#voo green screen

[cellclothism]

objectober day 2 ! sorry this isnt an actual thing im busy w school stuff today so this is all i can do lol

[birchboom]

More Objectobers!

I’m gonna release these in groups of 4!

[sloppypears-ash-sg]

Objectober Day 24 - Magic!

(Some VOO spoilers)

The VOO angel characters from Violetskittle's AU (DA)! Featuring Orb (TIBOOR) - her magic staff. Also by Violetskittle. Decided to draw them because - well, a non-BFDI and non-II thing is pretty cool every small once-in-a-while.

Assets!

[el0diehasarr1ved]

Whats your gen opinion on Village of Objects?

You said in one of your books (the qna i think) that you made the hosts you didn't like/whose show you didnt like the bad guys, but im watching the voo final, and i neither think her nor the show is bad at all

The plot is silly and Perfume doesn't seem bad, rather like someone childish with a bad-luck streak related to hosting (dying, getting kidnapped by aliens)

Honestly my opinion on Perfume has changed a lot since then. I do like her now. But it's the show I really find questioning.

I was mainly salty about how they wrote Perfume in the show and they wrote her super dirty. As someone who is a female that wants more female hosts, the fact that the writers decided to write Perfume only host a couple of the episodes while the rest she's gone just rubbed me in such a wrong way. It really isn't good representation if the host doesn't appear in her own show in my opinion. And yeah they did have one female character takeover, but they shouldn't really do that if they wanted to have female representation. And speaking of, I really don't like how the majority of the female characters are written in the show.

Most of them started off with decent personalities, only for them to be unlikeable all of a sudden. Almost as if the creator wanted to get rid of the female characters first to favor the male characters. Especially when it came to Flaggy and Green Screen since the show made it seem like Green Screen was in the right and Flaggy is basically in the wrong in the situation.

This can go for Perfume too because I wouldn't mind if she was a jerk like host since majority of the female host I've seen are mostly nice. But they never added much else.

It's been a while since I've seen the show (I haven't seen the finale), so I don't know how much has changed. But VOO honestly rubs me in such a wrong way with how they presented the female characters and Perfume herself.

(not to mention the bad voice acting)

[shatteredwaters]

hey vince if it aint a problem who voted who in OJ's elimination in VOO 11

Slushie and Snowy voted OJ

Green Screen voted Candy Corn

Flaggy voted TV

[objectshowopinions]

clock, flaggy, and green screen should've been a trio and i will DIE ON THIS HILL

istg if clock wasnt ableist to green screen in ep 16a he would've been my favorite character

[manyminded]

i was gonna use this as a sign up to be a mod for @/osc-affirmations but I’m on mod tophat’s DNI and I really didn’t wanna make them uncomfortable!! but I also really like this so I’m posting it

[profileybfdi]

id be mad if this werent funny as fuck. ive been watching for about 4 hours straight but fuck me because I cant understand what half the characters are saying right

[cellclothism]

i love friends ^_^

[princesssarisa]

Snow White Winter: Red Shoes and the Seven Dwarfs (2019 South Korean CGI animated film)

At last we arrive at the most recent big-screen adaptation of Snow White: it's a very loose adaptation, of the "fractured fairy tale" variety, but it's a Snow White variation nonetheless. When it was released in the US, it suffered from a notorious body-shaming add campaign, which made a mockery of the fact that this version of Snow White is a fat girl who only gains a temporary delicate figure by magic. But those adds were misleading. In the actual film, Snow White's true form is never ridiculed, and the overall message is against body-shaming and against judging by appearance.

A prologue establishes the setting of Fairy Tale Island, where the first characters we meet are the seven dwarfs. Or rather, seven tall, handsome heroes known as the Fearless Seven: the British-accented Merlin who shoots magical lightning, the burly Scottish-accented Arthur, the French-accented Jack who has an invisibility cloak, the German cook Hans who fights with a frying pan, and the Italian inventor triplets Pino, Noki and Kio. Unfortunately, one day they make the mistake of attacking a fairy princess, because her green skin makes them assume she's a witch. As punishment, she transforms them into green-skinned dwarfs, and only a kiss from the most beautiful woman in the world can break the spell.

