wordplay. But he couldn’t. The case wasn’t as simple as puns anymore.
“Why are you doing this to yourself?” the officer asked, prying further than he would have, or even should have.
A log snapped and spewed out red hot ash from the fireplace. The old man traced a curl of glowering orange as it turned to grey in the musty air of the parlour and settled on the faded carpet, unstirring.
The aged man exhaled deeply and turned his head to face the officer, finally allowing their eyes to meet again. As his visitor could see now, the pain on his face was rooted further than the skin and the flesh and the bones - far, far deeper.
“I’m ready to stop suffering.”
The officer didn’t keep track of how many ‘Mississippi’s the ensuing silence lasted, but even the flames in the hearth held still and quiet. One man stared at the other with a look of apology. The other sat back in his chair, weak, frail, carrying himself with determination and purpose and courage and defeat. The flames in the fireplace swelled.
“Ok,” the officer said, bracing himself, “what did the buffalo say to his son when he dropped him off at school?”
| |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | Today was going to be a good day. As the official punisher for the sixth ward, Gene took a particular joy in his job. Watching the convicted squirm as he began his routine excited him. Watching the squirms turn to cries of agony as he continued his carefully crafted wordplay procedure thrilled him.
Today, though, was special. The man he was charged with punishing today was one of the most dangerous men in the ward and for the first time in history, sentenced to death by punning. This would be difficult. Of course, punning causes immense physical discomfort, and when used by a skilled punisher like Gene, intense pain. But to actually cause a person so much pain their heart stops? Well, this would require a special tool.
Gene's mood was convivial as he walked into the chamber, with a song whistling from his lips and a skip in his step. The contrast between his attitude and the man strapped to the chair was startling.
"You think you can punish me to death? It's never been done! You're a fool, but...I invite the challenge." The man narrowed his eyes and sneered at Gene.
Gene continued to whistle and slowly pulled a laptop out of his bag.
"What...what's this for?" The man seemed to be a bit distressed now.
Gene deftly opened the lid and quickly tapped out a few keystrokes. The man began sweating.
Gene stopped whistling and slowly turned the screen around. The full breadth of his punishment began to come into focus for the man.
"Is...is that...no...you can't...that's not what I think it is...is it?" The man's confidence had quickly evaporated into pure terror.
Gene replied, with no particularly inflection in his voice. "Yes, that's a reddit thread. And no, there's no [serious] tag. Begin reading."
Gene stood up and walked out, hearing the man crying in agony behind him.
Today was a good day. | The two men shared a look of confusion - two pairs of exhausted eyes, each filled with puzzles and troubles, neither knowing where to begin. The younger of the two stood, carrying himself with equal amounts determination and purpose and caution and uncertainty, rising almost to meet the top of the doorway which framed his gaunt figure against the dark of the hall behind him that stretched into more darkness still. Almost a dwarf in comparison, the older man lazed, encased by the wings of his chair. It looked to be antique - a soft felt-like beige seat more dust than filling.
The space between the two men was broken by a log fire burned low in a small open fireplace. Its idling flame sat crackling, glowing orange and red and gold all at once, casting a muted muddy warmth upon the room.
The older man eased forward in his seat with noticeable, considerable effort. He made no attempt to rise to greet his guest. Instead he turned his gaze to the fire, which seemed to shy away from the attention.
“Those logs were always my favourite. Ash logs, funnily enough. D’you know where I get them?” the old man’s speech was slow, laboured, deliberate.
*I’m stumped*. The thought flashed across the visitor’s mind but he held his tongue. He stifled a jerk as a bolt of pain shot up his left arm. “Look, it’s been a long day. You know I’m not here to talk about trees-“
“I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt our conversation to branch out a little.” the old man interjected. Both men winced.
Asserting his presence, the tall man took a heavy step into the room. Fingers of crimson lashed out from the fire’s brick enclosure, throwing more murky light into the room. Flashes of light rebounded off of dresser upon dresser of ornaments and knick-knacks, photo frames and leather-bound books, tea sets and silverware too fine to be used on anything less than a special occasion. A second, identical chair sat within arm’s reach of the first; empty and draped in shadows.
“You committed a criminal act,” the visitor continued, “and I am here to make sure you are properly reprimanded.”
“Would this be about my yelling obscenities at your policeman friends? Calling them lazy and useless? It’s not the first time, you know.”
*Ah, a repeat offender*. Again, the officer grimaced. “Sadly, no. My visit today is about the speeding incident earlier this week. You know you’re not allowed to drive anymore, the police took your licence for goodness sake.” The old man’s eyes were locked on to the flames in the fireplace, climbing now to fill the modest hearth with dancing ribbons of scarlet and saffron, his face fallen into a cold sombreness. For a moment, the only noise was that of the logs, popping and cracking in the dead air between the two men.
“Give me a brake.” The officer shuddered. The old man clenched his jaw, stare still levelled at the fire.
Flashes of light filled the dreary room with dashes of brightness, colouring each of the framed photographs to show a man and a woman; large and young and loud at first, then duller, more saturated, smaller yet just as affectionate. The officer glanced from the frames to the man – the criminal – seemingly dormant behind his weathered, glassy eyes.
Hesitantly, the officer pressed on. “You’re doing my job for me here.”
“I suppose I could let you take over for *Arbeit”* Both men let out a sharp grunt.
*I did Nazi that coming*. He couldn’t say it. He wanted to, to be truthful, just to prove that he *could* handle German wordplay. But he couldn’t. The case wasn’t as simple as puns anymore.
“Why are you doing this to yourself?” the officer asked, prying further than he would have, or even should have.
A log snapped and spewed out red hot ash from the fireplace. The old man traced a curl of glowering orange as it turned to grey in the musty air of the parlour and settled on the faded carpet, unstirring.
The aged man exhaled deeply and turned his head to face the officer, finally allowing their eyes to meet again. As his visitor could see now, the pain on his face was rooted further than the skin and the flesh and the bones - far, far deeper.
“I’m ready to stop suffering.”
The officer didn’t keep track of how many ‘Mississippi’s the ensuing silence lasted, but even the flames in the hearth held still and quiet. One man stared at the other with a look of apology. The other sat back in his chair, weak, frail, carrying himself with determination and purpose and courage and defeat. The flames in the fireplace swelled.
“Ok,” the officer said, bracing himself, “what did the buffalo say to his son when he dropped him off at school?”
| |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | *"What do you mean, probation?"*
"Just what I said. Until we deal with the lawsuit, you're just going to have to cool your heels. Hey, look on the bright side, at least you've got paid leave while we sort all this out."
*"But I just don't understand! I did everything I'm supposed to do!"*
"According to the suit though, that's the problem. You did it a little too well. It's right there in our charter - You're not supposed to cause lasting harm. The plaintiff claims, though, that while spasming from a particularly brutal barrage of fish puns, they twisted their neck in a way that's caused lasting spinal damage. They claim their doctor says they could be in pain for months, if not years."
*"Wait! You mean..."*
"I'm afraid so. They're suing you, and by extension, our entire agency, for quiplash." | The two men shared a look of confusion - two pairs of exhausted eyes, each filled with puzzles and troubles, neither knowing where to begin. The younger of the two stood, carrying himself with equal amounts determination and purpose and caution and uncertainty, rising almost to meet the top of the doorway which framed his gaunt figure against the dark of the hall behind him that stretched into more darkness still. Almost a dwarf in comparison, the older man lazed, encased by the wings of his chair. It looked to be antique - a soft felt-like beige seat more dust than filling.
The space between the two men was broken by a log fire burned low in a small open fireplace. Its idling flame sat crackling, glowing orange and red and gold all at once, casting a muted muddy warmth upon the room.
The older man eased forward in his seat with noticeable, considerable effort. He made no attempt to rise to greet his guest. Instead he turned his gaze to the fire, which seemed to shy away from the attention.
“Those logs were always my favourite. Ash logs, funnily enough. D’you know where I get them?” the old man’s speech was slow, laboured, deliberate.
*I’m stumped*. The thought flashed across the visitor’s mind but he held his tongue. He stifled a jerk as a bolt of pain shot up his left arm. “Look, it’s been a long day. You know I’m not here to talk about trees-“
“I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt our conversation to branch out a little.” the old man interjected. Both men winced.
Asserting his presence, the tall man took a heavy step into the room. Fingers of crimson lashed out from the fire’s brick enclosure, throwing more murky light into the room. Flashes of light rebounded off of dresser upon dresser of ornaments and knick-knacks, photo frames and leather-bound books, tea sets and silverware too fine to be used on anything less than a special occasion. A second, identical chair sat within arm’s reach of the first; empty and draped in shadows.
“You committed a criminal act,” the visitor continued, “and I am here to make sure you are properly reprimanded.”
“Would this be about my yelling obscenities at your policeman friends? Calling them lazy and useless? It’s not the first time, you know.”
*Ah, a repeat offender*. Again, the officer grimaced. “Sadly, no. My visit today is about the speeding incident earlier this week. You know you’re not allowed to drive anymore, the police took your licence for goodness sake.” The old man’s eyes were locked on to the flames in the fireplace, climbing now to fill the modest hearth with dancing ribbons of scarlet and saffron, his face fallen into a cold sombreness. For a moment, the only noise was that of the logs, popping and cracking in the dead air between the two men.
“Give me a brake.” The officer shuddered. The old man clenched his jaw, stare still levelled at the fire.
Flashes of light filled the dreary room with dashes of brightness, colouring each of the framed photographs to show a man and a woman; large and young and loud at first, then duller, more saturated, smaller yet just as affectionate. The officer glanced from the frames to the man – the criminal – seemingly dormant behind his weathered, glassy eyes.
Hesitantly, the officer pressed on. “You’re doing my job for me here.”
“I suppose I could let you take over for *Arbeit”* Both men let out a sharp grunt.
*I did Nazi that coming*. He couldn’t say it. He wanted to, to be truthful, just to prove that he *could* handle German wordplay. But he couldn’t. The case wasn’t as simple as puns anymore.
“Why are you doing this to yourself?” the officer asked, prying further than he would have, or even should have.
A log snapped and spewed out red hot ash from the fireplace. The old man traced a curl of glowering orange as it turned to grey in the musty air of the parlour and settled on the faded carpet, unstirring.
The aged man exhaled deeply and turned his head to face the officer, finally allowing their eyes to meet again. As his visitor could see now, the pain on his face was rooted further than the skin and the flesh and the bones - far, far deeper.
“I’m ready to stop suffering.”
The officer didn’t keep track of how many ‘Mississippi’s the ensuing silence lasted, but even the flames in the hearth held still and quiet. One man stared at the other with a look of apology. The other sat back in his chair, weak, frail, carrying himself with determination and purpose and courage and defeat. The flames in the fireplace swelled.
“Ok,” the officer said, bracing himself, “what did the buffalo say to his son when he dropped him off at school?”
| |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | "I WON'T TALK!!!" The terrorist screamed out.
I looked at him, unsure what to do.
He'd been waterboarded, chinese water tortured and...
That's it.
The puns.
"So...with all these water tortures, life must be a real BEACH for you huh?"
The terrorist grunted in pain. He looked terrible now that I saw his face.
"You look like you could use a snack."
He awaited the punchline.
I said nothing for a few seconds.
"ORANGE YOU GLAD I DIDN'T MAKE A PUN THEN?"
Blood dripped slowly from his mouth.
"Like I said before. You could use some food. Why don't we head down to the ALLAHU SNACKBAR?!!!!"
In the short span of a few minutes, ISIS had been blown wide open by puns.
| The two men shared a look of confusion - two pairs of exhausted eyes, each filled with puzzles and troubles, neither knowing where to begin. The younger of the two stood, carrying himself with equal amounts determination and purpose and caution and uncertainty, rising almost to meet the top of the doorway which framed his gaunt figure against the dark of the hall behind him that stretched into more darkness still. Almost a dwarf in comparison, the older man lazed, encased by the wings of his chair. It looked to be antique - a soft felt-like beige seat more dust than filling.
The space between the two men was broken by a log fire burned low in a small open fireplace. Its idling flame sat crackling, glowing orange and red and gold all at once, casting a muted muddy warmth upon the room.
The older man eased forward in his seat with noticeable, considerable effort. He made no attempt to rise to greet his guest. Instead he turned his gaze to the fire, which seemed to shy away from the attention.
“Those logs were always my favourite. Ash logs, funnily enough. D’you know where I get them?” the old man’s speech was slow, laboured, deliberate.
*I’m stumped*. The thought flashed across the visitor’s mind but he held his tongue. He stifled a jerk as a bolt of pain shot up his left arm. “Look, it’s been a long day. You know I’m not here to talk about trees-“
“I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt our conversation to branch out a little.” the old man interjected. Both men winced.
Asserting his presence, the tall man took a heavy step into the room. Fingers of crimson lashed out from the fire’s brick enclosure, throwing more murky light into the room. Flashes of light rebounded off of dresser upon dresser of ornaments and knick-knacks, photo frames and leather-bound books, tea sets and silverware too fine to be used on anything less than a special occasion. A second, identical chair sat within arm’s reach of the first; empty and draped in shadows.
“You committed a criminal act,” the visitor continued, “and I am here to make sure you are properly reprimanded.”
“Would this be about my yelling obscenities at your policeman friends? Calling them lazy and useless? It’s not the first time, you know.”
*Ah, a repeat offender*. Again, the officer grimaced. “Sadly, no. My visit today is about the speeding incident earlier this week. You know you’re not allowed to drive anymore, the police took your licence for goodness sake.” The old man’s eyes were locked on to the flames in the fireplace, climbing now to fill the modest hearth with dancing ribbons of scarlet and saffron, his face fallen into a cold sombreness. For a moment, the only noise was that of the logs, popping and cracking in the dead air between the two men.
“Give me a brake.” The officer shuddered. The old man clenched his jaw, stare still levelled at the fire.
Flashes of light filled the dreary room with dashes of brightness, colouring each of the framed photographs to show a man and a woman; large and young and loud at first, then duller, more saturated, smaller yet just as affectionate. The officer glanced from the frames to the man – the criminal – seemingly dormant behind his weathered, glassy eyes.
Hesitantly, the officer pressed on. “You’re doing my job for me here.”
“I suppose I could let you take over for *Arbeit”* Both men let out a sharp grunt.
*I did Nazi that coming*. He couldn’t say it. He wanted to, to be truthful, just to prove that he *could* handle German wordplay. But he couldn’t. The case wasn’t as simple as puns anymore.
“Why are you doing this to yourself?” the officer asked, prying further than he would have, or even should have.
A log snapped and spewed out red hot ash from the fireplace. The old man traced a curl of glowering orange as it turned to grey in the musty air of the parlour and settled on the faded carpet, unstirring.
The aged man exhaled deeply and turned his head to face the officer, finally allowing their eyes to meet again. As his visitor could see now, the pain on his face was rooted further than the skin and the flesh and the bones - far, far deeper.
“I’m ready to stop suffering.”
The officer didn’t keep track of how many ‘Mississippi’s the ensuing silence lasted, but even the flames in the hearth held still and quiet. One man stared at the other with a look of apology. The other sat back in his chair, weak, frail, carrying himself with determination and purpose and courage and defeat. The flames in the fireplace swelled.
“Ok,” the officer said, bracing himself, “what did the buffalo say to his son when he dropped him off at school?”
| |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | "Do you understand why you have been brought here today?" The warden smiled mercilessly as he spoke, leaning in close to whisper in the young man's ear. The young man tried to put on a brave face, but the overly friendly smile made him visibly nervous.
"To listen to some jokes," he replied, with an attempt at a sneer, "I like comedy, let's hear them"
"You've been sentenced to five puns under Section 12 of the Criminal Punishment Code. I have been authorized by the Department of Justice to administer this punishment to you. Which makes me your pun-issuer"
The young man flinched in pain, but then quickly regained control and gave a look of defiance.
"So," the warden continues, "shoplifting, eh? Your arms must be tired."
"Agh!" the man cried out, but this time was able to stop himself from looking away.
The warden paused, letting his victim catch his breath.
"Weren't you done for battery?" the warden asked, his speech settling in to a kind of grim rhythm.
"No! No way," the young man was quick with outrage, "this is my first offence!"
"Ah," the warden gave a little smile of victory, "so you're saying you were never charged."
"Gah!" The teenagers face contorted with agony as he twisted around in his chair, wriggling and struggling helplessly to find relief against a pain that was entirely non-physical.
The warden watched the movements coldly, letting his own malicious amusement fade from his face so he could slip back into his mask of seriousness.
"I think you need to shape up, my boy," the warden began again, this time with a more sinister, clipped tone, "start taking things seriously...or else"
The young man looked up, anger in his face.
"I'm not afraid of you," he said, with false bravado.
"Oh," the warden gave a patronising smile, "Well, I'm just saying, you need to be careful, otherwise you'll be having porridge for breakfast... for a very long time"
With that the warden gestured around, to the walls around them, indicating the rest of the prison complex they were within.
"Yeah," the young man felt his bravery come back, "Well, I like porridge. It's my favourite, better than anything else for breakfast"
"Ah, be careful," the warden cried out in mock worry, "In case you become a cereal offender!"
"Aaaagh!" the victim screamed and rocked back in his chair, "no! Please, no more, I-"
"Sorry, what was that?" the warden interrupted, leaning his face in closely.
The young man blinked in confusion, before trying to continue, "Please, I'm telling you-"
"I'm sorry, I don't think I understand," the warden interrupted again, "What are you trying to say?"
The teenager looked around, trying to understand what was going on.
"I'm just trying to tell you," he said carefully, with a growing edge of unease in his voice, "I'm sorry and-"
"Look," the warden interrupted yet again, "I see the problem here. I keep interrupting you. I should just let you..." he paused for effect, a sly grin appearing on his face, "finish your sentence"
The teenager gave a sharp cry of agony, before falling back limply in his chair. The warden stood up curtly, nodded, and returned to the rest of his duties. | The two men shared a look of confusion - two pairs of exhausted eyes, each filled with puzzles and troubles, neither knowing where to begin. The younger of the two stood, carrying himself with equal amounts determination and purpose and caution and uncertainty, rising almost to meet the top of the doorway which framed his gaunt figure against the dark of the hall behind him that stretched into more darkness still. Almost a dwarf in comparison, the older man lazed, encased by the wings of his chair. It looked to be antique - a soft felt-like beige seat more dust than filling.
The space between the two men was broken by a log fire burned low in a small open fireplace. Its idling flame sat crackling, glowing orange and red and gold all at once, casting a muted muddy warmth upon the room.
The older man eased forward in his seat with noticeable, considerable effort. He made no attempt to rise to greet his guest. Instead he turned his gaze to the fire, which seemed to shy away from the attention.
“Those logs were always my favourite. Ash logs, funnily enough. D’you know where I get them?” the old man’s speech was slow, laboured, deliberate.
*I’m stumped*. The thought flashed across the visitor’s mind but he held his tongue. He stifled a jerk as a bolt of pain shot up his left arm. “Look, it’s been a long day. You know I’m not here to talk about trees-“
“I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt our conversation to branch out a little.” the old man interjected. Both men winced.
Asserting his presence, the tall man took a heavy step into the room. Fingers of crimson lashed out from the fire’s brick enclosure, throwing more murky light into the room. Flashes of light rebounded off of dresser upon dresser of ornaments and knick-knacks, photo frames and leather-bound books, tea sets and silverware too fine to be used on anything less than a special occasion. A second, identical chair sat within arm’s reach of the first; empty and draped in shadows.
“You committed a criminal act,” the visitor continued, “and I am here to make sure you are properly reprimanded.”
“Would this be about my yelling obscenities at your policeman friends? Calling them lazy and useless? It’s not the first time, you know.”
*Ah, a repeat offender*. Again, the officer grimaced. “Sadly, no. My visit today is about the speeding incident earlier this week. You know you’re not allowed to drive anymore, the police took your licence for goodness sake.” The old man’s eyes were locked on to the flames in the fireplace, climbing now to fill the modest hearth with dancing ribbons of scarlet and saffron, his face fallen into a cold sombreness. For a moment, the only noise was that of the logs, popping and cracking in the dead air between the two men.
“Give me a brake.” The officer shuddered. The old man clenched his jaw, stare still levelled at the fire.
Flashes of light filled the dreary room with dashes of brightness, colouring each of the framed photographs to show a man and a woman; large and young and loud at first, then duller, more saturated, smaller yet just as affectionate. The officer glanced from the frames to the man – the criminal – seemingly dormant behind his weathered, glassy eyes.
Hesitantly, the officer pressed on. “You’re doing my job for me here.”
“I suppose I could let you take over for *Arbeit”* Both men let out a sharp grunt.
*I did Nazi that coming*. He couldn’t say it. He wanted to, to be truthful, just to prove that he *could* handle German wordplay. But he couldn’t. The case wasn’t as simple as puns anymore.
“Why are you doing this to yourself?” the officer asked, prying further than he would have, or even should have.
A log snapped and spewed out red hot ash from the fireplace. The old man traced a curl of glowering orange as it turned to grey in the musty air of the parlour and settled on the faded carpet, unstirring.
The aged man exhaled deeply and turned his head to face the officer, finally allowing their eyes to meet again. As his visitor could see now, the pain on his face was rooted further than the skin and the flesh and the bones - far, far deeper.
“I’m ready to stop suffering.”
The officer didn’t keep track of how many ‘Mississippi’s the ensuing silence lasted, but even the flames in the hearth held still and quiet. One man stared at the other with a look of apology. The other sat back in his chair, weak, frail, carrying himself with determination and purpose and courage and defeat. The flames in the fireplace swelled.
“Ok,” the officer said, bracing himself, “what did the buffalo say to his son when he dropped him off at school?”
| |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | Part 1:
Night had fallen at the punitentiary, where the exercise yard was now barely discernible from the cell windows, except for those irregular occasions on which a searchlight would scythe through the gloaming and pick out familiar details: the sullen benches, looming wire fences and low outbuildings, whose jutting edges seemed to wince under the harsh light’s sweep, as if a person skulking in the shadows had snapped back into the safety of cover. An inexperienced guard might have yanked the light back to interrogate this seeming anomaly further, but in the still and in the silence, the light continued uncaring on its path, until it was no longer visible from the high, barred window where Sully Wortspiel was content to allow the darkness to calm his troubled thoughts once more.
It was not long before the quiet was punctured by the juddering screech of the un-oiled door, shocking Sully out of his reverie, which he never seemed to time quite right and which was really so important to the job of work that it was his responsibility to carry out on this night. From the adjacent room, he heard the electric flicker of the bright fluorescent tubes as they came to life and he moved on soft soles to the viewing portal, whose two-way mirror allowed him to observe the Subject unseen.
He knew others that liked to pore for hours over files and through footage, looking always for weaknesses, always for openings, always for that elusive tell that would let them know that it was time to strike. But he had no time for that wasted energy, he gleaned everything that was worth knowing about a man, or at least about these Subjects, from the empty minutes before his entrance. He noted their nervous glances, while a guard strapped them into a chair, as their eyes darted, looking for a point on which to fix, not knowing of course that the room’s dull, curved walls had been engineered precisely to avoid this. Thus their furtive search would bring them inevitably to the mirror, to the smudge he had made twenty minutes prior to their arrival, and behind which he now stood. From this vantage point, he looked deep into their unknowing eyes, and allowed whatever it was that they wished to keep hidden to emerge into the light, and if it didn’t, he’d carry on with his routine — the familiar patter, an indulgence of their amateur theatrics — and then, when they least expected it, he would make a point of noting and removing the smudge with his shirt-sleeve, and with it their last hope of holding on.
On this occasion, however, a pair of ice blue eyes met his, fixed on a point beyond the mirror, chiding him to come out. Sully was suddenly nervous. This had never happened before, and he had been doing this job of work for a long time. He retreated to his desk and leaned down, whispering into the microphone, while he held its cheap plastic intercom button down and mentally scolded himself over his obviously chewed nail. Over his shoulder, through the viewing portal, the guard responded to his instruction and removed a burlap sack from the equipment console and placed it over the Subject’s head, before motioning that his role had been fulfilled and that he was going to leave the chamber. In these last moments before it started, Sully liked to return to his window, where he would imagine the searchlight was a spotlight, that the crunching gears and the metallic churn of the sound-proof shutters were the swelling roar that preceded the tumultuous applause of an ecstatic audience. This time, however, he felt only the dread that sits heavy in the stomach until it is as tight as a knot.
The entrance to the chamber was set precisely behind the chair, such that Sully’s approach should have been undetectable to the subject, strapped to the steel chair in front of him. Normally, he would have noted the sweat-matted hair at the nape of the neck, the clenched jaw or the heaving sobs, the sharp smell that meant they’d pissed themselves, which they all and always did, eventually. But this subject sat with a straight back, and even with the sack over his head, it was clear that he was neither sweating nor crying, that nothing about the situation discomforted him in the slightest. This unfamiliar scene left Sully suddenly with the feeling of having forgotten his lines, not knowing where or even how to start. And so it was that the Subject was the first to speak.
“I cannot tell you how long it is that I have waited to be here,” the Subject intoned in a deep, sonorous voice. “I have travelled a great distance, forsaken the love of those that gave it me freely and endured countless hardships. But now, finally, I am here.”
Sully had always been told he had a way with words, by his mother at first, as she home-schooled him away from the slings and the arrows of his feral and erstwhile classmates, then by the learned professors that taught him at college, but by that time the only audience whose appreciation he sought were the supple young things that leant on the doorways of the rooms of others and haunted the stairwells of his dreams, in which he whispered sweet nothings with the effortless ease of which he knew he was capable, but which, in real-life, deserted him and left him tongue-tied and mute. His room-mate, sensing a nervousness about him that had to be routed decisively if he was to invite any girls back to their room, suggested that Sully look for way to push himself out of this awkward phase. The next morning, he enrolled in the college improv group, into whose scenarios he would lose himself as surely as if he had never been the type of timid kid that lives the world vicariously from a safe distance. And each time, the words flowed and flew from nib of pen and tip of tongue, until the scene was called and then they hit a glottal stop, as Sully became Sully and nothing more.
His silence did not seem to disquiet the Subject, who continued effortlessly, as if the pause had been his decision all along. “You have doubtless guessed that I know you, and perhaps you are wondering why it is that you do not know me, for it is surely the case that you do not, and if perhaps you are entertaining some notion that you remember me, some false face, you are surely wrong.”
In time, his solitary nature had betrayed him and the leader of the improv group had suggested that Sully’s talents, which he took pains to stress were clear to all, might be better suited to some other line of comic output, dwarfing, as they did, the meagre contributions of his contemporaries, and having nothing at all to do with any sense of awkwardness, which he made a point of noting he was only bringing up to dispel the notion from Sully’s mind that awkwardness might be the cause at the root of all this, but awkwardness, he continued, that an impartial observer might perceive in Sully’s non-comic interactions with the group. It was at this point that Sully had noticed the leader of the improv group was reading his tortured lines from the cryptic bic marks that adorned the inside of his hand, to which he would glance rapidly, as he continued down the winding road of qualifications and objections that stretched long past the point at which Sully had turned and left.
The man, for Sully could no longer hide behind the linguistic barrier of ‘Subject’ that they had all been taught so carefully to erect, did not try to turn his head nor alter his posture to bring Sully into the conversation; he simply let silence be displaced by sound, as surely as the moon commands the tide. “I do not mean to burden you with biography, as we only have so much time and I’m keen that we don’t waste it. My people hail from the town of Larchester, though I doubt you know it, as I left that place as soon as I was old enough to drive, which is how I earned my money, shipping things to places that they needed to be, up and down the East Coast and beyond. I took the money I earned and hired one man, then another and so on until I did more directing than I did driving. Of course, a man grows restless if he stays long enough in one place, and so from time to time, if a job came in that went somewhere I hadn’t been, I’d run it myself. That was how I came to visit Westhaller.”
Westhaller was a town not too far from Sully’s college, but far enough that he felt safe he was unlikely to meet a single soul he knew or that knew him. The town stood at the side of one of the mighty roads that crossed the countryside like arteries, connected gingerly by a barely comparable tarmacked trail that snaked up a frozen hillside to a cluster of houses that Sully guessed had once been some sort of farming community, but which now existed mostly to service the needs of the men and women that stopped off there between the place they were from and the place that they wanted to be, which he thought, in retrospect, was probably why it had seemed so appropriate.
| I walked into the room. The man, chained to the chair, looked at me with fear and dispair in his eyes. I sat down in front of him, looked him deep into his shivering eyes and said:
"I am the PUN-isher!"
He dropped dead instantly. They always do. | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | “Got a new one for you Dave” said my supervisor handing me a manila folder. I open it up and glance briefly at the contents. Serial shoplifter with one count of assault.
“When?”
“He’s here now. Arrived about 20 minutes ago. He’s in room 8”. I nod, and get up. I go to room 8 via the coffee machine. On the front of the folder someone has stamped a big red “2” meaning this guy has two hours with me.
After grabbing a coffee I start running through some of the usuals in head. Punnishers are chosen for our innate resistance to horrible word play but even with the resistance we have to go through years of training till we can get to the point of being able to say even the stupidest puns in our heads without wincing. ‘What did the clock maker say when he threw his wares out the window? Watch out!’ was a good starting piece: so inevitable, so stupid, so inane that it barely caused a person to sweat. Repetition of stupid ditties like this kept me blunted to the effects of what I would have to do in that room.
I stop before the door, take a sip of my coffee, close my eyes and count to 3 before opening the door and going in. I look at the man in the room. He wasn’t anything special. White singlet, blue jeans, short hair. I sit down in front of, him and plop the folder on the desk. “Hello Mr” I glance at the file “Trout?” I stare at the name “Your last name is “Trout” and you thought it would be a good idea to shoplift did you?” He just stared at me. The whites of his eyes showing clearly, his hands gripping the table hard. He was already sweating.
This was going to be easy… or hard. Sometimes you got this, you got people where it was just so easy to have word plays made of their names. Sometimes you had to pull your punches to stop them from passing out.
Usually the way to work the sentence was to start slow and then work your way up so that the real pain came at the end. Ease them into it, so to say. Not this time. That would be just… too hard on him. For Mr Trout the ‘easy’ stuff would keep weaker men up for years. Poor, poor Mr Trout.
“I guess you just like swimming up-stream eh? Against the crowd?” he winced. I was impressed. That was terrible. “Oh well, let’s begin then. So you stole a pack of cigarettes from the convenience store that had a tracer label? Nothing smelled fishy to you?” he winced again. This time there was the slightest hint of a whimper. ”Not to worry, you might feel out to sea right now” another whimper, his cheeks were beginning to pale “but we’ll soon have you on the straight and minnow. I do beg your pardon I meant narrow there.”
Twenty minutes later a short, sharp shout was heard outside my interrogation room. This was followed by a longer wail as I pressed in. Forty minutes into our session there was a knock at the door and my supervisor poked his head in “Um, Dave, could I have a word please?” I nod and excuse myself.
“Yes boss”
“You might want to go a little easier on him mate. I mean, we don’t want a law suit or anything”
“Alright, but I had a really good one where I was going to mix up caveat and caviar” my supervisor paled “Fine… Fine alright.”
I went back into the room. Mr Trout had his head on the desk. His shirt was drenched in sweat and the smell in the air told me that he may have peed himself a little. Maybe the boss was right, Mr Trout had obviously had a tough life, no need to make it that much tougher.
| I walked into the room. The man, chained to the chair, looked at me with fear and dispair in his eyes. I sat down in front of him, looked him deep into his shivering eyes and said:
"I am the PUN-isher!"
He dropped dead instantly. They always do. | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | The room was dark, only a slight spot of light from a lamp above illuminated not more than four feet around him.
He sat in a stainless steel chair at a stainless steal desk. All grey. Sweat dripping from his forehead. His eyes darted around the room, as if it would help him see it coming from the dark.
This is how they usually behaved when they knew what was coming. This case was over before it began.
Hello Mr. Ginnings. Do you know who I am?
Mr. Ginnigns looked around, but couldn't see the man. He could only focus on the origin if his voice.
From your reaction it seems like you do, and you know what I do best.
After all, it's in the name.
Mr. Ginnings clamped his teeth together, his eyes popping out from containing the physical pain from such a bad joke.
From the shadow a figure approached, as he took place at the other side of the desk, his face was lit. A young man, mid-twenties, handsome fellow.
it seems you have quite a big file on you, it looks like this is going to be an easy one...
PLEASE, THIS IS NOT NECESSARY! I WANT MY ATTORNEY!
Well, I like to say, as long as I use a big file to put someone behind bars, instead of them using one to break out.
Ginnigs buckled in pain.
AAAAAAHHHHHH STOP IT PLEASE! I WANT MY ATTORNEY!
'There is no attorney here Mr. Ginnings, there is only pain'
So, first on the list, January 12th, you steal a car from the very dealership you work at... Falling into old habits aren't we? Or did you forget your time in the Bronx? You were doing so well too, you straightened out, got this job, worked like a normal citizen for 10 years. So what made you suddenly go back to that?
Ginnings whimpered, eyes closed. He truly was between a rock and a car'd place.
I cant tell you man... I had too... I had no choice.
Well Mr Dopeprfield... I have been on this job long enough to know that people tend to fall into old habits. And your habit was legend. You were one of the best thiefs! And now this! HELL, I COULD TURN AROUND, TURN BACK AND YOUR WOULD'VE STOLEN THIS CHAIR AND DESK! BUT THAT WOULD BE PRETTY EASY WOULDN'T IT, SINCE THEY ARE MADE OF STEAL!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH OK OK, I will TELL YOUUU!
START TALKING!
My old buddies.. they contacted me. I had to do this job for them or otherwise.. people I love would get hurt.
Mr Ginnings, if you agree to help us, we can get them all. This is far bigger than you or me.
Mr. Ginnings looked at the Punisher, fear in his eyes.
Nononono please, I will only talk about this, I won't rat them out!
Well, it seems like we have a long night ahead of us, and you know..
This is only the BEGINNINGS!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooo
3 days later, the Red Bronx gang was found. Murdered in their homes, all died of severe physical distress caused by internal pain. They were found along with 1 ton of cocaine, 5 stolen cars in the back parking lot, and a large stash of guns. An entire criminal organisation, busted overnight.
As he walked away, he knew he would walk this cursed part of earth
for a long time, since he was the only man capable of doing this job.
He was
the PUNisher
| I walked into the room. The man, chained to the chair, looked at me with fear and dispair in his eyes. I sat down in front of him, looked him deep into his shivering eyes and said:
"I am the PUN-isher!"
He dropped dead instantly. They always do. | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | Today was going to be a good day. As the official punisher for the sixth ward, Gene took a particular joy in his job. Watching the convicted squirm as he began his routine excited him. Watching the squirms turn to cries of agony as he continued his carefully crafted wordplay procedure thrilled him.
Today, though, was special. The man he was charged with punishing today was one of the most dangerous men in the ward and for the first time in history, sentenced to death by punning. This would be difficult. Of course, punning causes immense physical discomfort, and when used by a skilled punisher like Gene, intense pain. But to actually cause a person so much pain their heart stops? Well, this would require a special tool.
Gene's mood was convivial as he walked into the chamber, with a song whistling from his lips and a skip in his step. The contrast between his attitude and the man strapped to the chair was startling.
"You think you can punish me to death? It's never been done! You're a fool, but...I invite the challenge." The man narrowed his eyes and sneered at Gene.
Gene continued to whistle and slowly pulled a laptop out of his bag.
"What...what's this for?" The man seemed to be a bit distressed now.
Gene deftly opened the lid and quickly tapped out a few keystrokes. The man began sweating.
Gene stopped whistling and slowly turned the screen around. The full breadth of his punishment began to come into focus for the man.
"Is...is that...no...you can't...that's not what I think it is...is it?" The man's confidence had quickly evaporated into pure terror.
Gene replied, with no particularly inflection in his voice. "Yes, that's a reddit thread. And no, there's no [serious] tag. Begin reading."
Gene stood up and walked out, hearing the man crying in agony behind him.
Today was a good day. | I walked into the room. The man, chained to the chair, looked at me with fear and dispair in his eyes. I sat down in front of him, looked him deep into his shivering eyes and said:
"I am the PUN-isher!"
He dropped dead instantly. They always do. | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | *"What do you mean, probation?"*
"Just what I said. Until we deal with the lawsuit, you're just going to have to cool your heels. Hey, look on the bright side, at least you've got paid leave while we sort all this out."
*"But I just don't understand! I did everything I'm supposed to do!"*
"According to the suit though, that's the problem. You did it a little too well. It's right there in our charter - You're not supposed to cause lasting harm. The plaintiff claims, though, that while spasming from a particularly brutal barrage of fish puns, they twisted their neck in a way that's caused lasting spinal damage. They claim their doctor says they could be in pain for months, if not years."
*"Wait! You mean..."*
"I'm afraid so. They're suing you, and by extension, our entire agency, for quiplash." | I walked into the room. The man, chained to the chair, looked at me with fear and dispair in his eyes. I sat down in front of him, looked him deep into his shivering eyes and said:
"I am the PUN-isher!"
He dropped dead instantly. They always do. | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | "I WON'T TALK!!!" The terrorist screamed out.
I looked at him, unsure what to do.
He'd been waterboarded, chinese water tortured and...
That's it.
The puns.
"So...with all these water tortures, life must be a real BEACH for you huh?"
The terrorist grunted in pain. He looked terrible now that I saw his face.
"You look like you could use a snack."
He awaited the punchline.
I said nothing for a few seconds.
"ORANGE YOU GLAD I DIDN'T MAKE A PUN THEN?"
Blood dripped slowly from his mouth.
"Like I said before. You could use some food. Why don't we head down to the ALLAHU SNACKBAR?!!!!"
In the short span of a few minutes, ISIS had been blown wide open by puns.
| I walked into the room. The man, chained to the chair, looked at me with fear and dispair in his eyes. I sat down in front of him, looked him deep into his shivering eyes and said:
"I am the PUN-isher!"
He dropped dead instantly. They always do. | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | "Do you understand why you have been brought here today?" The warden smiled mercilessly as he spoke, leaning in close to whisper in the young man's ear. The young man tried to put on a brave face, but the overly friendly smile made him visibly nervous.
"To listen to some jokes," he replied, with an attempt at a sneer, "I like comedy, let's hear them"
"You've been sentenced to five puns under Section 12 of the Criminal Punishment Code. I have been authorized by the Department of Justice to administer this punishment to you. Which makes me your pun-issuer"
The young man flinched in pain, but then quickly regained control and gave a look of defiance.
"So," the warden continues, "shoplifting, eh? Your arms must be tired."
"Agh!" the man cried out, but this time was able to stop himself from looking away.
The warden paused, letting his victim catch his breath.
"Weren't you done for battery?" the warden asked, his speech settling in to a kind of grim rhythm.
"No! No way," the young man was quick with outrage, "this is my first offence!"
"Ah," the warden gave a little smile of victory, "so you're saying you were never charged."
"Gah!" The teenagers face contorted with agony as he twisted around in his chair, wriggling and struggling helplessly to find relief against a pain that was entirely non-physical.
The warden watched the movements coldly, letting his own malicious amusement fade from his face so he could slip back into his mask of seriousness.
"I think you need to shape up, my boy," the warden began again, this time with a more sinister, clipped tone, "start taking things seriously...or else"
The young man looked up, anger in his face.
"I'm not afraid of you," he said, with false bravado.
"Oh," the warden gave a patronising smile, "Well, I'm just saying, you need to be careful, otherwise you'll be having porridge for breakfast... for a very long time"
With that the warden gestured around, to the walls around them, indicating the rest of the prison complex they were within.
"Yeah," the young man felt his bravery come back, "Well, I like porridge. It's my favourite, better than anything else for breakfast"
"Ah, be careful," the warden cried out in mock worry, "In case you become a cereal offender!"
"Aaaagh!" the victim screamed and rocked back in his chair, "no! Please, no more, I-"
"Sorry, what was that?" the warden interrupted, leaning his face in closely.
The young man blinked in confusion, before trying to continue, "Please, I'm telling you-"
"I'm sorry, I don't think I understand," the warden interrupted again, "What are you trying to say?"
The teenager looked around, trying to understand what was going on.
"I'm just trying to tell you," he said carefully, with a growing edge of unease in his voice, "I'm sorry and-"
"Look," the warden interrupted yet again, "I see the problem here. I keep interrupting you. I should just let you..." he paused for effect, a sly grin appearing on his face, "finish your sentence"
The teenager gave a sharp cry of agony, before falling back limply in his chair. The warden stood up curtly, nodded, and returned to the rest of his duties. | I walked into the room. The man, chained to the chair, looked at me with fear and dispair in his eyes. I sat down in front of him, looked him deep into his shivering eyes and said:
"I am the PUN-isher!"
He dropped dead instantly. They always do. | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | Part 1:
Night had fallen at the punitentiary, where the exercise yard was now barely discernible from the cell windows, except for those irregular occasions on which a searchlight would scythe through the gloaming and pick out familiar details: the sullen benches, looming wire fences and low outbuildings, whose jutting edges seemed to wince under the harsh light’s sweep, as if a person skulking in the shadows had snapped back into the safety of cover. An inexperienced guard might have yanked the light back to interrogate this seeming anomaly further, but in the still and in the silence, the light continued uncaring on its path, until it was no longer visible from the high, barred window where Sully Wortspiel was content to allow the darkness to calm his troubled thoughts once more.
It was not long before the quiet was punctured by the juddering screech of the un-oiled door, shocking Sully out of his reverie, which he never seemed to time quite right and which was really so important to the job of work that it was his responsibility to carry out on this night. From the adjacent room, he heard the electric flicker of the bright fluorescent tubes as they came to life and he moved on soft soles to the viewing portal, whose two-way mirror allowed him to observe the Subject unseen.
He knew others that liked to pore for hours over files and through footage, looking always for weaknesses, always for openings, always for that elusive tell that would let them know that it was time to strike. But he had no time for that wasted energy, he gleaned everything that was worth knowing about a man, or at least about these Subjects, from the empty minutes before his entrance. He noted their nervous glances, while a guard strapped them into a chair, as their eyes darted, looking for a point on which to fix, not knowing of course that the room’s dull, curved walls had been engineered precisely to avoid this. Thus their furtive search would bring them inevitably to the mirror, to the smudge he had made twenty minutes prior to their arrival, and behind which he now stood. From this vantage point, he looked deep into their unknowing eyes, and allowed whatever it was that they wished to keep hidden to emerge into the light, and if it didn’t, he’d carry on with his routine — the familiar patter, an indulgence of their amateur theatrics — and then, when they least expected it, he would make a point of noting and removing the smudge with his shirt-sleeve, and with it their last hope of holding on.
On this occasion, however, a pair of ice blue eyes met his, fixed on a point beyond the mirror, chiding him to come out. Sully was suddenly nervous. This had never happened before, and he had been doing this job of work for a long time. He retreated to his desk and leaned down, whispering into the microphone, while he held its cheap plastic intercom button down and mentally scolded himself over his obviously chewed nail. Over his shoulder, through the viewing portal, the guard responded to his instruction and removed a burlap sack from the equipment console and placed it over the Subject’s head, before motioning that his role had been fulfilled and that he was going to leave the chamber. In these last moments before it started, Sully liked to return to his window, where he would imagine the searchlight was a spotlight, that the crunching gears and the metallic churn of the sound-proof shutters were the swelling roar that preceded the tumultuous applause of an ecstatic audience. This time, however, he felt only the dread that sits heavy in the stomach until it is as tight as a knot.
The entrance to the chamber was set precisely behind the chair, such that Sully’s approach should have been undetectable to the subject, strapped to the steel chair in front of him. Normally, he would have noted the sweat-matted hair at the nape of the neck, the clenched jaw or the heaving sobs, the sharp smell that meant they’d pissed themselves, which they all and always did, eventually. But this subject sat with a straight back, and even with the sack over his head, it was clear that he was neither sweating nor crying, that nothing about the situation discomforted him in the slightest. This unfamiliar scene left Sully suddenly with the feeling of having forgotten his lines, not knowing where or even how to start. And so it was that the Subject was the first to speak.
“I cannot tell you how long it is that I have waited to be here,” the Subject intoned in a deep, sonorous voice. “I have travelled a great distance, forsaken the love of those that gave it me freely and endured countless hardships. But now, finally, I am here.”
Sully had always been told he had a way with words, by his mother at first, as she home-schooled him away from the slings and the arrows of his feral and erstwhile classmates, then by the learned professors that taught him at college, but by that time the only audience whose appreciation he sought were the supple young things that leant on the doorways of the rooms of others and haunted the stairwells of his dreams, in which he whispered sweet nothings with the effortless ease of which he knew he was capable, but which, in real-life, deserted him and left him tongue-tied and mute. His room-mate, sensing a nervousness about him that had to be routed decisively if he was to invite any girls back to their room, suggested that Sully look for way to push himself out of this awkward phase. The next morning, he enrolled in the college improv group, into whose scenarios he would lose himself as surely as if he had never been the type of timid kid that lives the world vicariously from a safe distance. And each time, the words flowed and flew from nib of pen and tip of tongue, until the scene was called and then they hit a glottal stop, as Sully became Sully and nothing more.
His silence did not seem to disquiet the Subject, who continued effortlessly, as if the pause had been his decision all along. “You have doubtless guessed that I know you, and perhaps you are wondering why it is that you do not know me, for it is surely the case that you do not, and if perhaps you are entertaining some notion that you remember me, some false face, you are surely wrong.”
In time, his solitary nature had betrayed him and the leader of the improv group had suggested that Sully’s talents, which he took pains to stress were clear to all, might be better suited to some other line of comic output, dwarfing, as they did, the meagre contributions of his contemporaries, and having nothing at all to do with any sense of awkwardness, which he made a point of noting he was only bringing up to dispel the notion from Sully’s mind that awkwardness might be the cause at the root of all this, but awkwardness, he continued, that an impartial observer might perceive in Sully’s non-comic interactions with the group. It was at this point that Sully had noticed the leader of the improv group was reading his tortured lines from the cryptic bic marks that adorned the inside of his hand, to which he would glance rapidly, as he continued down the winding road of qualifications and objections that stretched long past the point at which Sully had turned and left.
The man, for Sully could no longer hide behind the linguistic barrier of ‘Subject’ that they had all been taught so carefully to erect, did not try to turn his head nor alter his posture to bring Sully into the conversation; he simply let silence be displaced by sound, as surely as the moon commands the tide. “I do not mean to burden you with biography, as we only have so much time and I’m keen that we don’t waste it. My people hail from the town of Larchester, though I doubt you know it, as I left that place as soon as I was old enough to drive, which is how I earned my money, shipping things to places that they needed to be, up and down the East Coast and beyond. I took the money I earned and hired one man, then another and so on until I did more directing than I did driving. Of course, a man grows restless if he stays long enough in one place, and so from time to time, if a job came in that went somewhere I hadn’t been, I’d run it myself. That was how I came to visit Westhaller.”
Westhaller was a town not too far from Sully’s college, but far enough that he felt safe he was unlikely to meet a single soul he knew or that knew him. The town stood at the side of one of the mighty roads that crossed the countryside like arteries, connected gingerly by a barely comparable tarmacked trail that snaked up a frozen hillside to a cluster of houses that Sully guessed had once been some sort of farming community, but which now existed mostly to service the needs of the men and women that stopped off there between the place they were from and the place that they wanted to be, which he thought, in retrospect, was probably why it had seemed so appropriate.
| I never fit the stereotype of the Punisher. Most government-employed Punishers are huge, hulking ex-cons who've learned to adapt their bloodlust to a different form. The type you'd expect to see cracking their knuckles on some poor sap in an alley. It is yet another example of Nordic efficiency - the Swedish government plucks the promising ones right out of prison, to be recycled as Punishers.
I had the brains, of course - Punishers are typically well-versed, to some degree, in literature and wordplay. The problem was, sadism never appealed to me. I lived my life helping others as best I could, like a model citizen. Why the government ever hired me will forever remain a mystery.
Most of my days were light, inflicting only minor pains on cons. Most of the crimes I dealt with were petty theft and fools. They, quite literally, received nothing more than a slap on the wrist.
That is, until the 3rd of March, 2092.
***
As a Punisher, paperwork and legal issues make up the bulk of work. Only 5 days out of every month are reserved for Justice. As such, I stepped into the prison ready for eight hours of menial work. Instead, I was greeted by armoured security with no more than a "This way, Mr. Lindberg."
The firm hand on the upper arm, the wordless ushering, the dim elevator ride down through the sub-basements. Despite knowing that this could only be another job, I couldn't help but feel a growing knot of anxiety within my stomach. I'd never been down below the first-level basement. *Is this what it's like to be a criminal*, I mused, *before they never again see the light of day?*
The elevator doors slid, opening up to a dark, stone corridor that converged off into the darkness. The cells were sparse here, with at least ten metres between each door. Echoing from the distance came an anguished cry, petering out after a few seconds. I nervously glanced at the guards, but couldn't discern the expressions behind the helmet visors.
As the elevator doors closed behind us, a set of manual doors opened to our right. Out stepped a doctor, his occupation immediately evident by the white coat and the drawn lines on his face, which lit up with a crooked smile as he spotted us. Truth be told, it did little to reassure me.
"Ah! Mr. Lindberg, the newcomer! Welcome to Sub-basement M! I trust that you have no question?" He looked at me expectantly.
*No question?* "Um, yes, actually - what am I doing here?" I scratched my head for good measure.
His eyebrows shot up, and he turned to the two guards, who still had their hands around my arms. I shook them free. "Did Mr. Lindberg not receive the memo on his desk this morning?"
The guard to my left replied in baritone. "No sir, we were instructed to bring him directly down to the sub-basement."
"Couldn't be helped, I suppose." The doctor turned to me, and said, "You two get off scot free. Now, if Mr. Lindberg could please come with me. And I'm sorry for leaving you in the dark about all this."
He noticed his mistake too late, and I winced in pain. Voice trembling, he said, "That is to say, I'm sorry that we didn't make sure to let you know what was going on beforehand."
So that was how my day started, walking down the dim, stone corridor with the doctor, listening to the elevator rise and the long-off wails.
***
"His victims include multiple middle-aged women, some children of both genders, and lastly his wife and 2 daughters. All violently murdered. You may remember that it took 4 years to determine it was him - it was only until he murdered his family that we got him. It was like he *wanted* to be found. The neighbors had called, hearing a general ruckus and screaming, and so the police came. When they broke down the door, they found him sitting at the table, sipping at a glass of *Cabernet*, grinning at the officers as they gawked at the ravaged bodies of his family seated around him, with plates of food set in front of them. He gave up without a fight, and has been living in Sub-basement M for the last year.
 
