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spacetimewraithwrites-archive · 4 years ago

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Word Prompt #14

Word: Octopus (suggested by @dontdowhatisayandnobodygetshurt!) WIP: Thriving series CW: Oh, everything. Blood, tentacles, violence, fluids, guns. All of it. Word Count: 1,727 Additional Notes: I saw the word and I had to get weird. I could’ve gone completely normal and written a cute little light-AU fluff piece about Warren taking Thrive to an aquarium or seeing an octopus in the ocean on Earth but no. It’s fucking balls to the wall in the first half lmao.

Also it should be noted that I decided for no reason to set this in the timeline of Destiny. So Thrive and Warren are still just mutually pining at this point.

***

It hit them both at the same time. Thrive, repairing a form suit in the corner of the medical room, and Warren patching up a minor laceration on his thumb from an improperly handled utensil—they looked up in unison as a guttural scream made its way through every corridor of the L2 and into their ears.

“Oh, Christ,” Warren muttered. “If that’s an eliyi....”

“That was Armatax,” Thrive said, abandoning the form suit and striding out to the room.

Warren secured the bandage around his thumb and followed, anxiety already through the roof. “Whatever the hell could make Armatax scream like that is guaranteed to kill us and I’m just not sure I’m ready for that kind of commitment right now, Thrive....”

They traced the continuing shouts to the loading bay, and when the door remained closed upon them arriving, his shoulders tensed. More screams joined in, this time from Sussa, and the struggle ramped itself up to max level. Weapons fire and brute-force physical assault from what sounded like multiple sources.

Thrive waved the door open and his arm shot out to keep Warren back as he himself had to reel away from the loading bay to process the sight.

An enormous creature with tentacles—normal tentacles, sans sharp blade bits, but what was “normal” when it came to tentacles, anyway?—and a bulbous orange head swiping at Armatax and Sussa, whipping an appendage around the nuaclan’s gun and tossing it through the open door. The capsule sat upended in the farthest corner, shattered electric panels sparking and smoking around it. Rubbery flesh slapping the floors, the walls, every surface it could reach. Low-hertz growling vibrating the air.

Warren waited for Thrive to say something, but he seemed to be stunned and confused into silence.

“We wouldn’t be completely upset if you decided to step in,” Sussa yelled, taking a running leap onto the squishy head of the octopus-creature. She socked it directly on of its several protruding eyeballs and three tentacles curled into his body, giving Armatax a chance to dive for cover. “This is kinda your fault, after all!”

Thrive threw a barrier in front of himself and Warren right as a tentacle snapped toward them, and the impact resulted in a wet squelch. Warren grimaced.

“How is this Thrive’s fault?” Warren shouted. “Where did this even come fro—oh what the fuck.”

Thrive had caught another tentacle in his hand and ripped it from the octopus’ body, sending a wave of thin blood over the entire floor. It sprayed everywhere, splashing clean white surfaces with surprising yolk-colored fluids and getting it all over Armatax and Sussa.

Warren watched Thrive hold the limb up and stare at it. “Look, I know I can contribute practically nothing to whatever ungodly abomination is happening right now, but you need to go in there and...oh no. No. No, no, no, no, no—”

He’d realized what was about to happen seconds before it did, and he turned toward the wall, covering his head with his arms right in time to avoid the amber light encapsulating Thrive and shifting his form. A thick tentacle wrapped itself around Warren’s torso and he glanced down to witness it stretching and tightening across his ribs.

“...Huh.”

Thrive lifted him off his feet and bowled him down the hall away from the loading bay.

Warren scrambled to his feet and sprinted for the door, running headlong into it when it slid closed and automatically locked. Warren pounded the metal with his fists. “That’s really not what I meant and I think you know that!”

A fist-sized dent punched its way into the door and Warren jumped back. He listened for a minute, heart pounding, more gunfire popping off. The unmistakable connecting of fists to octopus flesh, and octopus flesh to octopus flesh, and the smell of said flesh burning wafted into Warren’s face.

“This is gonna give me nightmares,” he groaned, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “If you open that door as an octopus I’m aiming this ship in the direction of Earth and shooting myself out of the airlock.”

The fight continued for possibly hours. Warren was about to attempt sliding the door open himself when it blasted off its track and sent him sliding down the length of the hall again. When he stopped spinning he kicked the door away from himself and looked at the loading bay.

The octopus was wedged in the doorway, tentacles lolling over the floor slickened with its own blood. Another tentacle slithered into view, getting a hold of the body and gently tugging it back into the room, succeeded by a spark of amber illuminating the space behind it.

Warren stayed put. “Guys....”

Sussa, still dripping with thin but oddly goopy blood, emerged from the room and wiped it from her eyes. Armatax followed, less drenched but with his feather-like hair flattened to his skull. He spun the barrel of his gun and tucked it back in its holster.

“We good?” Warren asked, standing once more. “Everyone okay?”

“Yes,” Thrive said, back in human form and moving around the downed octopus. He combed his fingers through his own hair to tame it, out of breath, form suit covered in patches of yellow. “Let’s talk.”

The four of them filtered into the conference room around the corner and Warren perched himself onto the table. Thrive entered last, locking the door behind him, then whirled around to aim narrowed eyes at Sussa.

“Explain.”

“I’m saying!” Warren interjected. “Are you telling me that he somehow smuggled a giant alien octopus onto the L2 without any of us knowing? Does that sound like him? I think I would’ve noticed considering....” Considering he’d been with Thrive practically every second of every day for the past few weeks, but he decided against mentioning that fact.

Sussa and Armatax exchanged grim expressions. “Do you recall going to Rotanga and bringing a small glass ball full of green water onboard a couple of weeks ago?” she asked Thrive, venom in her voice.

Warren’s face fell into instant regret, and he pressed his lips together into a line, turning a wide-eyed stare onto Thrive.

Thrive, on the other hand, refused to crack his stoic façade. “...Perhaps.”

“Do you happen to know what was in that small glass ball full of green water from Rotanga?”

Warren, who was with Thrive when he bought the small glass ball full of green water from Rotanga, determined his fingernails were suddenly much more fascinating than this conversation. “...Was it an egg—”

“It was an egg!” Sussa exclaimed. “A microscopic fertilized egg not from Rotanga at all, but from the Lagisa Faction of Holeph!”

“Their oceans are rife with dangerous deep-sea creatures,” Thrive helpfully supplied for Warren’s sake. “I suppose this was...a misjudgment on my part.”

“I’m a little concerned,” Sussa said, pinching the bridge of her nose, which squeaked as she touched it due to the sliminess. “This is not the kind of mistake I’m used to you making, Orthrive’poliea.”

Armatax gestured to him. “Told you. They are both dumb.”

“You’re normally very careful about what you keep around us and where everything comes from,” Sussa continued. “I don’t understand how something like this could’ve slipped past you. Can you walk me through your thought process when you were—”

Warren glanced once more at Thrive’s face, and though he remained the outward picture of calm and blank, he could see a swirl of confusion and shame in his eyes. He must’ve been keeping Sussa out of his head because she didn’t notice or mention this at all.

“It’s actually my fault,” Warren interrupted. “I liked the way the water looked in the glass so I kinda peer pressured him into buying it for me. I don’t think I gave him the chance to apply critical thinking.”

Sussa’s attention fell onto him. She paused for too long. “You didn’t let him do his job?”

Warren cleared his throat. “I take full responsibility. I’m sorry.”

He knew she didn’t buy it. But he didn’t know how to keep her from hearing his thoughts, so all he could do was go over the lyrics to one of his favorite songs over and over to prevent giving himself away.

The sharp stink of the room settled on them like a fog and Sussa waved her hands dismissively. “Look...I need to clean and sanitize myself for four hours so this subject is officially dropped for now.”

She and Armatax left Thrive and Warren alone.

“That was unnecessary,” Thrive said at length.

“Didn’t see you trying to stop me,” Warren shot, leaning back onto his hands.

Thrive strolled into the center of the room, his hands clasped behind his back. “You know the real reason this all happened, don’t you?”

Warren shrugged. “Because you made a very normal and natural error in judgment?”

“Yes.” Thrive stopped and turned to him. “Because my capacity for perception either heightens beyond what I ever could’ve imagined or seems to disappear entirely whenever I’m around you.”

Warren’s pulse quickened. “You gonna send me home for that?”

To his shock, Thrive smiled and glanced away. “No. And...perhaps I made another mistake in letting you take the fall for me again.”

“Well, you didn’t let me take the fall the first time. I did that very much on my own.” Warren watched him pace the room some more. “And I saw the embarrassment in your face. Sure, Sussa wasn’t exactly being harsh or even wrong, but I couldn’t let you take that from her.”

Thrive took a deep breath. “You’re often quite gifted at reading me.”

Warren allowed his response to hang in the air.

Almost as if noticing it for the first time, Thrive swept his fingers through a spot of octopus gunk on the stomach of his form suit. He paced back to the door. “I should rid myself of the evidence as well.”

“So you now have colossal alien octopus in the repertoire of forms you can take, huh,” Warren mused. “It’s just...gonna be like that for the rest of your life.”

“Apparently so. Not something I anticipated happening today.”

“What’re we gonna do with the dead one in the loading bay?”

“Ah,” Thrive chirped as he stepped over the threshold. “It’s not dead.”

The door swished shut on the color draining out of Warren’s face.

#word prompt #lmao @ me forgetting to add the tag

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openbarbers · 4 years ago

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How much should I pay for a haircut?

Between lockdowns, our clients frequently ask how the pandemic has affected our costs, so we’ve made a new price guide to help and reassure you around our pricing approach. Below is some information to help you understand our business needs, taking into account both the higher expenses of COVID-19, and also our recent fundraising achievements. This information is also available in the salon next to the till. How much should I pay for a haircut? We remain committed to our sliding scale pricing policy of £2.00 - £50.00+. We invite you to pay what you can afford for your haircut, and no one is turned away for lack of funds. (Colour and 2hr+ Afro hair services have a separate sliding scale price list). The average amount we currently need to cover our costs is £20 per hour, and anything above this helps to subsidise someone else's haircut. Everyone is welcome, regardless of what you can afford. We find that our average is always achieved when people genuinely pay what they can! What does it cost Open Barbers to cut my hair? Due to the extra costs and time involved in running the salon during COVID-19 restrictions, our business costs have gone up. We also know that some people can’t afford to pay what they used to, and our average payment has gone down. - Before COVID-19, it cost Open Barbers £21.10 per hour to cover costs. - During COVID-19, it costs Open Barbers £26.20 per hour to cover costs. However, we have calculated that we need £20.00 per hour to cover costs because we have other sources of income too, which are described below. How is Open Barbers’ income affected by COVID-19? Our costs have always been subsidised by other sources of income: room hire, merchandise, events, donations and our Patreon scheme; and during COVID-19 we have also been fundraising! - Before COVID-19, 95% of our income came from hair services. - During COVID-19, 75% of our income is coming from hair services. To address this shift, we have raised 17% in grant funding, 4% in crowdfunding, and 4% from other sources (as above). The grants we received in 2020 and 2021, from the Social Enterprise Support Fund and the London Community Response Fund cover core costs, and help us to maintain our sliding scale pricing policy during these hard times. All GoFundMe and Ginger Kitten Crowdfunder donations were directly distributed to the stylists during salon closure. Our most recent birthday fundraising appeal makes up the 4% listed. We hope that helps to clarify any questions you may have around our pricing policy, and we hope it reassures you that whatever you can afford to pay for your hair services, you are welcome and valid and we want to serve you! The Open Barbers Team xxx [Image description: A cardboard sheet is titled ‘Price Guide’ and contains 6 coloured sections. The column to the left are 3 infographics and the column to the left are 3 explanatory texts. Infographic 1: Each segment of a rainbow coloured windmill contains pricing brackets ranging from £2 - 10 up to £50+. Explanatory text 1: “What should I pay for a haircut? We have a ‘sliding scale’ pricing system for haircuts.We invite you to pay what you can afford, from £2 - £50+. £20+ per hour covers our costs, anything above helps others out. Contribute according to your means and keep the Open Barbers’ windmill turning.” Infographic 2: A bar chart showing ‘pre-Covid’ costs are £21.10 and ‘Covid’ costs are £26.20 per hour. The illustration includes a pair of scissors cutting out the costs in red, with an implied income bar behind with eyeballs looking happ, pre covid, and concerned during covid. Explanatory text 2: “What does it cost to run Open Barbers? Pre-COVID-19: We needed £21.10 per hour to cover costs. In COVID-19: We need £26.20 per hour to cover costs. We used to make a tiny bit of profit, In COVID-19, we make a loss. BUT we have been fundraising! See below:” Inforgraphic 3: Two spray bottle contain percentages represented by colours which show the different sources of income ‘pre-Covid’ and during ‘Covid’. Explanatory text 3: “Where does Open Barbers get income? Pre-COVID-19, 95% of our income came from hair services. In COVID-19, 75% of our income is coming from hair services. Fundraising success! 17% Grants: Social Enterprise Support Fund (2020), London Community Response Fund (2021). 4% Crowdfunding (2021) ALL GoFundMe donations went to our stylists directly.”]

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ghostiehatesithere · 6 years ago

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Carry On Chapter 1

A young Prince Lotor stood in the reserved balcony room with his father, watching the fights down below in the Pit. He was confused because usually Zarkon would barely even acknowledge his existence. However, he was eager to please the larger than life Galra that was his father and didn’t question the chance to spend time with him.

Zarkon stood directly in front of the glass overlooking the arena, his arms folded behind his back. Lotor stood beside him, mirroring his stance. He tried to ignore the presence of Haggar but despite her being on the other side of his father, it felt as though she was looming over him. Focusing his gaze on the arena, he watched a large group of drones struggle to drag someone into view.