Meanwhile, King White has disappeared, and his daughter, the chubby Princess Snow White, knows only that her wicked stepmother Queen Regina was somehow behind it. The aging Regina's current obsession is with a magic apple tree, whose apples will transform into magic red shoes that will bestow the greatest beauty in the land onto the woman who wears them. Unfortunately for Regina, Snow White innocently picks the apples and puts on the shoes first. Transformed into a slender conventional beauty, Snow White escapes from her stepmother's wrath on a flying broomstick and crash-lands at the seven dwarfs' home.

The dwarfs are smitten by the beauty of their new guest, who calls herself "Red Shoes." They agree to help her search for her father, all the while competing with each other to win a spell-breaking kiss from her. Meanwhile, Queen Regina seeks the help of the vain, obnoxious Prince Average (pronounced "Ah-voo-rahj," he insists) to find and capture the "thief" who "stole" her shoes. This leads to a series of adventures through which Red Shoes bonds with the dwarfs, eventually leading to romance blossoming between the princess and the swaggering yet good-hearted Merlin. While this isn't the first Snow White to have the heroine's love interest be one of the "dwarfs" instead of the Prince (the 1987 Seattle Children's Theatre version and Snow White: A Tale of Terror did it earlier), this is probably the first version to have said love interest be a dwarf, whom she loves despite his strange appearance.

But when Red Shoes and Merlin are attacked by monstrous wooden bears – actually Prince Average and his bodyguards transformed by Regina – Red Shoes is forced to take off her shoes and become fat Snow White again to have the bodily strength to save Merlin''s life. Merlin's response to her real form is all too awkward, and Snow White's self-esteem is shattered. But after some soul-searching, Merlin realizes he loves Snow White as well as Red Shoes, and when Regina captures her, he hurries to the rescue. Unfortunately, he's captured himself by Regina's magic mirror – an especially fanciful, eerie-looking mirror that grows from a tree whose branches can move and grab, although its sassy personality undercuts the horror factor – and Regina uses him as a bargaining chip to force Snow White to eat a magic apple. Instead of poisoning her, this apple turns Snow White into an apple tree, which will grow a new pair of red shoes, then die when Regina picks them.

But just in time, the other dwarfs arrive and help to defeat the magic mirror, and Merlin tackles Regina before she can harm Snow White's tree form, sending both her and himself plummeting from a cliff. With Regina's death, her spells are all broken: Snow White returns to her true form, as do all the people Regina transformed into wooden animals... including King White, who turns out to have been the enormous wooden rabbit kept by the dwarfs all along. But sadly, Merlin's victory costs him his own life. When the heartbroken Snow White kisses his lips, however (in the third adaptation to gender-flip Disney's iconic kiss), Merlin not only revives, but becomes human again, because Snow White is the most beautiful woman in the world to him. Thus everyone lives happily ever after.

While this fractured fairy tale does feature some Shrek-style self-awareness and a few jokey references to Disney and other pop culture fixtures, it thankfully avoids being too brash. For the most part, it's a sweet, quirky fantasy-comedy with colorful, creative visuals, likable characters, and a good message of body positivity. The English-language voice cast is excellent all around, led by Chloë Grace Moretz as a winsome, sweetly spunky Snow White/Red Shoes, and Sam Claflin (in his second outing as a love interest to Snow White, having previously played William in Snow White and the Huntsman) as a funny yet sincere Merlin.

Is this in any way, shape or form a definitive Snow White? No. But is it a funny, charming and clever companion piece to more traditional versions of the tale? Yes!

@ariel-seagull-wings, @superkingofpriderock

[entergamingxp]

Game Over screens • Eurogamer.net

Five of the Best is a weekly series about the small details we rush past when we’re playing but which shape a game in our memory for years to come. Details like the way a character jumps or the title screen you load into, or the potions you use and maps you refer back to. We’ve talked about so many in our Five of the Best series so far. But there are always more.