His name is Normann Elander."
 
Again, the doctor looked at me expectantly.
"Good God." was all I managed in reply. He laughed humorlessly.
 
"Better be speechless now. You'll need all the wit you can muster later."
***
His cell was at the end of the sub-basement's block. The doctor told me that the doors are reinforced steel with bulletproof glass, covered with a screen to block the view outside of their cells.
I took a breath.
The doctor looked nervous. "Now, before you go in-"
"Yes?"
"You should know why we called you in. Early efforts by Punishers were futile. The man seems to resist at all the others' attempts. He laughs at them! Maybe they don't use enough emotion..."
That was a valid point. A scientific study done sometime in the 70's proved that it wasn't simply the wit of the words. The degree of pain inflicted also relied on the emotion behind it.
"So?"
"You're different from the others. Background checks show that you are the opposite of a sadist. We think that you can actually make an impact. Provide a real punishment."
He turned to the door.
"So without further ado-"
The latches all slid open, remotely operated somewhere up above.
"With the best of luck-"
I wasn't listening. I slid the knob and opened.
"Come in, Punisher Lindberg. You've kept me waiting."
***
It all seemed so cliché. The scene was reminiscent of an American movie made about a century ago, called the Silence of the Lambs. A thick wall of bulletproof glass separated us in a room of five metres by nine. There was a grid of small holes in the glass to allow sound to pass through.
"Yes, sit down, sit down, Punisher Lindberg. I've been dying to see what you have in store."
"I prefer Mr. Lindberg."
"Yes, but I prefer Punisher Lindberg. That is what you are, after all. A Punisher."
He smiled contentedly through the glass. I was mildly irritated with him. His entitled attitude, his greying brown hair and chiseled face seemed to mock me. *Come now, Hans, you know how futile this is.*
"Now let me repeat myself, Punisher Lindberg - please take a seat. The folding chair is to your right." He gestured carelessly.
"I prefer to stand. "
"How stubbornly insolent! **I** decide what to call you and what you do in my house! Now, sit *down*."
I sat.
His face had remained the same throughout the whole exchange - smooth and amused. I wondered if that was the face he wore when murdering his victims.
He opened his mouth to talk, but I cut him off. "Hold on, Mr. Elander. I've seen the movies, but my job is to serve Justice. *not* to listen to a psychological lecture from a murderer."
Normann Elander laughed boisterously. "Well, be my *guest* then! I was only going to encourage you to go ahead." And he settled back in his chair, smirking at the corner of his mouth, looking at me as one would look at an irrational child.
I glared at him, anger coursing through my veins. I had never felt so much hate for a human is such a short amount of time. And it scared me.
Gesturing around at the spartan room around us, I said quietly, "Look at this place. I wonder if you could *sell* them on the idea of some decorations."
The seconds ticked by, and a line of sweat tracked its way down my neck. I counted five audible ticks from my watch before he started laughing uproariously.
"Ha! Ha! Ha! You're not the first one to try it out on me! The second Punisher, poor man, tried it *five times* to no avail! He eventually became so *frustrated*, he punched the glass."
Erlander stood suddenly, walking over to the glass, rubbing it at a spot about the height of his head.
"Broke his knuckles. What a sound it made."
He made cracking noises with his mouth. He relished it.
 
"Reminded me of my younger child."
 
My vision burned red hot. Fingers curled into fists.
 
I was then at my feet. The smash of the chair hitting the floor echoed throughout the room.
"Well, sounds like he wasn't *kidding* around then!" I yelled.
 
Likewise, my voice echoed throughout the room.
He flinched, then quickly composed his face. The devilish light in his eyes, however, were blown out.
"Such passion. No wonder they chose you to come, Punisher Lindberg."
"You think you're so smooth, don't you, Elander. Well, it's not going to erase anything. You *killed* your family!"
"Ah, yes. It's an astounding feeling of power that you get during the deed. The *planning* is almost as satisfactory."
 
He leaned in confidentially.
 
"If I did enough harm to the body, sometimes I could even grab some parts here and there. My family I had to enjoy... fresh. The others I pickled in jars."
 
My eyes grew with horror. He chuckled at my reaction.
I took a step forward. My emotions were channeled through my voice.
"Yeah, I guess you *relished* it!"
 
He gasped. It was like he had the wind knocked out of him. "You've got some fight in you." His eyes were narrowed up at me.
"You must have really *a-salt-ed* them!"
 
It was a short yell, a quick, voiced aspiration of pain, and yet it was music to my ears.
 
"Murderer, tell me more about this family *feud*!"
He was on the ground. Writhing. I loved it. The self-assured psycho who had been calmly directing me around was gone, replaced by this pathetic sack of pain.
"You know what your family was missing, though? Some *i'll-live* oil!"
 
The anguished scream echoed out the door and down the corridor.
 
My throat was tearing - my attacks were full-on screams, tearing through the air, tearing at him.
"Did you eat their clothes, as well? I hope not - who eats *table-wear*?"
 
His head made periodic, dull thuds as he smashed it against the stone wall.
 
"Tell me about the others, now - how did you guys me-"
 
But he was already unconscious. I turned, kicked away the chair, and stormed out the door for the elevator. "Feel it, psycho." I growled as I hit the button | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | “Got a new one for you Dave” said my supervisor handing me a manila folder. I open it up and glance briefly at the contents. Serial shoplifter with one count of assault.
“When?”
“He’s here now. Arrived about 20 minutes ago. He’s in room 8”. I nod, and get up. I go to room 8 via the coffee machine. On the front of the folder someone has stamped a big red “2” meaning this guy has two hours with me.
After grabbing a coffee I start running through some of the usuals in head. Punnishers are chosen for our innate resistance to horrible word play but even with the resistance we have to go through years of training till we can get to the point of being able to say even the stupidest puns in our heads without wincing. ‘What did the clock maker say when he threw his wares out the window? Watch out!’ was a good starting piece: so inevitable, so stupid, so inane that it barely caused a person to sweat. Repetition of stupid ditties like this kept me blunted to the effects of what I would have to do in that room.
I stop before the door, take a sip of my coffee, close my eyes and count to 3 before opening the door and going in. I look at the man in the room. He wasn’t anything special. White singlet, blue jeans, short hair. I sit down in front of, him and plop the folder on the desk. “Hello Mr” I glance at the file “Trout?” I stare at the name “Your last name is “Trout” and you thought it would be a good idea to shoplift did you?” He just stared at me. The whites of his eyes showing clearly, his hands gripping the table hard. He was already sweating.
This was going to be easy… or hard. Sometimes you got this, you got people where it was just so easy to have word plays made of their names. Sometimes you had to pull your punches to stop them from passing out.
Usually the way to work the sentence was to start slow and then work your way up so that the real pain came at the end. Ease them into it, so to say. Not this time. That would be just… too hard on him. For Mr Trout the ‘easy’ stuff would keep weaker men up for years. Poor, poor Mr Trout.
“I guess you just like swimming up-stream eh? Against the crowd?” he winced. I was impressed. That was terrible. “Oh well, let’s begin then. So you stole a pack of cigarettes from the convenience store that had a tracer label? Nothing smelled fishy to you?” he winced again. This time there was the slightest hint of a whimper. ”Not to worry, you might feel out to sea right now” another whimper, his cheeks were beginning to pale “but we’ll soon have you on the straight and minnow. I do beg your pardon I meant narrow there.”
Twenty minutes later a short, sharp shout was heard outside my interrogation room. This was followed by a longer wail as I pressed in. Forty minutes into our session there was a knock at the door and my supervisor poked his head in “Um, Dave, could I have a word please?” I nod and excuse myself.
“Yes boss”
“You might want to go a little easier on him mate. I mean, we don’t want a law suit or anything”
“Alright, but I had a really good one where I was going to mix up caveat and caviar” my supervisor paled “Fine… Fine alright.”
I went back into the room. Mr Trout had his head on the desk. His shirt was drenched in sweat and the smell in the air told me that he may have peed himself a little. Maybe the boss was right, Mr Trout had obviously had a tough life, no need to make it that much tougher.
| I never fit the stereotype of the Punisher. Most government-employed Punishers are huge, hulking ex-cons who've learned to adapt their bloodlust to a different form. The type you'd expect to see cracking their knuckles on some poor sap in an alley. It is yet another example of Nordic efficiency - the Swedish government plucks the promising ones right out of prison, to be recycled as Punishers.
I had the brains, of course - Punishers are typically well-versed, to some degree, in literature and wordplay. The problem was, sadism never appealed to me. I lived my life helping others as best I could, like a model citizen. Why the government ever hired me will forever remain a mystery.
Most of my days were light, inflicting only minor pains on cons. Most of the crimes I dealt with were petty theft and fools. They, quite literally, received nothing more than a slap on the wrist.
That is, until the 3rd of March, 2092.
***
As a Punisher, paperwork and legal issues make up the bulk of work. Only 5 days out of every month are reserved for Justice. As such, I stepped into the prison ready for eight hours of menial work. Instead, I was greeted by armoured security with no more than a "This way, Mr. Lindberg."
The firm hand on the upper arm, the wordless ushering, the dim elevator ride down through the sub-basements. Despite knowing that this could only be another job, I couldn't help but feel a growing knot of anxiety within my stomach. I'd never been down below the first-level basement. *Is this what it's like to be a criminal*, I mused, *before they never again see the light of day?*
The elevator doors slid, opening up to a dark, stone corridor that converged off into the darkness. The cells were sparse here, with at least ten metres between each door. Echoing from the distance came an anguished cry, petering out after a few seconds. I nervously glanced at the guards, but couldn't discern the expressions behind the helmet visors.
As the elevator doors closed behind us, a set of manual doors opened to our right. Out stepped a doctor, his occupation immediately evident by the white coat and the drawn lines on his face, which lit up with a crooked smile as he spotted us. Truth be told, it did little to reassure me.
"Ah! Mr. Lindberg, the newcomer! Welcome to Sub-basement M! I trust that you have no question?" He looked at me expectantly.
*No question?* "Um, yes, actually - what am I doing here?" I scratched my head for good measure.
His eyebrows shot up, and he turned to the two guards, who still had their hands around my arms. I shook them free. "Did Mr. Lindberg not receive the memo on his desk this morning?"
The guard to my left replied in baritone. "No sir, we were instructed to bring him directly down to the sub-basement."
"Couldn't be helped, I suppose." The doctor turned to me, and said, "You two get off scot free. Now, if Mr. Lindberg could please come with me. And I'm sorry for leaving you in the dark about all this."
He noticed his mistake too late, and I winced in pain. Voice trembling, he said, "That is to say, I'm sorry that we didn't make sure to let you know what was going on beforehand."
So that was how my day started, walking down the dim, stone corridor with the doctor, listening to the elevator rise and the long-off wails.
***
"His victims include multiple middle-aged women, some children of both genders, and lastly his wife and 2 daughters. All violently murdered. You may remember that it took 4 years to determine it was him - it was only until he murdered his family that we got him. It was like he *wanted* to be found. The neighbors had called, hearing a general ruckus and screaming, and so the police came. When they broke down the door, they found him sitting at the table, sipping at a glass of *Cabernet*, grinning at the officers as they gawked at the ravaged bodies of his family seated around him, with plates of food set in front of them. He gave up without a fight, and has been living in Sub-basement M for the last year.
 
His name is Normann Elander."
 
Again, the doctor looked at me expectantly.
"Good God." was all I managed in reply. He laughed humorlessly.
 