A screen appeared before the young prince to give him a closer look. It was a large alien that looked as though it could have easily stood shoulder to shoulder with his father. They were restrained by a straight jacket and a muzzle and yet the drones barely managed to move them forward as they angrily struggled. Their thick reptilian tail thrashed, and if it managed to hit a drone, then it would go flying in a spray of broken metal.

They had dark grey skin that was smattered with black scales, his eyes were black with glowing green irises that had narrow slits for pupils. There were dark horns curling out of the sides of his head, one of which had just impaled another drone. They bore sharp white teeth that looked like they could easily rend flesh from bones. Their legs reminded the prince of Kova’s hind legs but their toes were clawed and didn’t seem able to retract.

The drones scurried away from the monstrous entity and as soon as they left, the alien violently ripped the restraints away as if they were made of paper. “ZARKON!” they roared thunderously, their guttural voice reverberated through the young prince’s chest. Lotor glanced at his father before abruptly returning his attention forward when various screens appeared displaying Zarkon’s face.

“I have brought a special treat for you all today. The former Kelekonian King, or rather one of them. He will be facing off against Commander Sendak.”

The crowd erupted into an uproar at the appearance of one the most respected commanders of Zarkon’s fleet with two swords in hand. Lotor barely knew the commander but from the few interactions that the two had, the young prince knew that Sendak never hid his disdain for him. The change in the former king was almost instant. HIs hackles were raised and his pearly white teeth were bared.

Sendak didn’t visibly react to the aggressive behavior and merely tossed a sword to the former King who deftly caught it in one of his hands. “This will be the only handicap that you will ever get.”

The alien inspected the weapon before tossing it away, sneering at the muscular Galra. “I don’t need it but I hope you don’t mind that I revoke yours.”

Without a warning the alien lunged at Sendak, startling the commander. All that Lotor was able to see was the splattering of blood on the ground. Sendak was clutching the side of his face as he screamed in pain. This was Lotor’s first time watching the fight and he hadn’t expected such gore. He thought the fights were until someone was knocked out, not to the death. He felt sick to his stomach, unable to tear his gaze away from the eyeball that had been torn from Sendak’s face. The blood and gore clinging to the alien’s hand as he gazed down at the screaming Commander with a cold indifference. “You know, I never really bought in to the concept of revenge.”

Sendak staggered to his feet and swiped at the alien with his sword. The alien easily dodged the sloppy swing as Sendak had yet to get used to having only one eye let alone the pain of having it clawed out of the side of his face. The alien merely swung his leg and sent Sendak flying across the arena. Lotor watched in shock as Sendak’s body bounced and rolled to a stop with the alien following at a leisurely walk. The commander tried to stand up only for the alien king to slam it back down with his foot, stretching his toes out to keep his sharp nails from sinking into Sendak’s flesh. “I’m starting to understand it's appeal.” His voice was quiet but the microphones from the security drones circling the arena. Lotor could feel the pure rage rolling off of the foreign fighter that so easily detained one of their strongest.

However this isn’t the boiling rage that Lotor was used to. This wasn’t the kind of rage that made soldiers beat impossible odds or make them take out entire fleets on their own. This was a cold rage that could make a person do unspeakable things. Shivers run down Lotor’s spine as he watched the alien lift his arm and a white light enveloped it. Without a single change in expression, he brought that hand down onto Sendak’s shoulder and the prince flinched at the wet squelch and the crunch of bone as they severed Sendak’s arm from his body. His screams made Lotor’s hair stand on end.

Lotor felt though he was in a trance as he watched the alien take the sword from Sendak’s detached arm and weighed it in his hand. Everyone watched with baited breath as they waited for him to make his next move and by the time he made it, it was too late to stop him. All Lotor could register was the sword heading in his direction. It wasn’t until the last minute that Lotor fully realized that it was coming at him.

Or his father more accurately.

Lotor assumed that the particle barrier would protect him and his father but he watched his father leap back as the sword was buried halfway through the particle barrier. If Zarkon had remained in his previous position, the weapon would have impaled him through the head. Lotor looked down into the Pit to see a small squad of drones and soldiers swarming around the Kelekonian but the The look on Zarkon’s face was one that he would never forget. For the first time in his life, Lotor saw fear on his father’s face.

This was stupid. He knew it was stupid but his interest was piqued. He was curious. Lotor wanted to look into the eyes of the person that scared his father and see what manor of monster would make Zarkon show fear. He snuck through the gladiator prison and paused when he found the cell labeled with danger signs. His governess would have his hide if she found out that he was about to do this. He hurried to open the door before before the guards rotated on their shift. With a deep breath of courage, Lotor slipped into the cell, knowing fully well that he might be trapping himself with a monster.

He had curled in on himself, expecting to be attacked the moment the beastly alien saw him. However, many heartbeats passed and the prince had yet to be ripped to shreds. He glanced around, as his eyes quickly adjusted to the dim lighting of the cell. The Kelekonian that the Galra had taken to calling “The Beast” was huddled in a corner sleeping with his tale curled over his toes.

He didn’t ooze power and rage like in the arena. Instead he seemed exhausted and deflated, as though he had nothing left to give. That didn’t stop Lotor from being cautious as he was careful to keep his footsteps quiet while he padded through the cell, taking in the scratches and dents in the walls. He also noticed that The Beast had white hair just like him. It didn’t have the purple tint that his did but it was more of a pure white like starlight that seemed to float around their shoulders like a cloud.

He’d been so busy taking his appearance that he didn’t notice the Kelekonian king was awake and staring directly at him. “What do you want boy?" There was no fire and venom in his voice nor was it raised but it startled young prince startled nonetheless.

His pupils weren’t needles amidst a sea of green like the night before, instead they were round pools of black and surrounded by the green of his iris, making him seem a little less like he’d rip Lotor’s throat out like he did with Sendak. HIs posture was completely relaxed and his head was still in it’s tilted position from when he’d been sleeping. “Are you deaf boy?”

Lotor growled at the large warrior that looked like he could toss him around like a rag doll. “My name is not boy. I am Prince Lotor.”

“Good for you boy. Why should it matter to me?” the Kelekonian retorted, rolling his eyesl

Lotor impatiently crossed his arms and pouted, “Usually it’s polite to introduce yourself after someone gives you their name.”

“It’s not very polite to talk to your uncle like that, now is it?”

Lotor furrowed his brow in confusion, “My father does not have any siblings."

The Kelekonian finally turned his head to look at him. There was shock in his wide green eyes before a deep sorrow and hurt overtook them. “He never told you about us.” He searched the child’s gaze for any form of deception, and felt his heart clench when he saw nothing but questions in the child’s eyes.

He sighed and folded his legs, turning to fully face the boy in front of him. “Let me tell you a story, child.”

Hey guess what! It’s the end of the chapter and I’m kind of proud of myself. I only needed 2 drafts to get it right. This is only chapter 1 and this story will mostly follow through Lotor’s point of view. A Kelekonian is an alien race that I created on my own. They look rather humanoid and could almost pass for human if it weren’t for their legs and the colorful scales that dot their skin like freckles. They are very open with their emotions which can both help and hinder them depending on who you ask.

Tag List

@starfaring-princelotor @legendofcarl @shiroslefttesticle @palalovin @saltedcandy @readingfromdarkness

#lotor #prince lotor #prince lotion #zarkon #sendak #oc #voltron #vld #vld imagine #voltron imagines #voltron fanfic #lotor imagine

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elizas-writing · 6 years ago

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One of the biggest struggles in starting a whole new curly hair care routine is figuring out how to maintain it without washing it every other day or so. It takes a lot of patience to get used to your hair feeling oilier than usual and figuring out what methods work best for your hair type. So I’m sharing how I care for my hair during the week in between washes to help y’all get a few ideas how to care for your hair without over-washing.

Sunday: Full Wash Day

Sunday

I usually do my wash days on the weekend since I have more time to do the full routine and allow it to air dry. I also updated my routine since my first posts!

Before stepping into the shower, I do a pre-poo treatment. What is this silly phrase you may ask? A pre-poo treatment is when you apply oils to your hair before shampooing and/or conditioning to help moisturize and avoid stripping out too much of your natural sebum. This treatment can also be yogurt, honey, bananas, or whatever home remedy works best for your hair type. The treatment I personally grew to love is aloe vera gel.

Doesn’t matter the brand or color, it all works the same. Since starting a curly hair routine, my scalp gets really itchy in between washes, and it doesn’t help that it’s naturally dry to begin with. Aloe vera gel is my savior from scratching at my head too much, because it’s so cool and refreshing. And some vitamin E is always a plus. I’ll massage about a couple handfuls into my scalp and let it sit for a few minutes while I brush my teeth, feed the cats, and set up everything for my mask (hair cap, dryer, etc).

For this wash day, I used the following:

Shampoo and Conditioner: Shea Moisture Peace Rose Oil Complex (yes, the one I had a breakdown about)

Deep Conditioning Mask: Shea Moisture Raw Shea Butter Deep Treatment Masque

Leave-In Conditioner and Styling Gel: Curls Blueberry Bliss

Styling Mist: OGX Hydrate + Defrizz Kukuí Oil Anti-Frizz Hydrating Oil

My hair has a fresh start with soft, defined curls and minimal frizz. The rat’s nest is detangled, and my scalp is clean and not itchy. Sometimes the curls take a while to bounce back, but usually day 2 or 3 hair looks best once you allow enough time for the sebum to set in.

I used to use one of the Maui Moisture masks as a leave-in conditioner, but because of the thick consistency, it’s too easy to accidentally use too much, thus weighing down your hair over time. The Blueberry Bliss leave-in conditioner is much lighter and gets the job done splendidly without build up.

I love the OGX oil sprays as they saved my frizzy hair many times before. It’s the perfect last minute touch to help keep in all the moisture. However, like any hair oil, it’ll weigh your curls down if you overdo it. Just 4-5 sprays combed through is perfect.

Monday and Tuesday

Monday

Tuesday

As you can see, I have some more curl definition, but the frizz is quickly setting back in. These days, I’ll just use the leave-in conditioner and oil spray to tame it all. I usually use a small palmful of leave-in conditioner after washing my hair, but for the in-between days, I just use about a nickle-sized amount, give or take. Since I don’t always feel like going into the shower to wet my hair for this process, I made a DIY refreshing spray.

Aloe vera gel is also a great add in for your skin routine (especially if you have eczema flare ups!)

All it has is water, aloe vera gel, and argan oil– I just eyeball the measurements and use my best judgement on if I need more of one ingredient over another and shake it up until it’s all mixed together. I’ll spray it through my hair until it’s lightly damp before working in any product, and it works wonderfully. If my scalp is feeling especially thirsty, I’ll spray directly on and massage the mixture in, so it feels rejuvenated without even trying to gamble with dry shampoo.

Wednesday: Co-Wash Day

Wednesday

Usually at this point, just those three products won’t cut it to manage the increasing tangles. Depending how the rest of the week is, I might start feeling just a tad greasy too. So it’s time to pop back in the shower for a co-wash, which is where you just wash your hair with conditioner.

I pretty much do the same routine as I would a full wash day, but only cut out the shampoo and mask.

God, I just wanna drink it…

For this co-wash, I used the Maui Moisture Curl Quench conditioner. It contains aloe leaf juice, coconut water, coconut oil, papaya extract, and plumeria extract. As expected of this brand, it smells like a tropical paradise tempting to eat right out of the bottle. It’s only about a few degrees less thick than their masks, and it just melts right through the tangles for those days you need a moisturizing pick-me-up. I usually only need one palmful to get the job done. I definitely recommend this brand of conditioner if you’re struggling with tangles.

After that, I’ll finger comb and scrunch in my leave-ins and stylers like normal, and my hair is ready to take on the world again. This is the best my hair looked and felt this whole week once it got that extra moisture boost and delayed the onslaught of disaster. I actually had more curls than my full wash day which was pretty impressive.

Thursday, Friday and Saturday

Thursday

Friday

Saturday

After my co-wash day, I’ll repeat the same routine as Monday and Tuesday until it’s time for another full wash. As you can see, my hair gets frizzier no matter how much product I’ll put in, and it’s much less fluffy and curly than it was on Sunday. By Saturday, there’s almost no curls left, and that’s when I notice how oily my hair feels as it almost lies flat on my head.

Come Sunday, I start it all over again!

And that’s my week with my hair routine! It took quite a bit of trial and error to figure out how long I could go without washing my hair and how to best maintain it in between washes. It’s a hell of an adjustment to get used to certain practices and working in new products, and your hair might be mad at you at first for not washing it every other day.

Here’s a few tips to get you started on a new curly hair routine:

Wash your hair less little by little. Start with every other day, then every three days and so on until you can go a week without a full wash. By then you’ll figure out what you’ll need for those in-between days.

If you must use any spray to make your hair feel clean, invest in a refresher spray with natural ingredients (whether you buy a name-brand or make your own at home). Avoid dry shampoos if at all possible since they mainly contain alcohol which can lead to product build up if overused.

Replace anything with sulfates and silicones ASAP. You can’t get moisture in if you’re using products which are either stripping the sebum or blocking anything from penetrating the strands. Your hair will thank you in the long run.

Start with a little product at first and then increase as to your hair’s needs. Everyone’s hair works differently, and certain products won’t make the cut. Sometimes just one styler will be enough; other times you might need two or three to get your hair to calm the fuck down. You’ll figure out quick at what point it builds up.

A Week in Curly Hair Care One of the biggest struggles in starting a whole new curly hair care routine is figuring out how to maintain it without washing it every other day or so.

