jeffie

chikkiboo @ 2013-06-01T17:52:00

2013-06-01T17:52:18Z

they better not delete this

haas and duiker are married as hell: another errant valour story

2011-12-19T11:26:58Z

Jens, despite all of his tactical genius, had managed to catch the corner of a bolter round from somewhere during the dust-up earlier. Haas had patched him up first before looking over everybody else's cuts and scrapes, and although the bandage showed white through the hole in his uniform and he'd be swinging his sword with his off hand for a while, the dose of pijnstell he'd been forced to take had left him more comfortable than any of the rest of them were for the moment. He didn't seem to appreciate this advantage much. Somehow his wound was Sander's fault; Sander was loudly disappointed that it hadn't been fatal; Brekt had gotten fed up with playing the net in their tennis game and had volunteered himself for guard duty, and Duiker was almost ready to go out and join him despite having only just found a way to lie down that didn't put weight on any of the collection of bruises he'd picked up during a hasty descent off a roof he'd been sniping from.

"Ain't pijnstell supposed to knock you out?" he asked, tilting his head against Haas' leg to look up at the other man.

"It's pretty small doses in the kits," Haas said. "They don't want us passing out in the field." Their voices were pitched low, their way of having an almost-private conversation beneath the general din of the fireteam. It should have been much harder to pull off, since they were almost half of the members, but when Sander was going at it with someone he was a crowd in himself.

Duiker considered this information for a while. He spoke again, during a lull in the private war across the room, in a tone meant to carry. "If Sander and I give you the pills out of our kits, will you hold him down and make him eat 'em?"

"Fuck you, Duiker," said Jens, and "I was just gonna hold a pillow over his face 'n' save my drugs," said Sander, and Haas laughed.

Jens eventually went to sleep on his own, and Sander, thus deprived of a target, wandered out to "help" Brekt. Duiker had drifted off long ago, and didn't notice when Haas carefully moved his head to get out from under and lie down beside him. He did notice when Haas nudged him to roll over, because the rolling put pressure on the ribs he'd smacked into a drainpipe; he woke up with a hiss.

"Shit," said Haas - too loudly, but there was no one awake to hear. He lowered his voice anyway. "Sorry. What's the matter?"

"I'm fine." Duiker wriggled his way back into comfort, tucked between the wall on one side and the wall-like bulk of Haas on the other, nestled beneath both their blankets. Haas kept looking at him - he could feel his eyes without even glancing over to confirm. Eventually he admitted: "Fell off a roof. Smacked myself up pretty good, that's it."

"Shoulda said something when I asked earlier, you idiot," he said, without a single hint of a you would. "You could've busted something."

"I think I'd know," Duiker protested. "I'm probably blue as Sander's balls all the way down, but I think I'd know if I was busted. Ow!"

Haas was running his hand over Duiker's side, feeling his ribs, and he stopped at the exclamation. "Cracked ribs ain't like busting a leg," he pointed out mildly. "I'm just checking. This hurt worse than that?" He prodded again and Duiker smacked him with an elbow.

"I'm fine, for fuck's sake. I told you."

"Let me check anyway."

"You're so nursey," Duiker complained, but he lay back and let Haas unzip his jacket and pull the shirt beneath it up to puddle around his chest. The investigation did reveal a swathe of mottled purple and blue across a large percentage of Duiker's torso, but although Haas' hands were cold (everyone's hands were always cold) and the bruising hurt when touched, his ministrations were as gentle as he could make them and Haas was eventually contented with Duiker's lack of bustedness.

Duiker got a couple of syllables into "I told you so" and halfway to pulling his shirt back down before they were interrupted.

"Whoops." Brekt pulled his head back out of the doorway. "Sorry. Hang a fuckin' cap on the door or some shit, will ya?"

Haas stared expressionlessly toward the door for a long moment. Footsteps and two voices raised in laughter echoed in and fell to silence.

Duiker snorted. "Well, I guess that means we get a free one, huh?" He tugged Haas down toward him, pausing just before their lips met. "Just don't piledrive me, I'm gonna have enough problems tomorrow as it is."

the time duiker fell up a cliff

2011-12-18T08:38:34Z

another of my Errant Valour stories (first, second). this is a prequel and takes place when brekt was around

Base camp covered an expanse of unevenly-paved ground outside the reclaimed city, a mass of black tents of various sizes huddling close together under the open sky. The narrow paths left between the tents were filled in with white gravel, making it easy to navigate at night. Errant Valour were currently engaged in maintaining those paths, tamping another layer of limedust into the surface and straightening the edges with stiff-bristled pushbrooms. They'd been at it for three hours, ever since Haas had accidentally disrespected a lieutenant colonel whom he'd mistaken for one of their own out of the corner of his eye.

"Lord Death vants you guys," said a voice. Kees, from Errant Throne, the next tent over but one. He looked at Sander, who was working in his shirtsleeves. "And you're out of uniform."

"You ain't rank me, you can't say shit," Sander retorted, instantly dropping his broom against the nearest wall and whipping a handkerchief out of somewhere to wipe down his hands and face.

"He vas vorried about getting his chacket dusty," explained Duiker, joining the brooms.

"Yeah, vell." Sander gestured downward. All of them were graduated shades of grey from the knees down, with limedust caked in the tooling of their gaiters. He crouched down to wipe his own as clean as he could with the handkerchief, then handed it off to Brekt before jumping tip-toed at the corner of the tent to unhook his coat from the skull-shaped finial on one of the wall poles.

"I bet ve're in more trouble," Brekt said long-sufferingly. Sander's handkerchief was effective only in smearing the dust around his ankles. "Somebody probably koeked all of us 'cause Miss Fancy here vas out of fuckin' uniform."

"Nah, he's handing out orders," said Kees. "Us guys are rollin' in ten, I chust got sent back to grab some shit and tell you guys to report."

"More shit? Ain't five pieces of shit enough for one unit? T’rone - "

"I'll owe you an ass-kicking," Kees promised. "I ain't got time right now."

~

The acting secretary in the field office was just a regular, and they fixed him with five cold stares in an attempt to cow him into saluting them. When it didn’t work, Jens deigned to speak.

"Fireteam Errant Valour reporting to Captain van Moorden."