"Better be speechless now. You'll need all the wit you can muster later."
***
His cell was at the end of the sub-basement's block. The doctor told me that the doors are reinforced steel with bulletproof glass, covered with a screen to block the view outside of their cells.
I took a breath.
The doctor looked nervous. "Now, before you go in-"
"Yes?"
"You should know why we called you in. Early efforts by Punishers were futile. The man seems to resist at all the others' attempts. He laughs at them! Maybe they don't use enough emotion..."
That was a valid point. A scientific study done sometime in the 70's proved that it wasn't simply the wit of the words. The degree of pain inflicted also relied on the emotion behind it.
"So?"
"You're different from the others. Background checks show that you are the opposite of a sadist. We think that you can actually make an impact. Provide a real punishment."
He turned to the door.
"So without further ado-"
The latches all slid open, remotely operated somewhere up above.
"With the best of luck-"
I wasn't listening. I slid the knob and opened.
"Come in, Punisher Lindberg. You've kept me waiting."
***
It all seemed so cliché. The scene was reminiscent of an American movie made about a century ago, called the Silence of the Lambs. A thick wall of bulletproof glass separated us in a room of five metres by nine. There was a grid of small holes in the glass to allow sound to pass through.
"Yes, sit down, sit down, Punisher Lindberg. I've been dying to see what you have in store."
"I prefer Mr. Lindberg."
"Yes, but I prefer Punisher Lindberg. That is what you are, after all. A Punisher."
He smiled contentedly through the glass. I was mildly irritated with him. His entitled attitude, his greying brown hair and chiseled face seemed to mock me. *Come now, Hans, you know how futile this is.*
"Now let me repeat myself, Punisher Lindberg - please take a seat. The folding chair is to your right." He gestured carelessly.
"I prefer to stand. "
"How stubbornly insolent! **I** decide what to call you and what you do in my house! Now, sit *down*."
I sat.
His face had remained the same throughout the whole exchange - smooth and amused. I wondered if that was the face he wore when murdering his victims.
He opened his mouth to talk, but I cut him off. "Hold on, Mr. Elander. I've seen the movies, but my job is to serve Justice. *not* to listen to a psychological lecture from a murderer."
Normann Elander laughed boisterously. "Well, be my *guest* then! I was only going to encourage you to go ahead." And he settled back in his chair, smirking at the corner of his mouth, looking at me as one would look at an irrational child.
I glared at him, anger coursing through my veins. I had never felt so much hate for a human is such a short amount of time. And it scared me.
Gesturing around at the spartan room around us, I said quietly, "Look at this place. I wonder if you could *sell* them on the idea of some decorations."
The seconds ticked by, and a line of sweat tracked its way down my neck. I counted five audible ticks from my watch before he started laughing uproariously.
"Ha! Ha! Ha! You're not the first one to try it out on me! The second Punisher, poor man, tried it *five times* to no avail! He eventually became so *frustrated*, he punched the glass."
Erlander stood suddenly, walking over to the glass, rubbing it at a spot about the height of his head.
"Broke his knuckles. What a sound it made."
He made cracking noises with his mouth. He relished it.
 
"Reminded me of my younger child."
 
My vision burned red hot. Fingers curled into fists.
 
I was then at my feet. The smash of the chair hitting the floor echoed throughout the room.
"Well, sounds like he wasn't *kidding* around then!" I yelled.
 
Likewise, my voice echoed throughout the room.
He flinched, then quickly composed his face. The devilish light in his eyes, however, were blown out.
"Such passion. No wonder they chose you to come, Punisher Lindberg."
"You think you're so smooth, don't you, Elander. Well, it's not going to erase anything. You *killed* your family!"
"Ah, yes. It's an astounding feeling of power that you get during the deed. The *planning* is almost as satisfactory."
 
He leaned in confidentially.
 
"If I did enough harm to the body, sometimes I could even grab some parts here and there. My family I had to enjoy... fresh. The others I pickled in jars."
 
My eyes grew with horror. He chuckled at my reaction.
I took a step forward. My emotions were channeled through my voice.
"Yeah, I guess you *relished* it!"
 
He gasped. It was like he had the wind knocked out of him. "You've got some fight in you." His eyes were narrowed up at me.
"You must have really *a-salt-ed* them!"
 
It was a short yell, a quick, voiced aspiration of pain, and yet it was music to my ears.
 
"Murderer, tell me more about this family *feud*!"
He was on the ground. Writhing. I loved it. The self-assured psycho who had been calmly directing me around was gone, replaced by this pathetic sack of pain.
"You know what your family was missing, though? Some *i'll-live* oil!"
 
The anguished scream echoed out the door and down the corridor.
 
My throat was tearing - my attacks were full-on screams, tearing through the air, tearing at him.
"Did you eat their clothes, as well? I hope not - who eats *table-wear*?"
 
His head made periodic, dull thuds as he smashed it against the stone wall.
 
"Tell me about the others, now - how did you guys me-"
 
But he was already unconscious. I turned, kicked away the chair, and stormed out the door for the elevator. "Feel it, psycho." I growled as I hit the button | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | The room was dark, only a slight spot of light from a lamp above illuminated not more than four feet around him.
He sat in a stainless steel chair at a stainless steal desk. All grey. Sweat dripping from his forehead. His eyes darted around the room, as if it would help him see it coming from the dark.
This is how they usually behaved when they knew what was coming. This case was over before it began.
Hello Mr. Ginnings. Do you know who I am?
Mr. Ginnigns looked around, but couldn't see the man. He could only focus on the origin if his voice.
From your reaction it seems like you do, and you know what I do best.
After all, it's in the name.
Mr. Ginnings clamped his teeth together, his eyes popping out from containing the physical pain from such a bad joke.
From the shadow a figure approached, as he took place at the other side of the desk, his face was lit. A young man, mid-twenties, handsome fellow.
it seems you have quite a big file on you, it looks like this is going to be an easy one...
PLEASE, THIS IS NOT NECESSARY! I WANT MY ATTORNEY!
Well, I like to say, as long as I use a big file to put someone behind bars, instead of them using one to break out.
Ginnigs buckled in pain.
AAAAAAHHHHHH STOP IT PLEASE! I WANT MY ATTORNEY!
'There is no attorney here Mr. Ginnings, there is only pain'
So, first on the list, January 12th, you steal a car from the very dealership you work at... Falling into old habits aren't we? Or did you forget your time in the Bronx? You were doing so well too, you straightened out, got this job, worked like a normal citizen for 10 years. So what made you suddenly go back to that?
Ginnings whimpered, eyes closed. He truly was between a rock and a car'd place.
I cant tell you man... I had too... I had no choice.
Well Mr Dopeprfield... I have been on this job long enough to know that people tend to fall into old habits. And your habit was legend. You were one of the best thiefs! And now this! HELL, I COULD TURN AROUND, TURN BACK AND YOUR WOULD'VE STOLEN THIS CHAIR AND DESK! BUT THAT WOULD BE PRETTY EASY WOULDN'T IT, SINCE THEY ARE MADE OF STEAL!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH OK OK, I will TELL YOUUU!
START TALKING!
My old buddies.. they contacted me. I had to do this job for them or otherwise.. people I love would get hurt.
Mr Ginnings, if you agree to help us, we can get them all. This is far bigger than you or me.
Mr. Ginnings looked at the Punisher, fear in his eyes.
Nononono please, I will only talk about this, I won't rat them out!
Well, it seems like we have a long night ahead of us, and you know..
This is only the BEGINNINGS!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooo
3 days later, the Red Bronx gang was found. Murdered in their homes, all died of severe physical distress caused by internal pain. They were found along with 1 ton of cocaine, 5 stolen cars in the back parking lot, and a large stash of guns. An entire criminal organisation, busted overnight.
As he walked away, he knew he would walk this cursed part of earth
for a long time, since he was the only man capable of doing this job.
He was
the PUNisher
| I never fit the stereotype of the Punisher. Most government-employed Punishers are huge, hulking ex-cons who've learned to adapt their bloodlust to a different form. The type you'd expect to see cracking their knuckles on some poor sap in an alley. It is yet another example of Nordic efficiency - the Swedish government plucks the promising ones right out of prison, to be recycled as Punishers.
I had the brains, of course - Punishers are typically well-versed, to some degree, in literature and wordplay. The problem was, sadism never appealed to me. I lived my life helping others as best I could, like a model citizen. Why the government ever hired me will forever remain a mystery.
Most of my days were light, inflicting only minor pains on cons. Most of the crimes I dealt with were petty theft and fools. They, quite literally, received nothing more than a slap on the wrist.
That is, until the 3rd of March, 2092.
***
As a Punisher, paperwork and legal issues make up the bulk of work. Only 5 days out of every month are reserved for Justice. As such, I stepped into the prison ready for eight hours of menial work. Instead, I was greeted by armoured security with no more than a "This way, Mr. Lindberg."
The firm hand on the upper arm, the wordless ushering, the dim elevator ride down through the sub-basements. Despite knowing that this could only be another job, I couldn't help but feel a growing knot of anxiety within my stomach. I'd never been down below the first-level basement. *Is this what it's like to be a criminal*, I mused, *before they never again see the light of day?*
The elevator doors slid, opening up to a dark, stone corridor that converged off into the darkness. The cells were sparse here, with at least ten metres between each door. Echoing from the distance came an anguished cry, petering out after a few seconds. I nervously glanced at the guards, but couldn't discern the expressions behind the helmet visors.
As the elevator doors closed behind us, a set of manual doors opened to our right. Out stepped a doctor, his occupation immediately evident by the white coat and the drawn lines on his face, which lit up with a crooked smile as he spotted us. Truth be told, it did little to reassure me.
"Ah! Mr. Lindberg, the newcomer! Welcome to Sub-basement M! I trust that you have no question?" He looked at me expectantly.
*No question?* "Um, yes, actually - what am I doing here?" I scratched my head for good measure.
His eyebrows shot up, and he turned to the two guards, who still had their hands around my arms. I shook them free. "Did Mr. Lindberg not receive the memo on his desk this morning?"
The guard to my left replied in baritone. "No sir, we were instructed to bring him directly down to the sub-basement."
"Couldn't be helped, I suppose." The doctor turned to me, and said, "You two get off scot free. Now, if Mr. Lindberg could please come with me. And I'm sorry for leaving you in the dark about all this."
He noticed his mistake too late, and I winced in pain. Voice trembling, he said, "That is to say, I'm sorry that we didn't make sure to let you know what was going on beforehand."
So that was how my day started, walking down the dim, stone corridor with the doctor, listening to the elevator rise and the long-off wails.
***
"His victims include multiple middle-aged women, some children of both genders, and lastly his wife and 2 daughters. All violently murdered. You may remember that it took 4 years to determine it was him - it was only until he murdered his family that we got him. It was like he *wanted* to be found. The neighbors had called, hearing a general ruckus and screaming, and so the police came. When they broke down the door, they found him sitting at the table, sipping at a glass of *Cabernet*, grinning at the officers as they gawked at the ravaged bodies of his family seated around him, with plates of food set in front of them. He gave up without a fight, and has been living in Sub-basement M for the last year.
 
His name is Normann Elander."
 
Again, the doctor looked at me expectantly.
"Good God." was all I managed in reply. He laughed humorlessly.
 
"Better be speechless now. You'll need all the wit you can muster later."
***
His cell was at the end of the sub-basement's block. The doctor told me that the doors are reinforced steel with bulletproof glass, covered with a screen to block the view outside of their cells.
I took a breath.
The doctor looked nervous. "Now, before you go in-"
"Yes?"
"You should know why we called you in. Early efforts by Punishers were futile. The man seems to resist at all the others' attempts. He laughs at them! Maybe they don't use enough emotion..."
That was a valid point. A scientific study done sometime in the 70's proved that it wasn't simply the wit of the words. The degree of pain inflicted also relied on the emotion behind it.
"So?"
"You're different from the others. Background checks show that you are the opposite of a sadist. We think that you can actually make an impact. Provide a real punishment."
He turned to the door.
"So without further ado-"
The latches all slid open, remotely operated somewhere up above.
"With the best of luck-"
I wasn't listening. I slid the knob and opened.
"Come in, Punisher Lindberg. You've kept me waiting."
***
It all seemed so cliché. The scene was reminiscent of an American movie made about a century ago, called the Silence of the Lambs. A thick wall of bulletproof glass separated us in a room of five metres by nine. There was a grid of small holes in the glass to allow sound to pass through.
"Yes, sit down, sit down, Punisher Lindberg. I've been dying to see what you have in store."
"I prefer Mr. Lindberg."
"Yes, but I prefer Punisher Lindberg. That is what you are, after all. A Punisher."
He smiled contentedly through the glass. I was mildly irritated with him. His entitled attitude, his greying brown hair and chiseled face seemed to mock me. *Come now, Hans, you know how futile this is.*
"Now let me repeat myself, Punisher Lindberg - please take a seat. The folding chair is to your right." He gestured carelessly.
"I prefer to stand. "
"How stubbornly insolent! **I** decide what to call you and what you do in my house! Now, sit *down*."
I sat.
His face had remained the same throughout the whole exchange - smooth and amused. I wondered if that was the face he wore when murdering his victims.
He opened his mouth to talk, but I cut him off. "Hold on, Mr. Elander. I've seen the movies, but my job is to serve Justice. *not* to listen to a psychological lecture from a murderer."
Normann Elander laughed boisterously. "Well, be my *guest* then! I was only going to encourage you to go ahead." And he settled back in his chair, smirking at the corner of his mouth, looking at me as one would look at an irrational child.
I glared at him, anger coursing through my veins. I had never felt so much hate for a human is such a short amount of time. And it scared me.
Gesturing around at the spartan room around us, I said quietly, "Look at this place. I wonder if you could *sell* them on the idea of some decorations."
The seconds ticked by, and a line of sweat tracked its way down my neck. I counted five audible ticks from my watch before he started laughing uproariously.
"Ha! Ha! Ha! You're not the first one to try it out on me! The second Punisher, poor man, tried it *five times* to no avail! He eventually became so *frustrated*, he punched the glass."
Erlander stood suddenly, walking over to the glass, rubbing it at a spot about the height of his head.
"Broke his knuckles. What a sound it made."
He made cracking noises with his mouth. He relished it.
 
"Reminded me of my younger child."
 
My vision burned red hot. Fingers curled into fists.
 
I was then at my feet. The smash of the chair hitting the floor echoed throughout the room.
"Well, sounds like he wasn't *kidding* around then!" I yelled.
 
Likewise, my voice echoed throughout the room.
He flinched, then quickly composed his face. The devilish light in his eyes, however, were blown out.
"Such passion. No wonder they chose you to come, Punisher Lindberg."
"You think you're so smooth, don't you, Elander. Well, it's not going to erase anything. You *killed* your family!"
"Ah, yes. It's an astounding feeling of power that you get during the deed. The *planning* is almost as satisfactory."
 
He leaned in confidentially.
 
"If I did enough harm to the body, sometimes I could even grab some parts here and there. My family I had to enjoy... fresh. The others I pickled in jars."
 
My eyes grew with horror. He chuckled at my reaction.
I took a step forward. My emotions were channeled through my voice.
"Yeah, I guess you *relished* it!"
 
He gasped. It was like he had the wind knocked out of him. "You've got some fight in you." His eyes were narrowed up at me.
"You must have really *a-salt-ed* them!"
 
It was a short yell, a quick, voiced aspiration of pain, and yet it was music to my ears.
 
"Murderer, tell me more about this family *feud*!"
He was on the ground. Writhing. I loved it. The self-assured psycho who had been calmly directing me around was gone, replaced by this pathetic sack of pain.
"You know what your family was missing, though? Some *i'll-live* oil!"
 
The anguished scream echoed out the door and down the corridor.
 
My throat was tearing - my attacks were full-on screams, tearing through the air, tearing at him.
"Did you eat their clothes, as well? I hope not - who eats *table-wear*?"
 
His head made periodic, dull thuds as he smashed it against the stone wall.
 
"Tell me about the others, now - how did you guys me-"
 
But he was already unconscious. I turned, kicked away the chair, and stormed out the door for the elevator. "Feel it, psycho." I growled as I hit the button | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | Today was going to be a good day. As the official punisher for the sixth ward, Gene took a particular joy in his job. Watching the convicted squirm as he began his routine excited him. Watching the squirms turn to cries of agony as he continued his carefully crafted wordplay procedure thrilled him.
Today, though, was special. The man he was charged with punishing today was one of the most dangerous men in the ward and for the first time in history, sentenced to death by punning. This would be difficult. Of course, punning causes immense physical discomfort, and when used by a skilled punisher like Gene, intense pain. But to actually cause a person so much pain their heart stops? Well, this would require a special tool.
Gene's mood was convivial as he walked into the chamber, with a song whistling from his lips and a skip in his step. The contrast between his attitude and the man strapped to the chair was startling.
"You think you can punish me to death? It's never been done! You're a fool, but...I invite the challenge." The man narrowed his eyes and sneered at Gene.
Gene continued to whistle and slowly pulled a laptop out of his bag.
"What...what's this for?" The man seemed to be a bit distressed now.
Gene deftly opened the lid and quickly tapped out a few keystrokes. The man began sweating.
Gene stopped whistling and slowly turned the screen around. The full breadth of his punishment began to come into focus for the man.
"Is...is that...no...you can't...that's not what I think it is...is it?" The man's confidence had quickly evaporated into pure terror.
Gene replied, with no particularly inflection in his voice. "Yes, that's a reddit thread. And no, there's no [serious] tag. Begin reading."
Gene stood up and walked out, hearing the man crying in agony behind him.
Today was a good day. | I never fit the stereotype of the Punisher. Most government-employed Punishers are huge, hulking ex-cons who've learned to adapt their bloodlust to a different form. The type you'd expect to see cracking their knuckles on some poor sap in an alley. It is yet another example of Nordic efficiency - the Swedish government plucks the promising ones right out of prison, to be recycled as Punishers.
I had the brains, of course - Punishers are typically well-versed, to some degree, in literature and wordplay. The problem was, sadism never appealed to me. I lived my life helping others as best I could, like a model citizen. Why the government ever hired me will forever remain a mystery.
Most of my days were light, inflicting only minor pains on cons. Most of the crimes I dealt with were petty theft and fools. They, quite literally, received nothing more than a slap on the wrist.
That is, until the 3rd of March, 2092.
***
As a Punisher, paperwork and legal issues make up the bulk of work. Only 5 days out of every month are reserved for Justice. As such, I stepped into the prison ready for eight hours of menial work. Instead, I was greeted by armoured security with no more than a "This way, Mr. Lindberg."
The firm hand on the upper arm, the wordless ushering, the dim elevator ride down through the sub-basements. Despite knowing that this could only be another job, I couldn't help but feel a growing knot of anxiety within my stomach. I'd never been down below the first-level basement. *Is this what it's like to be a criminal*, I mused, *before they never again see the light of day?*
The elevator doors slid, opening up to a dark, stone corridor that converged off into the darkness. The cells were sparse here, with at least ten metres between each door. Echoing from the distance came an anguished cry, petering out after a few seconds. I nervously glanced at the guards, but couldn't discern the expressions behind the helmet visors.
As the elevator doors closed behind us, a set of manual doors opened to our right. Out stepped a doctor, his occupation immediately evident by the white coat and the drawn lines on his face, which lit up with a crooked smile as he spotted us. Truth be told, it did little to reassure me.
"Ah! Mr. Lindberg, the newcomer! Welcome to Sub-basement M! I trust that you have no question?" He looked at me expectantly.
*No question?* "Um, yes, actually - what am I doing here?" I scratched my head for good measure.
His eyebrows shot up, and he turned to the two guards, who still had their hands around my arms. I shook them free. "Did Mr. Lindberg not receive the memo on his desk this morning?"
The guard to my left replied in baritone. "No sir, we were instructed to bring him directly down to the sub-basement."
"Couldn't be helped, I suppose." The doctor turned to me, and said, "You two get off scot free. Now, if Mr. Lindberg could please come with me. And I'm sorry for leaving you in the dark about all this."
He noticed his mistake too late, and I winced in pain. Voice trembling, he said, "That is to say, I'm sorry that we didn't make sure to let you know what was going on beforehand."
So that was how my day started, walking down the dim, stone corridor with the doctor, listening to the elevator rise and the long-off wails.
***
"His victims include multiple middle-aged women, some children of both genders, and lastly his wife and 2 daughters. All violently murdered. You may remember that it took 4 years to determine it was him - it was only until he murdered his family that we got him. It was like he *wanted* to be found. The neighbors had called, hearing a general ruckus and screaming, and so the police came. When they broke down the door, they found him sitting at the table, sipping at a glass of *Cabernet*, grinning at the officers as they gawked at the ravaged bodies of his family seated around him, with plates of food set in front of them. He gave up without a fight, and has been living in Sub-basement M for the last year.
 
His name is Normann Elander."
 
Again, the doctor looked at me expectantly.
"Good God." was all I managed in reply. He laughed humorlessly.
 
"Better be speechless now. You'll need all the wit you can muster later."
***
His cell was at the end of the sub-basement's block. The doctor told me that the doors are reinforced steel with bulletproof glass, covered with a screen to block the view outside of their cells.
I took a breath.
The doctor looked nervous. "Now, before you go in-"
"Yes?"
"You should know why we called you in. Early efforts by Punishers were futile. The man seems to resist at all the others' attempts. He laughs at them! Maybe they don't use enough emotion..."
That was a valid point. A scientific study done sometime in the 70's proved that it wasn't simply the wit of the words. The degree of pain inflicted also relied on the emotion behind it.
"So?"
"You're different from the others. Background checks show that you are the opposite of a sadist. We think that you can actually make an impact. Provide a real punishment."
He turned to the door.
"So without further ado-"
The latches all slid open, remotely operated somewhere up above.
"With the best of luck-"
I wasn't listening. I slid the knob and opened.
"Come in, Punisher Lindberg. You've kept me waiting."
***
It all seemed so cliché. The scene was reminiscent of an American movie made about a century ago, called the Silence of the Lambs. A thick wall of bulletproof glass separated us in a room of five metres by nine. There was a grid of small holes in the glass to allow sound to pass through.
"Yes, sit down, sit down, Punisher Lindberg. I've been dying to see what you have in store."
"I prefer Mr. Lindberg."
"Yes, but I prefer Punisher Lindberg. That is what you are, after all. A Punisher."
He smiled contentedly through the glass. I was mildly irritated with him. His entitled attitude, his greying brown hair and chiseled face seemed to mock me. *Come now, Hans, you know how futile this is.*
"Now let me repeat myself, Punisher Lindberg - please take a seat. The folding chair is to your right." He gestured carelessly.
"I prefer to stand. "
"How stubbornly insolent! **I** decide what to call you and what you do in my house! Now, sit *down*."
I sat.
His face had remained the same throughout the whole exchange - smooth and amused. I wondered if that was the face he wore when murdering his victims.
He opened his mouth to talk, but I cut him off. "Hold on, Mr. Elander. I've seen the movies, but my job is to serve Justice. *not* to listen to a psychological lecture from a murderer."
Normann Elander laughed boisterously. "Well, be my *guest* then! I was only going to encourage you to go ahead." And he settled back in his chair, smirking at the corner of his mouth, looking at me as one would look at an irrational child.
I glared at him, anger coursing through my veins. I had never felt so much hate for a human is such a short amount of time. And it scared me.
Gesturing around at the spartan room around us, I said quietly, "Look at this place. I wonder if you could *sell* them on the idea of some decorations."
The seconds ticked by, and a line of sweat tracked its way down my neck. I counted five audible ticks from my watch before he started laughing uproariously.
"Ha! Ha! Ha! You're not the first one to try it out on me! The second Punisher, poor man, tried it *five times* to no avail! He eventually became so *frustrated*, he punched the glass."
Erlander stood suddenly, walking over to the glass, rubbing it at a spot about the height of his head.
"Broke his knuckles. What a sound it made."
He made cracking noises with his mouth. He relished it.
 
"Reminded me of my younger child."
 
My vision burned red hot. Fingers curled into fists.
 
I was then at my feet. The smash of the chair hitting the floor echoed throughout the room.
"Well, sounds like he wasn't *kidding* around then!" I yelled.
 
Likewise, my voice echoed throughout the room.
He flinched, then quickly composed his face. The devilish light in his eyes, however, were blown out.
"Such passion. No wonder they chose you to come, Punisher Lindberg."
"You think you're so smooth, don't you, Elander. Well, it's not going to erase anything. You *killed* your family!"
"Ah, yes. It's an astounding feeling of power that you get during the deed. The *planning* is almost as satisfactory."
 
He leaned in confidentially.
 
"If I did enough harm to the body, sometimes I could even grab some parts here and there. My family I had to enjoy... fresh. The others I pickled in jars."
 
My eyes grew with horror. He chuckled at my reaction.
I took a step forward. My emotions were channeled through my voice.
"Yeah, I guess you *relished* it!"
 
He gasped. It was like he had the wind knocked out of him. "You've got some fight in you." His eyes were narrowed up at me.
"You must have really *a-salt-ed* them!"
 
It was a short yell, a quick, voiced aspiration of pain, and yet it was music to my ears.
 
"Murderer, tell me more about this family *feud*!"
He was on the ground. Writhing. I loved it. The self-assured psycho who had been calmly directing me around was gone, replaced by this pathetic sack of pain.
"You know what your family was missing, though? Some *i'll-live* oil!"
 
The anguished scream echoed out the door and down the corridor.
 
My throat was tearing - my attacks were full-on screams, tearing through the air, tearing at him.
"Did you eat their clothes, as well? I hope not - who eats *table-wear*?"
 
His head made periodic, dull thuds as he smashed it against the stone wall.
 
"Tell me about the others, now - how did you guys me-"
 
But he was already unconscious. I turned, kicked away the chair, and stormed out the door for the elevator. "Feel it, psycho." I growled as I hit the button | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | *"What do you mean, probation?"*
"Just what I said. Until we deal with the lawsuit, you're just going to have to cool your heels. Hey, look on the bright side, at least you've got paid leave while we sort all this out."
*"But I just don't understand! I did everything I'm supposed to do!"*
"According to the suit though, that's the problem. You did it a little too well. It's right there in our charter - You're not supposed to cause lasting harm. The plaintiff claims, though, that while spasming from a particularly brutal barrage of fish puns, they twisted their neck in a way that's caused lasting spinal damage. They claim their doctor says they could be in pain for months, if not years."
*"Wait! You mean..."*
"I'm afraid so. They're suing you, and by extension, our entire agency, for quiplash." | I never fit the stereotype of the Punisher. Most government-employed Punishers are huge, hulking ex-cons who've learned to adapt their bloodlust to a different form. The type you'd expect to see cracking their knuckles on some poor sap in an alley. It is yet another example of Nordic efficiency - the Swedish government plucks the promising ones right out of prison, to be recycled as Punishers.
I had the brains, of course - Punishers are typically well-versed, to some degree, in literature and wordplay. The problem was, sadism never appealed to me. I lived my life helping others as best I could, like a model citizen. Why the government ever hired me will forever remain a mystery.
Most of my days were light, inflicting only minor pains on cons. Most of the crimes I dealt with were petty theft and fools. They, quite literally, received nothing more than a slap on the wrist.
That is, until the 3rd of March, 2092.
***
As a Punisher, paperwork and legal issues make up the bulk of work. Only 5 days out of every month are reserved for Justice. As such, I stepped into the prison ready for eight hours of menial work. Instead, I was greeted by armoured security with no more than a "This way, Mr. Lindberg."
The firm hand on the upper arm, the wordless ushering, the dim elevator ride down through the sub-basements. Despite knowing that this could only be another job, I couldn't help but feel a growing knot of anxiety within my stomach. I'd never been down below the first-level basement. *Is this what it's like to be a criminal*, I mused, *before they never again see the light of day?*
The elevator doors slid, opening up to a dark, stone corridor that converged off into the darkness. The cells were sparse here, with at least ten metres between each door. Echoing from the distance came an anguished cry, petering out after a few seconds. I nervously glanced at the guards, but couldn't discern the expressions behind the helmet visors.
As the elevator doors closed behind us, a set of manual doors opened to our right. Out stepped a doctor, his occupation immediately evident by the white coat and the drawn lines on his face, which lit up with a crooked smile as he spotted us. Truth be told, it did little to reassure me.
"Ah! Mr. Lindberg, the newcomer! Welcome to Sub-basement M! I trust that you have no question?" He looked at me expectantly.
*No question?* "Um, yes, actually - what am I doing here?" I scratched my head for good measure.
His eyebrows shot up, and he turned to the two guards, who still had their hands around my arms. I shook them free. "Did Mr. Lindberg not receive the memo on his desk this morning?"
The guard to my left replied in baritone. "No sir, we were instructed to bring him directly down to the sub-basement."
"Couldn't be helped, I suppose." The doctor turned to me, and said, "You two get off scot free. Now, if Mr. Lindberg could please come with me. And I'm sorry for leaving you in the dark about all this."
He noticed his mistake too late, and I winced in pain. Voice trembling, he said, "That is to say, I'm sorry that we didn't make sure to let you know what was going on beforehand."
So that was how my day started, walking down the dim, stone corridor with the doctor, listening to the elevator rise and the long-off wails.
***
"His victims include multiple middle-aged women, some children of both genders, and lastly his wife and 2 daughters. All violently murdered. You may remember that it took 4 years to determine it was him - it was only until he murdered his family that we got him. It was like he *wanted* to be found. The neighbors had called, hearing a general ruckus and screaming, and so the police came. When they broke down the door, they found him sitting at the table, sipping at a glass of *Cabernet*, grinning at the officers as they gawked at the ravaged bodies of his family seated around him, with plates of food set in front of them. He gave up without a fight, and has been living in Sub-basement M for the last year.
 
His name is Normann Elander."
 
Again, the doctor looked at me expectantly.
"Good God." was all I managed in reply. He laughed humorlessly.
 
"Better be speechless now. You'll need all the wit you can muster later."
***
His cell was at the end of the sub-basement's block. The doctor told me that the doors are reinforced steel with bulletproof glass, covered with a screen to block the view outside of their cells.
I took a breath.
The doctor looked nervous. "Now, before you go in-"
"Yes?"
"You should know why we called you in. Early efforts by Punishers were futile. The man seems to resist at all the others' attempts. He laughs at them! Maybe they don't use enough emotion..."
That was a valid point. A scientific study done sometime in the 70's proved that it wasn't simply the wit of the words. The degree of pain inflicted also relied on the emotion behind it.
"So?"
"You're different from the others. Background checks show that you are the opposite of a sadist. We think that you can actually make an impact. Provide a real punishment."
He turned to the door.
"So without further ado-"
The latches all slid open, remotely operated somewhere up above.
"With the best of luck-"
I wasn't listening. I slid the knob and opened.
"Come in, Punisher Lindberg. You've kept me waiting."
***
It all seemed so cliché. The scene was reminiscent of an American movie made about a century ago, called the Silence of the Lambs. A thick wall of bulletproof glass separated us in a room of five metres by nine. There was a grid of small holes in the glass to allow sound to pass through.
"Yes, sit down, sit down, Punisher Lindberg. I've been dying to see what you have in store."
"I prefer Mr. Lindberg."
"Yes, but I prefer Punisher Lindberg. That is what you are, after all. A Punisher."
He smiled contentedly through the glass. I was mildly irritated with him. His entitled attitude, his greying brown hair and chiseled face seemed to mock me. *Come now, Hans, you know how futile this is.*
"Now let me repeat myself, Punisher Lindberg - please take a seat. The folding chair is to your right." He gestured carelessly.
"I prefer to stand. "
"How stubbornly insolent! **I** decide what to call you and what you do in my house! Now, sit *down*."
I sat.
His face had remained the same throughout the whole exchange - smooth and amused. I wondered if that was the face he wore when murdering his victims.
He opened his mouth to talk, but I cut him off. "Hold on, Mr. Elander. I've seen the movies, but my job is to serve Justice. *not* to listen to a psychological lecture from a murderer."
Normann Elander laughed boisterously. "Well, be my *guest* then! I was only going to encourage you to go ahead." And he settled back in his chair, smirking at the corner of his mouth, looking at me as one would look at an irrational child.
I glared at him, anger coursing through my veins. I had never felt so much hate for a human is such a short amount of time. And it scared me.
Gesturing around at the spartan room around us, I said quietly, "Look at this place. I wonder if you could *sell* them on the idea of some decorations."
The seconds ticked by, and a line of sweat tracked its way down my neck. I counted five audible ticks from my watch before he started laughing uproariously.
"Ha! Ha! Ha! You're not the first one to try it out on me! The second Punisher, poor man, tried it *five times* to no avail! He eventually became so *frustrated*, he punched the glass."
Erlander stood suddenly, walking over to the glass, rubbing it at a spot about the height of his head.
"Broke his knuckles. What a sound it made."
He made cracking noises with his mouth. He relished it.
 