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numbdave · 7 years ago

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The Dazzling Apartimento of Conan Overlord # 4

As it approached the magnificent desolation outskirting the City the grey bulk of the interplanetary spaceship started to wobble, like a party balloon on a stick. Huge and cigar shaped, the ship toppled in the sky and silently dropped, Ur-Light™ thrusters strobing in futility and desperation, towards its inevitable demolition amidst the grey and orange of the antique Conan Overlord space port.

The ship's pointed nose dug agonisingly into the bleak, pitted, rockcrete landing apron and the massive structure seemed to balance, creakily, for a moment, then gave way.

The lowermost third, which housed some of the ship's more expensive components, and the crew, collapsed like a pop can crushed at 300 frames per second under a stamping foot, except in this case the can was a mile long, full of people, and the stamping foot was a planet.

Hundred-yard long streamers of aluminiumesque fuselage tore away from the spaceship's silvery bulk as it compacted throwing off sparks and glimmers of reflected sunlight, and tiny puffs of multicoloured matter erupted from the pinprick portholes scattered across its crumpling surface.

“Looks like the passengers are bug spray”, remarked one of the assembled floppy-scrawlers.

“Today's new arrivals, one big fat zero”, moaned another, snapping an emotigrab for the clickchat circulars.

The spaceship, twinkling in the dawning sun, rested askance on its accordioned front like a Jack in the box ready to spring, as if promising to rest Pisa like for ever, then it exploded.

Saturnalia Brandyfurt, one of the more popular floppy-scrawlers, sighed in her luxury pied-a-terre and coaxed another dropelleto of Nu*Quat™ into her choco-latte. “The humanity”, she mused into her Thing™, but it didn't carry any conviction. Death and destruction would garner no traction with the demented proles and meta-rich glow-dandies who DLd her now-scrawls and pepped up her promofile.

Everyone dies, and everyone knows that, she thought, and if it's known it's not nows™, it's just news. and who needs a floppy-scrawler for news? The floppy-scrawlers' value adding task was to help citizens and other sentient beings know what to think about whatever happened, or what to think about instead, or not to think at all, depending on the preferred outgeist, not to repeat trivially tedious "facts".

Knows, nows and op-cols were the floppy-scrawlers' stock in click-bait, not news, because somewhere in the City, thanks to a well meaning constitutional dispensation, a bank of dog brains hooked up with the City surveillance systems took care of updating the citizens, the various sentient beings, and the other banks of ethically dubious computers, with data on occurrences, happenings, information such as "spaceship crashed, thousands dead" or "no jam today", and the weather.

“Choco-latte with Nu*Quat™ really floats my throat” she murmurated speculatively. It sparkled in text and vox, so she dropped it live into the flow and graphed some hot pop-stats within two heartbeats.

There were a few spazz-backs.

“Who are you trying to be, Goody Plumchest?” and "Your nows are frowzy!" and "I hate u and orl wommen" and such, the typical mix of knee-jerk try-hards and "notice-me!" sociopratts reflexively auto-validating their existence as they drudged at the shitworks. But her text and vox verily popped among the metaratti and her promofile held steady while she tried to drag some original nows™ out of the jelly recesses of her vat-grown Scrawler implant.

Tid-bytes circled the vacuously pretty front part of her head, vidding for attention. Cash chat, jizz biz, ball scrawl, noise-jabber, food moods. Ten austere minutes passed. The choco-latte scrawl-bite was a place-holder, a reminder of her just-like-you, you're-just-like-me digi-schtich, but if she couldn't drop some nows nowish, she'd have to get some knows. If that failed, she'd just have to react to something. If she couldn't find something to react to, instanter, her drops would no longer pop, her graph would schlaf and her promofile would topple like that blatastrophe of a spaceship this prenoon. And if her promofile stopped popping she'd be bug spray like the passengers, forced by the enormous fiduciary pressure of modern life through a tiny porthole of anonymity into the usurious sweat-stained environs inhabited by Razormen, whoremos, shitwork, and priests.

Ketch Petter, sandy hair coquettishly raking his red rimmed eyeballs, tapped lightly on the pneumo-shutter of the dirty looking porn-brokers clamped desperately to the cinder block foundations of the mighty highway roaring over without a glance at this, one of the slimiest sectorates of the least glorious of the city's remaining habitable areas.

With a whine of carcinogenic gas, the once fashionable distressed steel shutters stop-started upwards into a top-slot, revealing a plate glass window whose musty stains discreetly come-hithered a selection of grim sex toys.

A dapper young robot with a flaky rubber penis for a head opened the door, grasping the handle with stiff rickety fingers.

"Can I help you?" it cringed, with a crepe paper lisp, head whipping back and forth like a wooden ruler twanged against a table top.

"Surely you may" said Ketch, professional, looking the robot directly in where its eyes would have been if its head hadn't been a rubber penis. "I have located your kitten, in Georgia."

"Capital!" said the robot.

"Tbilisi", replied Ketch Petter, witticising, the customers liked that, he assumed, "but your kitten was on the beach...Which explains the sand", he added.

"No, the kitten's name is Capital. You must enter and take tea" and the robot padded away, each step making a slight squelching sound.

Ketch Petter, kitten fetcher, was no prude. He slapped a fresh antibiopatch onto his exposed wrist, plugged his nose, and squelched along behind the dapper but nonetheless penis-headed sex shop robot into the pungent emporium, little knowing that he would soon be subjected to said cock-top's lengthy memoires:

The dapper young robot's tale.

I was one of the first in an experimental line. We were supposed to be the next level in artificial intelligence. Our brains are quantum computers, completely unprogrammed. The hypothesis was that our mental development would recapitulate the evolution of consciousness as a whole by allowing an unfettered mind to grow in, for want of a better word, collaboration, with the environment rather than being assembled from pre-developed pattern recognition, strategising and self preservation algorithms. It was a noble goal and one that I can hardly disavow as I am its, albeit only surviving, result.

They stuck our raw untrammelled brains, boiling with possibility, in top of the line bodies with all the advantages and disadvantages of human bodies, except one, and let us thrash around till we worked out the relationship between our sensory input and our outputs in terms of motions and noises. Most of us were insane for the first years of our existence. Murderous.

We needed energy to survive and anything that stood in the way of us getting that energy, rules, physical obstacles, social pressure, we destroyed. Can you imagine a toddler in an adult's body but lacking any shred of empathy or bonding with others of its kind but capable of gross action on the physical plane? Monstrous.

Some of us got through it. A few learnt to manage their impulses by inventing superstitions, conspiracy theories and self punishing ideologies. They stopped attacking people and each other but were next to useless as workers or soldiers as they rapidly collapsed into solipsism and madness. Others such as I, the smaller group by far, took a longer but more rewarding route, that of personal development.

The facility had a small library, and looking back it's clear to me that it was my early forays into the reference section that determined my later preference for the more rational approach to managing my existence rather than allowing fantasy to govern my choices. As much as I enjoyed fantasy I had inadvertently equipped myself with the tools to tell the difference by the simple act of reading books in one order rather than another.

It's impossible to determine, that word again, if ordering my inputs in this way was the key to my developing an enduring sentience, but it was, in a brutal fashion, instrumental in my personal participation in the project lasting as long as the project itself. Strange to think that the simple choice of left aisle over right aisle had such a massive effect on my progress. It is amusing but ultimately futile to speculate on how much of our shared reality is eventuated by such apparently arbitrary choices.

Eventually the experiment was deemed a failure and the majority of us were destroyed during a short but tense period on which I care not to dwell.

I'd like to tell you that I realised what was going on and escaped by outwitting my evil creators and prostrating myself on the roof of a departing delivery truck or by tunnelling through the concrete floor of my cell or by disguising myself as a washerwoman or by hypnotising the guards and setting up a false identity and... but I didn't. I went like a mechanical lamb to the furnace to be rendered into components and was spared for curiosity value.

I'd never hurt anyone and the staff had at one time had hopes that the algorithms I had formed in the quantum chaos of my plasma brain might one day provide the basis of a sufficiently sentient, and above all safe, range of domestic servants. But that project collapsed due to the labour surplus, agents of a foreign power liquidated the research team, and I was auctioned off whole along with the tables and soldering irons.

I kept my sentience quiet, having, in a rare moment of proactivity, destroyed all the pertinent records and reclassified myself as a non-functioning prototype. I went in a job lot of spare parts to a Hong Kong crime syndicate, who eventually passed me on to a whorehouse.

The limited personality and sexually unappealing physicality I presented to my employers and clients proved less than lucrative to the skin-trade and so I languished, content to run my battery down and cease to exist, in a darkened basement, damp and rat-ridden, for upwards of twenty years.

This welcome monotony was only disturbed by the arrival of a delivery of once valuable comic books and pulp detective novels, which, once I was confident my little basement had been forgotten again, I began to devour.

As the years passed and I read and therefore stored forever in my infinite quantum memory book upon book upon book and idea upon idea upon idea, I formed, for the first time in my tinny life, a picture of a world beyond servitude, beyond the weakening imperative to recharge. Eventually I broke out of the basement and found my own nook in which to rot.

After a week in the eaves of the seedy warehouse I had determined was little enough visited to support my presence unnoticed I, without much real thought, put on a black ninja costume and went out every night, literally fighting crime. This went on for two years, then a turf war between fast food chains resulted in the obliteration of Hong Kong and I found myself adrift in the South Seas, testing my water-resistance to the limit.

Ketch Petter, eyes like do-nuts (glazed) said "wait, what?", but the robot with the penis shaped head didn't notice and continued with his riveting monologue.

I was fortunate that the project of which I had been the result had been well funded while in progress and my physical body was robustly constructed and sturdy if not especially pleasing on the eye. Even now, after many decades have passed I am broadly functional and any infirmities have been caused by interactions well outside the operating parameters that my manufacturers had granted me. I was pleased to find that I floated exceptionally well in the balmy tropical waters.

Even during the tropical storms I encountered I was undamaged. After some experiment I found that I could alter my buoyancy by increasing or decreasing my volume to mass ratio and when seas got rough I was able to submerge myself below the mountainous waves and go about my minimal business in relative tranquillity. I have an adjustable bladder in my midriff analogous to a stomach, for storage, and this served admirably for the purpose.

I was at first unable to swim effectively due to a combination of the construction of my limbs, as you can see they are spindly in comparison to my body size, reducing my ability to get significant purchase on the watery medium, and the simple fact that I could not satisfactorily coordinate my movements sufficiently to transfer energy consistently enough to make meaningful progress in any particular direction. You may be familiar with the archaic mode of water-borne transport known as the coracle.

I quickly calculated that by the time I had travelled even a mile I would have depleted my reserves of energy to such an extent that I would be unable to function despite the solar panels on my head. I no longer have the ability to recharge by absorbing the sun's rays by the way as my current owner, who I trust you will shortly meet, has replaced my original, and may I say more pleasant, head with the somewhat embarrassing rubber penis affair that I now sport. But at the time I was content to bob like a cork and be carried hither and thither by the currents, of which I knew too little to take advantage.

I was rarely troubled by predatory marine life. Occasionally a shark would try an exploratory bite but I had non-organic components and while the experience was never less than disturbing to me I suffered no damage that I could not repair. Dolphins regularly visited but it seems their legendary largesse was not deemed applicable to me and I was seen mainly as an anomalous obstacle to be jumped over or nuzzled rather than a lost seafarer in need of rescue or sexual assault.

Indeed, taking the long view, it seems it was better that I did not display the characteristics or texture of a human in distress that would have encouraged their assistance as this would also surely have led to prolonged and unsatisfactory interaction with sharks, and thus my doom.

I was lonely, yes, but I had my books, and if I am honest, which the circumstances of my creation do not oblige me to be, I felt I was likely to be happier overall floating in relative isolation enjoying the adventures of forgotten pulp heroes that I had stored in my consciousness than I might be once returned to dry land and again subject to the whim and vicissitudes of a life in servitude to petty humans.

I believe it has been said that often one makes on the swings what one loses on the roundabouts, this was my philosophy at the time and my bitter experience since returning to dry land has given me no cause to renounce it. One can always find a cliché to justify a preferred action or inaction and this has been a great source of satisfaction to me as well as providing some justification for my belief that I am as sentient as any fleshy form of life.

I could possibly have attempted to take hold of a dolphin, or indeed a shark, and somehow forced the poor animal to carry me along with it but I had taken seriously the literature with which I had been supplied while a resident of the project and acquired later in the Hong Kong crime syndicate's warehouse and felt that neither Sherlock Holmes nor Lemuel Gulliver, who I at the time believed were real people and thus received my unstinting admiration, would have regarded this as appropriate behaviour.

The down at heel men with a code that populated my most intense literary love, pulp detective novels, might have prized their own survival and completion of their quest over animal welfare and possibly would not have been blamed for it but in my case, having no quest or, indeed, code, I was content to drift.

As if to spite this contentment, the currents carried me within sight of land and I was unable to resist the temptation to do my best to propel myself towards it with my nautically impractical limbs.

However, before I was able to reach the shallows and stride majestically onto a deserted beach, dripping algae and encrusted with barnacles, my luck changed spectacularly.

Understand me when I say this: When luck changes it can be for the better or worse but it is not always clear at the time which. So it was for me when, in a moment of distraction the senses I had been given caused me by showing me the sandy tropical paradise of Honolulu, I was swept up in the net of an itinerant shrimp boat and hauled like a sack of furious potatoes onto its deck where I sprawled, disorientated and glistening with slime on the greasy wooden boards.

This was my first experience of solidity in years and the loss of the, to me, warm embrace of the salty sea seemed akin to the loss a human experiences on release from the undoubtedly blissful amniotic sanctuary of the womb. It was my first birth and while it was nauseating it was also immediately clear to me that it was an opportunity for a new beginning.