They were waved through and marched in single file down the cramped hall that bisected the semipermanent structure. Iron uprights with two feet of space between them supported a ridgepole from which the black weatherproofed material of the roof and walls descended tentlike to the outer wall of uprights, then the ground. Base camp had been in this location long enough that some minor adjustments for longer-term living had occurred: the walls were no longer pegged through the ground outside, but had been wrapped carefully around long iron basepoles which held them flat to the earth, preventing so much as a draft or a puddle from sneaking in; a floor had been laid out of some kind of planking material that clinked beneath their heels. The floor, at least, was new. The walls had been repinned across camp - even on the smaller barracks tents - by a crew of regulars on penal duty a few days ago, but they were still sleeping on cots over pavement.

They had to wait between the uprights for just long enough to get annoyed before they were called in to the room on the end. The captain was sitting behind an ornately-carved folding desk stacked high with paper; despite having just summoned them himself, he made them wait, lined up at attention and holding their salutes, while he marked something down in a dataslate, then ordered them at ease without looking up.

van Moorden was a scion of one of the lesser baronies - his family owned one of the factories in Vloer 2, the one where Duiker's family worked, in fact - and everyone knew that the instant he came into money he would be buying his way up into a major and forget the SASS. Once EV were sufficiently impressed with how incredibly unimportant they were in comparison with their commanding officer, they were briefed and given chits to collect all necessary materials for their upcoming mission, effective immediately. Another round of salutes was followed by a quiet march out of the tent, and as soon as their boots touched the gravel outside they broke out in a chorus of chatter.

“Ve’re getting airlifted! My broders, ve are movin’ op in de vorld.”

“Fiver says dey chust toss us in de cargo hold.”

“Golden Scrote, Brekt, you’re such a fuckin’ party pisser.”

“Doesn’t matter, getting airlifted. Chust us, too - you know Kees voulda been all over it if dey vas flying in.”

“No shit dey ain’t vaste an airlift on Errant T’rone, dey’re useless hufters anyvays. Lord Death knows vich of his guys is gonna do someting so badass he gets a promotion.”

“Yeah, de real qvestion is vy’s he bodering to send de rest of you along vit me?”

~

When they had their gear and reported for pickup, Haas silently reached into one pocket, pulled out a paychit, and passed it to Brekt. Their aircraft was very obviously a cargo lighter, no bigger than a delivery wagon. A couple of corpsmen were loading ammo crates into it under the eye of the pilot, who gave the EV men an assessing glance and told them shortly, "Big guy and you, one side, de rest of you, oder side," before turning away and apparently forgetting about them.

They climbed in through the hatch and found seats atop the crates. The last few boxes were settled in between their feet. The hatch closed and left them in darkness, a single strip of red hazard lamps along the center of the roof the only light.

"Ve're movin' op in de vorld, alright. I tink I'd’a radder took a truck."

Sander and Jens accidentally twined their fingers together while trying to get a good grip on the rope netting holding the cargo in place. When they realized what had happened, they pulled away from each other sharply. The crack of Jens' skull against the lighter's bulkhead, and his subsequent curses, echoed through the hold.

“De hell are you doing back dere?” The pilot’s voice, muffled and tinny through the speaking-tube to the cockpit.

“Jens is feelin’ me up!”

“Oh, fucksake, like you wouldn’t trow a fuckin’ party if I did.”

“Sure, he talks like dat, but soon as de lights go out he’s all handsin’ me - “

“No gay shit in my lighter! It don’t like carryin’ passengers anyvays, and I ain’t putting up vit you guys being stupid. Get your hands outta each oder’s pants and hold on, ve’re taking off.”

“Chust for de record,” Sander said as they all clawed for the cargo netting again, “if any’a you guys get airsick ‘n’ trow up on my shoes, I’m gonna pull your stomach out your t’roat and feed it back to you.”

~

All of them were looking slightly green when they disembarked; Sander’s shoes remained unsullied, but that certainly wasn’t for lack of trying on somebody’s part. Either the lighter really didn’t like carrying passengers, or its pilot had flown roughly on purpose - any time things smoothed out enough for the men to start chattering, things had very shortly unsmoothed, and the last hour of the ride had been spent in tense, queasy silence.

“Close de hatch behind you,” the pilot ordered through the speaking tube as the last man climbed out. “And don’t fuck around, I got places to be. Dis ammo von’t deliver itself.”

Jens had a map out and unfolded as soon as his feet touched solid ground. Sander leaned around him to look at it, and after a quick look around and consideration of where they were (a narrow patch of flatland between a shallow, rusty waterway and a steep cliff) and where they were supposed to be going (an X on the map past some woods which began on top of the cliff), he hopped back to the lighter and banged on the cockpit shielding.

“Hey, you kluiveduiker, you got us on de vrong side of de fuckin’ hill!”

The pilot probably couldn’t hear him through the shielding, and if he had any verbal response it wasn’t audible for the same reason. The gestures he made, however, were quite clear: “fuck you” and “go away.” Sander returned the first in kind before turning back to his squad.

“Dey probably built de trees too close togedder to land op dere,” Haas suggested, shouting over the din of the lighter’s engines as it spooled up from idle to takeoff.

“Or he chust didn’t vant to get shot at by de enemy,” said Jens.

“Ve gotta climb all de vay op dere...” Sander looked up the cliff with something very close to despair.

“Yeah, poor baby’s gonna have to get his hands dirty.” Jens’ voice was snide, but he wore a very similar expression. It was going to be a huge pain in the ass.

“Ve’ll get halfvay op, Duiker’ll fall down, ve’ll have to climb down and get him and start over...” Brekt, also despairing.

“Vere is Duiker?” Haas asked suddenly, his expression shifting from shared unhappiness to active concern. They all spun around, cursing at various decibels and calling Duiker’s name. Can’t turn your back on him for a minute - probably fell in that canal and got washed out to sea - did anybody actually see him get off the lighter?

Fifteen minutes of searching later, and the mood of the group had gone from annoyance to anger to genuine concern. Jens was in the middle of tuning their vox to report a man missing when they heard a distant shout.

“Hey! Hey, you hufters! Look up!”

Four spines stiffened in surprise; four heads slowly turned; four pairs of eyes slid up the face of the cliff, to where Duiker was perched swinging his feet over the edge.

“I can’t believe it,” someone breathed. “He managed to fall up a cliff.”

~

It took an hour and a half for the rest of them to make it up the slope. The ground was silty and dry and had a tendency to break off in chunks beneath hands and feet no matter how carefully they were placed. Duiker sat and swung his feet all the while, giving smugly cheerful advice. At one point Sander tried to throw a clump of dirt at him, and succeeded only in making himself slip several feet backward. “No, see, you’re doing it vrong,” Duiker informed him. “You’re supposed to fall de oder vay. It’s okay, dat’s a professional move, I’m not surprised you don’t know how.”