"Reminded me of my younger child."
 
My vision burned red hot. Fingers curled into fists.
 
I was then at my feet. The smash of the chair hitting the floor echoed throughout the room.
"Well, sounds like he wasn't *kidding* around then!" I yelled.
 
Likewise, my voice echoed throughout the room.
He flinched, then quickly composed his face. The devilish light in his eyes, however, were blown out.
"Such passion. No wonder they chose you to come, Punisher Lindberg."
"You think you're so smooth, don't you, Elander. Well, it's not going to erase anything. You *killed* your family!"
"Ah, yes. It's an astounding feeling of power that you get during the deed. The *planning* is almost as satisfactory."
 
He leaned in confidentially.
 
"If I did enough harm to the body, sometimes I could even grab some parts here and there. My family I had to enjoy... fresh. The others I pickled in jars."
 
My eyes grew with horror. He chuckled at my reaction.
I took a step forward. My emotions were channeled through my voice.
"Yeah, I guess you *relished* it!"
 
He gasped. It was like he had the wind knocked out of him. "You've got some fight in you." His eyes were narrowed up at me.
"You must have really *a-salt-ed* them!"
 
It was a short yell, a quick, voiced aspiration of pain, and yet it was music to my ears.
 
"Murderer, tell me more about this family *feud*!"
He was on the ground. Writhing. I loved it. The self-assured psycho who had been calmly directing me around was gone, replaced by this pathetic sack of pain.
"You know what your family was missing, though? Some *i'll-live* oil!"
 
The anguished scream echoed out the door and down the corridor.
 
My throat was tearing - my attacks were full-on screams, tearing through the air, tearing at him.
"Did you eat their clothes, as well? I hope not - who eats *table-wear*?"
 
His head made periodic, dull thuds as he smashed it against the stone wall.
 
"Tell me about the others, now - how did you guys me-"
 