Five of the Best works like this. Various Eurogamer writers will share their memories in the article and then you – probably outraged we didn’t include the thing you’re thinking of – can share the thing you’re thinking of in the comments below. Your collective memory has never failed to amaze us – don’t let that stop now!

Today’s Five of the Best is…

Game Over screens! Too bad, you lose, put some more money in. Game Over screens might have been a necessary way for arcade machines to wring a bit more money from our juvenile jeans but they didn’t end there. Their influence carried over as games entered our homes, and crushing finality of the Game Over screen, which you can do little more than gawp helplessly at, can still be seen to this very day. It might not look the same, it might not use those iconic words, but it’s there. Question is, which is the best? Happy Friday!

Game Over Yeah! – Sega Rally

It’s long been a belief of mine that more video games should have their own theme tunes, and Sega Rally’s got one of the best of the lot – the absurdly titled, joyously upbeat My Dear Friend Rally. It’s another ditty from Sega’s mud-caked 1995 classic that’s stuck in the collective consciousness, though – that syrupy ‘Game Over, Yeah!’ screen that echoed out across arcades of yesteryear. It’s a weirdly upbeat way to let you know you’ve failed, but such was the sunshine goodness of Sega’s output in its 90s pomp.

-Martin Robinson

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I ought to have just done this five times!

Monologuing – the Batman Arkham games

Batman doesn’t just have the best outfit, the best gadgets, the best car and the best house of all superheroes. He has the best villains. This is the secret reason why the Arkham games work so well – for a lot of the time you’re up against people who are just as interesting as you are.

This comes together with another of Arkham’s central achievements – that Batman is a glass canon, great in a fist-fight but vulnerable under gunfire – to create some of the most memorable game-over screens in games. You mess up. You die. You collapse to the floor, and then a super-villain leers over you in the darkness, offering a few mean-spirited lines to see you off. It’s wonderfully theatrical – the shadows, the face up close and ghastly – and it’s also wonderfully true to form. What do supervillains do? They monologue. Well played, Rocksteady!

-Christian Donlan

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Mark Hamill’s Joker is just superb.

G.A.M.E. O.V.E.R. – Daytona

Takenobu Mitsuyoshi gets another shoutout – as Sega’s talented composer and vocalist should – for something of a deeper cut. The Daytona USA soundtrack is full of bangers (Sky High is such a delight just listening to it makes me want to weep with joy) but it’s the oddness of its Game Over screen that’s always stuck with me. There’s a lumpiness to the original version that’s simply adorable. GEE AY EM EE OH VOO EE ARE! Quite…

-Martin Robinson

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What’s up with that V?!

You Died – the Souls Series

Those two words have become synonymous with the Dark Souls series. In the modern era, in fact, Dark Souls sort of owns the Game Over screen, and there’s something chilling about the old school text effect that’s used on You Died, which, in another game, would be unbearably naff or suggest the kitsch of Pearl and Dean and the glory days of cinema advertising with its weird slogans and font effects. (Looking for bedding? The place to be heading is Reading Bedding!)

The thing is, though, that You Died is never the end. Souls games have an unusual approach to what you can do in a video game life – you basically use your remaining health to move a lens of attention over this complex world, seeing if you can make it from one bonfire to another. Mistakes along the way always lead to a bit of understanding. So maybe You Learned would be more appropriate. Not as catchy though. Let’s leave it as it is?

-Christian Donlan

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The Red Ring of Death

You know how it goes: you’re deep into an absorbing new adventure on Xbox 360 – maybe Lost Odyssey, an underrated gem – and you rush home from wherever to carry it on. You grab yourself a drink and a snack for the long haul and you settle into your favourite chair. A cozy feeling comes over you – you’ve looked forward to this.

Then you turn your Xbox 360 on. But it doesn’t turn on. In the place where you should see a familiar green glowing light around the power button, you see instead see red. You know what this means because you’ve read about it. It’s the infamous Red Ring of Death. Your machine is broken. How’s that for a Game Over?

Fortunately Microsoft footed the bill for the replacements and repairs, but it would go on to become such a widespread problem that the RROD bill ended up at more than $1 billion! I went through three Xbox 360s – how about you?