When they reached the top Haas went straight over to Duiker and yanked him away from the edge of the cliff by one arm, leaving him sprawled on his back on the ground with the taller man looming over him. “Vat de hell did you do?”

“I fell up,” Duiker said, his smug grin faltering.

The other three arranged themselves around him, staring down.

He sat up and brushed dirt and tree-bits out of his hair. “I, uh, got stuck in de cargo net,” he admitted. “Dere vas some of it sticking out of de hatch and I vas going to try to put it back in, but I couldn’t get de hatch to open back op, and den he vas taking off... so I vaited until he vas close to de hill and den I let go.”

They stared.

Finally Haas reached down and gave Duiker a hand up. Jens turned away with a scowl and dark mutterings about getting some work done now that everyone was done fucking around. Brekt and Sander made eye contact and shook their heads in amazement.

“He fell up a cliff.”

“Duiker, you chust out-Duikered yourself.”

chikkiboo @ 2011-12-17T11:07:00

2011-12-17T17:07:20Z

so jen and i saw sherlock holmes: a game of shadows yesterday on a whim because we happened to drive past the movie theatre and realize it had come out
i didn't hate it
i didn't like it as much as the first one but i didn't hate it

except that unexpectedly that scene that was shown in the trailer where they're running through the woods while being shot at made me have a panic attack because the setting looked like the great war

i hate having that reaction to things; it's so fucking illogical, i have no reason to react that way to wwi, this wasn't even actually wwi and it leaves me feeling stupid for days

Condolences (WH40k: Fireteam Errant Valour)

2011-09-21T08:38:43Z

A sequel to my previous story about Fireteam EV. The guys deal with some of the aftermath of Brekt's death.

"Maybe we should write a letter to his family," said Duiker. He said it very quietly and he said it into the wall, but in the silence of their room he may as well have shouted it. The rest of the team, who had been ignoring each other generally and ignoring Duiker rather more pointedly, looked at him in surprise.

“Y’know, that ain’t actually a bad idea,” Sander admitted. "I mean, ain’t like Lord Death’s gonna do it. Did he have a family, though?"

"He had a mom, at least,” said Jens. “And a little brother.”

“How come you know so much about his family, are - were you his boyfriend? Was he plannin’ on takin’ you home to meet his parents next Emperor’s Birthday?” Sander’s interjection began as purely reflexive; he winced visibly at his own tense mistake, but dogged through the rest of it in an attempt at acting normal. The others ignored him - also normal.

"Well, I'm not writing to some kid to tell him his big brother went out the pipe," Haas said, leaning past the edge of his bunk to open his footlocker. A bit of digging beneath his dress uniform and he came up with a cardleather box which unfolded into a lap desk, with a sheaf of ice-grey paper and a pen. Sander’s rolled eyes and low mutter about
fancy-ass merch kids with their personal statuary went as unacknowledged as anything else he ever said, and the team as a whole gathered on and around Haas’ bunk to stare over his shoulder while he tried to write. Even Duiker uncoiled from his spot with his face in the corner; his approach to the group was hesitant, but Sander and Jens automatically moved out of the way to give him his natural spot against Haas’ non-writing arm, so he had little choice but to settle in their midst.

“Shit,” said Haas. He tapped the end of the pen against his lips and looked down at the blank page. “What do you say in a letter like this?” No one else had a ready answer, and eventually he took a breath and began writing.

Dear Mrs. Smidt,

It is with the greatest regret and sorr

"You sure his mom's a Smidt too?" Sander interrupted.

"He's a Smidt,” said Haas reasonably, pen paused a millimeter above the paper.

"Yeah, but my mom's a Yonge - "

"That's because you're a street bastard,” Jens snapped. “Shut up and let him write."

"Go catch cholera."

The pen went back into motion.

It is with the greatest regret and sorrow that we write to inform you of the loss of your son Brekt in action on

The pen stopped. "What's the date?"

Duiker answered, and Haas noted the numbers and kept writing.

He gave his life bravely in service to the Emperor, and we will carry his name in honor until we join him.

After a moment’s thought, Haas shrugged slightly and set the pen down. “I don’t know what else to say.”

The team read the two sentences and sat in silence.

“Well, we can’t just send that,” Sander said eventually. “I mean, that’s a waste of paper, all that blank space at the bottom. Looks like we ain’t give enough of a shit to give him a full sheet.”

There was a murmur of general agreement, but no ideas for continuing the letter were vocalized.

After another moment, Jens sighed and reached for the letter. “I’ll add something.”

It was an honor to serve with Brekt. He was a good soldier and a good man

“ - unlike the rest of the dumb hufters I work with,” Sander finished for him.

“Somebody elbow him for me, I’m busy.”

Sander jerked away automatically, but no elbow was sent his direction - that was always Brekt’s job, Haas was too nice and Duiker too lazy and Brekt usually sitting conveniently right next to Sander within easy smacking distance. No Brekt, so no elbow, so no swearing following Jens’ request. There had been a lot of long silences in their room that night, but this one seemed bigger: not just the four of them not talking, but their fifth missing, a blatant gap.

Sander settled back into the group, all of them looking pained and none of them looking at one another, Jens staring at the letter and regretting his last words, Duiker staring at the crack between two floor tiles and regretting his life, and then Haas leaned back and struck out with his elbow so that Sander was startled straight onto the floor to fill the
silence with complaints about the state of his ribcage.

The rest of them could breathe again.

He was a good soldier and a good man. He was the best shot in our fireteam. He helped save all our lives more times than we can count. It won’t be the same without him.

“I don’t think I got anything else for it,” Jens said defeatedly.

Sander pushed himself to his knees and leaned around Jens to look at the paper. “Well, you write pretty big, but that still ain’t took up much space.”

“We might as well all put a little bit in,” said Duiker. Haas took the letter and pen from Jens and handed Duiker the whole box.

He was a good friend to. He always had your back when it counted.

Haas murmured something, and Duiker carefully squeezed a tiny second “o” between the word “to” and the period.

Tell his little brother he was a hero of the imperjum.

Another murmur from Haas, but this one couldn’t be fixed - an “i” could be turned into a “j” easily enough, but not vice versa. Duiker kept the letter, pen poised just above the page as he considered adding something more, but finally he set the pen down and handed the box back to Haas, who passed it to Sander.

I aint want to repete everybody else but Brekt was a grate

“Holy shit, you can write?” Jens said in mock amazement, then leaned over and wrinkled his nose. “Well, in a way. Kinda.”