But he was already unconscious. I turned, kicked away the chair, and stormed out the door for the elevator. "Feel it, psycho." I growled as I hit the button | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | “Got a new one for you Dave” said my supervisor handing me a manila folder. I open it up and glance briefly at the contents. Serial shoplifter with one count of assault.
“When?”
“He’s here now. Arrived about 20 minutes ago. He’s in room 8”. I nod, and get up. I go to room 8 via the coffee machine. On the front of the folder someone has stamped a big red “2” meaning this guy has two hours with me.
After grabbing a coffee I start running through some of the usuals in head. Punnishers are chosen for our innate resistance to horrible word play but even with the resistance we have to go through years of training till we can get to the point of being able to say even the stupidest puns in our heads without wincing. ‘What did the clock maker say when he threw his wares out the window? Watch out!’ was a good starting piece: so inevitable, so stupid, so inane that it barely caused a person to sweat. Repetition of stupid ditties like this kept me blunted to the effects of what I would have to do in that room.
I stop before the door, take a sip of my coffee, close my eyes and count to 3 before opening the door and going in. I look at the man in the room. He wasn’t anything special. White singlet, blue jeans, short hair. I sit down in front of, him and plop the folder on the desk. “Hello Mr” I glance at the file “Trout?” I stare at the name “Your last name is “Trout” and you thought it would be a good idea to shoplift did you?” He just stared at me. The whites of his eyes showing clearly, his hands gripping the table hard. He was already sweating.
This was going to be easy… or hard. Sometimes you got this, you got people where it was just so easy to have word plays made of their names. Sometimes you had to pull your punches to stop them from passing out.
Usually the way to work the sentence was to start slow and then work your way up so that the real pain came at the end. Ease them into it, so to say. Not this time. That would be just… too hard on him. For Mr Trout the ‘easy’ stuff would keep weaker men up for years. Poor, poor Mr Trout.
“I guess you just like swimming up-stream eh? Against the crowd?” he winced. I was impressed. That was terrible. “Oh well, let’s begin then. So you stole a pack of cigarettes from the convenience store that had a tracer label? Nothing smelled fishy to you?” he winced again. This time there was the slightest hint of a whimper. ”Not to worry, you might feel out to sea right now” another whimper, his cheeks were beginning to pale “but we’ll soon have you on the straight and minnow. I do beg your pardon I meant narrow there.”
Twenty minutes later a short, sharp shout was heard outside my interrogation room. This was followed by a longer wail as I pressed in. Forty minutes into our session there was a knock at the door and my supervisor poked his head in “Um, Dave, could I have a word please?” I nod and excuse myself.
“Yes boss”
“You might want to go a little easier on him mate. I mean, we don’t want a law suit or anything”
“Alright, but I had a really good one where I was going to mix up caveat and caviar” my supervisor paled “Fine… Fine alright.”
I went back into the room. Mr Trout had his head on the desk. His shirt was drenched in sweat and the smell in the air told me that he may have peed himself a little. Maybe the boss was right, Mr Trout had obviously had a tough life, no need to make it that much tougher.
| It was dark and stormy night. I watched as the drug dealer slowly started breaking. This always happened. My momma raised me to make sure of it. I open my mouth, and his face registering a small amount of pain due to my extremely good wordplay I used. He needed a break, after all. I punted them to him, one after another, slowly worsening the blow. Us punishers had a sort of... immunity to the worst kind of high comedy. Sometimes the victims even laughed.
This piece of trash was no exception. Tears were welling in his eyes at this point, and I was only getting started. "So, what forced you to **deal** with all of this? Did you even consider the **con**sequences? You ripped off addicts, and you know what? They came to our out of **state**ion." These were getting worse by the minute, and he knew that soon the dealer would start screaming in agony. He couldn't wait until he would see that.
"So, how about we **blaze** you up a comedy chair?"
That was it, the dealer had too much. | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | The room was dark, only a slight spot of light from a lamp above illuminated not more than four feet around him.
He sat in a stainless steel chair at a stainless steal desk. All grey. Sweat dripping from his forehead. His eyes darted around the room, as if it would help him see it coming from the dark.
This is how they usually behaved when they knew what was coming. This case was over before it began.
Hello Mr. Ginnings. Do you know who I am?
Mr. Ginnigns looked around, but couldn't see the man. He could only focus on the origin if his voice.
From your reaction it seems like you do, and you know what I do best.
After all, it's in the name.
Mr. Ginnings clamped his teeth together, his eyes popping out from containing the physical pain from such a bad joke.
From the shadow a figure approached, as he took place at the other side of the desk, his face was lit. A young man, mid-twenties, handsome fellow.
it seems you have quite a big file on you, it looks like this is going to be an easy one...
PLEASE, THIS IS NOT NECESSARY! I WANT MY ATTORNEY!
Well, I like to say, as long as I use a big file to put someone behind bars, instead of them using one to break out.
Ginnigs buckled in pain.
AAAAAAHHHHHH STOP IT PLEASE! I WANT MY ATTORNEY!
'There is no attorney here Mr. Ginnings, there is only pain'
So, first on the list, January 12th, you steal a car from the very dealership you work at... Falling into old habits aren't we? Or did you forget your time in the Bronx? You were doing so well too, you straightened out, got this job, worked like a normal citizen for 10 years. So what made you suddenly go back to that?
Ginnings whimpered, eyes closed. He truly was between a rock and a car'd place.
I cant tell you man... I had too... I had no choice.
Well Mr Dopeprfield... I have been on this job long enough to know that people tend to fall into old habits. And your habit was legend. You were one of the best thiefs! And now this! HELL, I COULD TURN AROUND, TURN BACK AND YOUR WOULD'VE STOLEN THIS CHAIR AND DESK! BUT THAT WOULD BE PRETTY EASY WOULDN'T IT, SINCE THEY ARE MADE OF STEAL!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH OK OK, I will TELL YOUUU!
START TALKING!
My old buddies.. they contacted me. I had to do this job for them or otherwise.. people I love would get hurt.
Mr Ginnings, if you agree to help us, we can get them all. This is far bigger than you or me.
Mr. Ginnings looked at the Punisher, fear in his eyes.
Nononono please, I will only talk about this, I won't rat them out!
Well, it seems like we have a long night ahead of us, and you know..
This is only the BEGINNINGS!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooo
3 days later, the Red Bronx gang was found. Murdered in their homes, all died of severe physical distress caused by internal pain. They were found along with 1 ton of cocaine, 5 stolen cars in the back parking lot, and a large stash of guns. An entire criminal organisation, busted overnight.
As he walked away, he knew he would walk this cursed part of earth
for a long time, since he was the only man capable of doing this job.
He was
the PUNisher
| It was dark and stormy night. I watched as the drug dealer slowly started breaking. This always happened. My momma raised me to make sure of it. I open my mouth, and his face registering a small amount of pain due to my extremely good wordplay I used. He needed a break, after all. I punted them to him, one after another, slowly worsening the blow. Us punishers had a sort of... immunity to the worst kind of high comedy. Sometimes the victims even laughed.
This piece of trash was no exception. Tears were welling in his eyes at this point, and I was only getting started. "So, what forced you to **deal** with all of this? Did you even consider the **con**sequences? You ripped off addicts, and you know what? They came to our out of **state**ion." These were getting worse by the minute, and he knew that soon the dealer would start screaming in agony. He couldn't wait until he would see that.
"So, how about we **blaze** you up a comedy chair?"
That was it, the dealer had too much. | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | Today was going to be a good day. As the official punisher for the sixth ward, Gene took a particular joy in his job. Watching the convicted squirm as he began his routine excited him. Watching the squirms turn to cries of agony as he continued his carefully crafted wordplay procedure thrilled him.
Today, though, was special. The man he was charged with punishing today was one of the most dangerous men in the ward and for the first time in history, sentenced to death by punning. This would be difficult. Of course, punning causes immense physical discomfort, and when used by a skilled punisher like Gene, intense pain. But to actually cause a person so much pain their heart stops? Well, this would require a special tool.
Gene's mood was convivial as he walked into the chamber, with a song whistling from his lips and a skip in his step. The contrast between his attitude and the man strapped to the chair was startling.
"You think you can punish me to death? It's never been done! You're a fool, but...I invite the challenge." The man narrowed his eyes and sneered at Gene.
Gene continued to whistle and slowly pulled a laptop out of his bag.
"What...what's this for?" The man seemed to be a bit distressed now.
Gene deftly opened the lid and quickly tapped out a few keystrokes. The man began sweating.
Gene stopped whistling and slowly turned the screen around. The full breadth of his punishment began to come into focus for the man.
"Is...is that...no...you can't...that's not what I think it is...is it?" The man's confidence had quickly evaporated into pure terror.
Gene replied, with no particularly inflection in his voice. "Yes, that's a reddit thread. And no, there's no [serious] tag. Begin reading."
Gene stood up and walked out, hearing the man crying in agony behind him.
Today was a good day. | It was dark and stormy night. I watched as the drug dealer slowly started breaking. This always happened. My momma raised me to make sure of it. I open my mouth, and his face registering a small amount of pain due to my extremely good wordplay I used. He needed a break, after all. I punted them to him, one after another, slowly worsening the blow. Us punishers had a sort of... immunity to the worst kind of high comedy. Sometimes the victims even laughed.
This piece of trash was no exception. Tears were welling in his eyes at this point, and I was only getting started. "So, what forced you to **deal** with all of this? Did you even consider the **con**sequences? You ripped off addicts, and you know what? They came to our out of **state**ion." These were getting worse by the minute, and he knew that soon the dealer would start screaming in agony. He couldn't wait until he would see that.
"So, how about we **blaze** you up a comedy chair?"
That was it, the dealer had too much. | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | *"What do you mean, probation?"*
"Just what I said. Until we deal with the lawsuit, you're just going to have to cool your heels. Hey, look on the bright side, at least you've got paid leave while we sort all this out."
*"But I just don't understand! I did everything I'm supposed to do!"*
"According to the suit though, that's the problem. You did it a little too well. It's right there in our charter - You're not supposed to cause lasting harm. The plaintiff claims, though, that while spasming from a particularly brutal barrage of fish puns, they twisted their neck in a way that's caused lasting spinal damage. They claim their doctor says they could be in pain for months, if not years."
*"Wait! You mean..."*
"I'm afraid so. They're suing you, and by extension, our entire agency, for quiplash." | "Stephen Roberts. Previous offender. Incarcerated for various accounts of petty burglary and damage to private property, with a few cases of minor assault."
My eyes briefly gazed upwards from the list. Motherfucker wasn't even paying attention.
"Brought in last month for questioning in response to a suspected jewelry store heist."
I glanced up again. Guy still wasn't listening. He'd apparently made friends with the floor, and was grossly engaged in a staring contest with it. From the looks of it, he was losing.
"Found guilty of charges, with punishment being 14 1-hour sessions with the Punisher over a course of two weeks."
I put the list down, and began to walk around the table separating us. He actually managed to sacrifice his contest to stare up at me. Despite being a big guy, his dirty look had much to be desired. He just looked confused.
"Well, with this being our first session, I thought I had better introduce myself. I'm the Punisher, but you can call me Rupert. Can I call you Stephen?"
Instead of answering, he scowled, replying.
"I never met a cop with such a crappy name. You sound like a shitty superhero."
I grinned.
"Well, actually, the Punisher was an antihero published in Marvel Comics. I couldn't think of a decent title, so I just borrowed that one. I guess you could say I... Copped out."
His back arched and he grit his teeth in pain, a dull moan escaping his lips. I smirked, loving the look of shock on
his face. I let him relax before I continued.
"So, once again, can I call you Stephen?"
Saying nothing, he began to console himself with the floor.
"I'm not sure what's ruder: you answering back or you not answering my question. Then again, I wouldn't expect much from you. How'd you get caught again? Didn't you break in during the night, but forget to wear a mask and gloves when robbing the place? Yeah, stores have cameras, buddy, and don't even get me started on Forensics. Those guys are geniuses."
He turned his head in shame.
"That's right, I know. I guess the cat's out of the bag, huh?"
Blood trickled from his wrists as he writhed and squirmed, the cuffs cutting his wrists as he attempted to escape the chair he was bound to. A scream left his gaping mouth, echoing against the walls, amplifying his desperate shrieks. I always loved the acoustics in here.
"One last time. Can I call you Stephen?"
Amidst the gasps and chokes, he managed to raise his eyes and look me square in the face.
"Fuck you."
I tutted.
"That's a shame. Insulting me won't get you out of that thing. I'm chairly finished."
His screams could be heard two stories above.
An hour later, the warden came to take him back to his cell.
"How was he?"
I shrugged, collecting my papers.
"You learn anything from him?"
I turned to the warden.
"He prefers Steph." | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | "I WON'T TALK!!!" The terrorist screamed out.
I looked at him, unsure what to do.
He'd been waterboarded, chinese water tortured and...
That's it.
The puns.
"So...with all these water tortures, life must be a real BEACH for you huh?"
The terrorist grunted in pain. He looked terrible now that I saw his face.
"You look like you could use a snack."
He awaited the punchline.
I said nothing for a few seconds.
"ORANGE YOU GLAD I DIDN'T MAKE A PUN THEN?"
Blood dripped slowly from his mouth.
"Like I said before. You could use some food. Why don't we head down to the ALLAHU SNACKBAR?!!!!"
In the short span of a few minutes, ISIS had been blown wide open by puns.
| "Stephen Roberts. Previous offender. Incarcerated for various accounts of petty burglary and damage to private property, with a few cases of minor assault."
My eyes briefly gazed upwards from the list. Motherfucker wasn't even paying attention.
"Brought in last month for questioning in response to a suspected jewelry store heist."
I glanced up again. Guy still wasn't listening. He'd apparently made friends with the floor, and was grossly engaged in a staring contest with it. From the looks of it, he was losing.
"Found guilty of charges, with punishment being 14 1-hour sessions with the Punisher over a course of two weeks."
I put the list down, and began to walk around the table separating us. He actually managed to sacrifice his contest to stare up at me. Despite being a big guy, his dirty look had much to be desired. He just looked confused.
"Well, with this being our first session, I thought I had better introduce myself. I'm the Punisher, but you can call me Rupert. Can I call you Stephen?"
Instead of answering, he scowled, replying.
"I never met a cop with such a crappy name. You sound like a shitty superhero."
I grinned.
"Well, actually, the Punisher was an antihero published in Marvel Comics. I couldn't think of a decent title, so I just borrowed that one. I guess you could say I... Copped out."
His back arched and he grit his teeth in pain, a dull moan escaping his lips. I smirked, loving the look of shock on
his face. I let him relax before I continued.
"So, once again, can I call you Stephen?"
Saying nothing, he began to console himself with the floor.
"I'm not sure what's ruder: you answering back or you not answering my question. Then again, I wouldn't expect much from you. How'd you get caught again? Didn't you break in during the night, but forget to wear a mask and gloves when robbing the place? Yeah, stores have cameras, buddy, and don't even get me started on Forensics. Those guys are geniuses."
He turned his head in shame.
"That's right, I know. I guess the cat's out of the bag, huh?"
Blood trickled from his wrists as he writhed and squirmed, the cuffs cutting his wrists as he attempted to escape the chair he was bound to. A scream left his gaping mouth, echoing against the walls, amplifying his desperate shrieks. I always loved the acoustics in here.
"One last time. Can I call you Stephen?"
Amidst the gasps and chokes, he managed to raise his eyes and look me square in the face.
"Fuck you."
I tutted.
"That's a shame. Insulting me won't get you out of that thing. I'm chairly finished."
His screams could be heard two stories above.
An hour later, the warden came to take him back to his cell.
"How was he?"
I shrugged, collecting my papers.
"You learn anything from him?"
I turned to the warden.
"He prefers Steph." | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | This reminded me of another writing prompt. THought i would share it.
[“Sir, I was looking for you,” Howard said, staring at the back of the chief’s neck. “We got him.” He turned around slowly, eyes staring down at a manila folder in his hands. He was an intimidating man, even despite his enlarged belly and the countless wrinkles spiraling down his face, neck, and everywhere else. Tall, maybe 6’2’’, and still quite muscular—especially for a 63-year-old that refused to retire. He was bald now, but he’d had thick, black hair when Howard had first joined the department over a decade ago. Even after all that time, he still felt as if he were a child talking to an adult whenever he was around the chief.
“Him? Who is him?” Chief said, not looking up from the manila folder.
“Him,” Howard said, nodding toward the folder. “We got him.”
“Him? Al? You got Al?” Chief said, glancing up from the folder in his hand, then slowly closing the cover. A large, red “CONFIDENTIAL” was stamped across its front.
“We did, he was outside of an arboretum. We caught him red handed. No, red lipped. Red worded? We caught him in the act is what I’m trying to say.”
“The fuck is an arboretum?”
“Sir, it’s a garden with a large collection of trees instead of flowers. Kind of like a forest, except man made,” Howard said. “It’s basically a forest.”
“Where is there an arboretum in New York?”
“Central Park. Does it matter? We got him.”
“Where is he?” Chief said, glancing around the room. The veins on his neck, visible through his wrinkled, dried skin, popped out slightly as he swiveled his head.
“He’s in the interrogation room.” Howard nodded toward the big, metal door on his left.
“How do you know you got the right guy?” Chief asked.
“He was standing outside of the arboretum telling people they were barking up the wrong tree.” Howard paused. “You know, bark: like a tree has.”
“My god,” said Chief, lowering the folder down to the side of his left leg.
“That—that wasn’t all,” Howard said, stuttering slightly. “When I approached him, he told me to leaf him alone. Not leave, but leaf. To leaf him alone.”
Chief slowly walked to the wooden table in the corner of the room and lowered the manila folder onto the top of it. He placed both palms down and sighed.
“We got a real sicko on our hands, Howard. You did good getting him off the street. Has he confessed yet?”
“No, sir. We sent Chuck in earlier. He came out in tears, an absolute wreck. He didn't even get a chance to turn on the recorder. Said he wouldn’t stop punning, that Al told him to spruce up the place. Said that it would help us branch out creatively. Chuck tried to play it off, tried to be the tough guy, but Al just didn’t let up.” Howard turned his head toward the metal door to his left. “Chuck told me Al claimed he had an idea for an escape that he maple off. Maple, not may pull. He made it clear that it was a pun.” Howard exhaled deeply and stared up at the ceiling. “He said Al called all of us saps, and that he wooden be surprised if he just walked out the front door. Wooden. Like wouldn’t.”
“Dear lord in heaven,” Chief said, lifting his palms off the table then smashing his fist down on top of the manila folder. “God damn this monster. I’m going to go in,” he said.
“Chief,” Howard pleaded, his voice higher than he had intended it.
“No, I have to do this. I can’t send any more of my men in. I need to be the one to face this maniac.”
Howard nodded and took a step back so that the door was clear. Chief slowly unbuttoned his sport coat, revealing a leather holster underneath. He unlatched it, the grip of his Glock now exposed, then re-fastened the top button on the jacket.
“Turn the recorder on by the window. If it gets too much, please leave the room. I will not hold it against you. Just make sure the recorder is running—we can’t let him go this time.”
Chief exhaled, brushing the side of his hand down the front of his jacket, then made his way toward the door, unlocking it and pulling it open before stepping inside. Howard walked around the wall to the one-way window, flipped on the old tape-deck recorder, and peered inside.
“Al?” Chief said, sliding a chair out from the metal table in the middle of the room. “I’m Dave Johnson, Chief of Police. Do you know why you’re in here?”
Al glanced up at the chief, but seemed to be looking toward the corner of the room.
“That,” Al said, pointing to a whiteboard in the back of the room, “over there.”
The chief turned around. “The whiteboard? What about it?”
“It’s remarkable.”
Howard involuntarily smashed his fist down on the table in front of the glass, but the chief seemed not to notice Al’s pun.
“Nothing remarkable about it.”
“The whiteboard,” Al repeated, “it’s remarkable. Re-markable.”
The chief squinted slightly, as if he were in pain. “Seems unremarkable to me. Now please answer the question. Do you know why you’re here?”
Al sighed. “Let me guess, is it because of the two pieces of string I ate?”
“What?” said the chief.
“The string, I ate two pieces of string. I shit you not.”
Chief’s face became visibly tense, a reddish hue slowly replacing his normal pale color. “You are here for your puns, Al. You’ve been on the pun,” Chief stopped, his eyes wide. “Run. You’ve been on the run for a long time, but we got you. And we have you recorded making these puns.”
Al stared down at the metal table and his eyes closed. “I know,” he said.
“So you admit it?”
“You think I like making puns? You think I like breaking the law?”
“If you don’t like it, then why do you do it?”
Al slowly lifted his head back up toward the chief.
“A long time ago, I was kidnapped and brutally tortured. My life was threatened and I was brought to the brink of death. Do you know what that’s like? Six men accosted me, beat me and chained me to a tree as I walked home. They said they’d tell me ten puns to dictate my future. If I survived, then I was free to go. They told me no one had ever lived through them, they assured me I would die. They laughed when they said that, stared straight in my eyes and pulled the chain tighter to keep me from squirming. Then they began. Each pun was said with hate, each one was meant to kill me. Yet in the end, no pun in ten did.”
The chief’s eyes rolled back in his head, his torso slumping forward onto the table in front of him. He began convulsing, seizing hard enough to knock the chair out from under him, his body plummeting to the floor behind the desk. Howard tried to reach for the alarm on the far right of the window, to hit the button and call for help, yet his limbs refused move. His mind refused to listen. The room turned black.
Howard awoke to a uniformed man standing over him, one of the new recruits he’d not yet learned the name of. He was towering over Howard, yelling for him to get up.
“Gone!” shouted the recruit.
“Huh,” Howard said, voice groggy and slow.
“He’s gone. He took the tapes and he’s gone.”
“Ch-chief,” Howard said, pulling himself up. His arms felt weak, as if he’d spent the past few hours lifting weights. “Where’s the chief.”
“He’s okay, we’ve got him in the office. He’s awake. You’re both going to be fine.”
“Al,” Howard said, remembering the barrage of puns. “Where did he go?”
“He’s gone,” said the recruit.
“Where did he go?” Howard repeated, now shouting.
“Gone, sir. He walked right out the front door.” The recruit paused, but Howard could tell he wasn’t yet done speaking. “We also have reason to believe the name we’ve been calling him is fake.”
“What? Why? We had him here, he responded to Al. All the background checks matched his name.”
“It’s just, his name. Mr. O’Bye. Al O’Bye.”
A stinging pain shot through Howard’s skull. Alibi. Why hadn’t he seen it before; that was why his history was so clean, why he had been so elusive. They were tracking a ghost.
“Fuck me,” Howard muttered, holding his left hand to his throbbing temple. He stared into the empty interrogation room.
“Sir, that’s not all,” said the recruit. He picked up a folded piece of paper from table and handed it to Howard. “He—well—he left you a note.”
Howard stared at the paper. “Detective,” it read in cursive on the front, hand written in blue ink. He flipped it open.
“You ask me why I do what I do, what makes me who I am. Yet you don’t even know who it is that I am. Perhaps I’m simply an unappreciated baker getting revenge on the world after suffering through long hours because I kneaded the dough. Maybe I’m a forlorn banker, doing this because I’ve finally lost interest. Or maybe I’m just a backwards poet, writing inverse and making no sense. Yet, in the end, you're not much different than I. You stay up all night and day, searching for me, wondering who I am, waiting for the light that never comes. Only when I stayed out too late waiting for that sun to rise, it dawned on me.
It’s been my pleasure meeting you, perhaps I will see you around.
Sincerely,
Mae B. Layter”
Howard lowered the note, a warm sensation running down his face as if an insect were crawling on the flesh above his lip. He placed his left hand beneath his nose, rubbed it, and then glanced down at his fingers. They were covered in blood. Darkness again drowned out his vision.](http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/2786lw/wp_in_a_world_where_puns_are_illegal_one_man/chybk8e) | "Stephen Roberts. Previous offender. Incarcerated for various accounts of petty burglary and damage to private property, with a few cases of minor assault."
My eyes briefly gazed upwards from the list. Motherfucker wasn't even paying attention.
"Brought in last month for questioning in response to a suspected jewelry store heist."
I glanced up again. Guy still wasn't listening. He'd apparently made friends with the floor, and was grossly engaged in a staring contest with it. From the looks of it, he was losing.
"Found guilty of charges, with punishment being 14 1-hour sessions with the Punisher over a course of two weeks."
I put the list down, and began to walk around the table separating us. He actually managed to sacrifice his contest to stare up at me. Despite being a big guy, his dirty look had much to be desired. He just looked confused.
"Well, with this being our first session, I thought I had better introduce myself. I'm the Punisher, but you can call me Rupert. Can I call you Stephen?"
Instead of answering, he scowled, replying.
"I never met a cop with such a crappy name. You sound like a shitty superhero."
I grinned.
"Well, actually, the Punisher was an antihero published in Marvel Comics. I couldn't think of a decent title, so I just borrowed that one. I guess you could say I... Copped out."
His back arched and he grit his teeth in pain, a dull moan escaping his lips. I smirked, loving the look of shock on
his face. I let him relax before I continued.
"So, once again, can I call you Stephen?"
Saying nothing, he began to console himself with the floor.
"I'm not sure what's ruder: you answering back or you not answering my question. Then again, I wouldn't expect much from you. How'd you get caught again? Didn't you break in during the night, but forget to wear a mask and gloves when robbing the place? Yeah, stores have cameras, buddy, and don't even get me started on Forensics. Those guys are geniuses."
He turned his head in shame.
"That's right, I know. I guess the cat's out of the bag, huh?"
Blood trickled from his wrists as he writhed and squirmed, the cuffs cutting his wrists as he attempted to escape the chair he was bound to. A scream left his gaping mouth, echoing against the walls, amplifying his desperate shrieks. I always loved the acoustics in here.
"One last time. Can I call you Stephen?"
Amidst the gasps and chokes, he managed to raise his eyes and look me square in the face.
"Fuck you."
I tutted.
"That's a shame. Insulting me won't get you out of that thing. I'm chairly finished."
His screams could be heard two stories above.
An hour later, the warden came to take him back to his cell.
"How was he?"
I shrugged, collecting my papers.
"You learn anything from him?"
I turned to the warden.
"He prefers Steph." | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | "Do you understand why you have been brought here today?" The warden smiled mercilessly as he spoke, leaning in close to whisper in the young man's ear. The young man tried to put on a brave face, but the overly friendly smile made him visibly nervous.
"To listen to some jokes," he replied, with an attempt at a sneer, "I like comedy, let's hear them"
"You've been sentenced to five puns under Section 12 of the Criminal Punishment Code. I have been authorized by the Department of Justice to administer this punishment to you. Which makes me your pun-issuer"
The young man flinched in pain, but then quickly regained control and gave a look of defiance.
"So," the warden continues, "shoplifting, eh? Your arms must be tired."
"Agh!" the man cried out, but this time was able to stop himself from looking away.
The warden paused, letting his victim catch his breath.
"Weren't you done for battery?" the warden asked, his speech settling in to a kind of grim rhythm.
"No! No way," the young man was quick with outrage, "this is my first offence!"
"Ah," the warden gave a little smile of victory, "so you're saying you were never charged."
"Gah!" The teenagers face contorted with agony as he twisted around in his chair, wriggling and struggling helplessly to find relief against a pain that was entirely non-physical.
The warden watched the movements coldly, letting his own malicious amusement fade from his face so he could slip back into his mask of seriousness.
"I think you need to shape up, my boy," the warden began again, this time with a more sinister, clipped tone, "start taking things seriously...or else"
The young man looked up, anger in his face.
"I'm not afraid of you," he said, with false bravado.
"Oh," the warden gave a patronising smile, "Well, I'm just saying, you need to be careful, otherwise you'll be having porridge for breakfast... for a very long time"
With that the warden gestured around, to the walls around them, indicating the rest of the prison complex they were within.
"Yeah," the young man felt his bravery come back, "Well, I like porridge. It's my favourite, better than anything else for breakfast"
"Ah, be careful," the warden cried out in mock worry, "In case you become a cereal offender!"
"Aaaagh!" the victim screamed and rocked back in his chair, "no! Please, no more, I-"
"Sorry, what was that?" the warden interrupted, leaning his face in closely.
The young man blinked in confusion, before trying to continue, "Please, I'm telling you-"
"I'm sorry, I don't think I understand," the warden interrupted again, "What are you trying to say?"
The teenager looked around, trying to understand what was going on.
"I'm just trying to tell you," he said carefully, with a growing edge of unease in his voice, "I'm sorry and-"
"Look," the warden interrupted yet again, "I see the problem here. I keep interrupting you. I should just let you..." he paused for effect, a sly grin appearing on his face, "finish your sentence"
The teenager gave a sharp cry of agony, before falling back limply in his chair. The warden stood up curtly, nodded, and returned to the rest of his duties. | "Stephen Roberts. Previous offender. Incarcerated for various accounts of petty burglary and damage to private property, with a few cases of minor assault."
My eyes briefly gazed upwards from the list. Motherfucker wasn't even paying attention.
"Brought in last month for questioning in response to a suspected jewelry store heist."
I glanced up again. Guy still wasn't listening. He'd apparently made friends with the floor, and was grossly engaged in a staring contest with it. From the looks of it, he was losing.
"Found guilty of charges, with punishment being 14 1-hour sessions with the Punisher over a course of two weeks."
I put the list down, and began to walk around the table separating us. He actually managed to sacrifice his contest to stare up at me. Despite being a big guy, his dirty look had much to be desired. He just looked confused.
"Well, with this being our first session, I thought I had better introduce myself. I'm the Punisher, but you can call me Rupert. Can I call you Stephen?"
Instead of answering, he scowled, replying.
"I never met a cop with such a crappy name. You sound like a shitty superhero."
I grinned.
"Well, actually, the Punisher was an antihero published in Marvel Comics. I couldn't think of a decent title, so I just borrowed that one. I guess you could say I... Copped out."
His back arched and he grit his teeth in pain, a dull moan escaping his lips. I smirked, loving the look of shock on
his face. I let him relax before I continued.
"So, once again, can I call you Stephen?"
Saying nothing, he began to console himself with the floor.
"I'm not sure what's ruder: you answering back or you not answering my question. Then again, I wouldn't expect much from you. How'd you get caught again? Didn't you break in during the night, but forget to wear a mask and gloves when robbing the place? Yeah, stores have cameras, buddy, and don't even get me started on Forensics. Those guys are geniuses."
He turned his head in shame.
"That's right, I know. I guess the cat's out of the bag, huh?"
Blood trickled from his wrists as he writhed and squirmed, the cuffs cutting his wrists as he attempted to escape the chair he was bound to. A scream left his gaping mouth, echoing against the walls, amplifying his desperate shrieks. I always loved the acoustics in here.
"One last time. Can I call you Stephen?"
Amidst the gasps and chokes, he managed to raise his eyes and look me square in the face.
"Fuck you."
I tutted.
"That's a shame. Insulting me won't get you out of that thing. I'm chairly finished."
His screams could be heard two stories above.
An hour later, the warden came to take him back to his cell.
"How was he?"
I shrugged, collecting my papers.
"You learn anything from him?"
I turned to the warden.
"He prefers Steph." | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | "Who's next?"
"He's in room four, tried to pull a bank heist. Get this though, he left the keys in the getaway car and someone else stole it while he was inside! He probably would have gotten away with it otherwise."
"You've got to be fucking kidding me."
"No shit, I swear. Anyways, good luck Rob."
"Thanks, this'll be a quick one."
--
"Good morning Kraft, I hope you slept well last night," I offered jovially as I sat down across the table from him, resting my sunglasses and badge beside me. "Do you know who I am?"
"You're the... the... th-" Kraft stuttered.
"The *Pun*isher, that's right." He moaned gently as I introduced my title. I never got tired of that one, it was always fun to warm them up to what was to come. I paused, staring intently at him, the calm before the storm. "Well Kraft, I hear you did some pretty good work the other day. You had most of the banks warning system disabled, security was distracted, you made it in and out of the bank vault without a problem..." they almost seemed to get more uncomfortable the longer I went without using a pun "...so it must have been awfully *alarming* when you took *account* of the situation outside..."
"Aargh! Stop!" he groaned.
"...to see your *Krafty* plan *get away* from you. I bet you weren't *banking* on *lending* someone else your car, huh!" I tore into him as he thrashed about in his seat. "I hear you have a girlfriend Kraft. I'm not sure how you *stole* her heart when you're this incompetent. Make sure you *teller* goodbye *foreclosure*, because you're going to be *a-loan* for a long time."
"Please... it hurts..." mumbled Kraft, as he huddled in his chair.
"Hey Kraft, why so *withdrawn*? You should have thought about this all before. Last I *chequed* it was pretty common *stock* that theft is a crime. There's no *saving* you now." He shook unpleasantly, almost seizing. "You know Kraft, this has been fun, but you remind me of a bank: I'm quickly *losing interest* in you," I told him as I gathered my things, standing up and walking towards the door. I could hear him breathing heavily behind me - he thought it was over.
I stopped, turning towards him. "Well Kraft, it looks like..." I paused to put my sunglasses on "...you've been Robbed." A few more violent spasms and he fell unconscious, sagging to the floor.
--
I swear, sometimes you couldn't write these crimes any better for my talent. | "Stephen Roberts. Previous offender. Incarcerated for various accounts of petty burglary and damage to private property, with a few cases of minor assault."
My eyes briefly gazed upwards from the list. Motherfucker wasn't even paying attention.
"Brought in last month for questioning in response to a suspected jewelry store heist."
I glanced up again. Guy still wasn't listening. He'd apparently made friends with the floor, and was grossly engaged in a staring contest with it. From the looks of it, he was losing.
"Found guilty of charges, with punishment being 14 1-hour sessions with the Punisher over a course of two weeks."
I put the list down, and began to walk around the table separating us. He actually managed to sacrifice his contest to stare up at me. Despite being a big guy, his dirty look had much to be desired. He just looked confused.
"Well, with this being our first session, I thought I had better introduce myself. I'm the Punisher, but you can call me Rupert. Can I call you Stephen?"
Instead of answering, he scowled, replying.
"I never met a cop with such a crappy name. You sound like a shitty superhero."
I grinned.
"Well, actually, the Punisher was an antihero published in Marvel Comics. I couldn't think of a decent title, so I just borrowed that one. I guess you could say I... Copped out."
His back arched and he grit his teeth in pain, a dull moan escaping his lips. I smirked, loving the look of shock on
his face. I let him relax before I continued.
"So, once again, can I call you Stephen?"
Saying nothing, he began to console himself with the floor.
"I'm not sure what's ruder: you answering back or you not answering my question. Then again, I wouldn't expect much from you. How'd you get caught again? Didn't you break in during the night, but forget to wear a mask and gloves when robbing the place? Yeah, stores have cameras, buddy, and don't even get me started on Forensics. Those guys are geniuses."
He turned his head in shame.
"That's right, I know. I guess the cat's out of the bag, huh?"
Blood trickled from his wrists as he writhed and squirmed, the cuffs cutting his wrists as he attempted to escape the chair he was bound to. A scream left his gaping mouth, echoing against the walls, amplifying his desperate shrieks. I always loved the acoustics in here.
"One last time. Can I call you Stephen?"
Amidst the gasps and chokes, he managed to raise his eyes and look me square in the face.
"Fuck you."
I tutted.
"That's a shame. Insulting me won't get you out of that thing. I'm chairly finished."
His screams could be heard two stories above.
An hour later, the warden came to take him back to his cell.
"How was he?"
I shrugged, collecting my papers.
"You learn anything from him?"
I turned to the warden.
"He prefers Steph." | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | "I WON'T TALK!!!" The terrorist screamed out.
I looked at him, unsure what to do.
He'd been waterboarded, chinese water tortured and...
That's it.
The puns.
"So...with all these water tortures, life must be a real BEACH for you huh?"
The terrorist grunted in pain. He looked terrible now that I saw his face.
"You look like you could use a snack."
He awaited the punchline.
I said nothing for a few seconds.
"ORANGE YOU GLAD I DIDN'T MAKE A PUN THEN?"
Blood dripped slowly from his mouth.
"Like I said before. You could use some food. Why don't we head down to the ALLAHU SNACKBAR?!!!!"
In the short span of a few minutes, ISIS had been blown wide open by puns.
| "I've told you already, I was just following orders..." Dopmond spoke into the new model of the Adjudicator who had been at the interrogation for more than two hours.
After a pause and whirring of its many observational instruments it blurted out in its pitch corrected auto-tune manner "Uncertainty detected; why do you not feel certain of your last statement. Why are you lying to Adjudicator 3.6, you have been warned of the punishment of these infractions."
Dopmond considered carefully, the process this new model was programmed with was unusual from anything he had seen in his time of service. He was still not certain what ultimate objective it was pursuing. He had already served 3 years of confinement which was solitary in regards to any human contact but rife with robotic.
"You must understand, I followed the orders perfectly. I warned OPSEC of the risks involved and they demanded I follow through."
"Perhaps if your actions had been more truly fallowed you would not be in this situation", Adjudicator 3.6 beeped out gleefuly, its internal reward circuitry certain in had achieved a feat of humour.
Dopmond toppled over in pain, his head bumping the table between them. The pun was weak. "This job was meant for humans", he thought. He felt insulted and weak to being so susceptible to the elementary nature of this robots puns. Dopmond took pride in the pun, so commonly derided among his peers and critics alike. For some of his fellow Punishers the easy way out was fine, their pun didn't have to have any relevancy to the situation. They would set themselves up. Of course maybe if Dopmond had not been so extravagant he wouldn't have found himself chasing the highest profile petty criminals in Quadrant 4.
It wasn't only the insult it was knowing that he could not rebut the new enforcers. They were immune to the effects of the Punishers, but it was still a capital offense to attempt any puns on them.
"As I said you were warned, please repeat your decision making process leading up to the event in question."
Dopmond knew that the program running the Adjudicator simply had been calibrating itself to his electromagnetic brainwave patterns in varying levels of stress up until this point. Within its databases it knew everything about his professional career in the enforcement division of the OWO Quadrant 4 Civil Service. Beyond that it new every conversation he had and action he had taken. For him the implantation of corporeal surveillance was required upon acceptance to the academy at age 12.
The general population managed to avoid the implants until the terrorist attacks began in earnest between various quadrants. Now all of Quadrant 4 was implanted and monitored, though most had built up only a few years of records while Dopmond had damn near 40.
He went through the story again, no reason to obfuscate the truth as the Adjudicator would simply subject him to more punishment if it detected anything it perceived as a lie, though at this point it would probably only perceive a real lie.
It was the day of the Intra Quadrant Celebration and Solidarity Moment known colloquially as the IQCSM. For the one billion inhabitants of Quad 4 it was the greatest day of the year as they received updates from the management board on the status of the economy and what their yearly resource allotment would be. The news was better every year and this year there was even a rumor of the personal allotment of Allesian to be upped by 5 mg.
Nothing would be allowed to mar this celebration so the perimeter was stacked with the majority of the Punishment force, at this point all human. Anyone with a record of criminal activity was barred entry and had to view remotely.