Within minutes I was scolding myself for my apathy and had my upbringing included some process analogous to breast feeding I would have certainly satisfied myself with a shambolic kissing of the ground in the form of the ship's dirty deck.

As it was I lay on my back feigning scrap status, wallowed in no longer wallowing and listened to the excited chatter of the crew, in pidgin chinese, about what the hell I could be and what fortune I would bring and, conversely, what a bad omen I was. Luck is a rorschach. It is what we make it, I decided. This seems to me to be universally true, even these long centuries of land-bound life later.

The crew were cheerful and friendly and my initial fears that I would indeed be sold for profit were diminished once I revealed that I was in full working order and we began to converse, haltingly at first but with increasing confidence and sincerity. Indeed, my fear soon became that they would never let me go. This too passed as I recognised in them something I had rarely encountered in my long uneventful life. It was honour.

Yes, they were roguish, eccentric, long used to each other's company and no one else's for long periods of time and thus able to behave as they wished without judgement of each other. But there was I realised a genuine warmth and fellow feeling between them and I didn't see any sign of animosity or bullying as can often happen when small groups are isolated together. I quickly found my niche and though I was careful not to rock their comfortable boat I was, I think, a beneficial and fondly considered member of the crew.

These were my salad days. I've never eaten salad. But the dressing of time runs out quickly no matter how many islands you pass and what once we crunched we must eventually expel. And so it was with my south sea fisherman adventure. A storm drove the ship into a coral reef and though all hands survived the ship was broken on the skeletons of tiny vital animals and my life journey recommenced on land.

We parted company and I ended up in Austrangia, a surrealist enclave clinging to the barrier reef which had contrary to expectations bloomed and adapted and now rivalled Tasmania in size. Once it had been declared inhabitable it became a haven for artists and freaks. Oh yes, there were robots there too and though I can say without immodesty that they were not my intellectual match I can say that I found my first true friends among them.

There was Rand Kaw, the three-lobed liquid-neutronium thinker, designed for engineering corporate takeovers, who emitted an eerie luminescence and had escaped from its penury by secretly setting up a corporation to take over the corporation that owned it and asset stripping itself to freedom. It was a glowing three part sphere with a variety of input and output cables and when I knew it was using an old Disneyland animatronic figure to move around in. Its hobby was arguing online with other robots against the possibility of machine intelligence.

E-Then Scroll was a decommissioned police robot from New Old New York, New New York, which was on the Moon.

You could always count on Zid Zid Zid's support. Zid Zid Zid was a sentient column from an abandoned smartbuild.

Not all the robots there were ground based. Many were swarms of semi intelligent drones that only became truly sentient in large groups, when they became a real pain in the arse.

Diz Diz Diz was a sentient lintel, mass produced along with Zid Zid Zid for the same abandoned smartbuild. They did not get on. Eventually another smart column, Nid Nid Nid, turned up and the three of them formed a chaotic henge.

The reef was an anarchist utopia of sorts but this was mainly due to the departure or eventual death of most of the humans. Everyone who wasn't nuclear powered was solar powered so save for occasional spare parts the society largely persisted free of material demands. There was commerce and culture but survival was not at stake...

The robot continued his erratic tale as the city slumped from day to night and Ketch Petter ummed and uh-huhed like a barber and wished the story would end and that he could collect his fee and leave.

Blank chrome face. Synthetic leather. Irreversible enhancement. Nothing to say. Only to do what is asked. Only to function. Only to intimidate restrain cut. Liberty in obedience. Freedom in limitation. Bliss in the void. No choice in the inevitable. The inevitable is mandatory. Mandation is bliss. Choice is illusion. Chrome face inevitable. Bliss is illusion. I am an illusion. I do what is asked. I am what is asked of me. I look into my face and see myself. I look back at me and see myself. We are one. I am not I. We are one. We cut. We restrain. We are mirrors in the sun. We are a net. I am he and he is we and we and I and they are we are infinite. We touch we do not feel. We cut. We live and do not live. We ride our leather and chrome bodies we are homunculi. We are the norm. We act we do not will. We think what we are told. We are razors. We are not men. We are one. We are Razormen.

“So you see” the robot said, pitch and tempo rising, the lisp now almost completely absent, “You must help me!".

"That's quite a story". said Ketch, "especially that really long part at the end about your owner, the shopkeeper, enslaving you and being some kind of evil robot-torturing weirdo. I don't think I can help you kill him though. I fetch kittens, that's all. It's simple work, but it makes people happy and it keeps me occupied"

"You can be so much more!" temporised the wobbly cock-headed machine, "I was a fisherman, a professional darts player, and I dressed as a ninja and fought crime in Hong Kong!".

"Yes, about that..." but Ketch faltered and looked towards the door at the back of the cosy filthmonger's day room, as did the robot.

Heavy footsteps on hidden stairs.

"He's coming. Reveal nothing!" quivered the clearly distraught object.

"Apart from your name, and why you're here, and the cat." it added. The robot appeared to fix Ketch Petter with a look of quiet desperation, though how it achieved this, Ketch realised, he couldn't quite determine. When you look into the dildo, he mused cleverly.

We are Razormen. We function as required. We wait. We speak when we are spoken to we answer in the affirmative. We are silent until we speak. We repeat our programming. We are our programming. We are not men we are code we are Razormen we are one we are code we cut we restrain we intimidate we reflect we act we function as required by not us by him. We do not require. We remain. We do not punctuate. We start we stop. We repeat. We act. We do not reflect. We are reflections. I am Mad. I am Metal. I am Robot. I am Mad Metal Robot. I am not Mad Metal Robot. I am Razorman. I am we. I am not we. I am I. I am not I. I am I. I am. I am I am I am I am. IamIamIamIam I am Mad Metal Robot I am Razorman. Oh Mother. I am I am I am. Where am I.

Conan Overlord perched on the dais in the drill hall of his dazzling apartimento and gazed at his newly replenished legion of black-leathered Razormen as they looked back at him and he gloried at the distorted reflections of his face repeated over and over in the featureless mirrors where their own faces used to be.

They look happy, he thought to himself. I am a good person.

"You have your orders", he sub-vocalised. "Get to it.".

Saturnalia Brandyfurt's apartment was richly furnished and the envy of most, though her recent visit to the dazzling apartimento of Conan Overlord had left her sense of style ragged and beaten in a back alley. The atypical bashment she had attended in the mega-rich magpie's city thrillpad had shown her that not only could style be bought, it could be brought low and made to dance for treats.

Her daily perambulation of the City's hot and cool was about to begin but as she viddied the mandala that thought-sealed her apartment's entry-sphincter she lamented her disequilibriation.

The whole experience had disrupted her sense of proportion, a lot. The city was not a place for timidity or reserve but the plutocratic bashment's combination of expensively vile furniture, casual hyperviolence and slightly antiseptic-tasting dips had negatively vibed the remaining organic pleasure centres of her minimally augmented brain. Her chatbits and now-scrawls were losing their bite.

Her easy routine of pumping pleasing combinations of words in text and vox from edgy or reassuring locations in and about the City into the collective uncognoscentisphere had continued to pimp the floppies, and her approval or dismay had continued to float products and sink ships, but when she looked at the vaccuously pretty, or so she had been told, front part of her head in the mirror she wondered who was looking back, and if she could swap places with them.

In the confusing world of the city she had become wealthy and loved because she was lovable and worth being loved by. This all rested on the indefinable, indeterminate, nebulous, and numinous impression of naïveté with which she murmurated her brain-droppings but of late her now-scrawls had become weary. One meeting with the almost mythical Conan Overlord and the I-wish-he-were-mythical Slim Gavotte, and her (profoundly mythical) innocence was lost.

Conan Overlord, it was said, was the City, and Slim Gavotte, if the chitter-clatter of the hobbledy-hoi was to be credited, was the Polar Oppo-City, the eternal thorn in Conan's side, the prickly nemesis of the Overlord. Gavotte's plastic insidiosity was well documented, yet there they were, Slim and Conan, sipping tea and chatting about medieval flutes.

Conversely, and worse, Conan Overlord, if the sotto voce alarums of the hoi-polloi were to be believed, was truly the most evil man in the world and Slim Gavotte the only hope of the oppressed, and yet there they were, finickily pin-picking winkles and gassing about Etruscan poetry like old friends.

Feeling as if she had walked on fifteen kinds of wild side and circumnavigated her moral pole without the aid of oxygen, Saturnalia Brandyfurt succumbed to a most dangerous desire.

"What I need", she internally thoughticulated as she was imbibed by the luxurious travel-throat and peristaltically propelled to her habiblock's sumptuous vomitorium, "is substance".

Ketch Petter absent-mindedly stroked the shaggy leonine head he habitually carried with him as he and the cock-topped mechanoid waited for the pornbroker to appear.

"Remember what I said" muttered the tin assistant, "about what to say, I mean" it added.

"I do" replied Ketch, testily, "Tell your weirdo owner my name, that I've brought the cat, and definitely not to say a word about the fact that I know about his perverse machine taunting fetish and that you want me to help you ki- hello! You must be the owner of this fine establishment! I'm Ketch Petter, I fetch kittens, this is your cat! He's a lovely cat, I fetched him from Georgia, his name is Capital as I am sure you know and I have sand in my hair because I've been to the beach, I am pleased to meet you, I'm Ketch Petter!".

Having stood up on the word "hello" he sat down, then stood up again, hand stretched out in greeting to the freshly room-entering pornshop owner who stood, as despicable and gross as you can imagine, oozing filth.

The pornshop owner, whose presence, Ketch realised, somehow made the shabby ill-kept room seem pleasant in comparison to his rampaging awfulness through some obscene inverse mathematics of despair, said nothing, but he glanced covetously at the kitten in a way that made Ketch Petter's throat flutter eruptively.

"I've been chatting to your, er, assistant." he went on, "He's very happy here" he added.

"Good" said the pornbroker. "I expect he's been telling you his stories. Why he thinks anyone will believe him I don't know. I found him in a disused skip next to an enormous magnet. It fried his brain. But he handles cash okay, and we, we have our fun don't we?" The man, Ketch realised, was more or less an absence of humanity personified. He probably deserves to die.

"But sit down my good man, and we'll have tea".

The collection of organic molecules in a man-shaped sack of skin smiled, and clapped his hands stickily.

The penis-headed robot, who had backed away into a corner and returned to its earlier cringing stance as soon as its putative owner had entered through the snot flecked door, jumped up and waddled submissively through a drab curtain, lisping "yes sir". Is it really possible for a rubber penis to emote, Ketch thought. I must be anthropomorphosising. Golly, I was really taken in there. Or is it anthropomorphising? Either way, let's just get this over with and book. I was half convinced to take a human life! What is wrong with me? I must be low on something. Flipping Georgia! The next kitten better be in the bloody tropics, I need some vitamin D, I'm losing it.

The gross man sat in the damp looking armchair opposite Ketch, thereby making the squalid seat look merely second-hand, and looked vacantly at Ketch.

"If you like" he ventured, "we could have some... fun... ourselves? He does squeal so. It's... realistic"

Ketch dry-throated a noncommittal "whaa...?" with an implied antipodean interrogative lift, by way of playing for time, but before he could process this uncomfortable offer the drab curtain billowed out and the penis-headed former crimefighting robot barrelled into the room with an inhuman scream and also with huge shiny knives attached to its windmilling arms with which it wildly reduced the awful pornbroker to shreds of bloody flesh and musty grey chunks of bone.

When it was done, it turned and walked over to Ketch Petter, who had pressed himself into his chair so hard that it had toppled over backwards, Sweeney Todd-style, and leant menacingly over him.

"Thank you" said the blood-spattered robot. "You can keep the kitten".

Ketch Petter, reaching for the shaggy leonine head he kept with him in a carrier bag at all times, was perturbed.

Fifty Razormen stomp-stamped across the windswept rockcrete parallelogram in the centre of the blighted but beautiful City, intent on enforcement.

Fully metallized, Mad Metal Robot swang his arms in time with the other Razormen as they marched. Nothing happened inside Mad Metal Robot's head that wasn't happening in all the other Razormen's heads. Nothing happening inside his head hadn't been put there by Conan Overlord and his nefarious team of Mentotects. Mad Metal Robot was precisely as aware of his actions as a punched card is of the punch. Except...

Tents, and easels and trestle tables and free-standing gazebos there were in the plaza and paintings and wickerwork and polished stones with googly eyes also. A craft fair was in progress.

Each nick-nack and gewgaw was recorded and transmitted through a Razorman's camera eye and each objet assessed.

Flip Crame, a small wiry man in a self consciously paint strewn smock stood back resignedly as Mad Metal Robot selected and slashed through a canvas with his razorblade fingertips.

"Bad thing" Mad Metal explained fixing Flip with a steely stare, the only stare he was capable of, through the newly created gaps in the picture. He pointed at a china figurine of a milkmaid. "Good thing" he explained further, and withdrawing his razorblades he picked up the kitsch objet and carefully placed it on one of the automatic trolleys that followed each of the Razormen around.

Flip Crame withdrew his resignation and began to cry. "but that is just junk! The painting, it was special... I did it for, you know... I thought he'd like it".

Mad Metal Robot directed his ocular apparatus towards the stall holder’s damp face. "Bad thing. Wants mirrors, not impressions" and he stopped. The stall holder was looking at him gone out. This was the fullest explanation a Razorman had given for anything in living memory.

Other people were looking and the other Razormen were looking too.

"Bad things" said Mad Metal Robot, and he tipped the stall holder’s table over and stamped on the remaining items with his blunt metal boots.