“Go catch the pox and die, you fuckin’ kuttekop!” Sander bristled like an angry cat, tensing up and wrinkling the paper. “NOW look what you made me do! The paper’s busted now!”

“You wrecked that paper as soon as you put that spelling on it, thronesake.”

Haas barely managed to grab the box before Sander launched himself at Jens; he smoothed the paper out and added a “guy” to finish Sander’s sentence, and the letter was put carefully away until everyone calmed down enough
to sign it. They’d be allowed out of billet for the weekend in a couple of hours, and he could take it to their captain to ask for it to be dispatched before they went to get their tattoos.

chikkiboo @ 2011-08-11T21:43:00

2011-08-12T02:45:57Z

The first five people (in theory) to comment in this post get to request that I write a drabble/ficlet of any pairing/character of their choosing.

Please include a prompt of some kind, whether that's a full prompt or just a word or a song or something. Hopefully the character/pairing you want will be one I'm familiar with.

chikkiboo @ 2011-08-03T04:50:00

2011-08-03T09:52:39Z

The middle of a heat wave in Eburd. The temp report on the reader had been bugged for three days, flickering between 244 and 01, so nobody knew exactly how hot it was - except “too hot.” The neighborhood cisterns were on a rolling shutdown, each block getting water for two-hour intervals, and caravans of kids with wagons full of bottles and jugs were snaking under the river every night and breaking open service spigots in the milzone. All the fans in the neighborhood were pulling hard on the generators, too, and although they hadn’t put those on rolling shutdown yet, it had been openly discussed on freenet as a Good Idea to not run any unnecessary equipment until further notice. Just the fridge, a couple of fans, lamps in occupied rooms at night, and use as much solar gen as you have access to. Brownouts happened anyway. You could make decent money selling ice cubes if your freezer managed to stay cold.

Wren had moved the chickens off the roof and out of the sun. His kitchen was overrun with them now, and even his bedroom wasn’t safe - Hellbitch and the Demon Whore followed at his heels and ran flapping over his feet into the room every time he opened the door. The birds were all over the stairwell too. The door to his music loft was closed, and an amplifier dragged in front of it to make sure it stayed that way, but he could hear clucking on the other side of it.

Most of the front wall of the loft was windows. Only one of them had glass in it, but Wren pried the boards off of the others and left them stacked against the wall. No refreshing breezes came in, and he almost felt like it was hotter outside than in - a fucking waste of effort, letting all the heat in to his studio. The acoustics were probably getting warped.

He picked one up to test it out. It was slightly out of tune, and he fixed it dourly, certain this was a sign of Things to Come. Watch it just slide right back out of tune as soon as he started playing it. Strings probably melting. Wood all fucked up from the heat.

He kicked a chair over into a patch of shadow at the edge of the window light, sat down, and played.

Nothing in particular. A couple of the old classics to limber up. A few of his own things. Then just noodling. He ran into something interesting involving a D chord and some hammering on the high E, switch to a G, repeat; he played around with that, found some complements to it. It started to take shape pretty well. He paused long enough to reach into a crate behind him, find a tambourine, and throw it on the ground by his chair. Back to playing, and in his mind he built up a decent drumline for it, ghosting it in by tapping his foot on the floor and kicking the tambourine at intervals. There were a few ways a melody could go for this, and he tested some of them out. Not even trying for lyrics - the words coming out of his mouth were just complaints about the heat - but the tune would hold up, if he found the right one.

He was almost happy with it when he realized Them Fuckin’ Kids were outside. Outside and shouting words at his window, no less. Wren hadn’t even felt the little shits, he’d been so caught up in the music. He dropped the guitar and stood, leaned out of one of the windows, pushed sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes so he could glare more effectively. “I AIN’T OPEN TODAY. GO HOME. It’s too fuckin’ hot to work. Shit’s probably gonna cook off on its own anyway, blow my whole fuckin’ house up. Go away.”

They grinned up at him. Fresh’s mohawk was limp and drooping at the ends, the glue softened by the heat. Dandy’s hat was missing, and he and Spit had freezer bags tied to their heads with wet handkerchiefs. They all looked ridiculous, and they were way too cheerful for living in an oven. Fresh even waved at him. “That was a really cool song!”

“I ain’t playin’ it for you!”

SA is getting my aubrey-maturn mixed up with my warhammer!

2011-07-19T21:37:09Z

DOCTOR ZIMBARDO posted:
if i ever get to play rogue trader again my rogue trader is going to have a kroot manservant named krootick who fetches him roasted cheeses and does his laundry and also disposes of bodies

BSAKat posted:
"Krootrick! Krootrick, there!"
"What now...My Lord?"
"Light along that toasted cheese, you hear me there? And bring it in the gilded ork skull salvers! Bear a hand now, bear a hand."
"Which I'm bringing it, ain't I? And you can't have it on the skull salvers since we lost them in the last warp incursion." Said Krootrick with surly triumph...

Benagain posted:
If I ever play Rogue Trader again my seneschal will be named Maturin.

Italic Squirrels posted:
And doing everything in the name of Catachan independence.

chikkiboo @ 2011-07-18T04:48:00

2011-07-18T09:50:14Z

We had a cookout last night. I'm pretty amused by this picture: I've got a smoke and a beer and a Coldplay t-shirt and something is on fire. If I'd been wearing my tin 'at, it would be the epitome of owl.jpg

(also one of my friends saw it on facebook and her boyfriend looked at it and assumed I was a guy, which made me happy. i passed in a photo to a stranger! :V)

if nobody tries too hard to kill you i got your back

2011-07-10T11:52:04Z

Warhammer 40k original characters: Fireteam Errant Valour, a unit of the Imperial Guard roughly equivalent to a squad of Army Rangers.
Warnings: character death

Flarelight fell in intermittent stripes through shattered holes in the great stone wall; fragments of stained glass still clung in places to what was left of windowframes, pouring patches of color onto the scene below. The building had once been a transit terminal; now it was a charnel-house.

"Damn good fuckin' thing we wore the respos," Sander said, the voxcaster built into his mask picking up his voice automatically. He took a careful step, trying to avoid both the rubble which would slip and scatter beneath his soles and the corpses which would just be disgusting. "Bet it fuckin' reeks in here."

The next man over was barely in his peripheral vision, making his own way through the mess. His response was inaudible outside, thanks to the muffling unit that accompanied the vox; Sander heard him only in his left ear, where the relay was plugged. "Can't smell worse than your mom does, so I bet you'd feel right at home."