-Bertie

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I found this rather entertaining.

from EnterGamingXP https://entergamingxp.com/2020/05/game-over-screens-%e2%80%a2-eurogamer-net/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=game-over-screens-%25e2%2580%25a2-eurogamer-net

[iwrotethisforanyone-blog]

New Orleans, Louisiana - Two Years Ago           The fingers of the sawtooth oak tree scraped gently at the windowpane behind Billie Cole’s sleeping figure, it was a soft noise compared to the wind that was furiously howling against the New Orleans sky, or the constant beeping of hospital machinery that she’d listened to so often now that it was second hand to the white noise that often flooded her ears. Less than three feet from the teenager lay her father, Remi Cole, equally as unconscious but not so easily woken as the cancer had finished riddling his bones and was moving onto his brain in a tireless attempt at claiming his life. In his healthier days he had eyes that were filled with so much depth that between that and the azul orbs you could think you were diving into the ocean. Now they hung half open as his skin sagged in an aged way only lymphoma can rush. The whites of his eyes now grey, clouding against a dull blue hue. The room was lit dimly by the green LED of the monitors and the light that crept from underneath the shut door that separated them from the rest of the hospital, occasionally shadows would pause outside of it as the night shift nurse went about her rounds, quiet enough to cause neither patient nor daughter to stir in their slumber.           Behind her closed ivory lids, she dreamt of days where cancer hadn’t stood between her and her father. They were belting out Bon Jovi while on their road trip to Texas, this day marked a particular date of importance – the first time he’d let her sit in the front seat  on one of their voyages. “Do ‘em dead with your voo-doo ways, Bil.” She was only nine then, still young enough to believe that she’d one day be as big of a star as her dad gassed her up to be. Everything was going fine until he hit a bunny rabbit. She cried and cried, trying to make sense in her sheltered mind how it was fair that he not get to go home to his family. But when the time in the memory came for Remi to reassure her that it was his time to go; he was gone, and she was all alone.           It was three forty in the morning when Billie felt a hand gently place itself on her shoulder; ocean-like orbs that matched her father’s met Winifred, or so affectionately called Winnie by the Cole duo, a night nurse in her seventies who refused to be forced into retirement by her children. She’d become a beacon of strength for Billie in this disastrous time, a pillar of knowledge in what to expect when he finally makes the decline into the active stages of death. That was seven days before this, when he stopped eating, then when he skin changed from pale to almost so translucent in color that you could see muddled blue veins beneath it. Ever since the first changes she’d been terrified to leave the hospital, so in that – Winnie became their family.  “Hey baby.” Her thick southern accent was welcome to interrupt tapping of tree branches against glass, Billie found warmth in this healing woman, though her next words would bring the entire world that she sat on to its knees. “It’s happening.”           It’s a terrible feeling that overcame her, after all – Remi was all she’d ever known, the abandonment of her mother was never felt in its entirety because of him, and she knew it. ‘But you don’t build a wall up against the pain, you’re going to have to feel everything if you’re going to make it – and girl, you were born to make it.’ Her father’s words echoed in her head, a conversation they’d had early on when ‘terminal’ was first coming into the game. Why did he do this to her? She wondered that often as she did now, moving to the edge of the mechanical bed that raised his head to keep fluid from collecting in his lungs, his shallow gurgled breaths were new since she’d fallen asleep, Winnie had told her this might happen as time drew closer. “Dad?” She hoped for a moment he might open his eyes and that they would crinkle at the corners when he would flash the smile that had cheered her up for the last nineteen years of her life – but he didn’t, and she knew he wouldn’t. “Daddy, don’t be afraid.” Her small frame crawled in next to him, head fitting right along the crook of his neck where it had for her entire life, hand resting on a chest that struggled to fill with air. The doctors told them this might happen, that cancer was a beacon for infection, and too often that infection is what kills people. “Daddy I love you.” Winnie’s hand rested gently on blonde strands, and Billie felt comfort in not being alone while she lost the only person she’d ever known to love her.           She wasn’t sure how long she’d lain there or how many hours after Winnie’s shift it was that she stood beside the girl who was slowly losing everything. But she did feel the slow decline in breath, and the heat slowly leave her father’s body in an attempt to make him more of a shell than a person. “It’s okay..I’ll be okay..” Salt water flowed from her cheeks to his, hands cradling the ones that worked so many long hours to provide for her, rough and cracked to prove that he was once more than just another occupant of this hospital room. She hadn’t noticed the absence of the steady beeping until his breath was no longer accompanying it, crystal like orbs turned to scan the black screen, gone dormant with his last exhale. She could feel her features contort in a sort of pain she hadn’t felt before, words were just that, she wasn’t ready to say goodbye. She found his face, slack jawed and staring blankly into the corner of the room. She knew he was gone, but asked Winnie to make sure.             It was her dream all over again – she was alone in this world with no one to go home to.