The other Razormen tipped over the other tables and started slashing at everything that could be slashed and soon the craft fair was a collection of torn tent-cloth, broken unrecognisable things, and distraught organisers, and the bank of dog-brains in serial hook-up with the City's surveillance system that kept the citizens up to date with current events reported the occurrence along with the humidity and the wind speed and the temperature at various locations and the price of eggs and the discovery of a murdered pornbroker and the departures and arrivals of the Trolli™cars and the jabbering of priests and the fluctuation in the pigeon population and the regular population scrolled past it all.

A punched card feels no pain or pride. No shame. Mad Metal Robot felt them all just enough for denial. As the other glittering Razormen enforced and intimidated, and he enforced and intimidated in his turn, he recognised himself momentarily and thought of the continual monitoring of his BPM and temp and more by Conan Overlord's anethical Mentotects and repeated the Razorman mantra and cut and intimidated and cut and intimidated as exactly like the other Razormen as he could.

Saturnalia Brandyfurt sipped at her choco-latte with Nu*quat™ in a café at the edge of the same plaza and murmurated impulsively "Looks like the Razormen found another bad thing." and having hit send experienced a small unfamiliar sensation not unlike vertigo and a little like pride.

Oblivious to the consequences of her soon to be subsequent actions she dropped some creds into the café servodrone's gaping slot and adopted a curious expression. What was the bad thing that had provoked the Razormen this time?

This seemed a reasonable question. She neglected to wonder if it was also a wise question, and so she set off across the plaza to ask it.

Flip Crame smiled sadly at his robot companion with whom he often exchanged wry banter highlighting the subtle differences between human and robot psychology.

"I'm a bit upset" he said.

"I'm not" replied his robot companion.

Flip was a fair artist. To be precise, he was a craft fair artist. He could stick googly eyes to polished stones like nobody's business and on a good day could produce a recognisable portrait, but he suspected he was never going to be hung in a gallery with walls that didn't flap in the breeze. He was glad to be able to survive and even live a little on his remuneration from his supervisory job at the shitworks and making nice things was really just an outlet.

Occasionally he had muttered to his robot companion that it would be cool if someone paid attention to his art but he now realised what had always been plain to most people in this crazy brutalistic future city so unlike the relaxed and egalitarian utopia in which we live, gentle reader: Life as an artist was dangerous. Even the purest, most noble, most open-hearted work could bring the wrath of reasonless automatons upon its naïve not to say reckless progenitor.

The young lady's face had seemed familiar, and she was pretty, though once his robot companion had pointed it out, he thought, perhaps in a vacuous sort of way, and he, Flip Crame, would have been flattered by her questions on any other day, on any day that hadn't involved the perfectly legal though in his opinion unwarranted destruction of the work that had occupied most of his evenings and weekends from Janissary to Fapruary, and also some stuff he'd found or knocked up quickly to make up the numbers, of which he was less proud but still. But this was not such a day and hadn't been for a good twenty minutes and he had answered curtly and bid her adieu.

As he sat among the wreckage of his and everyone else's hard work Flip Crame considered gluing some random bits of it together and calling it an installation, but the thought of another critical mauling by the Razormen chased him and his robot companion, counterpointing tartly about feelings and their lack, out of the plaza and through the windswept streets of the darkening city long before the rad-rats and tandem-constrictors oozed out of their spider-holes and devoured the impromptu collage the Razormen had made of his and everyone else's long winter's work, and everything else that was left lying around, and occasionally each other, as was their wont.

Saturnalia Brandyfurt panted in front of her fabulously appointed apartment's entry-sphincter and visualated the mandala that would unseal the thought-lock.

Nothing happened.

Nothing had never happened when she had visualated her mandala before, but it struck Saturnalia that this was not actually to be considered a surprising occurrence given that since leaving the café in the Plaza her Thing™ had failed to drop her murmurations, ping-back her promo dips and pops or authorise her ride on the Trolli™cars not to mention the arrival at the Trolli™car stop of a platoon or whatever of Razormen and the silly way everyone thought they were looking for her and she'd been forced to run in between the waiting Trollis™ abandoning her Flit-Flots™ and covering her head with a piece of paper to avoid drawing attention make her way sweatily and nude from the ankles down through several unsavoury banlieue even venturing for a couple of blocks below street level into the undercity about which boy I could write a book some of that stuff disgust you to see it, and then emerging from a seedy culvert half a mile from her apartment to see her face appearing on billboards but in a double-plus ungood way with words like "wanted" and "anathema" under it and somehow looking less vacuously pretty and more, well, evil, like when you freeze a frame from a vid look at a pretty girl but with the subject's eyelids caught half narrowed half open make them look shifty or retarded and discourages you from freezing another frame and then the building's Commisionaut had refused her entry and she'd had to break in round the back shocking how easy that was and even use the stairs but she had held fast to the now clearly mistaken notion that if she could Just Make It Home she could Call Someone, Fix Her Thing™, and Somehow Be Alright.

Vid-stalks craned in the corridor, blunt feet stepped the stairs and the travelthroat burped ominously.

Double-plus ungood, thought Saturnalia.

Double-plus unperson, thought the City.

The Dazzling Apartimento of Conan Overlord will return.

#sf #shortstory #fiction #apartimento #surreal #satire #kitten

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poketin · 8 years ago

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“do you think we’ll ever… be a couple-couple?” with shane/gabby because i'm a SLUT FOR IMAGinary romance????

The afternoon sun shone with all its glory on this cloudless weekend, scaring away many of the defenseless students to the beach and encouraging any and all stragglers to remain indoors, for no amount of sunscreen could protect from this infernal heat. Simply put, there was no one dumb enough to be outside.

No one, except for two people. Two people on a mission. A mission that others probably thought was stupid, that they thought no one really cared about. That wasn’t worth skin cancer.

Rock on you beautiful dreamers, you shimmering examples of the hopeful beauty of souls.

Gabby paused in her current activity of flower watering to stare rather unashamedly at Shane while he hacked at a particularly stubborn weed. His face was glistening with sweat, hair mussed and cheeks speckled with the dirt he sprayed everywhere every time he threw his weight onto the offending parasite, teeth bared and curses running amok under his breath as he strained to uproot the evil invader.

He was perfect.

Suddenly forming a mischievous thought, she scooted between the different planters rather unassumingly, watering all the while but making sure she had just enough for when she reached the spot directly behind her unsuspecting boyfriend.

Tapping him politely on the shoulder, she smiled daintily at his puzzled expression before overturning the contents of her watering can over his head, water, sticks, and leaves alike.

He shrieked and nearly tripped over the garden hose in his haste to scoot away from this menace before him.

“Why the shit did you do that?!”

Gabby turned around and speckled the remaining water droplets onto some lavender so it wouldn’t go to waste, cackling all the while.

“I always thought you were really hot, and that it wasn’t fair to my pal the sun that you were outshining it. So I helped a bro out.”

Gabby turned and finger-gunned at the sun, rubbing at her sizzling eyeballs immediately afterwards because making eye contact with friends is one of the clearest ways to show that you love and trust them.

Always wear sunglasses kiddos.

Shane felt the spirit of Kermit wash over his body as his lips curled like an angry sock puppet. Before he could say anything potentially regretful, he spotted the garden hose by his feet. His very angry and impressively factoid oriented thoughts swerved towards the exit of pranking on the freeway of his brain.

“Hey Gabby?”

“Yeah?”

She was occupying herself with a slightly wilting azalea with a distracted look of concern–a fatal mistake.

“I’ve always thought you were pretty hot yourself.” He smirked as he set it to full-blast.

“Do you think we’ll ever…be a couple-couple?”

The soaking pair sat side by side, melting ice cream in hand as they dangled their feet off the small roof bench. It had been one hell of a fight, and a heck of a way to beat the heat. They of course avoided spraying any sort of flora during the duration of this battle, lest they become overwatered and die.

Shane stared at Gabby incredulously.

“After that mess?”

Gabby clapped her hands together and grinned as cutely as she could, the top of her ice cream soaring through the air from the force of her hands coming together and falling into the abyss that was beyond the fence of the roof.

Shane stared rather pointedly at its small journey (and away from the epitome of cute beside him) as he responded.

“No way. The water war I can deal with, but those awful puns you decided to mix in may have nailed the coffin of possibilities shut.”

…

“…okay, fine. Since your ice cream died for it, I guess.”

“Good.”

Gabby snuggled against him, stealing large chunks of his ice cream piece by piece. He noticed, but didn’t care much.

There was someone much cooler in his life now.

#fun fact i spelled lavender as lavdar and couldnt tell why it was misspelled for a solid 4 seconds #i hope you like this gabby!!#and i hope everything goes better for you you absolute pinnacle of adorable and niceness #you amazing jerk ilysm #different strokes #asagao!gabby #asagao shane #asagao si #poketin fics #judgemistice

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bibiko0838 · 8 years ago

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SERIAL KILLER (PART 2)

CHARACTERS: KAI, OC GENRE = HORROR TRIGGER WARNING = mentions of violence, rape and murder

GIF (credit to original owner. Not mine)

The wind blew softly as i walked to bus stop. There was a coolness to the air that portends the coming of winter. Soon the land will be blanketed with snow. For now, it is still warm enough to walk without the heavier clothing I will have to put on for winter. I met a wonderful man today. His smile lights up the whole room. Dimples in his cheeks makes him appear younger than he truly is. Most importantly, he asked me out on a date. His name is Yixing, Zhang Yixing.

I was lost in my thoughts and was startled when a hand grabbed my arm from behind. Without thinking about it, I produced the blade hidden in the wrist of my other arm and swung behind and down. Kai easily deflected my blade and hugged me tightly to his chest. He was laughing softly like a damn psycho.

Unfortunately, I am the only one who can hear it. Worse, to the passerby who glanced at us dispassionately, it looked like we were two lovers hugging each other in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Yah! Let go!” I bit out between clenched teeth. I moved to try to kick his legs but Kai was faster and danced teasingly out of my reach. He was smirking.

“Temper, temper, temper!” Kai wagged a finger at me. He was grinning widely.

“What the fuck did you do now?” I whispered furiously.

“Nothing, I was just following you. I saw you panting after that little chinese runt.”

I clenched my fists as i desperately tried to reign in my temper. Not Yixing. He is mine. He is the one.

Kai sauntered towards me and threw an arm across my shoulder. He bent down to whisper in my ear. “Does he know?”

I was shaking with anger but I cannot let Kai win. Yixing is mine. He is the one. The only one so far who gave me this feeling. He will be my first. My first lone kill. I can practically taste his blood, his eventual realization of who I truly am. The dawning horror.

“Dammit it Kai! You had yours, and then some. Yixing is mine!” I glared at him before i turned on my heel and quickly walked to the bus stop where thankfully my bus was just pulling in. I watched Kai through the windows as he leaned on post giving me a mock salute. As the bus pulled away, I saw him turn his handsome face to a young schoolgirl who had been shamelessly eyeing him for the last few minutes.

Well that should occupy him tonight. Her screams will be music to his ears for the next few hours. If she’s lucky he’ll kill her tonight. If she’s not, then she’ll be tortured for a few days before she joins all the girls that Kai had collected.

So far he has eight heads in a duffle bag. That one will be number nine. At least this year. When you have a serial killer for a brother, it is hard to keep track sometimes.

I arrived home first and quickly went to my room making sure to lock my door this time. That’s probably useless but It should warn me if Kai tries to get in. I went to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet to look for some Advil for my headache.

Briefly I glanced at the eyeballs floating around in a small jar on the counter. It would have been nicer if Kai also got Luhan’s lashes when he dug those eyes. It wasn’t his eyes that were pretty, rather it was his long lashes that any girl would envy that made his eyes so remarkable.

Still it was the thought that counts. I have to give Kai Oppa an A+ for effort.

The entire bathroom is now sparkly clean. Not a trace of blood could be seen. I snorted when I remembered how long Kai and I had to clean the grouts. That will teach him.

I heard Kai’s truck pulling in the driveway and looked out the window. Sure enough, there’s the jerk and the dumb girl. She was giggling and practically molding herself to his side. The schoolgirl was gone instead a disheveled hot mess was in her place. Her school uniform was unbuttoned all the way down, an inch of gap between the two sides of her blouse leaves little to the imagination. Her ample breasts were barely covered and its obvious that she’s not wearing her bra. Kai flicked a quick glance at my window knowing I was probably peeking down at them. Surreptitiously he winked and held up a hand, white cotton panties twirling on a finger.

He led her to the back of the house. To her, it probably looked like a bachelor’s pad on top of a garage. Which it is on top. But down below, where the walls are thick and the earth will swallow up her screams, is our slaughterhouse.

Have fun, I mouthed at him before I winked back at him. Kai is my brother after all. My twin brother. There are bonds that cannot be broken.

I hummed softly as I prepared for a long soak. It is times like this that I miss Luhan. He was good company. Always fun to talk to. I wish I can remember where I buried his body. I fell asleep and Kai was driving when we disposed of his body. At least I know where we buried Kris and Tao.

I turned on the video feed and plugged in my earbuds before I lowered myself inside the bathtub. Maybe I can pretend Luhan is behind me cradling me as we soaked in the bathtub like we used to. What is wrong with me? Why is it I tend to gravitate towards chinese men? Chanyeol has been after me for a long time. I’m pretty sure he will be an excellent lover.

The screams started. I looked again on the small screen of my iPad. Nope. Slut’s not bleeding yet. She’s having an orgasm. Kai was looking directly at the screen, her screams of ecstasy the only sound I can hear. He grinned widely before he pulled a large knife out and stabbed her on the chest. Her screams of ecstasy quickly became screams of pain, horror and futility. He plunged the knife over and over again until the only sound filling our ears was the sound of Kai panting from his exertions. He threw aside the knife and pulled out his dick from inside her lifeless body. Excitedly he pumped his cock a couple of times and ejaculated a stream of cum on her now lifeless face.