"Choke on shit and die, dickhead." The pair exchanged rude gestures, ghostly white outlines of gloved hands in the dark. The rest of the five-man fireteam snorted into their voxes, tossing insults of their own toward either or both parties.

Or, well, most of them did. There was one voice conspicuous in its absence. "Duiker, did you get your ass lost again?" Sander scanned the room, searching for the fifth skeletal uniform amongst the shadows. The others followed suit, all in silence.

"Fuck," one man said finally. "Duiker, you tit-faced reject, where the hell are you?"

"Bet he found half a fat chick 'n' dragged her to the bathrooms."

"Dipshit. Wouldn't surprise me." Sander stopped and held his hand up, waving the others to a halt as well. "Haas, you're his marchin' buddy, when's the last time you saw him?"

"He was there when we cleared the street," said Haas. "We musta lost him when we had to climb that wall. I'll double back for him."

"We're on a fuckin' schedule here," complained the man nearest Sander - Jens, carrier of the handheld vox unit that was their contact with HQ. "We can't just wait around all fuckin' night for one dumbass who can't climb a wall. Brekt, you and Sander wanna keep going? I'll cover Haas 'n' help babysit."

Brekt and Sander agreed, then argued aloud and with sign language for a moment to determine who was going to cross the room to whose side. The other pair flipped them off and left, their complaints about Duiker's behavior (and parentage, and personal appearance and hygiene) fading as the two groups became separated past the limits of their short-range voxcasters.

"Y'know," said Sander, "this musta been one hell of a shitty place to be when the shit went down." The further into the building they got, the clearer the situation became. The damage to the structure was mostly on the front wall, from external shelling; the dead who littered the floor lay in patterns, waves that streamed forth toward the entrance from the transit tunnels on the far side. In places the waves were disturbed by - something; in others they were clearly discernable, and generally ended in decaying heaps piled against the exit doors. The fireteam had been unable to push the doors open against the stacked corpses, thus the need to climb the wall that had apparently eaten Duiker.

"I bet 90% of those poor bastards just straight-up got trampled to death," said Brekt. "You there when that happened with that factory fire back home?"

"Nah, I'm trash, remember? Heard about it, though - ah, Golden Scrote!" The surface Sander had taken for toppled rock had proven to be a very dusty corpse; his boot broke through the ribcage with a crunch and a squelch, and he shook his leg angrily until the remainder of the torso fell away from his ankle. "Fuck! I fuckin' got dead guy up under my fuckin' gaiter!"

Brekt was bent over, hands on his knees, shaking with laughter that the voxcaster refused to send after the first burst - it was programmed to ignore loud noises, to keep from transmitting screams. "You prissy son of a bitch," he said finally. "You gonna have to take a break to wash up before we keep goin'?"

"Shut the fuck up before I pick that guy up 'n' start stuffin' bits down your collar." Sander shook his leg a few more times.

Something, somewhere, rattled.

Instantly both men were on high alert, back to back, feet planted as firmly as the cluttered ground would allow, laspistols in their hands.

Silence reigned.

Eventually Sander spoke. "What the fuck was th- "

The walls surrounding the tunnel entrance exploded.

Brekt and Sander dove for cover, ending up knee-deep in corpses behind a ticket booth.

A thing broke out of the tunnels. A great, unspeakable thing, the size of a truck, covered with spines and splotches and unthinkable anatomy. It shook its huge blunt head, emitting a noise that cut through the Guardsmen's ears like a rusty sawblade, snuffling its snout as it sought its prey.

"Okay, yeah, that's some bullshit," said Sander. "That is so the kinda thing you ain't supposed to look at 'cause it makes you crazy."

"You got a mirror on you, nancy?"

"Nope. Fuck you."

"We are so fuckin' dead," said Brekt. The men's eyes met - two pairs of shadowed holes in white-pale faces, the darkness of the night completing the illusion created by their skull-painted masks. "I'd say it's been nice knowin' you, but I don't want the last words out of my mouth to be a lie."

"The last words out of your mouth are gonna be cryin' for your mommy," Sander said scornfully. "You go ahead 'n' die if you wanna. I was plannin' on killin' that thing and goin' home for a fuckin' bath, myself. I ain't gonna die with dead-guy juice all over me."

The thing's blind face - eyeless but bizarrely humanoid - turned toward them, and it fell silent for a split second before roaring and veering its mass in their direction.

"Shit shit shit split up!" Brekt was already on it, clattering through the rubble in the opposite direction, making the pair into separate targets to divide the thing's attention.

From the amount of noise Brekt was making, Sander figured his teammate wasn't getting much traction; he himself had a clear lane ahead of him, one of the swathes carved out of the mass of bodies, and he took it at a run, the sword at his side thumping against his leg, his soft-soled boots barely thudding against the inlaid stone floor. He spun on his heel and used his momentum to plant his feet firmly.

The thing wasn't hard to track even in the low light; it swept its way across the room toward Brekt, tossing corpses and wreckage aside to leave another cleared path in its wake. "Get your six," Sander said into the vox, and took careful aim with his pistol.

The shot was clear and easy and true, and the beam struck the thing in the joint of one rearmost leg. It paused and screeched, but kept going.

"Oh for fuck's sake." Sander fired again. "Two guys with fuckin' flashlights against this piece of shit."

"Was supposed to be five," Brekt noted breathlessly.

"Fuckin' Duiker."

The gun wasn't accomplishing much and the thing was still gaining on Brekt. Sander tried one more shot, then took a deep breath and pulled his mask down. "HEY, FUCKFACE, I'M SHOOTIN' YER ASS!" He shoved the respirator back on and yanked the tightening strap immediately, though not before enough of the outside air got in to confirm that it did, indeed, fucking reek in there.

Being noisy seemed to have worked. The beast halted and lumbered around in a circle, head-first, sinuous as a snake despite its bulk and legs. Sander had a moment to deeply regret his life choices before it lunged toward him.

He fired wildly into its approaching face, trying to back up at the same time. The distance had felt sufficient until the thing started moving to lessen it. Closer up the tusks and horns which stabbed outward from its face looked longer and sharper, and the face itself both more and less human, and Sander realized with a jerk that he'd stopped firing. Brekt was swearing into his ear, and he swore himself as he tore himself away from the sight of the beast, firing one last time without aiming before turning to try to run.