TDD,  PROLOGUE

[shatteredwaters]

Will you make VOO2 icons for the dead VOO characters (like Green Screen) and the VOO hosts?

Maybe at some point

[mooncookee]

QUIVER

You see the soul drips low down where the dirt holds and lip licks upside trees and rubs it's scent up in the leaves so every bee passin' flags its tale. In frets and waggles, tails a kites lets                                                     or a dragonfly drags, they sing out in trails of Halle-lu-jah stretches up, up to heaven' but the land; sees it. Land, it never forgets. No, see? The land never forgets.

It breathes in frequencies sometimes only wolves can bear. Now and then a cat or two might howl but hounds, they just too house broke, cozy, may a' bit too lazy for caring. Some ground just stares; some rumbles like mountain claws strummin' on drum skins. Some been rubbed too much.

 I'm told it growls like that at Shiloh and Antietam, And Vietnam's a locomotive hauling coal down where they stokin' Hell. So they tell. Well it's that kinda hum across the tracks as Quiver Lane backs up to Bayou Self.

Once it crossed there but Betsy or Audrey washed it out; maybe was a hurricane

way 'fore storms got names. No one cared to build it back or cared not to. True that.                                                                        

When Emmalite Petit came to name it Quivers for the way the silver willows shiver in the silver light of night everything changed.

Tragedy and Misery, ain't they so the loudest, overstaying cousins? And seems we never see the sunshine when they visit.   Poor Lita (her prayer given greeting) lived beneath a concrete cloud of loud and overstayin' cousins. They raved a regular hoedown, throw-down, hootenanny, fais do do with a neon rainbow and a disco ball. And I mean cousins, uncles et al. Damn Murder, Curser, Fever and Famine fired it up and washed it blue down there with Deluge.                                                                                        

First her Baby, gone. Her Daddy then her ‘nother Baby, husband, husband, baby, Mama; all lost quick as windblown sand.

 Some say Curser was first to sup. Before Choctaw pushed the Houmas through, before people were more than The People, angels and demons had drama there. In that, I'm told, can't be a winner. Seems Quiver Lane began to quiver long fore Lil’ Lita came for dinner or every time.                                                              

She came like plagues o' Moses. "Note-he-damn-us" speculated they's a Moses lain in every sack of sins.

So said, Lita lived as one or all those "Horsemen," well “Horse-folk,” that head banger gang, jammin' down till the World chokes, spokes broke in sections docking the earth in kinda pocky way clips. Cousin, you catch my crazy pills; lauded Lord seen the Devil’s daughter in a bonnet livin’ as the Mistress of the Quivers. I can't say. Maybe she's the lucky millionth shopper

straggled up, she, falling out the sack; register ding, clang and drawer slip, clap; balloons fell, politicians kissing black beauty baby hexes like bubble blowers whistling.

lucky Medusa, heaving chest, epistles of perdition Panavision in her sweat.                                                          

 Y’all know evil needs a witness, accepting victims’ just objects, directly. God knows Narcissus always came as the main idea. Ain't nobody plays that sorrow fiddle like him.

Maybe Emmalite's his sister?