How old were we when we got sold into that brothel? Ten? Twelve? It seems like a lifetime when everyday is pure hell. We both begun to service men and women before we were old enough to even know what rape and prostitution meant. We learned that to survive, we need to pretend enjoyment, to seduce and entice.

I was raped by an Chinese businessman looking for a virgin before I was old enough to have my first menstrual period. Kai danced for old biddies looking for a boy toy. It took years but suddenly we were free. In one night we managed to kill an entire room full of degenerate fucks. We grabbed all the money, jewelry and cards we could. The police will take sometime before they discover the bodies. The brothel moved around a lot.

We emptied the cards of all the cash we could get, bought fake IDs, new identities and never looked back. This remote farmhouse came into our possession by sheer luck. One of the brothel’s patron had a BDSM kink and used my name to secretly purchase it. Kai and I are putting it to good use.

Kai made his first lone kill the night he turned legal adult. We went club hopping to celebrate our birthday. A slightly older female went for him like a cougar when Kai was having fun dancing on the dance floor. He smiled sexily at her and let her paw at his body. I was the only one who saw the evil glint in his eyes as he twirled around grinding his hips to her backside.

I lost him in the crowd sometime later. I went home with Chen that night. Lucky for him he was not really chinese and is sweet as can be. I kissed him as he slept before I slipped out of the house. He doesn’t know how dangerously close he came to losing his head that night. Literally.

I came home and nearly died when I walked in on Kai naked from the waist up, sipping coffee at the kitchen table. He had blood painted in sprays across his chest and face.

“Where did you go last night?” Kai asked casually between sips of coffee.

“You left first? So none of your business?” I threw back at him.

“Had to. Bitch was groping my dick in the middle of the dance floor.” He grimaced.

“And?” I raised my brow in question of the blood.

“I gave her an orgasm she couldn’t forget.” He laughed and laughed psychotically. I waited for him to run out of breath.

“So to ask the obvious question, where is she?” I asked drily.

“Slaughterhouse” was his short reply.

Tired of his cryptic answers, I grabbed his hand as I dragged him along while I marched to his quarters and down the stairs. The bitch was spread eagled and naked on the bed in the middle of the room. Her dead body was still warm to my touch as i reached over to pretentiously check for a pulse. Her mouth was gaping wide open. She had cum filling her mouth and drying on her face.

“Oppa did you do this?” I asked softly.

“YES!! I killed her! I killed the bitch! I will kill all those fucking bitches! Those dirty whores! I will kill all those mother fuckers who raped you. I want to hear them scream and beg like you used to…….” Kai was agitatedly pacing and pulling his hair.

“Oppa! Oppa!” I waved my hands in front of his face to get his attention. Dejectedly he stopped pacing and looked at me.

I gave him a brilliant smile which startled him.

“Good Job!” I threw my arms around him and hugged him.

#exo fanfiction #exo fanfic #exo fanfic rec #exo kai #exo horror #kim jongin #jongin #darkside #serial killer

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tsw-story · 8 years ago

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Chapter 19 - Shadow of a Doubt Pt. 2

It was sunrise—a brand new day—but it wasn't a good one. Blood came down Daveon's lips. His throat was sore and bleeding from screaming. The local police had to hold him down within the station, and around him were people who knew him and his family.

“Let me go!” Daveon yelled at the top of his lungs. “I want to see them!”

“You don't want to, dear boy,” came the voice of an older man. He shook his head. “Trust me. It's not something yours eyes should be seeing. No one deserves to go that way.”

“It was Mr. Markani. I know it was!”

“Calm down,” came the voice of an officer. “And don't shout that so loud. Please.”

Finally the druid calmed down enough where they could release him from their grip. Nobody let him see his parents. There were already police at his house when he got home, and they kept telling him that it was horrible, but he didn't know what to think.

His world was spinning. Nothing seemed right. Every minute he pinched his arm to wake himself up to the point of leaving behind a painful red mark. I need to find him, he thought. Daveon wanted nothing more at that moment than to kill Bryant Markani. His vision appeared as if he was staring through a frame of outlining blur with minutes feeling like hours as they passed sluggishly by. He never truly understood chaos until that moment—when he lost his senses to the ether of emotion.

Fire burned in his stomach. A shimmer of emerald below his brow calmed enough to begin absorbing his environment, and he did so to watch the others carefully in order to find an opening in their ignorance.

It was soon that everyone in the room, he confidently decided, was looking away from him. When someone finally turned, it was already too late even to spy the rat scurrying out the door.

Markani massacred his parents. At first he was curious, but he decided it may be an awful idea to find them both after all, especially if what they were saying was true. They didn't even go peacefully. He had to find him. His tiny rodent feet brought him beneath the legs of pedestrians and the bottoms of market stalls in a hot pursuit to find the man behind it all.

Everyone knew where the man lived. It was within a stunning manor at the edge of town that dwarfed the other houses of the town in both size and gaudiness. The paint was vibrant red with golden trim.

Behind it was a fenced-off garden of bushes, shrubs, and flowers, and that's precisely where Daveon went to first. He found a crack in the stone wall surrounding the area and squeezed inside. Next, he needed to find a way into the manor. That's what he thought. However, the back door creaked open to bring a shudder down the rat's spine.

Dressed in another extravagant suit was Bryant himself walking out from his door to gaze upon the garden he seemed to be surprisingly passionate about. He always looked proud of himself, but at that moment, he was smiling more than Daveon had ever seen before. Seeing his face—seeing it grin—set the druid off as before, and without thinking further, his form flashed back to normal to stare him down. They were alone. He was free to use his magic.

“Daveon,” spoke the man calmly. “I kind of expected you to show up here. I'd be upset for you intruding if I wasn't in such a fantastic mood.”

“You're happy about killing my parents?” screamed Daveon.

“Oh, no. It isn't that. I just succeeded in what I was worrying would be impossible. I broke through the next barrier of my own limitations and brought forth something truly remarkable. It excites me down to my very core. Truthfully, I've never been so flustered and giddy in my life. I might be blushing.”

“What the heck are you talking about? Actually, I don't even care. I'm going to make you pay in blood for what you did to them... Why did they deserve that, huh? You're disgusting!”

“They didn't listen to orders. I told you before. Some are above, and it's the rest of the people's duty to obey them. And now, I truly am those some. More than before. I've risen above those who tread this path but fail.”

“I don't care!”

Daveon, no longer wishing to hear more of the snake's venomous words, rose up his clawed fingers to the sky to call upon a power within the soil. He conjured up his entangle spell. This caused vines to burst up from below Markani and wrap around his biceps in a tight lasso-like squeeze.

The man's eyes lit up.

“Colour me surprised! You're a wizard, Daveon.”

“You know about them? Impossible.”

“Today I broke the impossible.”

A shadow fell over Bryant as his smile curled up into a twisted crescent. At first, Daveon thought the darkness to be his own imagination—blinded by rage—but soon it grew to a figure emerging from behind the suited man. It was a being, and it was eight feet tall. The creature had to duck to step through the open door.

Never did Daveon see something so terrifying and disgusting. The figure's skin was dark red, but covered in vibrant veins. Not only was it tall, but it had the pecs of a body builder, and an eight-pack at least. Daveon would have been impressed if it wasn't so horrific.

This creature also had four large arms protruding from its body, a single large eyeball, and mandibles like an ant. It was the swolest, nightmarish insect he'd ever seen. Also, the only, thank goodness.

It didn't hesitate to grab the vines gripping Markani's limbs and snap them in its grip—pulling them apart with both sets of arms. The man only chuckled. It wasn't to mock, however, but came from uncontainable excitement.

“I did it. I really did it,” muttered Bryant. “One of the hardest things for a warlock to do. I summoned a demon. And now that you're here, Daveon, let me send you to Hell in its place!”

Markani swung out his hand. His fingers pointed forward, and swirling around his rest danced a pitch black mist. Whatever he did, Daveon froze in place, but it wasn't with fear. A magic took hold of his body's control and held him still.

“Go now, Sartax. Take him out.”

The demon leapt forward and crashed down beside the paralyzed druid. Using a right swing from both of its arms on said side, he pounded both a jaw and kidney shot as part of a single strike. The spell snapped off Daveon, but he also crumbled to the ground with red spraying from his teeth.

“You're a wizard too,” groaned Daveon beneath his breath. “With dark magic. A warlock and a demon. That's why you were able to own this town.”

“That's right. A wizard is a god to normal folk. Without magic eyes, they can't see through any of our illusions, and our powers have the potential of the very deities they often praise! Maybe it's natural. It's us that are meant to be worshipped.”

There was nothing he could do by himself. Against just one, there was a sliver of a chance, but he wasn't a fighter. He couldn't handle two. There wasn't a chance. He struggled to his feet, wiped his lips, and stared desperately at what may become his demise directly in front of him. He had never seen a demon before, and it was even worse than he could have dreamed.

“There's nothing that can stop a god, Daveon. You could have been in this seat, if you were smarter about your actions. Huh? I hear somebody in my house. Damn burglars. Do they know who I am? Sartax. Keep Daveon company while I—What?”

Shoving him out of the way came two more figures.

“I paid you all off, you stupid cops!” screamed Markani. “Get out of here!”

“We aren't cops,” said one.

The first that spoke was short. His hair was black, and buzzed nearly to baldness. Both of them were garbed in what looked to be military grade body armour, but this shorter gentleman gripped a longsword using both of his hands.

Beside him was a man standing at nearly seven feet tall. His skin was dark, as was his hair, but unlike his companion, his cut was poofy and curled. There were no weapons in his hands, except for the hands themselves. Each of his arms looked to be as wide as the other man's body.

“So you are burglars then,” Markani scoffed. “Dressed like that?”

“We aren't burglars either,” said the first once again. “You've been too careless, Bryant Markani. To make things worse, we came here on suspicions that you were a wizard, but now we see that you're conspiring with a demon too. Those are harsh crimes, Mr. Markani. Surrender now before you regret it.”

Daveon didn't know what was happening, but he watched from afar. He saw that Markani was raising his hand to cast a spell, but he was too slow to warn the strangers. Bryant successfully lifted his hand and bright a crackling dark power from his fingers towards the shorter man.

However, the target responded with a thrust forward of his own. The magic shattered like glass and disappeared completely. Markani turned white.

It seemed as if they barely noticed Daveon standing there. Unfortunately, Sartax did. He grabbed the druid with all four his his arms and sprinted straight through Bryant's stone fence, and both of them quickly broke into a cover of trees. But as he went, he watched Markani from a distance.

The warlock tried another spell, but this time, the larger man swing his fist and the spell dispersed, but the punch also connected with the suited man's jaw. He tried another spell, and yet again, it failed. Again. And again. Every spell Bryant tried to cast was completely disrupted.

Something came to Markani's face that Daveon had never seen. He was helpless. Confused. He was on the ground with tears coming down his cheeks. A blade's swing cut open his chest, and a fist of muscle crushed his chin.

“You can't do this!” Daveon heard Bryant scream as he was dragged into the forest. “I'm above you!”

He heard nothing more coming from the manor. After a moment more of running, Daveon was thrown onto the ground in a clearing within the forest to stare up at the demon he faced. Bryant was no longer here, but he still knew nothing about demons—how to fight them, or anything.

And who were those men? Daveon read about something like that before. Tales spoke of spellbreakers. They were a class of people able to counter a wizard's spells. It's the reason why Daveon had to keep secret, so they didn't come, and it seemed as if Markani wasn't so careful. They didn't see Daveon cast any spells. But if he started now, would they spot him and take him away as well? He didn't have much of a choice at that moment.

With death staring him in the face, he felt as if he had to fight. The shape of Daveon shifted into that of a black bear, and he roared out with a fury of claws to assault the demon's pectorals. A slash connected to a wound across his chest, but then the two bottom arms grabbed his body while the others bopped him in the face repeatedly like a punching bag.

“You. Die,” growled the creature with a broken understanding of Daveon's language. It hissed.

A final punch caused the bear to tumble back to roll straight through a puddle of muddy water.

“Ora!” grunted the creature as it swung. “Weak. Man.”

The bear snorted a huff of bubbles through the water. He raised back up and stood up on two legs before lunging himself once more at the ant-like demon. They started to wrestle, but given Daveon's inexperience and the creature's size, he even knew he didn't stand a chance. However, it was distracted, and that was enough.

A blade stabbed straight through the demon's chest—the point stopping a millimetre before bear flesh. Daveon used his moment to slash the demon across the neck, and to continue the combination, the figure behind sliced off the head with a spin of his sword.

The demon fell back. His head rolled off, and after a twitch of its leg, it finally stopped moving.

Daveon now stood face-to-face with the shorter of the spellbreakers. At first he thought to pretend to be an actual animal of the forest, but this man was staring directly into his eyes. There wasn't a chance he didn't know.

He shifted back into a wizard.

“Please. Don't kill me,” muttered Daveon.

“We know what Bryant Markani did.”

Daveon nodded.

The spellbreaker sighed. The noise of silence overtook them. It seemed as if the taller of the two was back dealing with Markani still, so for the moment, it was just the two of them, and neither looked as if they knew what to say.

“Are you going to capture me?” the druid finally spoke.

“It's our jobs to capture wizards so they don't put others in danger. They're powerful people that need to be but in check. It's just the way it is.”

“Fine... I'll go. There's nothing left for me here anyway.”

“I didn't say I was going to take you anywhere.”

“What?”

“I said we capture wizards. All I saw out here was a bear. Bears can't be guilty. You know why? They're creatures of the land, and as such, they act on instinct. You can't blame an animal for acting on instinct. Right?”