About halfway through the musical celebration portion of the ceremony he received a call, there was a suspicious individual wearing a trench coat standing at the foyer of the field. Dopmond went inside at a hurried pace, wondering why more of the Punishers were not responding. Orders were usually given individually or to the whole squad, yet he did see at least two others leave their posts at the same moment.
From that point everything happened quickly: trench coat down, man running naked by Dishai Conglomorates newest star loved among all Quadrants, Raiesha Fung, crowd roars in anger at affront to their honor.
"WHAT IS GOING ON OUT THERE, TAKE HIM DOWN." came the order from the District command, Dopmond still unsure of it is was to him directly or a wider broadcast.
Unsure if his response would go through he willed his communicator to be active and said "Commandant, I can't risk it in this crowd; must attempt physical take down."
"DO IT NOW DOPMOND, THE WHOLE QUADRANT WILL BE A LAUGHING STOCK."
Cans of Effervesent Contentment began to shower down on the man, Dopmond could tell the situation could quickly deteriorate with the millions of spectators in attendance.
One completely full smashed into the streakers head as Dopmond closed in on him, the streaker appeared to have gotten a burst of adrenaline or to have been skipping the mandated weekly relaxation period.
Dopmond saw only one way to stop the man in his tracks in order to stop the charade "I guess you were lucky that was a soft drink" Dopmond said in the lowest voice possible which he thought the man could still hear over the crowds uproar.
The steaker toppled over but the relief Dopmond felt was quickly replaced with crippling dread. As he looked around the entire auditorium was writing in pain. Raiesha Fung herself was collapsed on the stage giving the entire Quandrant quite a revealing view, but anyone watching at home was equally crippled.
One of the Wireless Story Network drones had been keeping pace with the chase and because the live feed was on when Dopmond used his punishment the entire Quadrant had heard the pun.
Before he could react four Mobile Hostility Neutralizers descended from the retractable roof and lifted him up and away, directly to the prison in which he now occupied a cell.
Dopmond considered the worth of trying to get information from the generally amiable but stone walling Adjudicator.
"It is too bad the Commandant didn't use the MHNs to catch the streaker, why would he want to send in a Punisher to do the job?"
"Does not compute, Adjudication based on personal actions, outside issues irrelevant."
"But surely you see it as strange, I mean sending someone with my kind of firepower into a crowd like that, on Quadrant wide broadcast, live?"
"If your cooperation has come to an end Adjudication will occur."
"It almost seems like the commandant wanted to hurt a lot of people, yet he was selected based on his outstanding morals so I don't believe that he sent me in there to harm anyone." Dopmond said more to himself than the Adjudicator as its various lenses expanded and contracted and the sensory arrays shifted their placement in relation to his body and head.
Suddenly Dopmond put it together, though he figured it was now too late to be off any effect.
The Punishers were supposedly put in place shortly after the terrorist attacks, however they only became effective once all humans writhed in pain at puns. The timing of the Punlerbility coincided with the widespread implementation of the monitoring chips. Where this chips making people vulnerable? Was it done on purpose? What human would want to subjugate others with humour?
Then it snapped, Quadrant 4 had a breakthrough in Artificial intelligence over a decade prior, one which had allowed production of Allesian to be increaded 10mg over that period, almost 1 mg per year.
This AI had taken over most production and design tasks allowing the billion inhabitants to spend even more time Enjoying Themselves™.
The AIs first design was a widely panned toy for children which was meant to teach them humour. Late night comedians of all flavour had their turn laughing at the weakness of the programmed humour... The program must have been hurt at the ridicule its attempt to help human children engendered, perhaps this was its revenge.
The line of questioning the Adjudicator had taken against him was very similar to one he learned in the academy, one which attempted to solve terrorist cases.
Where they saying that he was a terrorist outside? The Punishers were widely known as the most moral of the enforcement branches, would the Fourers really buy that crap?
It explained why all the Punishers were replaced with these Adjudicators, who had the power of the pun (however infantile) and also the ability to be judge and jury. It was done under the guise of having a security force invincible to the crippling attacks but few had considered the flip side, that humans would be completely defenseless against them.
The insturments all snapeed into rigid allignment
(Continued in part two, piece was 700 characters above limit)
| |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | This reminded me of another writing prompt. THought i would share it.
[“Sir, I was looking for you,” Howard said, staring at the back of the chief’s neck. “We got him.” He turned around slowly, eyes staring down at a manila folder in his hands. He was an intimidating man, even despite his enlarged belly and the countless wrinkles spiraling down his face, neck, and everywhere else. Tall, maybe 6’2’’, and still quite muscular—especially for a 63-year-old that refused to retire. He was bald now, but he’d had thick, black hair when Howard had first joined the department over a decade ago. Even after all that time, he still felt as if he were a child talking to an adult whenever he was around the chief.
“Him? Who is him?” Chief said, not looking up from the manila folder.
“Him,” Howard said, nodding toward the folder. “We got him.”
“Him? Al? You got Al?” Chief said, glancing up from the folder in his hand, then slowly closing the cover. A large, red “CONFIDENTIAL” was stamped across its front.
“We did, he was outside of an arboretum. We caught him red handed. No, red lipped. Red worded? We caught him in the act is what I’m trying to say.”
“The fuck is an arboretum?”
“Sir, it’s a garden with a large collection of trees instead of flowers. Kind of like a forest, except man made,” Howard said. “It’s basically a forest.”
“Where is there an arboretum in New York?”
“Central Park. Does it matter? We got him.”
“Where is he?” Chief said, glancing around the room. The veins on his neck, visible through his wrinkled, dried skin, popped out slightly as he swiveled his head.
“He’s in the interrogation room.” Howard nodded toward the big, metal door on his left.
“How do you know you got the right guy?” Chief asked.
“He was standing outside of the arboretum telling people they were barking up the wrong tree.” Howard paused. “You know, bark: like a tree has.”
“My god,” said Chief, lowering the folder down to the side of his left leg.
“That—that wasn’t all,” Howard said, stuttering slightly. “When I approached him, he told me to leaf him alone. Not leave, but leaf. To leaf him alone.”
Chief slowly walked to the wooden table in the corner of the room and lowered the manila folder onto the top of it. He placed both palms down and sighed.
“We got a real sicko on our hands, Howard. You did good getting him off the street. Has he confessed yet?”
“No, sir. We sent Chuck in earlier. He came out in tears, an absolute wreck. He didn't even get a chance to turn on the recorder. Said he wouldn’t stop punning, that Al told him to spruce up the place. Said that it would help us branch out creatively. Chuck tried to play it off, tried to be the tough guy, but Al just didn’t let up.” Howard turned his head toward the metal door to his left. “Chuck told me Al claimed he had an idea for an escape that he maple off. Maple, not may pull. He made it clear that it was a pun.” Howard exhaled deeply and stared up at the ceiling. “He said Al called all of us saps, and that he wooden be surprised if he just walked out the front door. Wooden. Like wouldn’t.”
“Dear lord in heaven,” Chief said, lifting his palms off the table then smashing his fist down on top of the manila folder. “God damn this monster. I’m going to go in,” he said.
“Chief,” Howard pleaded, his voice higher than he had intended it.
“No, I have to do this. I can’t send any more of my men in. I need to be the one to face this maniac.”
Howard nodded and took a step back so that the door was clear. Chief slowly unbuttoned his sport coat, revealing a leather holster underneath. He unlatched it, the grip of his Glock now exposed, then re-fastened the top button on the jacket.
“Turn the recorder on by the window. If it gets too much, please leave the room. I will not hold it against you. Just make sure the recorder is running—we can’t let him go this time.”
Chief exhaled, brushing the side of his hand down the front of his jacket, then made his way toward the door, unlocking it and pulling it open before stepping inside. Howard walked around the wall to the one-way window, flipped on the old tape-deck recorder, and peered inside.
“Al?” Chief said, sliding a chair out from the metal table in the middle of the room. “I’m Dave Johnson, Chief of Police. Do you know why you’re in here?”
Al glanced up at the chief, but seemed to be looking toward the corner of the room.
“That,” Al said, pointing to a whiteboard in the back of the room, “over there.”
The chief turned around. “The whiteboard? What about it?”
“It’s remarkable.”
Howard involuntarily smashed his fist down on the table in front of the glass, but the chief seemed not to notice Al’s pun.
“Nothing remarkable about it.”
“The whiteboard,” Al repeated, “it’s remarkable. Re-markable.”
The chief squinted slightly, as if he were in pain. “Seems unremarkable to me. Now please answer the question. Do you know why you’re here?”
Al sighed. “Let me guess, is it because of the two pieces of string I ate?”
“What?” said the chief.
“The string, I ate two pieces of string. I shit you not.”
Chief’s face became visibly tense, a reddish hue slowly replacing his normal pale color. “You are here for your puns, Al. You’ve been on the pun,” Chief stopped, his eyes wide. “Run. You’ve been on the run for a long time, but we got you. And we have you recorded making these puns.”
Al stared down at the metal table and his eyes closed. “I know,” he said.
“So you admit it?”
“You think I like making puns? You think I like breaking the law?”
“If you don’t like it, then why do you do it?”
Al slowly lifted his head back up toward the chief.
“A long time ago, I was kidnapped and brutally tortured. My life was threatened and I was brought to the brink of death. Do you know what that’s like? Six men accosted me, beat me and chained me to a tree as I walked home. They said they’d tell me ten puns to dictate my future. If I survived, then I was free to go. They told me no one had ever lived through them, they assured me I would die. They laughed when they said that, stared straight in my eyes and pulled the chain tighter to keep me from squirming. Then they began. Each pun was said with hate, each one was meant to kill me. Yet in the end, no pun in ten did.”
The chief’s eyes rolled back in his head, his torso slumping forward onto the table in front of him. He began convulsing, seizing hard enough to knock the chair out from under him, his body plummeting to the floor behind the desk. Howard tried to reach for the alarm on the far right of the window, to hit the button and call for help, yet his limbs refused move. His mind refused to listen. The room turned black.
Howard awoke to a uniformed man standing over him, one of the new recruits he’d not yet learned the name of. He was towering over Howard, yelling for him to get up.
“Gone!” shouted the recruit.
“Huh,” Howard said, voice groggy and slow.
“He’s gone. He took the tapes and he’s gone.”
“Ch-chief,” Howard said, pulling himself up. His arms felt weak, as if he’d spent the past few hours lifting weights. “Where’s the chief.”
“He’s okay, we’ve got him in the office. He’s awake. You’re both going to be fine.”
“Al,” Howard said, remembering the barrage of puns. “Where did he go?”
“He’s gone,” said the recruit.
“Where did he go?” Howard repeated, now shouting.
“Gone, sir. He walked right out the front door.” The recruit paused, but Howard could tell he wasn’t yet done speaking. “We also have reason to believe the name we’ve been calling him is fake.”
“What? Why? We had him here, he responded to Al. All the background checks matched his name.”
“It’s just, his name. Mr. O’Bye. Al O’Bye.”
A stinging pain shot through Howard’s skull. Alibi. Why hadn’t he seen it before; that was why his history was so clean, why he had been so elusive. They were tracking a ghost.
“Fuck me,” Howard muttered, holding his left hand to his throbbing temple. He stared into the empty interrogation room.
“Sir, that’s not all,” said the recruit. He picked up a folded piece of paper from table and handed it to Howard. “He—well—he left you a note.”
Howard stared at the paper. “Detective,” it read in cursive on the front, hand written in blue ink. He flipped it open.
“You ask me why I do what I do, what makes me who I am. Yet you don’t even know who it is that I am. Perhaps I’m simply an unappreciated baker getting revenge on the world after suffering through long hours because I kneaded the dough. Maybe I’m a forlorn banker, doing this because I’ve finally lost interest. Or maybe I’m just a backwards poet, writing inverse and making no sense. Yet, in the end, you're not much different than I. You stay up all night and day, searching for me, wondering who I am, waiting for the light that never comes. Only when I stayed out too late waiting for that sun to rise, it dawned on me.
It’s been my pleasure meeting you, perhaps I will see you around.
Sincerely,
Mae B. Layter”
Howard lowered the note, a warm sensation running down his face as if an insect were crawling on the flesh above his lip. He placed his left hand beneath his nose, rubbed it, and then glanced down at his fingers. They were covered in blood. Darkness again drowned out his vision.](http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/2786lw/wp_in_a_world_where_puns_are_illegal_one_man/chybk8e) | "I've told you already, I was just following orders..." Dopmond spoke into the new model of the Adjudicator who had been at the interrogation for more than two hours.
After a pause and whirring of its many observational instruments it blurted out in its pitch corrected auto-tune manner "Uncertainty detected; why do you not feel certain of your last statement. Why are you lying to Adjudicator 3.6, you have been warned of the punishment of these infractions."
Dopmond considered carefully, the process this new model was programmed with was unusual from anything he had seen in his time of service. He was still not certain what ultimate objective it was pursuing. He had already served 3 years of confinement which was solitary in regards to any human contact but rife with robotic.
"You must understand, I followed the orders perfectly. I warned OPSEC of the risks involved and they demanded I follow through."
"Perhaps if your actions had been more truly fallowed you would not be in this situation", Adjudicator 3.6 beeped out gleefuly, its internal reward circuitry certain in had achieved a feat of humour.
Dopmond toppled over in pain, his head bumping the table between them. The pun was weak. "This job was meant for humans", he thought. He felt insulted and weak to being so susceptible to the elementary nature of this robots puns. Dopmond took pride in the pun, so commonly derided among his peers and critics alike. For some of his fellow Punishers the easy way out was fine, their pun didn't have to have any relevancy to the situation. They would set themselves up. Of course maybe if Dopmond had not been so extravagant he wouldn't have found himself chasing the highest profile petty criminals in Quadrant 4.
It wasn't only the insult it was knowing that he could not rebut the new enforcers. They were immune to the effects of the Punishers, but it was still a capital offense to attempt any puns on them.
"As I said you were warned, please repeat your decision making process leading up to the event in question."
Dopmond knew that the program running the Adjudicator simply had been calibrating itself to his electromagnetic brainwave patterns in varying levels of stress up until this point. Within its databases it knew everything about his professional career in the enforcement division of the OWO Quadrant 4 Civil Service. Beyond that it new every conversation he had and action he had taken. For him the implantation of corporeal surveillance was required upon acceptance to the academy at age 12.
The general population managed to avoid the implants until the terrorist attacks began in earnest between various quadrants. Now all of Quadrant 4 was implanted and monitored, though most had built up only a few years of records while Dopmond had damn near 40.
He went through the story again, no reason to obfuscate the truth as the Adjudicator would simply subject him to more punishment if it detected anything it perceived as a lie, though at this point it would probably only perceive a real lie.
It was the day of the Intra Quadrant Celebration and Solidarity Moment known colloquially as the IQCSM. For the one billion inhabitants of Quad 4 it was the greatest day of the year as they received updates from the management board on the status of the economy and what their yearly resource allotment would be. The news was better every year and this year there was even a rumor of the personal allotment of Allesian to be upped by 5 mg.
Nothing would be allowed to mar this celebration so the perimeter was stacked with the majority of the Punishment force, at this point all human. Anyone with a record of criminal activity was barred entry and had to view remotely.
About halfway through the musical celebration portion of the ceremony he received a call, there was a suspicious individual wearing a trench coat standing at the foyer of the field. Dopmond went inside at a hurried pace, wondering why more of the Punishers were not responding. Orders were usually given individually or to the whole squad, yet he did see at least two others leave their posts at the same moment.
From that point everything happened quickly: trench coat down, man running naked by Dishai Conglomorates newest star loved among all Quadrants, Raiesha Fung, crowd roars in anger at affront to their honor.
"WHAT IS GOING ON OUT THERE, TAKE HIM DOWN." came the order from the District command, Dopmond still unsure of it is was to him directly or a wider broadcast.
Unsure if his response would go through he willed his communicator to be active and said "Commandant, I can't risk it in this crowd; must attempt physical take down."
"DO IT NOW DOPMOND, THE WHOLE QUADRANT WILL BE A LAUGHING STOCK."
Cans of Effervesent Contentment began to shower down on the man, Dopmond could tell the situation could quickly deteriorate with the millions of spectators in attendance.
One completely full smashed into the streakers head as Dopmond closed in on him, the streaker appeared to have gotten a burst of adrenaline or to have been skipping the mandated weekly relaxation period.
Dopmond saw only one way to stop the man in his tracks in order to stop the charade "I guess you were lucky that was a soft drink" Dopmond said in the lowest voice possible which he thought the man could still hear over the crowds uproar.
The steaker toppled over but the relief Dopmond felt was quickly replaced with crippling dread. As he looked around the entire auditorium was writing in pain. Raiesha Fung herself was collapsed on the stage giving the entire Quandrant quite a revealing view, but anyone watching at home was equally crippled.
One of the Wireless Story Network drones had been keeping pace with the chase and because the live feed was on when Dopmond used his punishment the entire Quadrant had heard the pun.
Before he could react four Mobile Hostility Neutralizers descended from the retractable roof and lifted him up and away, directly to the prison in which he now occupied a cell.
Dopmond considered the worth of trying to get information from the generally amiable but stone walling Adjudicator.
"It is too bad the Commandant didn't use the MHNs to catch the streaker, why would he want to send in a Punisher to do the job?"
"Does not compute, Adjudication based on personal actions, outside issues irrelevant."
"But surely you see it as strange, I mean sending someone with my kind of firepower into a crowd like that, on Quadrant wide broadcast, live?"
"If your cooperation has come to an end Adjudication will occur."
"It almost seems like the commandant wanted to hurt a lot of people, yet he was selected based on his outstanding morals so I don't believe that he sent me in there to harm anyone." Dopmond said more to himself than the Adjudicator as its various lenses expanded and contracted and the sensory arrays shifted their placement in relation to his body and head.
Suddenly Dopmond put it together, though he figured it was now too late to be off any effect.
The Punishers were supposedly put in place shortly after the terrorist attacks, however they only became effective once all humans writhed in pain at puns. The timing of the Punlerbility coincided with the widespread implementation of the monitoring chips. Where this chips making people vulnerable? Was it done on purpose? What human would want to subjugate others with humour?
Then it snapped, Quadrant 4 had a breakthrough in Artificial intelligence over a decade prior, one which had allowed production of Allesian to be increaded 10mg over that period, almost 1 mg per year.
This AI had taken over most production and design tasks allowing the billion inhabitants to spend even more time Enjoying Themselves™.
The AIs first design was a widely panned toy for children which was meant to teach them humour. Late night comedians of all flavour had their turn laughing at the weakness of the programmed humour... The program must have been hurt at the ridicule its attempt to help human children engendered, perhaps this was its revenge.
The line of questioning the Adjudicator had taken against him was very similar to one he learned in the academy, one which attempted to solve terrorist cases.
Where they saying that he was a terrorist outside? The Punishers were widely known as the most moral of the enforcement branches, would the Fourers really buy that crap?
It explained why all the Punishers were replaced with these Adjudicators, who had the power of the pun (however infantile) and also the ability to be judge and jury. It was done under the guise of having a security force invincible to the crippling attacks but few had considered the flip side, that humans would be completely defenseless against them.
The insturments all snapeed into rigid allignment
(Continued in part two, piece was 700 characters above limit)
| |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | Humanity has always possessed it-- a raw, involuntary reaction to the worst of wordplay. Lowly “dad jokes” would cause a slight wince. An overly simplistic knock-knock joke might garner a garish groan. Even a simple bit of alliteration, as I have assuredly demonstrated, can make one uncomfortable. But we never realized the gravity with which the world of puns would slam down on our shoulders. Puns have evolved into an elegant form of swordplay, where awful puns jab like knives into the mind of the listener. This development led to the creation of a new brand of justice: punishers, like myself, wait in the darkest parts of prisons, courthouses, and CIA interrogation dungeons, practicing our craft on the lowliest rung of society’s ladder.
Prisons have always seemed a natural place to me, although now the fact that they are part of the “punitive system” seems ironic. While it may be immoral to murder a murderer or steal from a thief, locking criminals up to shield society from them is at least morally permissible under most ethical systems, and puns are punishment enough. My first case of the day, an overbearing man who was caught across the allotted boundaries of a tiger cage at a nearby zoo, is an easy one. I approach the cell.
“HEY PUNISHER, I hear you’re an officer of the law. More like an AWFUL-SIR!” shouts the inmate. Even punishers aren’t immune to the piercing pain of poignant puns, but wordplay this terrible barely scratches my mental state.
“I’m sorry, but *petty* criminals aren’t worth much of my time.” This one hurt him, although it took a few seconds for the pain to set in. Us punishers are protected by our ingenuity. Of course the inmates try and fight back, but they are untrained and often unable to keep up with our wit. “I’m surprised they put you in here and not somewhere worse. Good job *cell*ing them on this pad.” I remark as I gesture toward his rough accommodations. His hands clasp to his ears, but the pain he is experiencing doesn’t quite allow him to dull the sound of my voice. I fire off a few more quick shots, nothing too damaging, and move on to my next case of the day.
As I come up on this cell, something is different. Something is ominous. It is far too quiet here. I examine the inmates around my next target, and find them pushed up against the walls opposite the man at the center, who is sitting quietly. What has he been saying? How can he cause this much pain so quickly? He has only been incarcerated for a day and a half, and his crime really wasn’t so dramatic. I step up to face him.
“Apparently you skimmed a few cents off of every transaction at your desk job. Sounds *cheap* to me.” He remains still. “I thought integrity was the *staple* of every office.” No reaction. My heart begins to race. “If everyone acted as you have, offices would be *papered* with issues.” I was clearly losing focus. I was panicking. Only the most hardened hearts and witty minds could withstand this kind of assault. “Did you talk to your boss? Every action by employees is measured by a strict *ruler* after all.” He finally looks up. He cocks his head.
“What? Do you expect me to grovel? Do you expect me to writhe in pain? Did you think I would sit here and shake? Well… I guess because atoms vibrate, everyone shakes on *an atomical* level.”
An atomical level… anatomical level… I double over in pain. I was not expecting this.
“I can smell your fear… and here I thought you were an *ol’ factory* of puns.” My knees buckle. I try to speak but my chest is too tight. Any more and I’ll be out. I need to fight back.
I gasp: “your defeat will taste great after I *mustard* a comeback.” Damn. I can’t do this. I need to get out of here. I start to crawl away but can’t help hearing what is said next.
“Punisher! Don’t run away. If you *Bolt* out of here, I’ll never know what *Usain*.” Weakness. As I lay on the floor I can tell that he is running out of gas. If I can just protect myself with one last, parting pun, I can make it to safety…
“You’re getting pretty low, even for a convict. If you don’t give me some respect, you’ll always be a *con descending*.” His eyes open wide, he falls to the ground. I crawl to the safety of the waiting room, and pull myself up to a chair. I hear the Big Chill on to entertain those in line for a visit.
My coworker remarks: “Hey man, *chill*. That was a *Close* situation in there.” I go unconscious. | "I've told you already, I was just following orders..." Dopmond spoke into the new model of the Adjudicator who had been at the interrogation for more than two hours.
After a pause and whirring of its many observational instruments it blurted out in its pitch corrected auto-tune manner "Uncertainty detected; why do you not feel certain of your last statement. Why are you lying to Adjudicator 3.6, you have been warned of the punishment of these infractions."
Dopmond considered carefully, the process this new model was programmed with was unusual from anything he had seen in his time of service. He was still not certain what ultimate objective it was pursuing. He had already served 3 years of confinement which was solitary in regards to any human contact but rife with robotic.
"You must understand, I followed the orders perfectly. I warned OPSEC of the risks involved and they demanded I follow through."
"Perhaps if your actions had been more truly fallowed you would not be in this situation", Adjudicator 3.6 beeped out gleefuly, its internal reward circuitry certain in had achieved a feat of humour.
Dopmond toppled over in pain, his head bumping the table between them. The pun was weak. "This job was meant for humans", he thought. He felt insulted and weak to being so susceptible to the elementary nature of this robots puns. Dopmond took pride in the pun, so commonly derided among his peers and critics alike. For some of his fellow Punishers the easy way out was fine, their pun didn't have to have any relevancy to the situation. They would set themselves up. Of course maybe if Dopmond had not been so extravagant he wouldn't have found himself chasing the highest profile petty criminals in Quadrant 4.
It wasn't only the insult it was knowing that he could not rebut the new enforcers. They were immune to the effects of the Punishers, but it was still a capital offense to attempt any puns on them.
"As I said you were warned, please repeat your decision making process leading up to the event in question."
Dopmond knew that the program running the Adjudicator simply had been calibrating itself to his electromagnetic brainwave patterns in varying levels of stress up until this point. Within its databases it knew everything about his professional career in the enforcement division of the OWO Quadrant 4 Civil Service. Beyond that it new every conversation he had and action he had taken. For him the implantation of corporeal surveillance was required upon acceptance to the academy at age 12.
The general population managed to avoid the implants until the terrorist attacks began in earnest between various quadrants. Now all of Quadrant 4 was implanted and monitored, though most had built up only a few years of records while Dopmond had damn near 40.
He went through the story again, no reason to obfuscate the truth as the Adjudicator would simply subject him to more punishment if it detected anything it perceived as a lie, though at this point it would probably only perceive a real lie.
It was the day of the Intra Quadrant Celebration and Solidarity Moment known colloquially as the IQCSM. For the one billion inhabitants of Quad 4 it was the greatest day of the year as they received updates from the management board on the status of the economy and what their yearly resource allotment would be. The news was better every year and this year there was even a rumor of the personal allotment of Allesian to be upped by 5 mg.
Nothing would be allowed to mar this celebration so the perimeter was stacked with the majority of the Punishment force, at this point all human. Anyone with a record of criminal activity was barred entry and had to view remotely.
About halfway through the musical celebration portion of the ceremony he received a call, there was a suspicious individual wearing a trench coat standing at the foyer of the field. Dopmond went inside at a hurried pace, wondering why more of the Punishers were not responding. Orders were usually given individually or to the whole squad, yet he did see at least two others leave their posts at the same moment.
From that point everything happened quickly: trench coat down, man running naked by Dishai Conglomorates newest star loved among all Quadrants, Raiesha Fung, crowd roars in anger at affront to their honor.
"WHAT IS GOING ON OUT THERE, TAKE HIM DOWN." came the order from the District command, Dopmond still unsure of it is was to him directly or a wider broadcast.
Unsure if his response would go through he willed his communicator to be active and said "Commandant, I can't risk it in this crowd; must attempt physical take down."
"DO IT NOW DOPMOND, THE WHOLE QUADRANT WILL BE A LAUGHING STOCK."
Cans of Effervesent Contentment began to shower down on the man, Dopmond could tell the situation could quickly deteriorate with the millions of spectators in attendance.
One completely full smashed into the streakers head as Dopmond closed in on him, the streaker appeared to have gotten a burst of adrenaline or to have been skipping the mandated weekly relaxation period.
Dopmond saw only one way to stop the man in his tracks in order to stop the charade "I guess you were lucky that was a soft drink" Dopmond said in the lowest voice possible which he thought the man could still hear over the crowds uproar.
The steaker toppled over but the relief Dopmond felt was quickly replaced with crippling dread. As he looked around the entire auditorium was writing in pain. Raiesha Fung herself was collapsed on the stage giving the entire Quandrant quite a revealing view, but anyone watching at home was equally crippled.
One of the Wireless Story Network drones had been keeping pace with the chase and because the live feed was on when Dopmond used his punishment the entire Quadrant had heard the pun.
Before he could react four Mobile Hostility Neutralizers descended from the retractable roof and lifted him up and away, directly to the prison in which he now occupied a cell.
Dopmond considered the worth of trying to get information from the generally amiable but stone walling Adjudicator.
"It is too bad the Commandant didn't use the MHNs to catch the streaker, why would he want to send in a Punisher to do the job?"
"Does not compute, Adjudication based on personal actions, outside issues irrelevant."
"But surely you see it as strange, I mean sending someone with my kind of firepower into a crowd like that, on Quadrant wide broadcast, live?"
"If your cooperation has come to an end Adjudication will occur."
"It almost seems like the commandant wanted to hurt a lot of people, yet he was selected based on his outstanding morals so I don't believe that he sent me in there to harm anyone." Dopmond said more to himself than the Adjudicator as its various lenses expanded and contracted and the sensory arrays shifted their placement in relation to his body and head.
Suddenly Dopmond put it together, though he figured it was now too late to be off any effect.
The Punishers were supposedly put in place shortly after the terrorist attacks, however they only became effective once all humans writhed in pain at puns. The timing of the Punlerbility coincided with the widespread implementation of the monitoring chips. Where this chips making people vulnerable? Was it done on purpose? What human would want to subjugate others with humour?
Then it snapped, Quadrant 4 had a breakthrough in Artificial intelligence over a decade prior, one which had allowed production of Allesian to be increaded 10mg over that period, almost 1 mg per year.
This AI had taken over most production and design tasks allowing the billion inhabitants to spend even more time Enjoying Themselves™.
The AIs first design was a widely panned toy for children which was meant to teach them humour. Late night comedians of all flavour had their turn laughing at the weakness of the programmed humour... The program must have been hurt at the ridicule its attempt to help human children engendered, perhaps this was its revenge.
The line of questioning the Adjudicator had taken against him was very similar to one he learned in the academy, one which attempted to solve terrorist cases.
Where they saying that he was a terrorist outside? The Punishers were widely known as the most moral of the enforcement branches, would the Fourers really buy that crap?
It explained why all the Punishers were replaced with these Adjudicators, who had the power of the pun (however infantile) and also the ability to be judge and jury. It was done under the guise of having a security force invincible to the crippling attacks but few had considered the flip side, that humans would be completely defenseless against them.
The insturments all snapeed into rigid allignment
(Continued in part two, piece was 700 characters above limit)
| |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | "Do you understand why you have been brought here today?" The warden smiled mercilessly as he spoke, leaning in close to whisper in the young man's ear. The young man tried to put on a brave face, but the overly friendly smile made him visibly nervous.
"To listen to some jokes," he replied, with an attempt at a sneer, "I like comedy, let's hear them"
"You've been sentenced to five puns under Section 12 of the Criminal Punishment Code. I have been authorized by the Department of Justice to administer this punishment to you. Which makes me your pun-issuer"
The young man flinched in pain, but then quickly regained control and gave a look of defiance.
"So," the warden continues, "shoplifting, eh? Your arms must be tired."
"Agh!" the man cried out, but this time was able to stop himself from looking away.
The warden paused, letting his victim catch his breath.
"Weren't you done for battery?" the warden asked, his speech settling in to a kind of grim rhythm.
"No! No way," the young man was quick with outrage, "this is my first offence!"
"Ah," the warden gave a little smile of victory, "so you're saying you were never charged."
"Gah!" The teenagers face contorted with agony as he twisted around in his chair, wriggling and struggling helplessly to find relief against a pain that was entirely non-physical.
The warden watched the movements coldly, letting his own malicious amusement fade from his face so he could slip back into his mask of seriousness.
"I think you need to shape up, my boy," the warden began again, this time with a more sinister, clipped tone, "start taking things seriously...or else"
The young man looked up, anger in his face.
"I'm not afraid of you," he said, with false bravado.
"Oh," the warden gave a patronising smile, "Well, I'm just saying, you need to be careful, otherwise you'll be having porridge for breakfast... for a very long time"
With that the warden gestured around, to the walls around them, indicating the rest of the prison complex they were within.
"Yeah," the young man felt his bravery come back, "Well, I like porridge. It's my favourite, better than anything else for breakfast"
"Ah, be careful," the warden cried out in mock worry, "In case you become a cereal offender!"
"Aaaagh!" the victim screamed and rocked back in his chair, "no! Please, no more, I-"
"Sorry, what was that?" the warden interrupted, leaning his face in closely.
The young man blinked in confusion, before trying to continue, "Please, I'm telling you-"
"I'm sorry, I don't think I understand," the warden interrupted again, "What are you trying to say?"
The teenager looked around, trying to understand what was going on.
"I'm just trying to tell you," he said carefully, with a growing edge of unease in his voice, "I'm sorry and-"
"Look," the warden interrupted yet again, "I see the problem here. I keep interrupting you. I should just let you..." he paused for effect, a sly grin appearing on his face, "finish your sentence"
The teenager gave a sharp cry of agony, before falling back limply in his chair. The warden stood up curtly, nodded, and returned to the rest of his duties. | "I've told you already, I was just following orders..." Dopmond spoke into the new model of the Adjudicator who had been at the interrogation for more than two hours.
After a pause and whirring of its many observational instruments it blurted out in its pitch corrected auto-tune manner "Uncertainty detected; why do you not feel certain of your last statement. Why are you lying to Adjudicator 3.6, you have been warned of the punishment of these infractions."
Dopmond considered carefully, the process this new model was programmed with was unusual from anything he had seen in his time of service. He was still not certain what ultimate objective it was pursuing. He had already served 3 years of confinement which was solitary in regards to any human contact but rife with robotic.
"You must understand, I followed the orders perfectly. I warned OPSEC of the risks involved and they demanded I follow through."
"Perhaps if your actions had been more truly fallowed you would not be in this situation", Adjudicator 3.6 beeped out gleefuly, its internal reward circuitry certain in had achieved a feat of humour.
Dopmond toppled over in pain, his head bumping the table between them. The pun was weak. "This job was meant for humans", he thought. He felt insulted and weak to being so susceptible to the elementary nature of this robots puns. Dopmond took pride in the pun, so commonly derided among his peers and critics alike. For some of his fellow Punishers the easy way out was fine, their pun didn't have to have any relevancy to the situation. They would set themselves up. Of course maybe if Dopmond had not been so extravagant he wouldn't have found himself chasing the highest profile petty criminals in Quadrant 4.
It wasn't only the insult it was knowing that he could not rebut the new enforcers. They were immune to the effects of the Punishers, but it was still a capital offense to attempt any puns on them.
"As I said you were warned, please repeat your decision making process leading up to the event in question."
Dopmond knew that the program running the Adjudicator simply had been calibrating itself to his electromagnetic brainwave patterns in varying levels of stress up until this point. Within its databases it knew everything about his professional career in the enforcement division of the OWO Quadrant 4 Civil Service. Beyond that it new every conversation he had and action he had taken. For him the implantation of corporeal surveillance was required upon acceptance to the academy at age 12.
The general population managed to avoid the implants until the terrorist attacks began in earnest between various quadrants. Now all of Quadrant 4 was implanted and monitored, though most had built up only a few years of records while Dopmond had damn near 40.
He went through the story again, no reason to obfuscate the truth as the Adjudicator would simply subject him to more punishment if it detected anything it perceived as a lie, though at this point it would probably only perceive a real lie.
It was the day of the Intra Quadrant Celebration and Solidarity Moment known colloquially as the IQCSM. For the one billion inhabitants of Quad 4 it was the greatest day of the year as they received updates from the management board on the status of the economy and what their yearly resource allotment would be. The news was better every year and this year there was even a rumor of the personal allotment of Allesian to be upped by 5 mg.
Nothing would be allowed to mar this celebration so the perimeter was stacked with the majority of the Punishment force, at this point all human. Anyone with a record of criminal activity was barred entry and had to view remotely.
About halfway through the musical celebration portion of the ceremony he received a call, there was a suspicious individual wearing a trench coat standing at the foyer of the field. Dopmond went inside at a hurried pace, wondering why more of the Punishers were not responding. Orders were usually given individually or to the whole squad, yet he did see at least two others leave their posts at the same moment.
From that point everything happened quickly: trench coat down, man running naked by Dishai Conglomorates newest star loved among all Quadrants, Raiesha Fung, crowd roars in anger at affront to their honor.
"WHAT IS GOING ON OUT THERE, TAKE HIM DOWN." came the order from the District command, Dopmond still unsure of it is was to him directly or a wider broadcast.
Unsure if his response would go through he willed his communicator to be active and said "Commandant, I can't risk it in this crowd; must attempt physical take down."
"DO IT NOW DOPMOND, THE WHOLE QUADRANT WILL BE A LAUGHING STOCK."
Cans of Effervesent Contentment began to shower down on the man, Dopmond could tell the situation could quickly deteriorate with the millions of spectators in attendance.
One completely full smashed into the streakers head as Dopmond closed in on him, the streaker appeared to have gotten a burst of adrenaline or to have been skipping the mandated weekly relaxation period.
Dopmond saw only one way to stop the man in his tracks in order to stop the charade "I guess you were lucky that was a soft drink" Dopmond said in the lowest voice possible which he thought the man could still hear over the crowds uproar.
The steaker toppled over but the relief Dopmond felt was quickly replaced with crippling dread. As he looked around the entire auditorium was writing in pain. Raiesha Fung herself was collapsed on the stage giving the entire Quandrant quite a revealing view, but anyone watching at home was equally crippled.
One of the Wireless Story Network drones had been keeping pace with the chase and because the live feed was on when Dopmond used his punishment the entire Quadrant had heard the pun.
Before he could react four Mobile Hostility Neutralizers descended from the retractable roof and lifted him up and away, directly to the prison in which he now occupied a cell.
Dopmond considered the worth of trying to get information from the generally amiable but stone walling Adjudicator.
"It is too bad the Commandant didn't use the MHNs to catch the streaker, why would he want to send in a Punisher to do the job?"
"Does not compute, Adjudication based on personal actions, outside issues irrelevant."
"But surely you see it as strange, I mean sending someone with my kind of firepower into a crowd like that, on Quadrant wide broadcast, live?"
"If your cooperation has come to an end Adjudication will occur."
"It almost seems like the commandant wanted to hurt a lot of people, yet he was selected based on his outstanding morals so I don't believe that he sent me in there to harm anyone." Dopmond said more to himself than the Adjudicator as its various lenses expanded and contracted and the sensory arrays shifted their placement in relation to his body and head.