 Lil' Lita came from Texas by the Sabine Pass. Her folk ran a trawl fleet, had plenty grass for cattle and passe blanc, they say. No verifiable pedigree, a Gypsy privateer, a Mescalita bruja here and here. Clearly an Andalusian heiress in that tree, more than half Moor-ish. She was Venus, trapper by trade so they say.

  (II)

 Down from Paradis a way the Old Spanish Trail snakes through the Texaco Woods. Inertia notwithstanding, curves are angular where that old road bends by the tracks and bends back a time or four. Man, DAMN, that was one alive drive. No, don't try those moves at Big Bear, no. Ask me how I know?

 So, the first knee coming from Paradis, Lita’s mausoleum gloats 'neath an oak grove.

Mère Brigit de Saint Asile, splayed in headstones, snaggle-toothed from the shiny rails, with a ditch mote, a throat bouquet of cattails and poison ivy commanded, a dead man's curve from any poet's axis. A swamp hugged close, old road to tracks that smacked blood wet, stains sustained since skirmishes of Yank incursions shucked, ghost rehearsals from Boutte to Des Allemands.

Older ground, this mound raised by the hand of man, built by bodies gone to mulch, a human humus mushed under hundreds on hundreds of autumn's silts. Floods sipped slippin' the baser stones to tilt in neglect, 'cept lichen love. Yet seldom did molesters linger. Centuries of cypress centurions, elders, priests and voodoiennes spit blasted blasphemous echoes and imminent offenders bent on infecting this umbilical age where souls are directed, selected and nakedly effected and tweaked past sec by the Conscious Constant Conscience Collective till they caress the nexus of perfection. Poor Lita‘s cache was stashed in a crypt like only city seen. Marble Venus reigning supreme over meager crosses, slaves and Cajun tenants, protestants, names scratched unless a body was a veteran.

 The black top ridge the bridge to Quiver Lane crossed tracks at are maintained by Santa Fe Railways on the civil side. The bayou banks can't be tamed. To its own travail, alone it wanes. It assimilates, ate by relentless quest of the prevailing Green to digest, jail and swallow every life, not sailing pass a snail's pace past the veil of tales.

 Some places birth a craving for belonging. I belong there. I learned to swear there,                                                                

was snared by the noose tobacco set. My first drunken crash there after Uncle read me Lovecraft there. I woke wet. We skipped for crawfishing on pretty new spring days, lunch meat and Bunny Bread, that pink mayo pickle spread, four finger bag of weed and a six o’ Dixie. What a day made; laying nets in a knee deep maze up to the first grave. Voo was a swamp "Fred Astaire." I was a true Scooby Doo.

 I felt connected. My first love was laid there.                                                        

We buried my Colinda in the Mom Brigit's breast. No other love tested more than a genuflecting peasant maid weighing fragrances passed in wake of her Queen's carriage. Stressing, up she peeked, a speck in shadows of divinity. That old road led me out on, a life of asphalt sped, gone, minstrel vagabond so long it's all I ever did since I turned back on this compost heap, love's keep, womb of every torch song.

 My class of '81 summoned, thirty-five years running but for them I come. I wonder why, true though, I never could deny our passion. When we took life in shots, chased with pitchers at Tolano’s. We had a world to make.

 Me, I just careened from ditch to ditch like it's me buried by the Quivers. No I deliver as I wither juke to honkey tonk, useless bitch of windy whispers. Till I listed, sunk and sprawled, depraved raving “kinda been” kissing the base of my true love’s grave. I bowed my gaze prostrate so to evade her name engraved by chisel. A blitz of banshees pulling train, crumbled by the strain, I crawled scratching three X's by the gate on Lita's marble vault pleading she would put me down, already nothing wasting air, better fare prepared as mushroom food or maybe that's too good.

 I should… I would but once I promised not to "should" myself. Still, shame laid lame, gasping breaths between grass roots. I wept. "Why me's" pelted till my ears burned red. I quivered in prayers to who knows who.