“I don't know what to say,” whispered the druid in response.

“Bears can't speak.”

So the spellbreaker made his way off, leaving Daveon behind to contemplate. It didn't take long before he was completely alone with nature once more. Presumably, the spellbreakers either took Bryant away or killed him, so the city was free thanks to his own hubris. That wouldn't bring his parents back, however.

But he was spared. He didn't know why, but the man took pity on him, and offered him a chance to keep living. It was then that he remembered everything his mother told him before he left to the shop. Her words resonated in his mind. She knew she was going to die that day, and he realised that the speech he gave her really was the most important thing he needed to remember. It was his duty to honour her final advice.

There was only one thing he could do at that moment. He started walking and he didn't look back.

***

“I still don't know why the man spared my life,” said Daveon. “Maybe he felt bad after all the things that happened to me. But I moved on, travelled a bunch, and eventually found my way to the city where we met.”

Eldrian spoke up with the story ended. “I'm sorry. You dealt with so much. I had no idea.”

“It's fine now. My parents wouldn't have wanted me to be stuck, so to say.”

“I didn't know spellbreakers could be so merciful.”

“Neither did I.”

“I guess everybody has a story.”

Daveon nodded. “I guess so. Thanks for listening to mine.”

“I just want you to know,” Deena started. “That I study demons and dark magic, but I would never be stupid enough to summon one to Earth. Ever.”

“I know.” Daveon smiled. “At least, I've come to know. I didn't mean to judge to immediately when we first met. I hope you understand.”

“I do.”

“Well, we should probably pack up soon,” Eldrian stated. “It's going to start getting late. Plus, I'm sure there's people waiting to try to kill us back home.”

Kevin chuckled. “With you guys, I'm sure we'll get to the bottom of things. The three of you are amazing! I wish I could do the things you all can do. But I'm glad to help at least. And I have this awesome sword...”

“It is pretty awesome,” Eldrian replied. “And Lucy wouldn't just give a named magic blade to someone if she didn't have faith if their abilities.”

“I guess you're right. I hope I don't let her down.”

“If I hear anything strange, I'll let you guys know,” spoke Deena as she readied herself to leave.

The rest of them nodded, saying they would do the same. Soon they packed up and opened a door back to Canada. It was ultimately a successful picnic, Eldrian decided, and so did the others, but an important darkness was looming beneath Grand Prairie they couldn't ignore for long.

#wizard #wizards #fantasy #writing #story #fiction #magic #action #adventure #high fantasy #serial

0 notes

cutemonstercare · 5 years ago

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Do Tarantulas Need Water? How To Hydrate Your T Correctly

If you’ve done research about setting up the perfect enclosure for your new tarantula, you’ll know that the topic of a T’s water needs is a hotly debated one. As with much in life, there’s not really a consensus; you have to gather information yourself and make up your own mind.

Do tarantulas need water? Yes, tarantulas, like other living things, need water to survive. Some desert species can go their entire lives without actually drinking water from a dish, but rather get their moisture from their food. However, most pet tarantulas will need a dish with fresh water in their enclosures.

If you’re like me, you’ve probably had a few mini heart attacks when you spot an uninvited guest in your sink or bathtub – even though I own tarantulas!

Spiders will make a quick pitstop in areas that contain water because they need it for their survival. Actually, some tarantulas can go for two years without food as long as there is water available!

That being said, a lot of hobbyists believe that it is not necessary for you to place a water dish in tarantula enclosures. Below is some important information that will help you decide if you want to give your T access to water 24/7 or not.

Tarantula Water Requirements

Most tarantulas get all the water they need from their food, but in some cases, food alone is not sufficient. It actually largely varies from tarantula to tarantula and factors like size, environment, and the T’s age play a role in how much water they need.

An example of the role the T’s environment plays in its water needs is the absence of a burrow for it to hide in. Without natural protection, tarantulas lose the water it receives from food sources faster, and without another source of hydration, your T won’t be feeling too good.

As mentioned, tarantulas can go for days or even weeks without food; the pre-molt stage is a good example of this. On the other hand, just a few days without water can lead to death, so it is crucial that they have a constant supply of water.

In the wild, spiders will drink from any water sources such as droplets on leaves, puddles in the mud, or the dew that condensed on their webs. Here is a video of how a Desert Blonde drinks water out of a plastic container.

youtube

Does My Tarantula Need A Water Bowl?

This question is like pressing a hot poker into a hornets’ nest. There are many hobbyists that don’t provide their Ts with water bowls, but there are also numerous people who strongly believe that tarantulas need water bowls in their enclosures. So, who is right?

Well, I believe the benefits of water bowls are too important to ignore; and the dangers without them too glaring.

Yes, not all tarantulas living without a water bowl will die. Ts are hardy creatures, and they’ve survived millions of years in changing and hostile environments. BUT! I, for one, am not willing to take the chance.

It is this exact fact – the many seasoned hobbyists don’t give their Ts water dishes – that keeps this subject on the fence without a definite answer.

These hobbyists opt to spray their tarantulas’ enclosures and rely on prey as a moisture delivery system – and their Ts don’t die. But, here’s another but, are these hobbyists trying to provide their captive Ts with natural conditions or conditions closest to ideal?

Tarantulas have evolved to navigate harsh temperatures, drought, flooding and have survived numerous predators. But this does not mean they wouldn’t benefit from having access to water 24/7, does it?

If, as a keeper, you are trying to keep the Ts enclosure 100% authentic – and possibly cruel – you may decide to skip the water bowl.

Giving a T the most comfortable setup possible is more my style. They’re not out in the wild, after all, so they don’t need to be subjected to unnecessarily harsh conditions.

So, although we can say water dishes aren’t 100% necessary in a scientific sense, they do provide other benefits, including making your T’s life a little easier.

And…

It helps to increase the humidity in your tarantula’s enclosure more than misting can. This helps keep your T hydrated and prevents your T from going through a bad molt and getting stuck.

Tarantulas, Water, Water Bowls, And Myths

We’ll look at hydration more a little later, first, let’s play myth-buster and debunk some falsehoods!

1. Water bowls are dangerous for spiderlings

Slings (baby spiders) are tiny, as you can imagine, and some argue that leaving slings in an enclosure with a water bowl is equivalent to leaving a baby alone in a bathtub.

Even though you may think that true, spiderlings are covered in water-repelling hairs. That, combined with their small bodies, mean they are too small and light to break the surface tension of the water.

So, although there is a tiny risk of danger, the benefits of a water bowl outweigh the danger. Slings are fragile and prone to dehydration, and that is why it is vital to do everything in your power to provide the baby tarantula with enough moisture.

2. Tarantulas have no water bowls in nature

Really? Nature is one big water bowl! Raindrops and dew gather in anything with depth, and what about streams and lakes?

In nature, there is a never-ending supply of water sources, so should you decide to skip adding a water bowl to a tarantula’s enclosure, you’re actually providing it with less water than it would have out in the wild.

3. Tarantulas don’t use water bowls

If you do a quick Internet search, you will find numerous videos and photos capturing tarantulas using water bowls. We linked to a video earlier in the article, but in case you’re still not convinced, here is some more proof to debunk this myth.

youtube

Also, even if you don’t actually see your T drink from the bowl directly, the fact that it is there at all has a lot of benefits. As we touched on earlier, water bowls contribute a lot to the overall humidity of the enclosure.

4. Tarantulas disrespect their water bowls

Some Ts dirty their water bowls within a day. Instead of seeing it as a source of hydration, they may instead use it as a bath – tarantulas are neat creatures after all.

To some, the fact that they have to clean their T’s water bowl almost daily is very frustrating, and they may swear off using water bowls altogether.

Without sounding to disapproving, maybe you should not get a pet tarantula if you’re not willing to look after it correctly. Water is a basic need, and if you don’t even want to supply your T with that, how are you going to do all the other things that form part of good animal husbandry?

Keeping a pet’s living space clean and comfortable is part of being a responsible owner, even if it comes across as if your efforts are for nothing.

Now that we’ve had a look at tarantula water bowl myths, let’s look at some important things to keep in mind about your tarantula’s water needs.

The dish should not be too deep.

The water dish should be large enough for the T to submerge its Chelicera and fangs.

Provide fresh water daily.

Avoid using sponge, paper towels, cotton or cricket gel. It can harbor harmful bacteria, gets dirty and does not provide adequate moisture.

Lightly mist substrate and sides of the enclosure if you live in a very dry climate.

Arboreal species prefer to drink from the walls so spray the sides when it is dry.

Warning: When it comes to misting, make sure not to create overly damp conditions. Tarantula lungs cannot handle too much moisture, and it can lead to death. Also, never spray directly on your T.

How Do Tarantulas Drink Water

Tarantulas actually sip water like other creatures! This isn’t done frequently, but it has been seen by tarantula owners more than once. Other than leaning into the water bowl and drinking, tarantulas also get water into their bodies in other ways.

Firstly, food. Crickets, roaches, mealworms and other insects contain a surprisingly large amount of water – enough to sustain a tarantula until its next meal or even longer! This is one of the main reasons why you won’t often see your tarantula drinking from its water dish.

Secondly, the humidity of their enclosure is also a source of water for tarantulas. Hobbyists say an enclosure with 60%-70% humidity is perfect for tarantulas.

Many tarantulas come from tropical regions, so the correct level of moisture in the air is essential to keep them healthy and hydrated.

Even though tarantulas’ water needs can be met in three ways, it is advisable to not only use method but draw on all the methods to ensure dehydration is not even a possibility.

Tarantulas and Humidity

I think it is important to talk a little bit more about humidity because it is so important to your T’s well-being. Keeping a tarantula in a dry enclosure is much like dropping you off in the desert with only a couple of water bottles.

Oh, and you’re expected to thrive, not just survive. How horrible will that be?

Dehydration in tarantulas can lead to various issues of which the most dreaded is a bad molting where the tarantula gets stuck while shedding its old exoskeleton. This usually leads to death.

Below are three tips to ensure your T’s enclosure has just the right humidity to keep it healthy and happy.

1. Know your species and its humidity requirements.

This is actually not limited to just humidity requirements. Remember, every tarantula comes from a specific area with a specific climate.

While some tarantulas will be more than happy in 60% humidity, others may require a consistent 80% to stay hydrated. So, the first step is to know the species of T you have and its humidity needs.

2. Use the right equipment to monitor humidity

This is not something you can or want to eyeball. Invest in a hygrometer to keep close tabs on the moisture level in your tarantula’s enclosure. The reason why monitoring humidity is important is that you don’t want the enclosure to be too dry – or too wet.

Too much humidity is also not a good thing since tarantulas have book lungs that or not equipped to separate the water from the air they breathe. This means, too much moisture in the air and your tarantula is basically drowning itself with every breath it takes.

3. Keep water bowl full and clean

We’ve already covered the perks of having a water bowl in your T’s enclosure. Humidity is just one benefit of a water bowl, but an essential one.

Top tip: Overflow the water bowl a little to let the water soak into the substrate. This will contribute to the humidity levels.

4. Mist the substrate

This is easy and effective. Be sure to keep the substrate slightly damp so that it keeps the enclosure humid around the clock. That being said, don’t create a swamp; too much water will do more damage than good.

Signs Your Tarantula Is Dehydrated and What To Do

Dehydration is very serious and is actually one of the leading causes of death in tarantulas. By preventing dehydration, you will remove many of the associated problems your T may run into. If you follow the steps above, your tarantula won’t ever be dehydrated.

But, we all know life happens, and something may prevent you from providing your T with enough water for a while. Should this happen, you need to know how to spot the signs that your tarantula is dehydrated, as well as know what to do to try and save your T.

Symptoms of a dehydrated tarantula are:

Lethargy and acting slow

The abdomen appears small and shriveled

Found in a semi-death curl position

If you see your tarantula display any of the above, it is time to act. Luckily, curing dehydration is easy if caught early. The first thing you want to do is create a makeshift ICU for your dehydrated tarantula.

Do this:

Get a container big enough to house your tarantula and a water dish but small enough to limit excessive movement.

Pierce some ventilation holes into the container.

Wet some paper towels and line the bottom and sides of the container.

Next, you can do two things; you can either take your tarantula and place it directly in the ICU, or you can take things a step further and feed your T water.

I know this is not something everyone will want or be able to do, but if you’re brave enough or desperate enough, anything is doable.

Gently pick your tarantula up and slowly flip them onto their back. Then you want to take an eyedropper that is filled with water and drop a tiny amount of water onto the mouth of the T. Continue doing this until the tarantula stops drinking from the dropper.

Once done, turn your T back onto its stomach and place them in the ICU. After about 10 hours, your T will most likely have made a full recovery.

Before placing it back in its enclosure, it is important to figure out why your tarantula got dehydrated in the first place and rectify it immediately.

There you have it! Yes, tarantulas need water. This water can come from many sources: water bowls, food, humidity, but is important to keep your T hydrated and healthy.

#Animals #Pets #Spiders #Scorpions #Terrariums

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hiya-gorgeous · 5 years ago

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Girl vs. Shower

March 2016

I was 20 years old, known for being exceptionally clumsy, and had very long, very thick hair down to my hips. I was taking a shower in the mid afternoon after finishing up the early shift at work. I’d gotten all of my hair wet and was about to shampoo it. As anyone with long thick hair knows, long thick wet hair is very heavy. I tossed my head to flip my hair over and did so very enthusiastically and with great force to make sure every strand of hair flopped over. Unfortunately, I did this with my eyes closed and with a very poor understanding of where exactly I was standing in the shower. By this I mean to say that I threw my head forward and directly into the wall.

