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| Xeogaming Forums - - Posts by Stitch |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie!          Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Not really, the recent rewrite removed the CIA from it because I didn't like the complicated nature of the story. I'd rather keep the legal involvement local, only escalating as high as the local SWAT. And, I felt that introduction of legal anymore than what is seen in the beginning was too much for the whole overtone of this story.
I'm working on a rewrite of that section, and progressing with the rest of the story after this entry. Possibly as a double-post, even though it's frowned upon. |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Ryan's character doesn't really show up at all in the current storylines. The concentration is on Brandon, Christine, Crystle, Lee, T'om, Pat and Server One (Celeste). And moreso on just he Lee/Pat conflict than anything else. And, I think I'm changing the Lee character name to Cross because I don't like using my own name for these things.
Anyway, I know that Ryan will be mentioned in the first parts of a few of the books to establish that he's around, but he won't show up again until near the end when he'll be needed as part of the end-twist. |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| This one was never really intended to be finished. It's more of a backstory to The Demon, and The Demon is what ended up being written as the main story. But since a few of you have requested to read it after I pulled it, I'm putting it back up because...well...bananas?
Video Game Assassin When I was five years old, I discovered I possessed a natural knack for the computer world—the awesome ability to create things that only computers understood—and the immense understanding of relationships between people and computers. In the beginning, I developed my knowledge into the ability to create small programs to help with computer interaction, and to better the human race. Until I was eight years old, I firmly believed that the computer world held a positive outlook on the human race. I wanted to work for the government, providing my skills and services for the greater good. From the ages of nine until about seventeen, I created a portfolio of computer code outlining viruses, worms, Trojan horses, scientific study guides, automated defense mechanisms, and the like. On a whim, one afternoon when I was thirteen, I released a harmless virus over the internet designed to stop the user’s screensaver from activating by keeping the mouse moving aimlessly around the screen. Several months into my nineteenth birthday, I contracted my own virus, and having forgotten how to disable it, was forced to erase the hard drive and start clean. Sometime around my sixteenth birthday, it had occurred to me that working for “the man” wasn’t going to happen. They didn’t like my mind, and were terrified at the way it functioned. They abhorred my inclination towards the societal evils; however objectified I viewed them to be. Another fateful afternoon, on a trip to Mexico with my surviving parent, I decided that I would attempt something that I had only dreamt about before: I’d hack the government. Aboard the airplane that carried my mother and me to Mexico, I connected to the internet via the GTE Airfone onboard. It took me the latter half of the two-and-a-half hour flight to crack the dummy server using my mediocre computer, and the extremely lagging connection. Upon touchdown in Mexico, my mother and I were taken aside by Mexican and American authorities. I have since been electronically monitored for all of my activities online. I have also, since, discovered ways of circumventing my government watchers both virtual and real. As part of my agreements, including the monitoring, I became a pro-bono government tool used as needed per my abilities. If the president forgot his password to his email account, I reset it for him. If the higher authorities decided that the Russians were completing their section of the space station far too faster than the Americans, it became my task to move their communications satellite by a few inches—or change an access code. When terrorists took down the twin towers, I became a human filter for thousands of electronic transmissions between al-Qaeda and their followers. They helped me secure employment, and keep my internet going, despite my restrictions to dial-up. They covered my tracks, and provided training. However, they still feared my mind, and the way it works. In my mind, good and evil are solely objective dependent on the person other than the golden rules set by cult—“organized religion”—followers. Around my twenty-third birthday, after they had terminated my stint working for them as an agent of the Department of Homeland Security, I decided I’d use the training they had earlier provided for my better well-being. While I was unable to actually work for the highest bidder, due to my profound love for my limited freedom, I discovered my services could be of use in other realms. I became a writer. And, a contract assassin, but mostly a writer. Most people could say that I acquired a certain degree of dementia as a result of my adventures thus far in life. I feel otherwise. If I neither believe in good nor evil as defined by the laws of society, how could we define what I had become? At first, I wasn’t really a killer…much. I didn’t possess the cold, heartless, soulless requirements of being a detached killing machine. So, to mend the missing elements, I took on a position at Disneyland at the ripe age of twenty. After three years at the “happiest place on Earth”, I was quickly stripped of any traces of humanity, and left with a decrepit, emotionless shell of a human being. Feeling quite justified with my dissatisfaction towards all humanity, I started small. I advertised my hacking abilities, and progressed from there. Two years later, I decided that being a contract assassin wasn’t enough. I needed a “fun job”, so to speak. Not that ridding the earth of unnecessary evil—solely unnecessary because they served no purpose to my overall future evil—didn’t provide enough entertainment in and of itself, but I needed something to occupy myself. A cover, if you will. That