Before he could gain any ground the thing was within reach of him, swinging its awful head and letting forth the rusty bellow. Sander threw himself down and felt the air move just above his head as a tusk swept over him by inches at best. He rolled into a crouch, his pistol steadied in both hands - a point-blank shot was his best hope at this point - and the creature swung its head back, face low to the ground, the dull side of one of the massive horns catching him in the flank with unexpected force.

He was flung skidding across the floor, his gun knocked free of his grip and skittering away; he finally smashed hard into what was left of a mid-class check-in kiosk. A piece of someone's luggage fell over and hit him in the chest as punctuation. For a moment he was stunned, struggling to breathe and literally seeing stars; then the stars resolved themselves into bursts of lasgun fire - Brekt's pistol, drawing the thing's attention back to himself.

"Get the fuck over here, dickhead," Brekt was shouting aloud. He pulled his respirator back on and hissed into the vox: "Sander, you asshole, you better not be dead yet, I ain't distracting shit for a dead guy - "

"You should be so lucky," Sander told him between gasps, pushing himself to his feet. "Lost my fuckin' gun, though. Gonna have to go in close. Try 'n' don't shoot me, okay? Just keep aimin' for the big thing."

"You're as bad as Duiker, you gun-losing fuck-up," Brekt said sharply. "I see you clear, get on it."

It was a game of cat-and-two-mice, the creature tracking Brekt, then turning to roar toward Sander after the bite of his sabre, then called off again by Brekt shouting to buy his teammate time to maneuver. Its hide was tough and smooth; the well-sharpened blade merely glanced off it until Sander switched tactics to point-first stabbing, and even then it seemed to treat him as merely an annoyance on par with a mosquito. They kited it between them, back and forth across the ruined lobby, without seeming to wear it out at all.

The same could not be said for them.

"We need," said Brekt, while it was his turn to run, "to fuckin' kill this thing. I'm gonna have a heart attack."

"Thanks for the insight, kloteklapper, I thought we were keepin' it as a pet."

"I got an idea, keep leadin' it - I'm gonna overcharge my gun - let it get up close at me when I say, got it?"

"'n' while you're playin' sittin' duck I do what? How much lead do I got right now?" Sander didn't dare turn to look; he was making wide zigzags across the floor, unable to turn too tightly lest the thing cut a tangent across his path. At least the repeated turnings had led it to clear most of the floor; it flung the corpses out of its way as it chased the two men, which gave it more room to turn but also left them with less restricted paths to take on their evasive runs.

"You're fine," Brekt assured him. "I'll yell for it in a second. Stay off it 'til I say go, then run up on it 'n' try and shove your sword through the middle of it. Just stay the fuck out of line with its head, okay?"

"Roger that - kinda been my plan this whole time, have you SEEN its fuckin' head?"

"Shut up." Brekt dropped his mask again and shouted. Once more the beast swung around toward the noise and roared across the floor.

Sander turned on his heel and ran after it, staying clear to one side as in V formation. He could see Brekt on the far side of the room, down on one knee, both hands steadying his pistol. The charge indicator was flashing out a warning, and the man's eyes were so wide Sander could see the whites against his black facepaint even at this distance. Brekt's lips were moving, silent without the voxcaster in his still-unfastened respo, and although his earpiece would still be in, Sander kept silence as well. No distractions.

The thing was getting closer to him, and Sander was right behind it, and it was almost in range of Brekt, and when was he going to shoot it, for the Emperor's sake -

- and then he heard Brekt shouting, "GO!", clear and loud at close range without the vox, and he leapt forward, kicked off the thing's back leg, put all of his weight behind his sword -

- and then the world exploded, bright blue-white, the burning hellbolt of a lasgun pushed just this side of becoming a flash grenade pulsing out of Brekt's pistol and through the center of the thing's skull, and it jerked mightily with all its great bulky strength, flinging Sander off behind it.

Once more he skidded across the floor, and sat dazed in the sudden silence, sword still in hand.

"Holy shit, Brekt, we killed it." Sander pushed himself upright, sitting amongst the corpses. "Brekt?"

It took him a moment to get to his feet. He stumbled through the quiet, past the steaming body of the behemoth toward his teammate. The creature had a round, charred black hole through the center of what had once been its face, but the sword-like horns remained, and its last throes had raked the sharp ends across the man's body. The silvery stripes on the chest of Brekt's uniform were soaked near-black with his own blood.

"Yeah, you're pretty fuckin' killed too, ain't you." Sander carefully nudged the least-bloody bit of the body with one toe. "You poor, dead bastard."

He reached down and pulled Brekt's laspistol from his hand. The charge pack was ruined, of course, but he cleared it and slid the gun into his own holster anyway - the lenses would still be fine, and replacing the charge pack would be easier than finding the one he'd lost in all that mess. Then he kneeled, hefted the other man's body over his shoulder, braced his legs and rose to head out.

He was nearly to the wall they'd come over to get in before he started picking up vox chatter - Haas and Jens repeating his and Brekt's names, asking for updates. "Did you find Duiker?" he asked.

"Hey, shit, they're back! Yeah, we found him," said Haas. "Dumbshit fell off the wall 'n' got himself a concussion. He'll be okay, though."

"What the fuck were you guys doing in there?" Jens demanded. "All we could do was hold the perimeter 'n' try to raise you on vox."

"Oh, y'know, war stuff," Sander replied drily. "Look out, dead guy incoming." He heaved Brekt's body up over the wall and laboriously climbed after it. "We neutralized the threat, though, so you're welcome." His legs dangled over the edge of the wall for a moment; when he let go and dropped down his knee gave out under him, sending him sprawling, and he swore sharply enough to be cut off by the vox.

"Didn't clear the tunnels," Jens pointed out. "No way you were gone long enough." Haas left the little pile of Brekt and crossed to Sander's side, checking him for wounds.

Sander waved him away. "The fuckin' tunnels cleared themselves, Sparky. If there was any more of them things they woulda come up for the ruckus. Let 'em send the regulars in with meltas if they're that fuckin' worried about it."

"Who got the kill?" asked Jens.