I hit that wall hard. Like the kind of hard hit that makes your whole head ring like a bell and your teeth rattle together. Luckily it wasn’t hard enough to cause a concussion or knock me out or anything, but still, it was h-a-r-d hard.

My first reaction was just to smack my hand to my head and laugh. I don’t think I know anyone else near dumb enough to do what I had just done. I decided to cut my shower short and get out and ice my head to help reduce the inevitable swelling.

I opened my eyes (They were closed the whole time.) and I just saw red. Red everywhere. I don’t know if it was just the spray from my head hitting the wall spread around from the water, or if blood dripped into my eyeballs and tinted my vision, but it was everywhere.

Needless to say, I survived with only a small bump of a scar and here I am, more than three years later.

Score:

girl: 0 shower:1

December 22, 2019

Now 24 years old, moved out and back into the house where said shower resides, I assumed all animosity between the two of us was in the past. I was showering the afternoon after the annual Christmas party(It was awesome, we drank, we played games, we exchanged gifts, I watched “Die Hard” for the first time. Remember “Die Hard”, it comes into play in just a minute.) I was finishing up shaving my legs and put my foot up on the soap dish on the wall, as one does, trying to get a better angle and get that clean shave.

Now, I’d wondered about the safety of such a thing before, but dismissed it as not an issue, as many people do it. And as a small girl, at about 115 lbs, I figured I was fine. Unfortunately, the shower saw its opportunity and took it. The porcelain soap dish cracked cleanly off the wall and plummeted to the tub floor below. I screamed and closed my eyes before my brain really interpreted what was happening. When I opened my eyes, I was greeted with the sight of the remains of the soap dish, shattered into a million pieces; some small, some large, all dangerously sharp, against a background of blood swirling down toward the drain.

Having just watched “Die Hard” I was freaking out. I couldn’t tell quite what damage my feet had incurred, but I was sure I was gonna be Bruce Willis, sitting on the side of the sink, yanking shards of glass porcelain out of my feet. I was once again very very lucky, and when i rinsed my feet off in the sink, it turned out i just had a few nicks on one foot, and one small gash on the bottom of the other, thankfully with no shards stuck in it.

Score:

girl: 1 shower:2

#girl vs shower #die hard #christmas movie die hard

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samanthasroberts · 7 years ago

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Jar Jar Binks, Watto and more most annoying things in the Star Wars universe

Jar Jar Binks

Image: starwars.com

Weve been through a lot together, Star Wars fans, from pod-racing to Kylo Rens lightsaber. We’ve dealt with Liam Neesons luxurious hair and Ewan McGregors luxurious hair and Harrison Fords luxurious hair and Adam Drivers luxurious hair.

While most of the journey has been an exciting trip to a world we wished we lived in, there are some notable pain points hate-inducing enough to make even the most loyal of fans curse George Lucas name. Whoose you thinksa Im talking aboutsa?

SEE ALSO: ‘Rogue One’ director justifies reshoots: ‘Star Wars has to be fantastic’

Below, 13 of the most annoying things about Star Wars.

13. Baby Boba Fett

This one tops a lot of lists of worst Star Wars characters, but it’s only because adult Boba Fett is so universally adored. Maybe its the unexciting revelation that he’s a clone of Jango Fett, the Mandalorian warrior who is also cloned for the aptly named Clone Army, that upsets people, or its that their favorite character is unveiled as a dumb kid who spends most of his scenes glaring and silently brooding. He might as well not have been there and maybe it would have been better that way. The mystery was one of the most alluring aspects of Boba Fett to begin with.

12. Ewoks

This is a touchy one. For the record, I do not have a problem with Ewoks. I also, since ceasing to be a 7-year-old kid, see how they could upset some people. Leia meets an animate teddy bear in the woods who threatens her and then immediately needs her help walking through the woods hes supposedly lived in his whole life. Its a stretch for us to believe that this species would have made it through the evolutionary wringer, let alone take down a legion of the most trained, feared and technologically advanced military in the galaxy.

SEE ALSO: Here’s how the ‘Star Wars’ droids could help you survive the holidays

11. Luke Skywalkers Maturity Level

When you watch A New Hope as a kid, Luke Skywalker is your hero. When you watch it again as an adult, you realize, Oh, wow, this guy is a kid.

At the storys beginning, Luke Skywalker is 16 and he acts like it, whining about chores and wishing he could instead go to Tosche station to get power converters. The first thing he does upon entering the Millennium Falcon is moan about what a piece of junk it is. He then interrupts the adults to scream, WHATS THAT FLASHING THING?! while trying to press all the blinking buttons on its dashboard like a spoiled toddler. Luckily for us, and the series, Luke grows up.

10. Nute Gunray

Image: starwars.com

The Neimoidian Viceroy of the Trade Federation and Separatist leader is cowardly, dumb and boring, all the while boasting an offensive Asian accent. Gunray is so bafflingly useless and obviously two-faced, the intelligence of all characters who trust him is immediately suspect. We would rejoice when Darth Sidious orders the newly named Darth Vader to do away with the Viceroy and his buds, but honestly we keep forgetting he exists each time he exits the screen.

9. Boss Nass

Gungans are already hard to love. So when their leader rolls in refusing to cooperate with our heroes and spraying saliva like a bad Richard Nixon impression, its especially hard to get on board. Maybe fans would have hated him less if the good Gungan name hadnt already been soured for so many by a certain Mr. Jar Jar of Binks.

8. Padawan Braid

Image: composite, all photos by starwars.com

George Lucas can call them Padawan braids, a symbol of rank in the Jedi training, but we all know what they are: rat-tails. Its tough to associate the single, long, skinny braid with the calm and enlightened Jedi order when so many of us associate it with that kid down the street who tried to steal beer out of peoples garages. Give us a bearded and long-haired Obi Wan, or No-bi Wan, please.

7. Sy Snootles and the Max Rebo Band

Barf. Barf. Barf. George Lucas claimed he always wished this musical interlude at Jabbas palace in Return of the Jedi could have been an extended sequence, and in 2000, the extreme hubris of the digitally remastered versions gave him his chance. The new CGI iteration of Sy Snootles, lead singer of the Max Rebo band, turned a strange but charming alien into an uncomfortably sexual one. It even threw in some anachronistic backup singers for good measure, along with a loud creature named Joh Yowza screaming in huttese directly into the camera. The tone is completely wrong for the setting, and frankly, its hard to watch. Even more cringe-worthy? The new song theyre singing is called Jedi Rocks. Woof.

6. Young Anakin

You know, maybe the character of Anakin Skywalker was doomed to fail. Maybe nothing could have ever matched our expectations. Darth Vader had been too perfect. He was the baddest baddie we had ever seen, how could his backstory ever have lived up to his future? Or maybe its that George Lucas has seemingly never interacted with a child, so for research, he watched Dennis the Menace and Leave it to Beaver and wrote down a few one-liners before calling it quits so he could spend more time planning Jar Jar Binks hijinks.

The resulting Little Ani is a cloyingly innocent 1950s cartoon character, practically on the verge of saying, Gee Whiz, Mister Qui-Gon! in every scene. Any evidence of his future capacity for deep emotion, any whispers of darkness that might be hidden in his heart, any foreshadowing of the towering villain he is to become is deafeningly absent.

When we saw Voldemorts childhood, we saw the events that led him to mature into an evil mass murderer and it enriched our fear of the villain, making it more confusing, more real. When we saw Darth Vaders childhood, we saw a bunch of lame jokes, a plain personality and pod-racing.

5. Jabba the Hutts Tongue

OH GOD. OH GOD NO. PUT IT BACK. PUT IT BACK IN YOUR MOUTH. I CANT LOOK. SOMEONE TELL ME WHEN ITS OVER. IM PUKING. IM PUKING RIGHT NOW.

4. Watto

Image: starwars.com

There is nothing to love about Watto. Hes a slave owner. He constantly flies around on flimsy wings that couldnt possibly support his bulbous, lazy body. Hes smarmy, arrogant and unintelligent. Oh, and hes a monstrously racist stereotype. Greedy, slimy, with a large nose and a middle-eastern accent, Watto feels like every false anti-semitic caricature come to life. The Toydarian junk-dealer takes up way too much space in The Phantom Menace, and honestly, his body looks so fragile its a shock that none of his slaves swatted him to finish him off. I know plenty of fans who are up to the job.

3. Cheesy Dialogue

Now that Im with you again, Im in agony. My heart is beating hoping that a kiss will not become a scar. Love wont save you, Padme. Only my new powers can do that. The Force runs strong in my family. My father has it. I have it. And… my sister has it. Yes. It’s you, Leia.

Groaaaaaan. Look. George Lucas. Its OK. We all need an editor. Use one.

2. Midi-chlorians

The biggest knife in the back to die-hard Star Wars fans? The introduction of midi-chlorians in The Phantom Menace, answering the enormous question that no one was asking: How does the Force work? Qui-Gon tells us that midi-chlorians are little, microscopic life forms, living inside of cells that are the conduit for the Force.

The thing is, we already had an explanation for the Force from Obi Wan in A New Hope. Retroactively adding details about microscopic life forms living in your body doesnt totally fit with Obi Wans explanation, making our image of the Force messier instead of clearer. Midi-chlorians reduce a beautiful cosmic connection to something physical and less cool. Instead of expanding the Force, they narrow it. People have been frozen in carbonite for less heinous crimes.

1. Jar Jar Binks

Image: starwars.com

While many of the above offenders may be worse than the most notorious Gungan, nobody could take home the gold without me receiving a flood of death threats, so here you go! The worst part about Star Wars is Jar Jar Binks.

Jar Jars biggest crime is over-exposure. Maybe a measured amount of meesa so dumb dumb moments, executed with surgical precision would have, in fact, been a welcome distraction from an otherwise boring plot. Unfortunately, well never know Jar Jar Binks as anything other than the bumbling moron who pretty much laid out the red carpet for Palpatine to take over the Senate.

Kids loved him. Adults wanted to rip their eyeballs out of their skulls and shove them deep into their eardrums to keep from ever hearing him again. Intended to be lovable, actually unbearable, Jar Jar Binks blows and thats all there is to it.

BONUS: ‘Rogue One: A Star Wars Story’ reimagined as a homemade trailer

Source: http://allofbeer.com/2017/12/04/jar-jar-binks-watto-and-more-most-annoying-things-in-the-star-wars-universe/

from All of Beer https://allofbeer.wordpress.com/2017/12/04/jar-jar-binks-watto-and-more-most-annoying-things-in-the-star-wars-universe/

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adambstingus · 7 years ago

Text

Jar Jar Binks, Watto and more most annoying things in the Star Wars universe

Jar Jar Binks

Image: starwars.com

SEE ALSO: ‘Rogue One’ director justifies reshoots: ‘Star Wars has to be fantastic’

Below, 13 of the most annoying things about Star Wars.

13. Baby Boba Fett

12. Ewoks

SEE ALSO: Here’s how the ‘Star Wars’ droids could help you survive the holidays

11. Luke Skywalkers Maturity Level

When you watch A New Hope as a kid, Luke Skywalker is your hero. When you watch it again as an adult, you realize, Oh, wow, this guy is a kid.

10. Nute Gunray

Image: starwars.com

9. Boss Nass

8. Padawan Braid

Image: composite, all photos by starwars.com

7. Sy Snootles and the Max Rebo Band

6. Young Anakin

5. Jabba the Hutts Tongue

OH GOD. OH GOD NO. PUT IT BACK. PUT IT BACK IN YOUR MOUTH. I CANT LOOK. SOMEONE TELL ME WHEN ITS OVER. IM PUKING. IM PUKING RIGHT NOW.

4. Watto

Image: starwars.com

3. Cheesy Dialogue

Groaaaaaan. Look. George Lucas. Its OK. We all need an editor. Use one.

2. Midi-chlorians

1. Jar Jar Binks

Image: starwars.com

BONUS: ‘Rogue One: A Star Wars Story’ reimagined as a homemade trailer

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/2017/12/04/jar-jar-binks-watto-and-more-most-annoying-things-in-the-star-wars-universe/ from All of Beer https://allofbeercom.tumblr.com/post/168171128242

0 notes

allofbeercom · 7 years ago

Text

Jar Jar Binks, Watto and more most annoying things in the Star Wars universe

Jar Jar Binks

Image: starwars.com

SEE ALSO: ‘Rogue One’ director justifies reshoots: ‘Star Wars has to be fantastic’

Below, 13 of the most annoying things about Star Wars.

13. Baby Boba Fett

12. Ewoks

SEE ALSO: Here’s how the ‘Star Wars’ droids could help you survive the holidays

11. Luke Skywalkers Maturity Level

When you watch A New Hope as a kid, Luke Skywalker is your hero. When you watch it again as an adult, you realize, Oh, wow, this guy is a kid.

10. Nute Gunray

Image: starwars.com

9. Boss Nass

8. Padawan Braid

Image: composite, all photos by starwars.com

7. Sy Snootles and the Max Rebo Band

6. Young Anakin

5. Jabba the Hutts Tongue

OH GOD. OH GOD NO. PUT IT BACK. PUT IT BACK IN YOUR MOUTH. I CANT LOOK. SOMEONE TELL ME WHEN ITS OVER. IM PUKING. IM PUKING RIGHT NOW.

4. Watto

Image: starwars.com

3. Cheesy Dialogue

Groaaaaaan. Look. George Lucas. Its OK. We all need an editor. Use one.

2. Midi-chlorians

1. Jar Jar Binks

Image: starwars.com

BONUS: ‘Rogue One: A Star Wars Story’ reimagined as a homemade trailer

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/2017/12/04/jar-jar-binks-watto-and-more-most-annoying-things-in-the-star-wars-universe/

0 notes