cover came as Activision Publishing, a videogame company where I served as a videogame tester. Being that my sexual orientation helped to obscure my primary occupation, this job helped mask my other “interests” better than being a homosexual alone did. Soon, hacking proved to be a fruitless endeavor. It only took me mere seconds to stifle the attempts of even the brightest prodigies the world had to offer. No one could hold a candle to me. And, for the first time ever in my computer history, I actually became bored with the idea of toying with people online. My threats of dissolution through the digital world had lost all meaning. My reputation online had started to dwindle, and I had lost my following of newbies and veteran hackers alike. At the ripe age of twenty-three, I had hit bottom in the digital manipulation world. I needed a change. The government had initially come to my rescue at the age of seventeen, providing assignments that required my physical presence somewhere. I had undergone physical training in various martial arts, studied several different spoken and written languages, practiced for several hours at shooting ranges on different styles of firearms and rifles, and exhausted every method of computer espionage. I had thoroughly lost all faith in humanity, and turned my attention to the electronic world. When the Matrix movies premiered, I lost all faith in everything. The personas that I had worked so hard to create were not my own. I never knew, and still don’t know, who I am. I can instantly be whomever I choose to be dependent on the situation, but I don’t know who I am. While most people can view this as a flaw, my fellow agents and I share the same experiences and hardships. I, however, have chosen to disregard the definitions of good and evil, and proceed at my own discretions. Some may find it quite difficult to believe that an eccentric, talented, intelligent, gay man might be at all capable of anything remotely associated with being a hit man. I had succeeded at creating the perfect cover. The second persona required a degree of professionalism I easily could exhibit. Since I only deeply cared for myself and not anybody else on the entire planet—with obvious exception to friends and family—I found that disposing of certain scum was no different to me than playing a video game. Pulling from several similar movies, I found that piping classical music into my head during “jobs” helped to ease and steady the nerves. I had to start somewhere, but didn’t exactly know where. My searches on the internet brought up several small jobs that I could easily pull on my days off during free time. Small-time jobs lead to bigger things—all involving the death of someone for some reason. At first, I made a point of not asking why or with whom I was dealing, and asked that my payments be made directly in cash. As time went on, I sobered up and began making certain demands, requiring certain tasks to be completed to my specification before I rendered services. The first jobs required menial things like cutting brake lines on vehicles, installing a remote kill switch on a vehicle linked to a small patch of explosive, spiking a shipment of wine to take out a whole group of thugs, etc. They were menial, but they established my presence. To add to the cases, I began integrating a little bit of my mental creativity to help cover my trails. One evening, after dropping off a coworker at his home, I was given the task of cutting the brake lines on a certain black Honda belonging to a mafia runner. This runner had begun to leak information to the Feds, and he had to be dealt with, hoping that I could easily make the job look like an accident. The man always left for work around the time that I was arriving from work. I had a twenty-minute operating window, and figured that cutting the lines would be noticed immediately at the first stop sign this man encountered. In order to create the accident, I had to disable the vehicle in such a manner that would cause the brakes to die at a higher speed. Rather than severing the cable lines leading to the rear brakes, I chose to puncture the hydraulic lines leading to the front brakes and file down the cable lines for the rear brakes. I sat across the street and watched the forward lines slowly drip their fluid, and waited for the target. After twenty minutes, the man emerged and turned on his vehicle. He pulled out and stopped at the light. I followed. Watching the fluorescent trail of brake fluid illuminated by my headlights, I followed the vehicle up the on-ramp to the 710 North freeway. The wear upon the cables of the rear brakes along with the forced leakage of the forward brakes sealed my efforts to take down the vehicle. Thoughts of remorse began to flow into my mind, but were immediately drowned by Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto. The job was done and I could sleep. Payment would be delivered the next morning in a backpack at the Dumpsters behind the ice rink. The next morning, I awoke to reports that a black Honda had crashed over the edge of the tall over-crossing interchange between the 710 freeway and the 105 freeway, falling several hundred feet before landing upside-down in a concrete lot and exploding into flames. The driver, found crushed between the steering wheel and the roof didn’t survive. The interchange would be closed for further investigation for the rest of the morning, but that didn’t affect my drive to work. My bag of money, two thousand dollars in small bills, was delivered that morning. Later that afternoon, I made a cash payment to three credit cards. The mafia, Mexican Mafia to be specific, liked my efforts, and became my references and referrals for more jobs. Over the next few years, I became one of the best contract assassins available. Unfortunately, I became notorious for disposing of anyone that attempted to change my requirements. The original contacts from my first few jobs needed to be silenced. Not by mafia decree, but by my own. And, they were. One million points. That’s what it meant to me. Just another videogame score in the great survival horror game of life. |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| ...and it started as being about my life. But, my life is boring, so it ended up being about my weirdness.