Sander shrugged. "I wasn't payin' attention." He thought for a moment, then shrugged again. "Give it to Brekt. I'll get the next one."

chikkiboo @ 2011-06-30T19:26:00

2011-07-01T00:26:17Z

OK GUYS SO I NEED - ++NEED++ - TO TAKE A TRIP TO MARYLAND IN OCTOBER, OKAY? WHICH MEANS I NEED TO RAISE ABOUT $300 TO BUY ROUND-TRIP PLANE TICKETS. IF ANYONE WOULD LIKE TO COMMISSION SOME CROSS STITCHES OR JEWELRY OR SOMETHING FROM ME, PLEASE LET ME KNOW.

chikkiboo @ 2011-06-21T21:07:00

2011-06-22T02:06:08Z

So my grandmother has to go in for surgery tonight or tomorrow, they're only giving her a 30% chance of survival. I'm fine and I'm not too worried because she's always been stubborn & she'll probably stubborn through this too. Just thought I'd post so you guys would know what's going on in my life and be forewarned if something happens and I end up having an emotion some time this week or something

i am SO SICK of finding this kind of shit out by accident when my sister posts it to her facebook wall though, jfc

chikkiboo @ 2011-06-17T19:09:00

2011-06-18T00:08:47Z

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA I AM SO PISSED OFF RIGHT NOW

So my acoustic guitar needed new strings like HELLA BAD like I'm talking one of the strings had the fucking wrapping uncoiling off it it was that old and shitty because I don't take care of my babies like I should and shit right

So I go to Mundt Music and there's a 2-for-1 on Ernie Balls and hey I like Ernie Ball strings I use Super Slinkies on my bass and the Earthwood packaging looks hella authentic I'll get some and then grab a set of Super Slinkies for the electric while I'm at it

And they have four different widths and I'm not sure what to get so I get the second-to-the-smallest because I don't want to get something that's too wide and snap the neck of the damn thing nor do I want to get the smallest ones and then find out that they're too small because I prefer the sound from thicker strings, right

WELL FOR ONE THING APPARENTLY THE OLD STRINGS WERE SPUN OF FUCKING GOSSAMER AND DREAMS BECAUSE EVEN THE LIGHT ONES I GOT ARE WIDER THAN THE OLD ONES

BUT HERE'S THE PART THAT PISSED ME OFF

AFTER THE LABOR-INTENSIVE AND HIGHLY ANNOYING PROCESS OF GETTING ALL THE STRINGS ON I FINALLY GO TO TUNE IT
AND AS I TRY TO TUNE THE LOW E
THE FUCKING BRIDGE PIN POPS OUT
AND I TRY THREE TIMES TO FIX IT
AND THE BRIDGE PIN KEEPS POPPING OUT
AND EVENTUALLY THE FUCKING BRIDGE PIN'S HEAD BROKE OFF
I'M SO MAD
SO MAD
SO MAD

AND THE STORE IS CLOSED NOW SO I CAN'T GO GET A REPLACEMENT PIN

NOR AM I SURE HOW TO KEEP THIS PROBLEM FROM RECURRING WITH THE NEW PIN ALTHOUGH HOPEFULLY JUST GETTING A NEW PIN WILL HELP BECAUSE MAYBE THE PIN WAS WORN OR SOMETHING SINCE THIS IS A V OLD PIECE OF SHIT GUITAR AND ONE OF THE PINS HAS BEEN REPLACED ALREADY

chikkiboo @ 2011-06-17T06:28:00

2011-06-17T11:27:31Z

chikkiboo @ 2011-06-17T02:39:00

2011-06-17T07:38:50Z

I need to hire a ghostwriter for fight sequences. Also it's incredibly hard to write Warhammer 40k fiction if you can't write fight scenes for shit. Also also it's hard to write 40k fiction if you can't bring yourself to write kinda purple. I feel like my lede graf in this thing I'm working on is RIDICULOUS but I might be oversensitive to purpleness in my prose. (The bits I've posted about Fimimunda are ridiculous. This is unrelated to them and is in fact part of my Ridiculous World-Building Project That Came Into Existence Solely To Justify My Chemical Romance's Black Parade Uniforms)

THE PARAGRAPH IN QUESTION:
Flarelight fell in intermittent stripes through shattered holes in the great stone wall; fragments of stained glass still clung in places to what was left of windowframes, pouring patches of color onto the scene below. The building had once been a transit terminal; now it was a charnel-house.
HOW CAN PEOPLE TAKE THEMSELVES SERIOUSLY WRITING THINGS LIKE THIS

And then my little fireteam of ELITE GUARDSMEN spend the whole thing swearing at each other and smarting off on the voxcasters because I can't maintain srs

chikkiboo @ 2011-06-08T03:00:00

2011-06-08T07:58:51Z

Xanon was of House Vulpin in a village named Balneum: a place of sulfur-smelling springs, in the southern fringe of the hill-country. He had the fair hair and pale eyes of a southerner, but spoke with an accent soft and burred like a northerner's. He was an emotional man, given to poetry, and he took leavings hard. When they went skyborne he wept silently and unashamed. The true southerners - there were none in the unit Annie'd been given sergeantry of, but plenty surrounded them in the hold - looked down their long thin noses at him; the northerners closed ranks around him defensively. Southerners, they muttered amongst themselves, held themselves too close and high: not that they would shed tears in public, personally, for that sort of display was a private thing, done at the hearth, but to look at the southerners you would think a man couldn't have any feelings at all. Annie offered his arms to Xanon - then still a slight-built little thing, 15 years behind him, like the rest of them - and let the young man's tears salt his shoulder until his weather cleared.

They all shared their tears after battles, and Xanon's gift of words brought songs for fallen comrades: thus did they speak farewell to their friends' spirits, to keep them from feeling lost and alone when they died on those strange foreign worlds.

Xanon's sorrowing at leavings returned when they left their temporary home, where he had found a woman he called wife, and she had given him a child he'd named Xia. All of the men who wanted women had found them there, and for few was it an easy leaving, but again it was Xanon whose tears fell in plain air. Annie opened his arms again - this time taking into them a larger man, for Xanon had grown broader and heavier though not much taller with the years - and thought of his own woman, Carli, and the swelling beneath her shirt when they spoke their private farewell.

There were plenty of southerners in the centuria by then, but they had all become brothers, and one man's emotion gave pause to none. Annie's far-northern accent was as familiar and homelike as the crisp, sharp-voweled enunciation of the deep south spoken by some of the men: they were all Fimimundan; and skyborne, their home was in each other.