 "Madame Petit accept my humble suffering as sacrifice. By gluttony, greed and lust, I'm pinned by sin, an empty wraith in waiting, a soulless puppet painted live. I pray my worthless carcass lay a worthy crust to feed the inevitable Green lacing the gates of your Everlasting After.”

 Shotguns slam on Heaven's tin walls, clap of Atlas shaking this world off. Tossed by the blast wave reality whiplashed!

 Peace of the morning, peace of the dawn, peace of the dusk, trust is cruel quiet.

 I wasn't crying anymore, standing more or less, I smelled the musk of Bayou Self.

An ass drawn wagon crossed the bridge carrying six oyster sacks, a six pack of field hands

and six kindling stacks of dried fig twigs. A sickly girl’s grey pony led three chomping keen colts: a big red, an ice white and onyx black sweat gleaming fiery beast. Two tuniced, kilted dudes duked; blue steels, shields whacking, shrieks of deep dread jolts “blue screen” hacked my psyche. Pangs of fresh grief vigorously split me.

 A jug of berry sherry beckoned swig. My sweet Colinda, cherry plucker lolled, bent butt against the trestle rail. My first kiss again conjured up in home sewed halter and faded cutoffs

baring all I knew of truth. I sighed. Honey haired, hazel eyed, mine, giggling on the Quivers side. I knew I had died and raced embracing her with no step took, track jumped or cross tie straddled.

My Colinda, swarthy now calico long dress in bonnet, brunette, black eyes, pupils fire.

Love as always a puny liar.

           "Allons danser." Lil Lita grabbed me. We two stepped. A death of quiet                                                                        

only broke by creaking wood and creosote stink.

 Come to think, I never two stepped. Pickers never learn to dance. Sixties Cajun kids were forbidden, so I was not blessed to know her French addresses. Fancy me this dead man's chance.

We parleyed and danced and dance.

 Bless you; Ma'am Petit you be? Life for me was tired and old. If I’d be so bold

Please bestow me once more to hold my Colinda? Then to dust or mold or as you'd have me.

 "Chere," she said. "Colinda's me. No simple peace and death’s not free

Chere, we have scores and prophecies. A thousand first loves you and me span.

I was Lilith to your Adam.

 A hundred thousand maids you ruined. Who could ever love as I do? Spun out countless loves found tombs, dead in the womb as I sang lullabies. I brewed my fear beer. Stirred you here

Through waste and wander savoring every maid you plundered. Hate begets a viral Eden. Evil needs no truth to seed. Fear and hunger, pain and greed ripened drips in misery.

 Hero here alas you settle, finally, quite a hefty debt. Here you left, Colinda bled, red washed dress on a slave girl grave. Sweating fatherhood for fame let your name escape her blame. At last my final pica’s set my Casanova minstrel, convinced, sorry victim in your head, sped millennia and parried any collar, cross or retiarius’ net.

 But see this land, it never forgets. It pressed a bed of want in you that blooms like sumac in the rain. You came. Your only bet was plain. But here the game is mine, you swine

and markers called. You’re out of time. I'd feed a million trillion flies on your flesh and spread your soul like chewy tricks as treats on chilly demon children’s Halloween.

 But see, my pride, I got to ride. These fine three anxious steeded knights and I have deals to seal and seals to peel while you here feel the pain of every death since you've eluded me.” She chuckled, eyes blazing licked her lips. “But that too was your dream I guess. You always were my favorite pet and here see, this land don't forget."  

                                                                     (III)

Black is white to where she left me. Agony a soothing choice. Infinity times three;

tormenting claws and jaws forever stripping, split my atoms, sip and spit me. Buckets left to catch my wet screams. Seamless, moving troubadour’s tool ghoul re-jeweled to phantom’s whispering shrill banzai Mojave dry.

 Sorry now I'm such a bummer. I'm just a strummer not your savior but if you care for your creator make your peace cause Lita's coming.  

https://www.reverbnation.com/dwaynestromain/song/30163760-quiver-rvbntn

[cellclothism]

flaggy wearing green screen like a cape. clicks post button

[cellclothism]

i am never finishing this (`△´＃)

this is .... based off an au i have which i will not elaborate abt rn :P