Today's was about puppy-filled marshmallows. Anyway, I spent the entire week coming up with an idea, working out dialogue, drawing, coloring, cleaning-up, uploading and posting the damned thing. It updates around Friday because I hardly ever actually hit Friday for an upload. After that, it's distributed on two RSS feeds to my Facebook and to LJ, and wherever else it goes. I keep a blog of sketches, but I'm not much of an artist. I mostly do this because I can't seem to be able to write right now. And that annoys me much. So, if you're interested in my dorky webcomic, go here. http://eccentricitycomic.info/ If you're lucky (and I feel like it) you might end up in it. Thus far, I've drawn myself (although I didn't get to my actual look until issue #17), my roommate Ben, and my friends Amy, Chris and Wei. The world is supposed to be a more malleable form of my real world, meaning that it's the internalized insanity in my head as opposed to the reality I live daily. I prefer my internal world, it's so much more fun. And that's where everyone else in the world lives, although, they don't like me there all the time. Anyway, I haven't yet decided if I want my characters to be aware that they're in a comic. It will probably happen, though. Characters: Lee - All-around insane dork. Gay. Smart sometimes, mostly odd other times. Recently quit working for "the intarwebs" to start a puppy-filled marshmallow business. Most of his decisions are spur-of-the-moment, and often involve things he shouldn't be doing. M5 - Sentient Mazda5 minivan that Lee drives. It sympathizes with Old Phone a lot, and often holds conversation with Lee through the text scroll feature of the sound system. A little opinionated. Ben - Lee's "normal" gay roommate. Engineer working at Namco. Finds Lee bearable if he overlooks everything. Doesn't participate in Lee's adventures. Drive a Prius. Prius - Sentient Prius that just thinks a little bit too highly of itself. Doesn't get along with M5. Old Phone - Lee's phone of which Lee thought completely died in one of the issues, but actually managed to survive his five-story fall and has set up an uprising of "old phones" despite being the only member. Jealous of Lee's New Phone. New Phone - The reinforced and rugged UTS G'zOne Type S that survived the five-story drop with no scratches. A little bit too happy for a phone that can sustain 30 minutes under 1 meter of water. Scary happy. Like Disney people. There are more people, but they come and go. Anyway, I guess this qualifies as a weirdness. Here's a sketch that has nothing to do with the comic:  |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| CIAHacker to Zabuza to BREW Ninja to Stitch. I'm sure I had at least one more change somewhere in between that, but that's all I remember doing. | |||
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Posted the webcomic issue despite taking several hours.
And, I managed to clean the apartment with help of the roommate. |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| It was either some kind of egg, potatoes and veggies concoction or something else. I actually don't remember.
Flapjack or Pancake? |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Raccoon.
Tea straight or with milk? |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| WinAmp because it's compact and awesome.
Windows Media Player because it's stupid, large, hogs memory, and not really all that intuitive. Your mom because she just nags. If you're stinky and lazy, how long do you wait before taking a shower? |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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Double post because this is an example:
 (Last edited by Stitch on 09-22-08 03:46 PM) |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| I think Golden Boy has a dub out there. I mostly watch the subs, and own the subs, so I don't know much.
Um, Master Keaton is nice sub/dub. I have Cowboy Bebop as both. Actually, almost all of mine are both. Also, best movie if you can get it, but you'll need region free player, "Wonderful Days". Truly most awesome work of Korean animation/miniature/computer modeling I've ever seen. Saw it a premiere with Rogue, and it never made it to the US. I own a region 2 copy and have no player for it. |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Golden Boy is two words.