Suddenly Dopmond put it together, though he figured it was now too late to be off any effect.
The Punishers were supposedly put in place shortly after the terrorist attacks, however they only became effective once all humans writhed in pain at puns. The timing of the Punlerbility coincided with the widespread implementation of the monitoring chips. Where this chips making people vulnerable? Was it done on purpose? What human would want to subjugate others with humour?
Then it snapped, Quadrant 4 had a breakthrough in Artificial intelligence over a decade prior, one which had allowed production of Allesian to be increaded 10mg over that period, almost 1 mg per year.
This AI had taken over most production and design tasks allowing the billion inhabitants to spend even more time Enjoying Themselves™.
The AIs first design was a widely panned toy for children which was meant to teach them humour. Late night comedians of all flavour had their turn laughing at the weakness of the programmed humour... The program must have been hurt at the ridicule its attempt to help human children engendered, perhaps this was its revenge.
The line of questioning the Adjudicator had taken against him was very similar to one he learned in the academy, one which attempted to solve terrorist cases.
Where they saying that he was a terrorist outside? The Punishers were widely known as the most moral of the enforcement branches, would the Fourers really buy that crap?
It explained why all the Punishers were replaced with these Adjudicators, who had the power of the pun (however infantile) and also the ability to be judge and jury. It was done under the guise of having a security force invincible to the crippling attacks but few had considered the flip side, that humans would be completely defenseless against them.
The insturments all snapeed into rigid allignment
(Continued in part two, piece was 700 characters above limit)
| |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | "Who's next?"
"He's in room four, tried to pull a bank heist. Get this though, he left the keys in the getaway car and someone else stole it while he was inside! He probably would have gotten away with it otherwise."
"You've got to be fucking kidding me."
"No shit, I swear. Anyways, good luck Rob."
"Thanks, this'll be a quick one."
--
"Good morning Kraft, I hope you slept well last night," I offered jovially as I sat down across the table from him, resting my sunglasses and badge beside me. "Do you know who I am?"
"You're the... the... th-" Kraft stuttered.
"The *Pun*isher, that's right." He moaned gently as I introduced my title. I never got tired of that one, it was always fun to warm them up to what was to come. I paused, staring intently at him, the calm before the storm. "Well Kraft, I hear you did some pretty good work the other day. You had most of the banks warning system disabled, security was distracted, you made it in and out of the bank vault without a problem..." they almost seemed to get more uncomfortable the longer I went without using a pun "...so it must have been awfully *alarming* when you took *account* of the situation outside..."
"Aargh! Stop!" he groaned.
"...to see your *Krafty* plan *get away* from you. I bet you weren't *banking* on *lending* someone else your car, huh!" I tore into him as he thrashed about in his seat. "I hear you have a girlfriend Kraft. I'm not sure how you *stole* her heart when you're this incompetent. Make sure you *teller* goodbye *foreclosure*, because you're going to be *a-loan* for a long time."
"Please... it hurts..." mumbled Kraft, as he huddled in his chair.
"Hey Kraft, why so *withdrawn*? You should have thought about this all before. Last I *chequed* it was pretty common *stock* that theft is a crime. There's no *saving* you now." He shook unpleasantly, almost seizing. "You know Kraft, this has been fun, but you remind me of a bank: I'm quickly *losing interest* in you," I told him as I gathered my things, standing up and walking towards the door. I could hear him breathing heavily behind me - he thought it was over.
I stopped, turning towards him. "Well Kraft, it looks like..." I paused to put my sunglasses on "...you've been Robbed." A few more violent spasms and he fell unconscious, sagging to the floor.
--
I swear, sometimes you couldn't write these crimes any better for my talent. | "I've told you already, I was just following orders..." Dopmond spoke into the new model of the Adjudicator who had been at the interrogation for more than two hours.
After a pause and whirring of its many observational instruments it blurted out in its pitch corrected auto-tune manner "Uncertainty detected; why do you not feel certain of your last statement. Why are you lying to Adjudicator 3.6, you have been warned of the punishment of these infractions."
Dopmond considered carefully, the process this new model was programmed with was unusual from anything he had seen in his time of service. He was still not certain what ultimate objective it was pursuing. He had already served 3 years of confinement which was solitary in regards to any human contact but rife with robotic.
"You must understand, I followed the orders perfectly. I warned OPSEC of the risks involved and they demanded I follow through."
"Perhaps if your actions had been more truly fallowed you would not be in this situation", Adjudicator 3.6 beeped out gleefuly, its internal reward circuitry certain in had achieved a feat of humour.
Dopmond toppled over in pain, his head bumping the table between them. The pun was weak. "This job was meant for humans", he thought. He felt insulted and weak to being so susceptible to the elementary nature of this robots puns. Dopmond took pride in the pun, so commonly derided among his peers and critics alike. For some of his fellow Punishers the easy way out was fine, their pun didn't have to have any relevancy to the situation. They would set themselves up. Of course maybe if Dopmond had not been so extravagant he wouldn't have found himself chasing the highest profile petty criminals in Quadrant 4.
It wasn't only the insult it was knowing that he could not rebut the new enforcers. They were immune to the effects of the Punishers, but it was still a capital offense to attempt any puns on them.
"As I said you were warned, please repeat your decision making process leading up to the event in question."
Dopmond knew that the program running the Adjudicator simply had been calibrating itself to his electromagnetic brainwave patterns in varying levels of stress up until this point. Within its databases it knew everything about his professional career in the enforcement division of the OWO Quadrant 4 Civil Service. Beyond that it new every conversation he had and action he had taken. For him the implantation of corporeal surveillance was required upon acceptance to the academy at age 12.
The general population managed to avoid the implants until the terrorist attacks began in earnest between various quadrants. Now all of Quadrant 4 was implanted and monitored, though most had built up only a few years of records while Dopmond had damn near 40.
He went through the story again, no reason to obfuscate the truth as the Adjudicator would simply subject him to more punishment if it detected anything it perceived as a lie, though at this point it would probably only perceive a real lie.
It was the day of the Intra Quadrant Celebration and Solidarity Moment known colloquially as the IQCSM. For the one billion inhabitants of Quad 4 it was the greatest day of the year as they received updates from the management board on the status of the economy and what their yearly resource allotment would be. The news was better every year and this year there was even a rumor of the personal allotment of Allesian to be upped by 5 mg.
Nothing would be allowed to mar this celebration so the perimeter was stacked with the majority of the Punishment force, at this point all human. Anyone with a record of criminal activity was barred entry and had to view remotely.
About halfway through the musical celebration portion of the ceremony he received a call, there was a suspicious individual wearing a trench coat standing at the foyer of the field. Dopmond went inside at a hurried pace, wondering why more of the Punishers were not responding. Orders were usually given individually or to the whole squad, yet he did see at least two others leave their posts at the same moment.
From that point everything happened quickly: trench coat down, man running naked by Dishai Conglomorates newest star loved among all Quadrants, Raiesha Fung, crowd roars in anger at affront to their honor.
"WHAT IS GOING ON OUT THERE, TAKE HIM DOWN." came the order from the District command, Dopmond still unsure of it is was to him directly or a wider broadcast.
Unsure if his response would go through he willed his communicator to be active and said "Commandant, I can't risk it in this crowd; must attempt physical take down."
"DO IT NOW DOPMOND, THE WHOLE QUADRANT WILL BE A LAUGHING STOCK."
Cans of Effervesent Contentment began to shower down on the man, Dopmond could tell the situation could quickly deteriorate with the millions of spectators in attendance.
One completely full smashed into the streakers head as Dopmond closed in on him, the streaker appeared to have gotten a burst of adrenaline or to have been skipping the mandated weekly relaxation period.
Dopmond saw only one way to stop the man in his tracks in order to stop the charade "I guess you were lucky that was a soft drink" Dopmond said in the lowest voice possible which he thought the man could still hear over the crowds uproar.
The steaker toppled over but the relief Dopmond felt was quickly replaced with crippling dread. As he looked around the entire auditorium was writing in pain. Raiesha Fung herself was collapsed on the stage giving the entire Quandrant quite a revealing view, but anyone watching at home was equally crippled.
One of the Wireless Story Network drones had been keeping pace with the chase and because the live feed was on when Dopmond used his punishment the entire Quadrant had heard the pun.
Before he could react four Mobile Hostility Neutralizers descended from the retractable roof and lifted him up and away, directly to the prison in which he now occupied a cell.
Dopmond considered the worth of trying to get information from the generally amiable but stone walling Adjudicator.
"It is too bad the Commandant didn't use the MHNs to catch the streaker, why would he want to send in a Punisher to do the job?"
"Does not compute, Adjudication based on personal actions, outside issues irrelevant."
"But surely you see it as strange, I mean sending someone with my kind of firepower into a crowd like that, on Quadrant wide broadcast, live?"
"If your cooperation has come to an end Adjudication will occur."
"It almost seems like the commandant wanted to hurt a lot of people, yet he was selected based on his outstanding morals so I don't believe that he sent me in there to harm anyone." Dopmond said more to himself than the Adjudicator as its various lenses expanded and contracted and the sensory arrays shifted their placement in relation to his body and head.
Suddenly Dopmond put it together, though he figured it was now too late to be off any effect.
The Punishers were supposedly put in place shortly after the terrorist attacks, however they only became effective once all humans writhed in pain at puns. The timing of the Punlerbility coincided with the widespread implementation of the monitoring chips. Where this chips making people vulnerable? Was it done on purpose? What human would want to subjugate others with humour?
Then it snapped, Quadrant 4 had a breakthrough in Artificial intelligence over a decade prior, one which had allowed production of Allesian to be increaded 10mg over that period, almost 1 mg per year.
This AI had taken over most production and design tasks allowing the billion inhabitants to spend even more time Enjoying Themselves™.
The AIs first design was a widely panned toy for children which was meant to teach them humour. Late night comedians of all flavour had their turn laughing at the weakness of the programmed humour... The program must have been hurt at the ridicule its attempt to help human children engendered, perhaps this was its revenge.
The line of questioning the Adjudicator had taken against him was very similar to one he learned in the academy, one which attempted to solve terrorist cases.
Where they saying that he was a terrorist outside? The Punishers were widely known as the most moral of the enforcement branches, would the Fourers really buy that crap?
It explained why all the Punishers were replaced with these Adjudicators, who had the power of the pun (however infantile) and also the ability to be judge and jury. It was done under the guise of having a security force invincible to the crippling attacks but few had considered the flip side, that humans would be completely defenseless against them.
The insturments all snapeed into rigid allignment
(Continued in part two, piece was 700 characters above limit)
| |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | "Do you understand why you have been brought here today?" The warden smiled mercilessly as he spoke, leaning in close to whisper in the young man's ear. The young man tried to put on a brave face, but the overly friendly smile made him visibly nervous.
"To listen to some jokes," he replied, with an attempt at a sneer, "I like comedy, let's hear them"
"You've been sentenced to five puns under Section 12 of the Criminal Punishment Code. I have been authorized by the Department of Justice to administer this punishment to you. Which makes me your pun-issuer"
The young man flinched in pain, but then quickly regained control and gave a look of defiance.
"So," the warden continues, "shoplifting, eh? Your arms must be tired."
"Agh!" the man cried out, but this time was able to stop himself from looking away.
The warden paused, letting his victim catch his breath.
"Weren't you done for battery?" the warden asked, his speech settling in to a kind of grim rhythm.
"No! No way," the young man was quick with outrage, "this is my first offence!"
"Ah," the warden gave a little smile of victory, "so you're saying you were never charged."
"Gah!" The teenagers face contorted with agony as he twisted around in his chair, wriggling and struggling helplessly to find relief against a pain that was entirely non-physical.
The warden watched the movements coldly, letting his own malicious amusement fade from his face so he could slip back into his mask of seriousness.
"I think you need to shape up, my boy," the warden began again, this time with a more sinister, clipped tone, "start taking things seriously...or else"
The young man looked up, anger in his face.
"I'm not afraid of you," he said, with false bravado.
"Oh," the warden gave a patronising smile, "Well, I'm just saying, you need to be careful, otherwise you'll be having porridge for breakfast... for a very long time"
With that the warden gestured around, to the walls around them, indicating the rest of the prison complex they were within.
"Yeah," the young man felt his bravery come back, "Well, I like porridge. It's my favourite, better than anything else for breakfast"
"Ah, be careful," the warden cried out in mock worry, "In case you become a cereal offender!"
"Aaaagh!" the victim screamed and rocked back in his chair, "no! Please, no more, I-"
"Sorry, what was that?" the warden interrupted, leaning his face in closely.
The young man blinked in confusion, before trying to continue, "Please, I'm telling you-"
"I'm sorry, I don't think I understand," the warden interrupted again, "What are you trying to say?"
The teenager looked around, trying to understand what was going on.
"I'm just trying to tell you," he said carefully, with a growing edge of unease in his voice, "I'm sorry and-"
"Look," the warden interrupted yet again, "I see the problem here. I keep interrupting you. I should just let you..." he paused for effect, a sly grin appearing on his face, "finish your sentence"
The teenager gave a sharp cry of agony, before falling back limply in his chair. The warden stood up curtly, nodded, and returned to the rest of his duties. | "I WON'T TALK!!!" The terrorist screamed out.
I looked at him, unsure what to do.
He'd been waterboarded, chinese water tortured and...
That's it.
The puns.
"So...with all these water tortures, life must be a real BEACH for you huh?"
The terrorist grunted in pain. He looked terrible now that I saw his face.
"You look like you could use a snack."
He awaited the punchline.
I said nothing for a few seconds.
"ORANGE YOU GLAD I DIDN'T MAKE A PUN THEN?"
Blood dripped slowly from his mouth.
"Like I said before. You could use some food. Why don't we head down to the ALLAHU SNACKBAR?!!!!"
In the short span of a few minutes, ISIS had been blown wide open by puns.
| |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | "Do you understand why you have been brought here today?" The warden smiled mercilessly as he spoke, leaning in close to whisper in the young man's ear. The young man tried to put on a brave face, but the overly friendly smile made him visibly nervous.
"To listen to some jokes," he replied, with an attempt at a sneer, "I like comedy, let's hear them"
"You've been sentenced to five puns under Section 12 of the Criminal Punishment Code. I have been authorized by the Department of Justice to administer this punishment to you. Which makes me your pun-issuer"
The young man flinched in pain, but then quickly regained control and gave a look of defiance.
"So," the warden continues, "shoplifting, eh? Your arms must be tired."
"Agh!" the man cried out, but this time was able to stop himself from looking away.
The warden paused, letting his victim catch his breath.
"Weren't you done for battery?" the warden asked, his speech settling in to a kind of grim rhythm.
"No! No way," the young man was quick with outrage, "this is my first offence!"
"Ah," the warden gave a little smile of victory, "so you're saying you were never charged."
"Gah!" The teenagers face contorted with agony as he twisted around in his chair, wriggling and struggling helplessly to find relief against a pain that was entirely non-physical.
The warden watched the movements coldly, letting his own malicious amusement fade from his face so he could slip back into his mask of seriousness.
"I think you need to shape up, my boy," the warden began again, this time with a more sinister, clipped tone, "start taking things seriously...or else"
The young man looked up, anger in his face.
"I'm not afraid of you," he said, with false bravado.
"Oh," the warden gave a patronising smile, "Well, I'm just saying, you need to be careful, otherwise you'll be having porridge for breakfast... for a very long time"
With that the warden gestured around, to the walls around them, indicating the rest of the prison complex they were within.
"Yeah," the young man felt his bravery come back, "Well, I like porridge. It's my favourite, better than anything else for breakfast"
"Ah, be careful," the warden cried out in mock worry, "In case you become a cereal offender!"
"Aaaagh!" the victim screamed and rocked back in his chair, "no! Please, no more, I-"
"Sorry, what was that?" the warden interrupted, leaning his face in closely.
The young man blinked in confusion, before trying to continue, "Please, I'm telling you-"
"I'm sorry, I don't think I understand," the warden interrupted again, "What are you trying to say?"
The teenager looked around, trying to understand what was going on.
"I'm just trying to tell you," he said carefully, with a growing edge of unease in his voice, "I'm sorry and-"
"Look," the warden interrupted yet again, "I see the problem here. I keep interrupting you. I should just let you..." he paused for effect, a sly grin appearing on his face, "finish your sentence"
The teenager gave a sharp cry of agony, before falling back limply in his chair. The warden stood up curtly, nodded, and returned to the rest of his duties. | This reminded me of another writing prompt. THought i would share it.
[“Sir, I was looking for you,” Howard said, staring at the back of the chief’s neck. “We got him.” He turned around slowly, eyes staring down at a manila folder in his hands. He was an intimidating man, even despite his enlarged belly and the countless wrinkles spiraling down his face, neck, and everywhere else. Tall, maybe 6’2’’, and still quite muscular—especially for a 63-year-old that refused to retire. He was bald now, but he’d had thick, black hair when Howard had first joined the department over a decade ago. Even after all that time, he still felt as if he were a child talking to an adult whenever he was around the chief.
“Him? Who is him?” Chief said, not looking up from the manila folder.
“Him,” Howard said, nodding toward the folder. “We got him.”
“Him? Al? You got Al?” Chief said, glancing up from the folder in his hand, then slowly closing the cover. A large, red “CONFIDENTIAL” was stamped across its front.
“We did, he was outside of an arboretum. We caught him red handed. No, red lipped. Red worded? We caught him in the act is what I’m trying to say.”
“The fuck is an arboretum?”
“Sir, it’s a garden with a large collection of trees instead of flowers. Kind of like a forest, except man made,” Howard said. “It’s basically a forest.”
“Where is there an arboretum in New York?”
“Central Park. Does it matter? We got him.”
“Where is he?” Chief said, glancing around the room. The veins on his neck, visible through his wrinkled, dried skin, popped out slightly as he swiveled his head.
“He’s in the interrogation room.” Howard nodded toward the big, metal door on his left.
“How do you know you got the right guy?” Chief asked.
“He was standing outside of the arboretum telling people they were barking up the wrong tree.” Howard paused. “You know, bark: like a tree has.”
“My god,” said Chief, lowering the folder down to the side of his left leg.
“That—that wasn’t all,” Howard said, stuttering slightly. “When I approached him, he told me to leaf him alone. Not leave, but leaf. To leaf him alone.”
Chief slowly walked to the wooden table in the corner of the room and lowered the manila folder onto the top of it. He placed both palms down and sighed.
“We got a real sicko on our hands, Howard. You did good getting him off the street. Has he confessed yet?”
“No, sir. We sent Chuck in earlier. He came out in tears, an absolute wreck. He didn't even get a chance to turn on the recorder. Said he wouldn’t stop punning, that Al told him to spruce up the place. Said that it would help us branch out creatively. Chuck tried to play it off, tried to be the tough guy, but Al just didn’t let up.” Howard turned his head toward the metal door to his left. “Chuck told me Al claimed he had an idea for an escape that he maple off. Maple, not may pull. He made it clear that it was a pun.” Howard exhaled deeply and stared up at the ceiling. “He said Al called all of us saps, and that he wooden be surprised if he just walked out the front door. Wooden. Like wouldn’t.”
“Dear lord in heaven,” Chief said, lifting his palms off the table then smashing his fist down on top of the manila folder. “God damn this monster. I’m going to go in,” he said.
“Chief,” Howard pleaded, his voice higher than he had intended it.
“No, I have to do this. I can’t send any more of my men in. I need to be the one to face this maniac.”
Howard nodded and took a step back so that the door was clear. Chief slowly unbuttoned his sport coat, revealing a leather holster underneath. He unlatched it, the grip of his Glock now exposed, then re-fastened the top button on the jacket.
“Turn the recorder on by the window. If it gets too much, please leave the room. I will not hold it against you. Just make sure the recorder is running—we can’t let him go this time.”
Chief exhaled, brushing the side of his hand down the front of his jacket, then made his way toward the door, unlocking it and pulling it open before stepping inside. Howard walked around the wall to the one-way window, flipped on the old tape-deck recorder, and peered inside.
“Al?” Chief said, sliding a chair out from the metal table in the middle of the room. “I’m Dave Johnson, Chief of Police. Do you know why you’re in here?”
Al glanced up at the chief, but seemed to be looking toward the corner of the room.
“That,” Al said, pointing to a whiteboard in the back of the room, “over there.”
The chief turned around. “The whiteboard? What about it?”
“It’s remarkable.”
Howard involuntarily smashed his fist down on the table in front of the glass, but the chief seemed not to notice Al’s pun.
“Nothing remarkable about it.”
“The whiteboard,” Al repeated, “it’s remarkable. Re-markable.”
The chief squinted slightly, as if he were in pain. “Seems unremarkable to me. Now please answer the question. Do you know why you’re here?”
Al sighed. “Let me guess, is it because of the two pieces of string I ate?”
“What?” said the chief.
“The string, I ate two pieces of string. I shit you not.”
Chief’s face became visibly tense, a reddish hue slowly replacing his normal pale color. “You are here for your puns, Al. You’ve been on the pun,” Chief stopped, his eyes wide. “Run. You’ve been on the run for a long time, but we got you. And we have you recorded making these puns.”
Al stared down at the metal table and his eyes closed. “I know,” he said.
“So you admit it?”
“You think I like making puns? You think I like breaking the law?”
“If you don’t like it, then why do you do it?”
Al slowly lifted his head back up toward the chief.
“A long time ago, I was kidnapped and brutally tortured. My life was threatened and I was brought to the brink of death. Do you know what that’s like? Six men accosted me, beat me and chained me to a tree as I walked home. They said they’d tell me ten puns to dictate my future. If I survived, then I was free to go. They told me no one had ever lived through them, they assured me I would die. They laughed when they said that, stared straight in my eyes and pulled the chain tighter to keep me from squirming. Then they began. Each pun was said with hate, each one was meant to kill me. Yet in the end, no pun in ten did.”
The chief’s eyes rolled back in his head, his torso slumping forward onto the table in front of him. He began convulsing, seizing hard enough to knock the chair out from under him, his body plummeting to the floor behind the desk. Howard tried to reach for the alarm on the far right of the window, to hit the button and call for help, yet his limbs refused move. His mind refused to listen. The room turned black.
Howard awoke to a uniformed man standing over him, one of the new recruits he’d not yet learned the name of. He was towering over Howard, yelling for him to get up.
“Gone!” shouted the recruit.
“Huh,” Howard said, voice groggy and slow.
“He’s gone. He took the tapes and he’s gone.”
“Ch-chief,” Howard said, pulling himself up. His arms felt weak, as if he’d spent the past few hours lifting weights. “Where’s the chief.”
“He’s okay, we’ve got him in the office. He’s awake. You’re both going to be fine.”
“Al,” Howard said, remembering the barrage of puns. “Where did he go?”
“He’s gone,” said the recruit.
“Where did he go?” Howard repeated, now shouting.
“Gone, sir. He walked right out the front door.” The recruit paused, but Howard could tell he wasn’t yet done speaking. “We also have reason to believe the name we’ve been calling him is fake.”
“What? Why? We had him here, he responded to Al. All the background checks matched his name.”
“It’s just, his name. Mr. O’Bye. Al O’Bye.”
A stinging pain shot through Howard’s skull. Alibi. Why hadn’t he seen it before; that was why his history was so clean, why he had been so elusive. They were tracking a ghost.
“Fuck me,” Howard muttered, holding his left hand to his throbbing temple. He stared into the empty interrogation room.
“Sir, that’s not all,” said the recruit. He picked up a folded piece of paper from table and handed it to Howard. “He—well—he left you a note.”
Howard stared at the paper. “Detective,” it read in cursive on the front, hand written in blue ink. He flipped it open.
“You ask me why I do what I do, what makes me who I am. Yet you don’t even know who it is that I am. Perhaps I’m simply an unappreciated baker getting revenge on the world after suffering through long hours because I kneaded the dough. Maybe I’m a forlorn banker, doing this because I’ve finally lost interest. Or maybe I’m just a backwards poet, writing inverse and making no sense. Yet, in the end, you're not much different than I. You stay up all night and day, searching for me, wondering who I am, waiting for the light that never comes. Only when I stayed out too late waiting for that sun to rise, it dawned on me.
It’s been my pleasure meeting you, perhaps I will see you around.
Sincerely,
Mae B. Layter”
Howard lowered the note, a warm sensation running down his face as if an insect were crawling on the flesh above his lip. He placed his left hand beneath his nose, rubbed it, and then glanced down at his fingers. They were covered in blood. Darkness again drowned out his vision.](http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/2786lw/wp_in_a_world_where_puns_are_illegal_one_man/chybk8e) | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | "Do you understand why you have been brought here today?" The warden smiled mercilessly as he spoke, leaning in close to whisper in the young man's ear. The young man tried to put on a brave face, but the overly friendly smile made him visibly nervous.
"To listen to some jokes," he replied, with an attempt at a sneer, "I like comedy, let's hear them"
"You've been sentenced to five puns under Section 12 of the Criminal Punishment Code. I have been authorized by the Department of Justice to administer this punishment to you. Which makes me your pun-issuer"
The young man flinched in pain, but then quickly regained control and gave a look of defiance.
"So," the warden continues, "shoplifting, eh? Your arms must be tired."
"Agh!" the man cried out, but this time was able to stop himself from looking away.
The warden paused, letting his victim catch his breath.
"Weren't you done for battery?" the warden asked, his speech settling in to a kind of grim rhythm.
"No! No way," the young man was quick with outrage, "this is my first offence!"
"Ah," the warden gave a little smile of victory, "so you're saying you were never charged."
"Gah!" The teenagers face contorted with agony as he twisted around in his chair, wriggling and struggling helplessly to find relief against a pain that was entirely non-physical.
The warden watched the movements coldly, letting his own malicious amusement fade from his face so he could slip back into his mask of seriousness.
"I think you need to shape up, my boy," the warden began again, this time with a more sinister, clipped tone, "start taking things seriously...or else"
The young man looked up, anger in his face.
"I'm not afraid of you," he said, with false bravado.
"Oh," the warden gave a patronising smile, "Well, I'm just saying, you need to be careful, otherwise you'll be having porridge for breakfast... for a very long time"
With that the warden gestured around, to the walls around them, indicating the rest of the prison complex they were within.
"Yeah," the young man felt his bravery come back, "Well, I like porridge. It's my favourite, better than anything else for breakfast"
"Ah, be careful," the warden cried out in mock worry, "In case you become a cereal offender!"
"Aaaagh!" the victim screamed and rocked back in his chair, "no! Please, no more, I-"
"Sorry, what was that?" the warden interrupted, leaning his face in closely.
The young man blinked in confusion, before trying to continue, "Please, I'm telling you-"
"I'm sorry, I don't think I understand," the warden interrupted again, "What are you trying to say?"
The teenager looked around, trying to understand what was going on.
"I'm just trying to tell you," he said carefully, with a growing edge of unease in his voice, "I'm sorry and-"
"Look," the warden interrupted yet again, "I see the problem here. I keep interrupting you. I should just let you..." he paused for effect, a sly grin appearing on his face, "finish your sentence"
The teenager gave a sharp cry of agony, before falling back limply in his chair. The warden stood up curtly, nodded, and returned to the rest of his duties. | Humanity has always possessed it-- a raw, involuntary reaction to the worst of wordplay. Lowly “dad jokes” would cause a slight wince. An overly simplistic knock-knock joke might garner a garish groan. Even a simple bit of alliteration, as I have assuredly demonstrated, can make one uncomfortable. But we never realized the gravity with which the world of puns would slam down on our shoulders. Puns have evolved into an elegant form of swordplay, where awful puns jab like knives into the mind of the listener. This development led to the creation of a new brand of justice: punishers, like myself, wait in the darkest parts of prisons, courthouses, and CIA interrogation dungeons, practicing our craft on the lowliest rung of society’s ladder.
Prisons have always seemed a natural place to me, although now the fact that they are part of the “punitive system” seems ironic. While it may be immoral to murder a murderer or steal from a thief, locking criminals up to shield society from them is at least morally permissible under most ethical systems, and puns are punishment enough. My first case of the day, an overbearing man who was caught across the allotted boundaries of a tiger cage at a nearby zoo, is an easy one. I approach the cell.
“HEY PUNISHER, I hear you’re an officer of the law. More like an AWFUL-SIR!” shouts the inmate. Even punishers aren’t immune to the piercing pain of poignant puns, but wordplay this terrible barely scratches my mental state.
“I’m sorry, but *petty* criminals aren’t worth much of my time.” This one hurt him, although it took a few seconds for the pain to set in. Us punishers are protected by our ingenuity. Of course the inmates try and fight back, but they are untrained and often unable to keep up with our wit. “I’m surprised they put you in here and not somewhere worse. Good job *cell*ing them on this pad.” I remark as I gesture toward his rough accommodations. His hands clasp to his ears, but the pain he is experiencing doesn’t quite allow him to dull the sound of my voice. I fire off a few more quick shots, nothing too damaging, and move on to my next case of the day.
As I come up on this cell, something is different. Something is ominous. It is far too quiet here. I examine the inmates around my next target, and find them pushed up against the walls opposite the man at the center, who is sitting quietly. What has he been saying? How can he cause this much pain so quickly? He has only been incarcerated for a day and a half, and his crime really wasn’t so dramatic. I step up to face him.
“Apparently you skimmed a few cents off of every transaction at your desk job. Sounds *cheap* to me.” He remains still. “I thought integrity was the *staple* of every office.” No reaction. My heart begins to race. “If everyone acted as you have, offices would be *papered* with issues.” I was clearly losing focus. I was panicking. Only the most hardened hearts and witty minds could withstand this kind of assault. “Did you talk to your boss? Every action by employees is measured by a strict *ruler* after all.” He finally looks up. He cocks his head.
“What? Do you expect me to grovel? Do you expect me to writhe in pain? Did you think I would sit here and shake? Well… I guess because atoms vibrate, everyone shakes on *an atomical* level.”
An atomical level… anatomical level… I double over in pain. I was not expecting this.
“I can smell your fear… and here I thought you were an *ol’ factory* of puns.” My knees buckle. I try to speak but my chest is too tight. Any more and I’ll be out. I need to fight back.
I gasp: “your defeat will taste great after I *mustard* a comeback.” Damn. I can’t do this. I need to get out of here. I start to crawl away but can’t help hearing what is said next.
“Punisher! Don’t run away. If you *Bolt* out of here, I’ll never know what *Usain*.” Weakness. As I lay on the floor I can tell that he is running out of gas. If I can just protect myself with one last, parting pun, I can make it to safety…
“You’re getting pretty low, even for a convict. If you don’t give me some respect, you’ll always be a *con descending*.” His eyes open wide, he falls to the ground. I crawl to the safety of the waiting room, and pull myself up to a chair. I hear the Big Chill on to entertain those in line for a visit.
My coworker remarks: “Hey man, *chill*. That was a *Close* situation in there.” I go unconscious. | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | "Who's next?"
"He's in room four, tried to pull a bank heist. Get this though, he left the keys in the getaway car and someone else stole it while he was inside! He probably would have gotten away with it otherwise."
"You've got to be fucking kidding me."
"No shit, I swear. Anyways, good luck Rob."
"Thanks, this'll be a quick one."
--
"Good morning Kraft, I hope you slept well last night," I offered jovially as I sat down across the table from him, resting my sunglasses and badge beside me. "Do you know who I am?"
"You're the... the... th-" Kraft stuttered.
"The *Pun*isher, that's right." He moaned gently as I introduced my title. I never got tired of that one, it was always fun to warm them up to what was to come. I paused, staring intently at him, the calm before the storm. "Well Kraft, I hear you did some pretty good work the other day. You had most of the banks warning system disabled, security was distracted, you made it in and out of the bank vault without a problem..." they almost seemed to get more uncomfortable the longer I went without using a pun "...so it must have been awfully *alarming* when you took *account* of the situation outside..."
"Aargh! Stop!" he groaned.
"...to see your *Krafty* plan *get away* from you. I bet you weren't *banking* on *lending* someone else your car, huh!" I tore into him as he thrashed about in his seat. "I hear you have a girlfriend Kraft. I'm not sure how you *stole* her heart when you're this incompetent. Make sure you *teller* goodbye *foreclosure*, because you're going to be *a-loan* for a long time."
"Please... it hurts..." mumbled Kraft, as he huddled in his chair.
"Hey Kraft, why so *withdrawn*? You should have thought about this all before. Last I *chequed* it was pretty common *stock* that theft is a crime. There's no *saving* you now." He shook unpleasantly, almost seizing. "You know Kraft, this has been fun, but you remind me of a bank: I'm quickly *losing interest* in you," I told him as I gathered my things, standing up and walking towards the door. I could hear him breathing heavily behind me - he thought it was over.
I stopped, turning towards him. "Well Kraft, it looks like..." I paused to put my sunglasses on "...you've been Robbed." A few more violent spasms and he fell unconscious, sagging to the floor.
--
I swear, sometimes you couldn't write these crimes any better for my talent. | Humanity has always possessed it-- a raw, involuntary reaction to the worst of wordplay. Lowly “dad jokes” would cause a slight wince. An overly simplistic knock-knock joke might garner a garish groan. Even a simple bit of alliteration, as I have assuredly demonstrated, can make one uncomfortable. But we never realized the gravity with which the world of puns would slam down on our shoulders. Puns have evolved into an elegant form of swordplay, where awful puns jab like knives into the mind of the listener. This development led to the creation of a new brand of justice: punishers, like myself, wait in the darkest parts of prisons, courthouses, and CIA interrogation dungeons, practicing our craft on the lowliest rung of society’s ladder.
Prisons have always seemed a natural place to me, although now the fact that they are part of the “punitive system” seems ironic. While it may be immoral to murder a murderer or steal from a thief, locking criminals up to shield society from them is at least morally permissible under most ethical systems, and puns are punishment enough. My first case of the day, an overbearing man who was caught across the allotted boundaries of a tiger cage at a nearby zoo, is an easy one. I approach the cell.
“HEY PUNISHER, I hear you’re an officer of the law. More like an AWFUL-SIR!” shouts the inmate. Even punishers aren’t immune to the piercing pain of poignant puns, but wordplay this terrible barely scratches my mental state.
“I’m sorry, but *petty* criminals aren’t worth much of my time.” This one hurt him, although it took a few seconds for the pain to set in. Us punishers are protected by our ingenuity. Of course the inmates try and fight back, but they are untrained and often unable to keep up with our wit. “I’m surprised they put you in here and not somewhere worse. Good job *cell*ing them on this pad.” I remark as I gesture toward his rough accommodations. His hands clasp to his ears, but the pain he is experiencing doesn’t quite allow him to dull the sound of my voice. I fire off a few more quick shots, nothing too damaging, and move on to my next case of the day.
As I come up on this cell, something is different. Something is ominous. It is far too quiet here. I examine the inmates around my next target, and find them pushed up against the walls opposite the man at the center, who is sitting quietly. What has he been saying? How can he cause this much pain so quickly? He has only been incarcerated for a day and a half, and his crime really wasn’t so dramatic. I step up to face him.
“Apparently you skimmed a few cents off of every transaction at your desk job. Sounds *cheap* to me.” He remains still. “I thought integrity was the *staple* of every office.” No reaction. My heart begins to race. “If everyone acted as you have, offices would be *papered* with issues.” I was clearly losing focus. I was panicking. Only the most hardened hearts and witty minds could withstand this kind of assault. “Did you talk to your boss? Every action by employees is measured by a strict *ruler* after all.” He finally looks up. He cocks his head.
“What? Do you expect me to grovel? Do you expect me to writhe in pain? Did you think I would sit here and shake? Well… I guess because atoms vibrate, everyone shakes on *an atomical* level.”
An atomical level… anatomical level… I double over in pain. I was not expecting this.
“I can smell your fear… and here I thought you were an *ol’ factory* of puns.” My knees buckle. I try to speak but my chest is too tight. Any more and I’ll be out. I need to fight back.
I gasp: “your defeat will taste great after I *mustard* a comeback.” Damn. I can’t do this. I need to get out of here. I start to crawl away but can’t help hearing what is said next.
“Punisher! Don’t run away. If you *Bolt* out of here, I’ll never know what *Usain*.” Weakness. As I lay on the floor I can tell that he is running out of gas. If I can just protect myself with one last, parting pun, I can make it to safety…
“You’re getting pretty low, even for a convict. If you don’t give me some respect, you’ll always be a *con descending*.” His eyes open wide, he falls to the ground. I crawl to the safety of the waiting room, and pull myself up to a chair. I hear the Big Chill on to entertain those in line for a visit.
My coworker remarks: “Hey man, *chill*. That was a *Close* situation in there.” I go unconscious. | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | "No!" he pleaded, "I'm INNOCENT!"
I tapped a long ash off my cigarette, and snarled:
"Hi innocent. I'm the Punisher."
His screams echoed down the long hallway--the hopelessness of knowing we still had the eternity of an hour remaining. | In the small outback town here of Mercy, Australia our criminals are often dehydrated because of the intense heat of the summer. Sometimes they have spent days deep in the sweltering bush.We offer them "Koala" brand tea to drink to their bitter disappointment as they spit out the disgusting tea leaves.
You see, the Koala tea of Mercy is not strained. | |
[WP]: Humanity has developed a hypersensitivity to puns, experiencing physical pain when exposed to especially bad wordplays. As no physical damage happens, it is used to penalize petty criminals. This is your job. You are the Punisher. | The judge called in the next defendant. Mr. Cruz had been caught shoplifting. The outcome of the trial was pretty obvious, given the video footage shown in evidence. Amazing how a one legged man was able to run from the store security so quickly. The trial was over in a flash, and soon it was time for Joe to get to work. Joe sighed. Thankfully, this was the last Punishment of a pun filled day. Joe, the *Pun*isher, absolutely loved his job, but sometimes it all got a little tiresome.
"Mr. Cruz, let's try to make this quick. Thievery, huh? From someone like you? When I first heard of your case, I thought they were just pulling my leg. At any rate, since you've been found guilty, it's clear you didn't have a leg to stand on."
Cruz groaned.
"Did you honestly think you could get away with it? Must have been pretty painful waiting for the other shoe to drop!"
"Noooo...noooo please." Cruz was pleading now.
"You know it's too late to plead with me now. Soon enough you'll start to scream and rage. You'll be *hopping* mad!"
Joe had predicted accurately. The thief seethed with anger.
"Hey now, don't tear your hair out! You're already in a pretty hairy situation."
Cruz started convulsing involuntarily, as his eyes rolled back into his head.
"Uh-oh, this man might need a doctor. He's shaking like a thief!"
"That's enough, Joe!" The judge bellowed.
"You're right..." Joe donned his green Shrek mask, signifying the end of the Punishment.
"It's all Ogre now."
| *door opens to interrogation room*
Interrogator: "So..."
*door closes, interrogator sits across table from convict*