Mainstream animation: Chowder, Flapjack, Mighty-B, Spongebob, Aqua Teen Hunger Force. Anime (and equivalents): Master Keaton, Cowboy Bebop, Negima!?, Negima! Live Action: Sailor Moon Um, I think that's it. I watch a smattering of other things, but most of those are religiously. (Last edited by Stitch on 09-22-08 03:55 PM) |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| I'm trying out a new style here:
Silence. Somewhat, really, it's more like a low stillness punctuated by a distant roar from the automobiles of the night. But, for simplicity's sake, we'll call it silence. Darkness. Stillness. The ground is wet. Evening dew, glistens in the lull of the amber streetlamps. The air thick with the smells of fuel and the ocean. A low breeze ruffles the cuffs of my pants and attempts to rustle through my short hair. It's cold; I should have worn more than just my business suit. The steel is frozen to my grip, hanging precariously next to me, a small bit of steam rising from the barrel. I'm frozen to my stance, staring off into the distance. The cold and others are leaving. Walking to their cars. The gun drops with a loud clatter and the stillness returns. Darkness. The ground is both cold and warm, different portions of wet. My black suit hides the blood, as does the trickle of moisture slicked on the pavement. Breathing is ragged, the air slices through each breath. Rolling onto my back is painful, but I can't stand the thought of going on my stomach. I reach for the gun again. It's still warm, slightly, all but one round in the magazine. The cars have left, drove past me long ago, nary a smirk in my direction. They're sick. Leaving me like this. My phone rings. "Hello?" "Where are you?" "Dreaming." "We've got a fix on your phone, ten minutes." "That may be too long." A painful deep breath and I lurch forward. I'm sitting in a pool of my own. And quite frustrated. Not with the impending, but the fact that my own car is several feet away and that all I did was stand there. My phone rings again. "You're taking too long," the voice is sharp and tactful. "I'm sorry, I still have business to complete. Mind taking care of the dry cleaning?" My breathing begins to slow, stabilizes a bit, my hands begin to shake, it's hard to hold the phone to my ear. "Can we end this, please, my night minutes don't start for another hour?" "You're a funny man. Now, do us all a favor, and don't make us go back." "I wouldn't dream of it. Tell ya what, I'll go meet you." I hang up. Well, more like drop the phone and kick it away from me. Bloody thing, I don't really need it anyway. It just gets me into trouble. And nights starting at 9PM? What is that? My voice is faltering, vision starting to blur. I can hear a car, distant and rushing. Last ounce of gathering strength, I grab the phone and chuck it over the dock. The car stops near me, a man rushes out and clutches onto the hole in my chest, "Heh, you've only been nicked." "You have" a pause "an odd definition of 'nicked'," I pull up on his body, dragging myself toward his car, "now, let's get those fuckers." "Oh, no, you're going to a hospital." He rounds the car and sits at the driver's seat staring into the barrel of my gun, "drive or die, we know I'll live to see either." He's quiet throughout the ride, watching me out of the corner of his eye, staining his seats, dripping everywhere, the gun steady on him. His lips part, he's thinking about something. "That thing you're thinking of doing? Don't. I'll come back for you. You knew this was going to happen at some point. This whole thing. They want me one way or another. And you, you're just a tool. You'll have to disappear too. My hand or yours, doesn't matter to me." He begins to slow down, I holster my weapon and pull him close, "Get lost. Permanently. And if you tell anyone about anything, I'll find you." While we were commuting, my assistant was busy drudging the dock, looking for my phone. He cleaned up the blood. My car was detailed and returned to its garage. He picked up rounds and took care of witnesses. The night remained still, and he followed. It was quiet and dark still when he approached, meticulous in his ventures. He cleaned up the blood trickling down my body, and helped me to the ground. His skilled hands worked in the wound, no anesthetic, sutures applied, gauze packed and a dressing tightly wound around my chest. He pulled two pouches of my blood out of his messenger bag. "I'm sure you've lost more, but I was only carrying two." Quick stab into my arm, and a bit of pressure. "Here," a small container of orange juice and an oatmeal cookie, "take this to help your body a bit. I'm sure you're not resting tonight." I shake my head. He empties the pouches, removes them and places them back into his messenger bag along with the remains of his cleaning operation. He extracts another pouch, a fresh change of clothing. "Sir, are you alright to proceed?" I nod. He inspects my gun and replacing the missing bullet in the magazine. "I'll take care of Walter." I nod again, and he helps me back to my feet. A slight dizzy feeling, but the warmth is returning. There's a slight limp to my step. He drops a hand on my shoulder, pushes a set of keys into my hands and points to the waiting SUV. "How," I start, my breath feeling odd running through my lungs, cookie still in my teeth, "how are you getting back?" He smirks at me, "I'm not going back, Sir." "Ah." * - * - * - * Amazing what orange juice and a few minutes sitting in a car does. Untouchable was often used to describe me. I was a scary entity to most. Some speculated that I wasn't human. Wish it were that easy. Just finding a competent assistant is mostly my secret. And intense Buddhist meditation that summer after college. Well, year after college, but time seems to escape you when you're just barely awake. There was a huge price on my head. Always has been, but this one was big. They wanted me to suffer, to die slowly and coldly far away from the nearest health facility. It would have worked, had I been any other man. I was set up by my very own employers. I'm sure it was worth millions, possibly billions, to someone. They should have stayed, ensured it was truly done. I'm sure they had instructions otherwise. Allow me to see it finish alone. In the dewy cold of the night, deep in the docks of New York. In an odd fashion, it was a single shot fired from both parties involved. One from my gun; I hit the driver of the first car. One from theirs, straight through the thin layer of body armor under my suit, through a rib, through a lung, just barely past my spine, out the other layer of body armor and out into the river. Brandon, my assistant, found it later that week. He also took care of the crime scene. Well, there is no crime scene now. At least not there. They are smug, though, sitting in their warehouse, thinking they've off'd the Demon. Sure, they lost one of their own, but that's more money for them. The drinks are flowing, loosening them up for me. I'll let them have their fun for a bit, my body needs to recover anyway. I don't really know where Brandon is right now, and I really don't care. Walter? He'll be "taken care of" at some point this week. I really don't care for the man at all. He was my old assistant. Man I found a couple years back, way before Brandon. He kept tabs on me. Didn't like what I did, but didn't complain to anyone. He started slipping recently. Don't know if he had a hand in this, but I didn't care. Brandon could take care of himself, and I trusted him to do his thing, whatever that was. I grew tired of waiting, and there was already a compromise in my body armor. But, I had resurrected somehow and it was time to make a guest appearance. My movement was slowed, and I had only fifteen rounds to take out seven people. They were armed too, but impaired. * - * - * - * "Your tea, Sir, one sugar cube, medium hot, darjeeling today," Brandon set it lightly on the glass desk. He stood by, staring at me, searching for my thoughts. I sighed heavily, leaning back in my Aeron chair, gazing over the Manhattan skyline. He shifts slightly. I know he wants to check on the sutures and stitches. His PDA beeps in his pocket. A few taps, he dismisses himself and disappears into the building somewhere. An email arrives, a news feed aggregate from the local news agencies. "Seven found dead in a warehouse on the lower east side...Mafia connections suspected, more likely to be another hit by the Demon." A knock on the door, "Sir, you have a three o'clock with Dr. Sherman this afternoon. I'm sure she'll notice if you don't let me look at it first." I glance up at him and wave him in. He's concerned, not so much for my health. His well-being is my well-being. But, he's more concerned for his handy work. He's too over-qualified to be a personal assistant. But, he's more than that. * - * - * - * It's oddly warm for a winter afternoon in the city. Leaves are gone, and the cold is just whipping around looking for things to chill. Brandon is off finding me some kind of food. I'm waiting for a phone call. I've canceled my meetings for the day, left the Vice President in charge of operations while I take a mid-afternoon sabbatical. Brandon returns, a hot dog in one gloved hand and a bottle of chilled water in the other. He's cradling my cell phone on his forearm and his PDA on the other arm. I reach for the hot dog and my cell phone. "On hold," he whispers and settles down next to me. It's been a sleepy month. The wounds have healed without a scar; Brandon beams at his work. Walter is a blur of a memory. The Demon disappeared for the same month that I chose to take time off to focus on my company. Not that one person out of millions in New York is any more significant. It's hard keeping this going. Well, not really. I've avoided phone calls from certain people over the month. Brandon answers them all. But, not this one. * - * - * - * "What makes you