Interrogator: "This is the TWEED who tried to shoplift from the fabric store, eh?"
Merino: "*yelp of pain*"
Interrogator: "I understand you tried to FLEECE from the scene."
Merino: "Ow!"
Interrogator: "And then when the officers arrived, you tried to COP out of the crime! But once they had their flashlight's RAYON you, it didn't matter HEATHER or not you tried to FLEECE!"
Merino: "Augh! You already used that one!"
Interrogator: "I MAKE THE RULES, YOU THICK(-thin) RAILROAD RIBBON! What, are you going to SILK about it?"
Merino: "No, please!"
Interrogator: "I understand you're not the most physically fit kid, Merino. Did you get a RUNNING STITCH?"
Merino: "Let me go!"
Interrogator: "Boy, I bet you wish you could just go back in time."
Merino: "...That didn't have a pun in it."
Interrogator: "Back in time. To Yesterday."
Merino: "..."
Interrogator: "Yesterday is a song by the Beatles."
Merino: "Oh no..."
Interrogator: "Do you know who was a member of the Beatles?"
Merino: "Please don't..."
Interrogator: "John..."
Merino: "*wince*"
Interrogator: "LINEN!"
Merino: "AUGGGHHHH!!!"
Interrogator: "ISN'T THAT JUST A STITCH?"
Merino: "*indistinct screaming*"
Interrogator: "DOESN'T THAT JUST RIBBON TO YOU?"
Merino: "PLEASE STOP!"
Interrogator: "WOOLDN'T YOU LIKE TO HEAR ANOTHER?"
Merino: "*slurred speech* Pleass...IKAT take anymore..."
Interrogator: "Ouch! What the FELT was that?"
Merino: "Ow! This is SHEER torture!"
Interrogator: "I won't be SUEDE by this!"
Merino: "TWILL this go on forever?!"
Interrogator: "FABRIC!"
Merino: "...That wasn't a pun."
Interrogator: "Sorry, I got stressed there. Couldn't think straight."
Merino: "This has been a bad experience for both of us."
Interrogator: "Definitely. Let's start over."
Merino: "Right. Hey, what's your name?"
Interrogator: "Terry."
Merino: "Oh no...."
Interrogator: "Terry Cloth."
| |
[WP] You accidentally become the leader of a cult. | Ok. It took six years of quiet research, some fake social media accounts and a lot of acting but I think I finally did it. I finally found the people who hate me.
You see, back at the beginning of the 21st century, I had myself a little TV show. It was a nice little thing, I'd make fun of the day's problems and put my own little take on what the politicians were saying. I did that thing where you pretend to be the other side to show just how whack and stupid some of the things they were saying, harmless commentary really.
Then.... I get offered a job. A really nice big job. One on a legit news network that held some actual clout. I was to replace the most well known commentator of all time. But you don't know his name do you? The records of the channel went up in a "accidental fire" and everyone else can't seem to remember what existed before me.
But I'm getting a head of myself. All you need to know is that taking that job is what started all of this crap.
Rather than just take up the mantel or to just do my same old show on the new network, I figured we'd try and go for a different angle. One serious but it still had that sarcastic commentary that I was known for at the time.
Only apparently when you take legit messages about ethics and politics and wrap it up in a fake religion, some of those nuts actually start to believe that everything you say is the truth.
Of course I didn't know it at the time. All I knew was that the show was a hit, the people loved it. And thus, I continued on for years while my...cult. Spread across the nation. I had thought that I was getting these scoops due to my skill as a reporter and commentator. Exclusive meetings with the president? Just a fanboy session. Being the first person to interview both Putin and the President in the same room? I guess I'm the reason Russia no longer prosecutes gays.
Turns out I was their actual "American Idol" and they literally worshiped the ground I walked on.... I'm pretty sure there's some New York Concrete hanging up in the pentagon now...
I didn't even know until decades later when I accidentally walked in on my studio producer and my head make-up artist waterboarding an intern that didn't make my coffee the way I liked it. What kind of sick people would do that to a kid? But all that ends tonight, right here, right now...
________________________________________________________________
They had all arrived one by one, each instructed not to talk to each other until 11pm had past. The soonest I could escape my "security" and make it to the hotel room.
I paused on the other side of the door, knowing full well that the people on the other side hated my guts and would love to do nothing more than to punch me in the face.
They would also be the first real people I've talked to in a very long time...
I took a breath and walked in, my gaze focused on the window across from me.
"Hello everyone, I am Stephen Colbert. I have gathered you all to help denounce the writings in "The Report" and to hopefully save-"
I had not even finished the second sentence before the FBI carried out a sting operation on the hotel. Some two flights of stairs, three cans of tear gas and 38 rubber bullets later, the country was praising their glorious god for collecting the last nonbelievers in the nation and gathering them up so they could be sent to a "re-education" facility in the Caribbean.
God the new generation is stupid. | "goddamn it Steve! you've really gone and fuck this up now haven't you?"
"No don't answer that, its a rhetorical question."
I have no idea how to stop them bowing to you. You're their leader, you figure it out!"
"Bloody Idiot." | |
[WP] You accidentally become the leader of a cult. | I worried a bit about the security at the airport. I suppose I had to trust that in this crowd of admirers there were no would be assassins. The sound of drums was almost unbearable from inside the plane. The smell of smoke permeated through the vents.
As I walked towards the door I knew what I wanted to say. "I am only a man, not a god." But there is something appealing about being a god. Maybe it appealed to the same part of me that made me seek kingship.
I never would have expected such a reaction to my presence, even among my own people. But here across the ocean I saw crying, cheering, and excitement beyond what I could imagine experiencing myself.
And maybe it was the desire to be a god. But I think I was afraid of them. Afraid that the degree of joy I saw when I arrived here could to easily be turned to anger. That if I escaped unscathed perhaps this city and this country would not. I couldn't tell them that I wasn't their god.
Perhaps I can do more good for this country as a god than as a king. | "goddamn it Steve! you've really gone and fuck this up now haven't you?"
"No don't answer that, its a rhetorical question."
I have no idea how to stop them bowing to you. You're their leader, you figure it out!"
"Bloody Idiot." | |
[WP] You accidentally become the leader of a cult. | I'm man enough to admit when I've fucked up.
At least to myself. But I don't think I can admit to this.
Not to them.
I know I fucked up, but I didn't mean to. I know that doesn't fix it, or justify it but it does start to explain. Fuck how do you even explain something like this.
From the start seems as good a place as any, but I'm not really sure when that was.
Maybe, it was the firs time someone bowed to me and I didn't make them stop.
Maybe it was when all the members of the youth group changed their religious statuses on facebook from "Baptist" to "Sky Child"
Maybe it was the drunken ranks about Revelation being right around the corner, that the youth group believed.
Maybe it was needing a job so damn bad I went back to a building I swore I would never re-enter because youth pastor paid $3 above minimum wage.
Or maybe the pamphlets with my name on them are right, and this all started 150,000 years ago when the comet brought all the souls to earth.
Which would mean I was right the whole time. Then I'd have nothing to apologize for. But it would also mean I only have a few hours left before the comet comes back for all our souls.
So for my sake I hope I was wrong.
But for the sake of million people waiting outside singing hymns I wrote and prayers I thought up, I sure do hope we're all dead in a few hours.
I'm man enough to admit when I've fucked up.
But I'd rather not have to this time.
| "goddamn it Steve! you've really gone and fuck this up now haven't you?"
"No don't answer that, its a rhetorical question."
I have no idea how to stop them bowing to you. You're their leader, you figure it out!"
"Bloody Idiot." | |
[WP] You accidentally become the leader of a cult. | I envied her. We all did. But underneath my layer of envy was a deep pride and adoration...part of the driving force behind this cult. And it was all my fault.
Andrea saved my life. Not in the ordinary sense, the "called the ambulance in time" save. The impossible kind. Let's just say I self-medicate. At times I go too far but this particular time I'd truly dove straight into the deep end. The needle was deeper than the damn oxygen in my lungs...there was no way I could have come back from that "trip." But Andrea, forming a fist with her nimble fingers, had beat life into me by pounding my forehead.
I awoke from the infinite darkness I fell victim to and saw her resplendent face. That obsidian hair... a skin tone reminiscent of pure sand. I preached. With the internet as my witness I preached. But of course, I'd need proof. I kept my laptop on during the incident in an effort to record it as my last will and testament. Her miracle went viral. Some had claimed to see her aura glow within the pixels of their screens as she revived me. Others said she looked like a goddess. Even though she could not hear, she understood the reverence and hope we saw in her.
We followed Andrea in the hope that she was the next step. In what, you ask? Perhaps in human evolution. Perhaps she was a mythical being. I don't know. All I know is that me and thirty other people repainted an abandoned church and hung a custom portrait of her magnificence in the center of the room.
She has us in the palm of her precious hands...except for me. I am seen as the messenger. I am the one who has come back from the other side to bring her to the people of earth.
And that is why MY portrait is on the ceiling.
My say is final. Without me, she wouldn't be understood. She is my sister after all. She and I share a purely original sign language. Our parents certainly didn't want to teach her. They'd been on more drugs than you could name.
So I sit here on my throne and she is my queen. Together we can create chaos or bring peace to this neighborhood. Just the other day we encountered some nonbelievers. They called us "blasphemers," "psychos," "ignoramuses" and many other things. So I had these two men strung up, stripped naked and allowed my members to refine their archery skills. The wounds were of course doused with bleach in an attempt to "cleanse" their insides. I figured it would be ironic...doing something truly like an ignoramus or psycho, following no logic at all.
I wonder if they found it funny.
Afterward I enjoyed the company of three beautiful women in my chambers. Heh, by chambers I simply mean my home. This leader mentality is getting to me. It's funny how things change. I used to be rejected in every sense of the F***ing word. No I am the center of so much blind faith.
I could get used to this. | "goddamn it Steve! you've really gone and fuck this up now haven't you?"
"No don't answer that, its a rhetorical question."
I have no idea how to stop them bowing to you. You're their leader, you figure it out!"
"Bloody Idiot." | |
[WP] You accidentally become the leader of a cult. | How did it come to be
Once I was no one
Yet now they worship me
Humble our beginnings
Often humbler our ends
As I tread through the throngs
Only a man who pretends
The lie which festers
deep inside my heart
How shall I tell them, "I am not"
When all they say is, "Thou art" | "goddamn it Steve! you've really gone and fuck this up now haven't you?"
"No don't answer that, its a rhetorical question."
I have no idea how to stop them bowing to you. You're their leader, you figure it out!"
"Bloody Idiot." | |
[WP] You accidentally become the leader of a cult. | I will admit, becoming a cult leader as a teenager was quite difficult to adapt to.
Mostly because my cult consisted 100% of men who would not leave me alone. Not a single woman in sight. Sigh, I guess it's no different from college.
Hell, a paparazzi started following me around because they thought I was someone REALLY famous. Just because about 1250 people follow me religiously doesn't mean I'm famous... They try to make anything I touch a holy object. My shoe, a gourd I touched randomly, ect. There's a school in my name, and even a museum. There's a town being built right now in my honour.
I tell them I am not the messiah, hell, I'm atheist, yet they follow me. I tell them to go get a life, that they are all unique people. Everyone seemed to agreed, except for that one guy. I told him to come forward, and now he's a pope or something...
My fear is, that if I kill myself, being the only way out, that people will take what I said and bend the truth so that they can get what they want.
How, you may wonder, did I get myself in this position. And trust me, that's a very good question. I sometimes ask that to myself before falling asleep to the gentle hums of about 100 men. The answer... I wrote a book saying that I could show men how to pick up women easily... | "goddamn it Steve! you've really gone and fuck this up now haven't you?"
"No don't answer that, its a rhetorical question."
I have no idea how to stop them bowing to you. You're their leader, you figure it out!"
"Bloody Idiot." | |
[WP] You accidentally become the leader of a cult. | Peace. Peace is all that matters. As I mediate here, with my friends I am at peace.
It has been so long, the journey has been filled with trials and tribulations. There were so many who did not believe, but I am thankful for those who do believe. Those who believed when I said that the true path was not what we were lead to believe. Those who believed when I said I had found it. I miss those days, when we were just starting. We were full of fire and vinegar. The message was so clear and it shone like the first rays of sunlight after weeks of clouds and storms. I was so sure.
The first place that I spoke from was an old warehouse. It was abandoned and seemed to work. John got us a generator and lights. I sat on a stool in the bed of a truck and just talked. At first others would speak, but before long it was just me. At first the words came hard and there was so much pain in the faces of my audience. So much pain, and regret. Confusion that the world they were living in was so far from the promises they were given, from the expectations of the American Dream. So much sadness.
I spoke and they listened. At first just a couple of times a month. Then every week. It was fun. Before long there were a bunch of new faces. Someone suggested that we move to an old church. That it would be kind of a joke. We thought it would be funny and the people came up with the money to do it.
There were still only about thirty of us. The place had the greatest echo from the stage. My voice would rebound, so I slowed and changed my words to sound better coming back at me. We started singing. There was so much glory.
We had so many seats the people started to bring others. Soon the small church was packed. The people were still lost, so I started to write. Just small things, things they could take with them into the world that would hopefully help them find some peace. Then they asked me to write my story, and so I did. They loved it.
We moved to a bigger location, and I read from the book of my stories. The look on their faces was exalted. It was so beautiful. My people.
My people asked me for my thoughts on the strangest things. So I gave them. Then I wrote them.
My people asked so I started talking with them every day. Before long there were some living at the church. That made life so much easier. We had help. There was always someone available if something needed done, or something needed fixing. Soon there were too many.
David had a great idea. We found some property in God's country. It was beautiful. The golden hills, we could see the ocean. Sunsets that stoked desire, Sunrises that awoke the poets. These were the glory days. And the people. MY people. They helped so much. All they asked was for my words, and my thoughts.
They came from all over. So we built. David and John were great. They organized the people. Mark and Mary started feeding them. Soon they brought us things that could help. Soon after they brought money. Soon they no longer left.
It was a few days after that when Ruth came to me at the church. Mary was okay with it and we became three. Soon Julie made four. I had so much love to spread, it was all about love.
It has been a year. I have children. My people are happy. We are many. We have houses, and a farm. I speak every day. They call me leader. They want to hear more. I give what I can, they give everything. The we that was four is many now.
The girls see to my needs so that I can focus on my work, on my words. They have power. John said that Nancy was barren. Marcus could not walk. Today Marcus helped with the newest bunkhouse for the new people and I cured Nancy's infertility. She is a month along now.
Years passed. My children are many and strong. My people are strong. I do not understand why we are being bothered. We are just here about peace and love, why do the outsiders not understand? I am just trying to save them. Why must they respond to our love with hate? Our peace with their violence? Why can they not allow those who wish to follow me do so in peace?
It was my first child's thirteenth birthday today. We had a womanhood ceremony for her. My wives were beautiful. Why did the government have to ruin it? Why did they take me? John and David too? My people, my disciples? Mark will be a martyr. They shot him dead. Now I am in chains.
They are the modern Romans. I am in chains and I await the officers to take me to my cross. I will rise above. I will return. Just like I did before. 2000 years before. I will NOT return to peace. I will NOT return with love. I will have my revenge. My people will be whole again. | "goddamn it Steve! you've really gone and fuck this up now haven't you?"
"No don't answer that, its a rhetorical question."
I have no idea how to stop them bowing to you. You're their leader, you figure it out!"
"Bloody Idiot." | |
[WP] You accidentally become the leader of a cult. | I envied her. We all did. But underneath my layer of envy was a deep pride and adoration...part of the driving force behind this cult. And it was all my fault.
Andrea saved my life. Not in the ordinary sense, the "called the ambulance in time" save. The impossible kind. Let's just say I self-medicate. At times I go too far but this particular time I'd truly dove straight into the deep end. The needle was deeper than the damn oxygen in my lungs...there was no way I could have come back from that "trip." But Andrea, forming a fist with her nimble fingers, had beat life into me by pounding my forehead.
I awoke from the infinite darkness I fell victim to and saw her resplendent face. That obsidian hair... a skin tone reminiscent of pure sand. I preached. With the internet as my witness I preached. But of course, I'd need proof. I kept my laptop on during the incident in an effort to record it as my last will and testament. Her miracle went viral. Some had claimed to see her aura glow within the pixels of their screens as she revived me. Others said she looked like a goddess. Even though she could not hear, she understood the reverence and hope we saw in her.
We followed Andrea in the hope that she was the next step. In what, you ask? Perhaps in human evolution. Perhaps she was a mythical being. I don't know. All I know is that me and thirty other people repainted an abandoned church and hung a custom portrait of her magnificence in the center of the room.
She has us in the palm of her precious hands...except for me. I am seen as the messenger. I am the one who has come back from the other side to bring her to the people of earth.
And that is why MY portrait is on the ceiling.
My say is final. Without me, she wouldn't be understood. She is my sister after all. She and I share a purely original sign language. Our parents certainly didn't want to teach her. They'd been on more drugs than you could name.
So I sit here on my throne and she is my queen. Together we can create chaos or bring peace to this neighborhood. Just the other day we encountered some nonbelievers. They called us "blasphemers," "psychos," "ignoramuses" and many other things. So I had these two men strung up, stripped naked and allowed my members to refine their archery skills. The wounds were of course doused with bleach in an attempt to "cleanse" their insides. I figured it would be ironic...doing something truly like an ignoramus or psycho, following no logic at all.
I wonder if they found it funny.
Afterward I enjoyed the company of three beautiful women in my chambers. Heh, by chambers I simply mean my home. This leader mentality is getting to me. It's funny how things change. I used to be rejected in every sense of the F***ing word. No I am the center of so much blind faith.
I could get used to this. | I stared at what I have typed so far, mindlessly clicking away at the keyboard. I needed this to be 100% perfect. If it was boring, no one would read it. If it was brilliant, *they* would write it off as another sci fi novel. But, if it accomplishes what I want it to, they will kill me.
I spat bitterly at the thought of these people, these *followers.* It started out simple; I wanted to just write a book that would pay the bills and get me enough money to survive with moderate popularity. I didn't even want to be famous. But, after my first book, I became extremely popular. I got an enormous amount of money, enough to live very simply for the rest of my life.
But then, the e-mails came in, all of them asking the same thing. "Can you make a new book?" "When's your next book going to come out?" "What are you going to write about next?" I got so many of them, to where I would spend an entire day reading an hour's-worth of mail. And it's not like I didn't have much to do now that I have enough money to only need to work as a dishwasher at a pizza place one day a week for the rest of my life.
I caved in and decided to write a short story. I didn't have any idea to write, so I decided to come up with a random sci fi plot. There was basic aliens combined with unexpected alien souls and even an evil Big Brother type alien that killed a bunch of aliens and put there souls on Earth. There was then this bull shit process of removing them for when they attached them to our bodies.
I laughed when I wrote it. I didn't care much about what others said about it, I just wanted to be left alone. I wanted to just relax and go into obscurity, and this atrocious writing would help me get rid of them.
Then, the unthinkable happened. The idiots actually *liked* it. Not just liked it, they seemed to rave about it. I'd look all over the internet, and see a strong approval of the book, to the point that some people actually *believed* the batshit crazy ideas proposed in the book. They believed that there body was inhabited b alien souls.
People kept asking where I got my ideas. There were even a few who contacted me calling me a prophet. I thought they were just a few crazies like every somewhat famous author had. But then they kept coming in. More and more. One day I was invited to this group to talk about the 2 books I wrote. I thought it was something about literacy, of course. I got there, and there were people dressed similar to how I described the alien souls. "Cosplayers," I mumbled.
It took me to get on stage to realize that everyone there wasn't listening to what I have to say as if I were some great writer, but as if I was actually some damned *prophet* to be followed. Everyone listened to what I had to say raptly, as if I were some perverse Pope propositioning to the populous.
It was then that I read the banner in the back of the complex. The banner, which shone in bright red, read "Now Presenting: L. Ron Hubbard; founder of Scientology."
None of them believed me when I constantly told them I was no prophet, and none of them will leave me the fuck alone. I have created a force that seems like a monster, and it must be shut down before I die. The problem is that all of my publishers have been threatened, to where I'm sure that I'm almost positive that this new publisher is one of *them.* | |
[WP] You accidentally become the leader of a cult. | I envied her. We all did. But underneath my layer of envy was a deep pride and adoration...part of the driving force behind this cult. And it was all my fault.
Andrea saved my life. Not in the ordinary sense, the "called the ambulance in time" save. The impossible kind. Let's just say I self-medicate. At times I go too far but this particular time I'd truly dove straight into the deep end. The needle was deeper than the damn oxygen in my lungs...there was no way I could have come back from that "trip." But Andrea, forming a fist with her nimble fingers, had beat life into me by pounding my forehead.
I awoke from the infinite darkness I fell victim to and saw her resplendent face. That obsidian hair... a skin tone reminiscent of pure sand. I preached. With the internet as my witness I preached. But of course, I'd need proof. I kept my laptop on during the incident in an effort to record it as my last will and testament. Her miracle went viral. Some had claimed to see her aura glow within the pixels of their screens as she revived me. Others said she looked like a goddess. Even though she could not hear, she understood the reverence and hope we saw in her.
We followed Andrea in the hope that she was the next step. In what, you ask? Perhaps in human evolution. Perhaps she was a mythical being. I don't know. All I know is that me and thirty other people repainted an abandoned church and hung a custom portrait of her magnificence in the center of the room.
She has us in the palm of her precious hands...except for me. I am seen as the messenger. I am the one who has come back from the other side to bring her to the people of earth.
And that is why MY portrait is on the ceiling.
My say is final. Without me, she wouldn't be understood. She is my sister after all. She and I share a purely original sign language. Our parents certainly didn't want to teach her. They'd been on more drugs than you could name.
So I sit here on my throne and she is my queen. Together we can create chaos or bring peace to this neighborhood. Just the other day we encountered some nonbelievers. They called us "blasphemers," "psychos," "ignoramuses" and many other things. So I had these two men strung up, stripped naked and allowed my members to refine their archery skills. The wounds were of course doused with bleach in an attempt to "cleanse" their insides. I figured it would be ironic...doing something truly like an ignoramus or psycho, following no logic at all.
I wonder if they found it funny.
Afterward I enjoyed the company of three beautiful women in my chambers. Heh, by chambers I simply mean my home. This leader mentality is getting to me. It's funny how things change. I used to be rejected in every sense of the F***ing word. No I am the center of so much blind faith.
I could get used to this. |
All I wanted was a Pepsi. You think that would be a simple thing, right?
In this small mountain community that barely passes for a town, way out in the middle of the forest, anything not home made or grown near here is almost impossible to find. Homegrown is a way of life out here. And apparently we even home grow our own cults.
It all started when I went running out the door in search of a sugary, caffeinated drink to pep up before my afternoon jog. As I whipped open the door of my beat up old Jeep, I heard someone else’s shoes crunch down my gravel driveway. It was Alyssa, the neighbor girl, who had always lived with her family in the ancient, rundown blue house at the end of the street. She had rarely been seen except at school, and had no friends except her own family. She was wearing chucks and an off-white sun dress, looking as if it had been carelessly washed with the wrong colors. She asked if she could have a lift to the local grocer to pick up some milk and lunch meat since her parents were out of town. Having barely talked to her before, I was a little nervous about driving around with her, but hey, what could a sixteen-year-old girl do to me? I invited her into my car and we sped down the road towards what passed for ‘downtown’ out here in search of provisions and carbonated beverages.
Going aisle to aisle in the grocer, I looked in vain for my Pepsi and returned to the front of the store to find Alyssa waiting to check out. You’d think something as ubiquitous as soda could be found at a grocery store, and I said as much to her. “Well… I have some at home if you want to come over,” she said. No one that I knew had ever seen the inside of her house, so I couldn’t resist the opportunity. Over the years, her family’s big blue house had become the stuff of urban legend, with stories being passed from kid to kid about all kinds of creepy and unusual things taking place there. Mostly stories of kids disappearing, or the house being used as a hide out for serial killers - all stories kids tell their siblings and friends just to scare them. While it was likely nothing had ever happened at the blue house at all, kids do get to talking when a family is as reclusive as Alyssa’s.
She finished checking out and we headed back to the outskirts of town, where we lived. I pulled up the long drive to her house and followed her up the stairs to her porch, where she drew a set of ancient-looking keys from her purse and unlocked the door with a loud clunk. My jaw dropped open as I walked into the grand, imposing foyer and adjacent sitting rooms that betrayed the decrepit facade of the house’s exterior. All black with shelves and cabinets filled to the brim with fantastic, unusual items - definitely not what I expected after a lifetime of driving past the rundown blue house.
“Surprised?” Alyssa said, when she noticed my too-obvious disbelief. “My family has lived here for generations and they usually don’t take too kindly to visitors. So they prefer the outside of our house look like something you’d see as a ‘before’ example in a Home Depot catalog.” She kept walking forward into yet-unseen rooms, leaving me to ponder why her family didn’t want visitors here so badly.
As we came into the kitchen, I noticed candles lit all around the but thought it not to be too unusual after all the other strange things in this house. Alyssa sat me down in a big, wooden chair at the bar and offered some pretzels. Her hands were shaking as she grabbed the bag out of a cabinet and poured some pretzels out into a bowl for me. As she placed the bowl on the bar, she accidentally knocked the bag out onto the floor, throwing pretzels across the kitchen. “Are you feeling okay?” I asked, wondering at her jitters. “Ahh… yes, yes, I’m fine, don’t worry about me,” she said as she scurried around on her knees picking up pretzels.
Once she had finished cleaning up and seemed to have reclaimed her nerves, I asked if I could have a glass of Pepsi, which is what I really came here for. Wordlessly, she placed a glass in front of me on the bar. I had just placed my hands down on the armrest when I noticed her intensely staring at me as a quiet ‘click’ came out of my chair. When I looked down, manacles had popped out of the seemingly-normal chair just millimeters above my skin and bound me in place. Alyssa’s hand was on a red button on the countertop that I had failed to notice before. I began shouting and trying to break free of the restraints as Alyssa pulled a can of Pepsi out of the fridge and poured it in the glass with a maniacal smile on her face.
I noticed movement behind me and her entire family - apparently not on vacation - and several of my friends appeared, dressed in flowing black robes. “Please tell me this is just a joke. Get me out of here!” I screamed as they closed in a semi-circle around me.
Alyssa began explaining my tied-up situation as I continued to struggle. “What you don’t know, John, is that this house is home to one of the largest Satanic cults in the West. We secretly run this town and keep out all the big companies that would make it so hard for a cult like ours to make a living off of homemade goods, which we happen to place enchantments on keep everyone under our control. All those stories you heard growing up about kids disappearing? They’re true. Kids who go snooping around this house might go back physically the same, but they’re never the same mentally. Spend too much time here and our magic takes control of your brain and forces you to join our little group. Thing is, ever since Grandpa died we’ve been without a leader. That’s where you come in. You’re young enough and smart enough that you can lead our group for years to come. After tonight’s ritual, you’ll be filled with our power and truly be our leader. So go on, drink that Pepsi. It’s the last you’ll ever have.”
She raised the glass to my lips and I gulped the soda down as she tilted it forward, dreading what the coming ritual would entail. All this, and to think l just wanted a Pepsi.
| |
[WP] You accidentally become the leader of a cult. | I envied her. We all did. But underneath my layer of envy was a deep pride and adoration...part of the driving force behind this cult. And it was all my fault.
Andrea saved my life. Not in the ordinary sense, the "called the ambulance in time" save. The impossible kind. Let's just say I self-medicate. At times I go too far but this particular time I'd truly dove straight into the deep end. The needle was deeper than the damn oxygen in my lungs...there was no way I could have come back from that "trip." But Andrea, forming a fist with her nimble fingers, had beat life into me by pounding my forehead.
I awoke from the infinite darkness I fell victim to and saw her resplendent face. That obsidian hair... a skin tone reminiscent of pure sand. I preached. With the internet as my witness I preached. But of course, I'd need proof. I kept my laptop on during the incident in an effort to record it as my last will and testament. Her miracle went viral. Some had claimed to see her aura glow within the pixels of their screens as she revived me. Others said she looked like a goddess. Even though she could not hear, she understood the reverence and hope we saw in her.
We followed Andrea in the hope that she was the next step. In what, you ask? Perhaps in human evolution. Perhaps she was a mythical being. I don't know. All I know is that me and thirty other people repainted an abandoned church and hung a custom portrait of her magnificence in the center of the room.
She has us in the palm of her precious hands...except for me. I am seen as the messenger. I am the one who has come back from the other side to bring her to the people of earth.
And that is why MY portrait is on the ceiling.
My say is final. Without me, she wouldn't be understood. She is my sister after all. She and I share a purely original sign language. Our parents certainly didn't want to teach her. They'd been on more drugs than you could name.
So I sit here on my throne and she is my queen. Together we can create chaos or bring peace to this neighborhood. Just the other day we encountered some nonbelievers. They called us "blasphemers," "psychos," "ignoramuses" and many other things. So I had these two men strung up, stripped naked and allowed my members to refine their archery skills. The wounds were of course doused with bleach in an attempt to "cleanse" their insides. I figured it would be ironic...doing something truly like an ignoramus or psycho, following no logic at all.
I wonder if they found it funny.
Afterward I enjoyed the company of three beautiful women in my chambers. Heh, by chambers I simply mean my home. This leader mentality is getting to me. It's funny how things change. I used to be rejected in every sense of the F***ing word. No I am the center of so much blind faith.
I could get used to this. | Ok. It took six years of quiet research, some fake social media accounts and a lot of acting but I think I finally did it. I finally found the people who hate me.
You see, back at the beginning of the 21st century, I had myself a little TV show. It was a nice little thing, I'd make fun of the day's problems and put my own little take on what the politicians were saying. I did that thing where you pretend to be the other side to show just how whack and stupid some of the things they were saying, harmless commentary really.
Then.... I get offered a job. A really nice big job. One on a legit news network that held some actual clout. I was to replace the most well known commentator of all time. But you don't know his name do you? The records of the channel went up in a "accidental fire" and everyone else can't seem to remember what existed before me.
But I'm getting a head of myself. All you need to know is that taking that job is what started all of this crap.
Rather than just take up the mantel or to just do my same old show on the new network, I figured we'd try and go for a different angle. One serious but it still had that sarcastic commentary that I was known for at the time.
Only apparently when you take legit messages about ethics and politics and wrap it up in a fake religion, some of those nuts actually start to believe that everything you say is the truth.
Of course I didn't know it at the time. All I knew was that the show was a hit, the people loved it. And thus, I continued on for years while my...cult. Spread across the nation. I had thought that I was getting these scoops due to my skill as a reporter and commentator. Exclusive meetings with the president? Just a fanboy session. Being the first person to interview both Putin and the President in the same room? I guess I'm the reason Russia no longer prosecutes gays.
Turns out I was their actual "American Idol" and they literally worshiped the ground I walked on.... I'm pretty sure there's some New York Concrete hanging up in the pentagon now...
I didn't even know until decades later when I accidentally walked in on my studio producer and my head make-up artist waterboarding an intern that didn't make my coffee the way I liked it. What kind of sick people would do that to a kid? But all that ends tonight, right here, right now...
________________________________________________________________
They had all arrived one by one, each instructed not to talk to each other until 11pm had past. The soonest I could escape my "security" and make it to the hotel room.
I paused on the other side of the door, knowing full well that the people on the other side hated my guts and would love to do nothing more than to punch me in the face.
They would also be the first real people I've talked to in a very long time...
I took a breath and walked in, my gaze focused on the window across from me.
"Hello everyone, I am Stephen Colbert. I have gathered you all to help denounce the writings in "The Report" and to hopefully save-"
I had not even finished the second sentence before the FBI carried out a sting operation on the hotel. Some two flights of stairs, three cans of tear gas and 38 rubber bullets later, the country was praising their glorious god for collecting the last nonbelievers in the nation and gathering them up so they could be sent to a "re-education" facility in the Caribbean.
God the new generation is stupid. | |
[WP] You accidentally become the leader of a cult. | I'm man enough to admit when I've fucked up.
At least to myself. But I don't think I can admit to this.
Not to them.
I know I fucked up, but I didn't mean to. I know that doesn't fix it, or justify it but it does start to explain. Fuck how do you even explain something like this.
From the start seems as good a place as any, but I'm not really sure when that was.
Maybe, it was the firs time someone bowed to me and I didn't make them stop.
Maybe it was when all the members of the youth group changed their religious statuses on facebook from "Baptist" to "Sky Child"
Maybe it was the drunken ranks about Revelation being right around the corner, that the youth group believed.
Maybe it was needing a job so damn bad I went back to a building I swore I would never re-enter because youth pastor paid $3 above minimum wage.
Or maybe the pamphlets with my name on them are right, and this all started 150,000 years ago when the comet brought all the souls to earth.
Which would mean I was right the whole time. Then I'd have nothing to apologize for. But it would also mean I only have a few hours left before the comet comes back for all our souls.
So for my sake I hope I was wrong.
But for the sake of million people waiting outside singing hymns I wrote and prayers I thought up, I sure do hope we're all dead in a few hours.
I'm man enough to admit when I've fucked up.
But I'd rather not have to this time.
| I worried a bit about the security at the airport. I suppose I had to trust that in this crowd of admirers there were no would be assassins. The sound of drums was almost unbearable from inside the plane. The smell of smoke permeated through the vents.
As I walked towards the door I knew what I wanted to say. "I am only a man, not a god." But there is something appealing about being a god. Maybe it appealed to the same part of me that made me seek kingship.
I never would have expected such a reaction to my presence, even among my own people. But here across the ocean I saw crying, cheering, and excitement beyond what I could imagine experiencing myself.
And maybe it was the desire to be a god. But I think I was afraid of them. Afraid that the degree of joy I saw when I arrived here could to easily be turned to anger. That if I escaped unscathed perhaps this city and this country would not. I couldn't tell them that I wasn't their god.
Perhaps I can do more good for this country as a god than as a king. | |
[WP] You accidentally become the leader of a cult. | I envied her. We all did. But underneath my layer of envy was a deep pride and adoration...part of the driving force behind this cult. And it was all my fault.
Andrea saved my life. Not in the ordinary sense, the "called the ambulance in time" save. The impossible kind. Let's just say I self-medicate. At times I go too far but this particular time I'd truly dove straight into the deep end. The needle was deeper than the damn oxygen in my lungs...there was no way I could have come back from that "trip." But Andrea, forming a fist with her nimble fingers, had beat life into me by pounding my forehead.
I awoke from the infinite darkness I fell victim to and saw her resplendent face. That obsidian hair... a skin tone reminiscent of pure sand. I preached. With the internet as my witness I preached. But of course, I'd need proof. I kept my laptop on during the incident in an effort to record it as my last will and testament. Her miracle went viral. Some had claimed to see her aura glow within the pixels of their screens as she revived me. Others said she looked like a goddess. Even though she could not hear, she understood the reverence and hope we saw in her.
We followed Andrea in the hope that she was the next step. In what, you ask? Perhaps in human evolution. Perhaps she was a mythical being. I don't know. All I know is that me and thirty other people repainted an abandoned church and hung a custom portrait of her magnificence in the center of the room.
She has us in the palm of her precious hands...except for me. I am seen as the messenger. I am the one who has come back from the other side to bring her to the people of earth.
And that is why MY portrait is on the ceiling.
My say is final. Without me, she wouldn't be understood. She is my sister after all. She and I share a purely original sign language. Our parents certainly didn't want to teach her. They'd been on more drugs than you could name.
So I sit here on my throne and she is my queen. Together we can create chaos or bring peace to this neighborhood. Just the other day we encountered some nonbelievers. They called us "blasphemers," "psychos," "ignoramuses" and many other things. So I had these two men strung up, stripped naked and allowed my members to refine their archery skills. The wounds were of course doused with bleach in an attempt to "cleanse" their insides. I figured it would be ironic...doing something truly like an ignoramus or psycho, following no logic at all.
I wonder if they found it funny.
Afterward I enjoyed the company of three beautiful women in my chambers. Heh, by chambers I simply mean my home. This leader mentality is getting to me. It's funny how things change. I used to be rejected in every sense of the F***ing word. No I am the center of so much blind faith.
I could get used to this. | I worried a bit about the security at the airport. I suppose I had to trust that in this crowd of admirers there were no would be assassins. The sound of drums was almost unbearable from inside the plane. The smell of smoke permeated through the vents.
As I walked towards the door I knew what I wanted to say. "I am only a man, not a god." But there is something appealing about being a god. Maybe it appealed to the same part of me that made me seek kingship.
I never would have expected such a reaction to my presence, even among my own people. But here across the ocean I saw crying, cheering, and excitement beyond what I could imagine experiencing myself.
And maybe it was the desire to be a god. But I think I was afraid of them. Afraid that the degree of joy I saw when I arrived here could to easily be turned to anger. That if I escaped unscathed perhaps this city and this country would not. I couldn't tell them that I wasn't their god.
Perhaps I can do more good for this country as a god than as a king. |
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