special, Demon? You, you come back from the dead, you kill those that anger you, you kill for payment, you're like, unstoppable." "The word is untouchable." "So, what? It's my turn now? You think you're just gonna walk outta here? That it's gonna be easy? I'll pay you double whatever they're givin' you." He's uneasy. He fidgets. It's getting annoying. But, he's calm, oddly. "It's not about the money." "Then what, Demon? You like doing this?" He's sweating. "I hate scum." I cringe, hating to sound cliché. * - * - * - * "Mr. Dwiers, Special Agent Ford to see you." Brandon places my tea on my desk. "He's in the executive atrium overlooking the lobby. Would you like me to notify legal?" "No, thanks." Agent Ford is a weathered man, hardened by years of military service, service to his country. He's wearing a dark suit and sporting a cold stare that could rival an ice storm. He's composed in the conference room, but restless underneath. Brandon walks in and hands me a slim tablet PC. I read the contents and slide it over to Agent Ford. "Agent Donald Ford, graduated top of your class from Quantico, specializing in organized crime, served with the Marines for ten years, released on an honorable discharge for extreme valor in a time of war. Two kids, one in college, the other in high school. Loving wife, also works for 'the Man', she's with the New York Department of Justice. Also says you stole a small trinket in sixth grade and turned yourself in. Guilt gets to you, doesn't it?" "Impressive, Mr. Dwiers. I didn't peg you for a man with this kind of access." He feigned not being fazed. I pulled the tablet back, sitting across from him. "Is there a reason to this visit, Agent, or am I just impressive in my reality?" He hated the banter, but I relished in it. He visited once a month, sometimes twice. Always unannounced, always at different times. Always trying to catch me off-guard. Brandon always knew where he was. Every moment of every day. It was scary only if you let it get to you. The life summary was always the same, and every now and then, we added something. More personal. Things we couldn't find on any database. We wanted him to know that the tables were turned, and he was the target, not us. I poured him a glass of water. He never wanted it, but I liked the sound and enjoyed watching the water pour. "You like the water, don't you, Agent? Trip to Tahoe last week was good, wasn't it? You daughter took quite a spill off the water skis, didn't she? I hope she's alright. I'm sure the cast will come off soon." * - * - * - * - * I'm not a monster. Just very bored. And the money has escalated it to a degree no human being can handle. Ha, human doing. I may be CEO in title, but no one knows what I do. I'm a visionary. I mean, I dictate what happens to my company, but not many can even tell you what the parent company does. We know what the subsidiaries do. Mass transit, computers, software, military ventures, vehicles, retail, consulting. Brandon was a very dear assistant. Very meticulous in his work. Quite skilled. Well-funded. He even scared me sometimes. Knew what I was thinking. Told me I was predictable in my chaos. Could anticipate my needs before I knew what they were. Almost as if he controlled me. * - * - * - * - * "Guess who's back from the dead, boys?" They fumbled and scurried, startled that the Demon wasn't dead. It had been an hour. The shots rang off. Ten rounds, shells clinking on the ground floor as they ejected from the Glock. That gun was sex. Each thug acquired a single, well-placed and deadly shot. The other three bullets were misses from movement. It felt wasteful not to use the remaining bullets in the magazine, but the job was done. This one was pro-bono. Just a reminder that I remained untouchable. It was almost comical in their deaths. And quite sad, but only in their response. * - * - * - * - * The air tastes salty. It is an odd sensation on the tongue. Agent Ford walks towards me, carrying a duffel bag. We stare into the Hudson. He drops the bag and walks back to his car. Brandon recovers the bag, inspects the contents and walks back to a waiting minivan. I remain behind, staring at the waters. * - * - * - * - * Two cars. A voice, loud and demanding, thick Brooklyn accent. "Demon! You off'd Tony, so we're here to do you in." I turn and fire off a single shot before another pierces through my body. I take a step back, drop my gun arm to my side. It's dark and cold outside. They all laugh and board their cars and just sit there. I stand, feeling the wind rushing through my legs, barely moving my short hair. The gun is warm yet cold. Blood warms my body. I'm waiting. Growing restless, I just stand there, staring into the darkness. Their lights come on as I drop to my knees, then onto my chest. The ground is cold, the pain piercing. They drive past, laughing. * - * - * - * - * He laughs, "You hate scum? Ha! You. Hate. Scum. That's rich!" I sigh heavily. "Yes, Tony, I hate scum. I hate you. You and your entire organization. Everything that's bad with this planet and it's so-called civilization. I hate that." He leans back and gives me a smirk. I hate that smirk even more. My hands are restless, itching at the end of their respective arms. He kicks a bag towards me, "Take your shit, and go. You done good." "Well, Tony." "Well what?" "Grammar, you prick," and I shot him. One bullet, between the eyes, spattered all over the back wall. Over a grammatical error? Really? Was that what it came down to? * - * - * - * - * "Sir, I think it's time for a vacation." "I just came back from one. We went to Tokyo." "That was business, Sir. Every single vacation you've had since I've served under you has been business-related. Dwiers Enterprises is worldwide, Sir. There is no location on the planet that doesn't have something nearby. Not even Antarctica." "Really? We have something there?" "Yes, base station research equipment is sponsored by Dwiers Electronics." "Clear two weeks, pick a location, get me there, disconnect me from everything, and find me in two weeks." "Yes, Sir." * - * - * - * - * "Brandon? This is Dr. Phelps. I'm Mr. Dwiers' therapist." "Yes, we met briefly last week. I remember." "Are you aware that he hasn't been in to see me for the last month?" "No." * - * - * - * - * "Sir, your driver is here to take you to Dr. Phelps' office." I sighed, "I hate names that end in 's'. It makes possessive pronunciations that much more difficult." "I can find you another doctor." "No, B-ran, that's alright. She's been my therapist for a little over a decade now. I couldn't explain my issues to another person now," I take a long sip of the green tea that's cooled off too much and steeped for just too long, "and she says she's nearing a breakthrough. Like clockwork, once a week for fifteen years, and now she's near a breakthrough." "Does she know?" "No, Brandon, she couldn't. That whole rule thing I have. I like her too much." He collects my tea, knowing that the minute cringe came from the over-steeping. His fault for leaving me the teabag, I always forget its in there. He walks across my office and retrieves my sketchbook and a bottle of water. I like to draw during my sessions. Damn weekly webcomic I still update. She doesn't seem to mind. It gives me something to focus on while I'm talking. Not that open-ended shit, either. We talk. Not just me. She listens. She shares. It's weird. The water is for the tea taste. I can't fathom walking around with the over-steeped taste. "She says I'm borderline, Brandon." He wrinkles his eyebrows and stares off into space for a moment, "You already knew that, Sir. It's how you separate between yourself and the Demon." We walk to the elevator. "I know." * - * - * - * - * |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Can't envy you. Yahoo gave me a Macbook Pro with 4GB of RAM and running a Windows XP Virtual Machine, Intel DuoCore, 200GB HDD, built-in Bluetooth and the other goodies.
$2300 machine. Free. Granted, I don't have it anymore, since it is a work machine, but I'm content with my Toshiba. I'll let you know when the envy hits, and but a Thinkpad just doesn't do it for me. Now, a Toughbook 19. That'll make me drool. I do own a Toughbook 27, but it's old. |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| My Toshiba has an Intel DuoCore running at 1.6GHz each, with the 128MB video card, dual screen capabilities, built-in card readers, 1.5GB of RAM and 80GB. I'm still able to play SimCity 4 on it, so I'm good.
And, well, the Macbook was just awesomeness in and of itself. Sooo much better than my Toshiba. I don't work at a computer company anymore. But, when I did, it wasn't really a computer company. They're an internet company. |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| Technically, they both do, but I'm answering first because I can.
Barracks. Don't want to do dorm. Ever. Wheat Thins or Cheese-Its? |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| So, it's either a Dell or a Macbook. | |||
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| I like that Chinese Buffet dealie in Long Beach, for its buffet qualities and the fact that most of my good friend memories are there. Not all, but a nice small percentage.
Old Degrassi or New Degrassi? |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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| It's supposed to be.
The point is that I'm weird already, so the webcomic is a glorious extension of that. |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 946 days Last activity: 946 days |
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I have a few, but I'm a big fan of the Magritte "Treachery of Images":
And Cyro, Digrassi isn't on Oxygen...it's on the CW and The N. Unclog a toilet you plugged up at a public place, or leave it as is for cleaning staff? |
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| Xeogaming Forums - - Posts by Stitch |