Of the southerners who became Annie's nephews, noteworthy was Simon, of House Iagus in Aquine, a great city. He'd found he had a natural talent for speaking to the spirits of machines, adjusting to their acquaintance and use long before any of his comrades. By now all were accustomed to it, and could laugh speaking of their early days of puzzlement at every new thing: and think what our mothers, our fathers, our sisters would say if they came to these ships, then! But Simon had known the machine spirits longest and learned to know them best, and had even spoken in friendship with the strange men or once-men who made themselves priests of those spirits. It was to Simon you went with a recalcitrant rifle, or a question of working some new machine. Annie had less talent than he, but he enjoyed the company of the machine spirits, and they two could speak of them together. Simon would have liked life on Nadys-21; to make the acquaintance of the servo-skulls would have pleased him immensely. Annie would have a great deal to tell of, if they could speak again.

chikkiboo @ 2011-06-07T21:08:00

2011-06-08T02:06:46Z

The name of the village was Boragerwix, with the X pronounced SH, of course, and the meaning of the name was North Farmhill. A very generic name, and one that came in a set: there was Meragerwix to the south and Oxagerwix to the west and of course Oragerwix to the east, and that was all of Agerwix that there was. Agerwix proper was a city, a few miles away and a bit southwest of center, all of them built on natural hills covering a good portion of the countryside. You could just see the beaconfires of Agerwix from Boragerwix, and of Oragerwix if the air was clear, but Oxagerwix was further off, out of sight even in the still, leafless, water-pure skies of early winter - it wasn't a perfect square, the figure drawn by those villages. It was because they were so far north that the towns were called wixes; that was a native word, something tribal. The closer you went to real civilisation the fewer Whateverwixes you'd find, although the names of places in the north still held descriptions, villages called by the names of landmarks; in the south the cities had proper names like people, which was of course the right way to do things, to honor the spirit of the place.

The name of the house was Lupus, presumably because the place where it was built was where someone had seen a wolf once, or because a wolf had visited, or at any rate wolves were likely to have been involved. It couldn't have been any time recently. There were still wolves, but they stayed away, deep in the woods and fens. Once in a while in the winter you could hear them howling, although that might be the tribespeople, some of whom wore the skins of the wolves for warmth and, according to the stories told to children (children who weren't your own, so you wouldn't be bothered when they couldn't sleep that night), sometimes turned into wolves - taking wolf-shape to attack the settlements.

"So maybe that's why your house is named Lupus," one of Anacreon's friends put forth. They two were sitting in the shade, under the deep-holded doorway with its wide-winged aquila carved into the lintel, discussing the wolf-shape story which had been told to them by Kleiton's older brother the night before. "Your ancestors were wolf-people who settled here." He looked hopeful that this slight upon Anacreon's lineage might spark a fight. Kleiton had lost the last tussle they'd had, and was keen to even the score.

"My ancestors didn't build this house," said Anacreon, unruffled. "My father's father came here from the south with the Fourth Legion. That's why we have light eyes. If anyone's family came from wolf-people it's yours. Your brother's been sniffing around my oldest sister like a dog, anyway."

"He has not been, either, you slanderer," came Amelisa's voice from inside, shrill. Anacreon flinched slightly; the wrath of women was a terrible thing to raise, especially when the woman was one of his sisters, both of whom were well-praised hunters who would not hesitate to lay a trap for a younger brother just as for a washing-bear.

chikkiboo @ 2011-06-05T22:55:00

2011-06-06T03:53:16Z

wake up in the mornin feelin kinda shitty
grab my gun im out the door gotta defend some city
before i leave do PT and some jumpin jacks
cuz the emperor wants me swole n i might not come back ( ._.)
carapace on our tor...soes
camo on all our clothes clothes
xenos blowin up our homes homes
droppoddin, chimera full of grunts grunts
pullin up to the front front
hold up gotta smoke a bllluuuuuuunt
dont stop make it pop gonna blow some xenos up tonight ima fight til i see the sunlight tik tok on the clock but the battle dont stop no
aint got a care in the world but got plenty of fear
aint got no money in my pocket but im already here
now the nids are linin up cuz they think we look yummy
but we hit em with our flashlights cuz gettin et would be crummy ( ._.)

<@owltiem> shiiiiiit i'm drawing a blank on the next few lines
<@owltiem> until the commissar shut us down down
<@owltiem> commissar shut us down
<@owltiem> commissar shot us *record thing*
<@owltiem> instead of the record dying
<@owltiem> there's just
<@owltiem> a gunshot
<@owltiem> still
<@owltiem> that's most of the song
<@owltiem> i think i did okay

game of thrones

2011-05-31T00:05:00Z

so i've been trying to watch game of thrones
and by trying to watch i mean i've downloaded all the episodes
and i burned the first five of them onto a dvd
and i put the dvd in the dvd player that can do avis
and i had it on for like
an entire day
(or anyway five hours)
only i'd already seen the first fifteen minutes of the first episode
back when hbo put that online before the premier as a kind of a teaser
so that meant that for the first fifteen minutes i was like
pft i've already seen this
and unfortunately for me there was no loud klaxon announcing
NOW WE WILL BEGIN TO SHOW YOU THE PART YOU HAVE NOT SEEN
so during those 15 minutes my attention wandered
and it never really came back
and every so often i'd realize it was still on
and think shit
i should go pay attention to that
but at that point i'd already missed out on a lot of the actual plot
so my understanding of game of thrones is as follows:
possible spoilers although you will never know whether i'm remembering them correctly or not unless you've already seen it and then it's not spoiling you anymore. i call this a parodox

winterfell is a place up in the north on the map
it is a wall on some mountains
but not in china
it is, i assume
helm's deep
some smug guy was leading two dudes i will call bjorn and the festus around in the woods
and the festus found some kind of terrible ghost tragedy
which was evidence that Fell Horrors had Returned to Winterfell
sean bean is the boss of winterfell
and his youngest daughter is way better at doing son-of-the-boss-of-winterfell things than the actual son of the boss of winterfell
also a meaningful glance was exchanged between sean bean's bastard son and sean bean's wife
which leads me to believe there is a weird affair going on
some dude became the king
and that dude is friends with sean bean
there's some kind of conspiracy going on between other kings and things
to take that king's throne away or something
THIS MAY HAVE ALREADY HAPPENED
because i only remember the king from like the first or second episode
meanwhile the malfoys are the bosses of some other place
and sister malfoy has to marry genghis khan
for political reasons
there is also a midget
who is secretly the mastermind of basically everything
it's just that people underestimate him because he happens to be a midget
sister malfoy now mrs khan is incestuous with her brother and her marriage to genghis is to get the huns on the malfoy side so the malfoys can take over the kingdom
oh yeah the festus got beheaded
i forgot to mention that
so he's not really important enough for me to have bothered naming him
given that all happened in the first half of the first episode

anyway so that's the political situation going on in westerness
actually i think it's called westeros
a midget is masterminding some political machinations
while incest albinos fuck each other and also atilla the khan
generally speaking the place is kind of fucked
between the machinations
the khans
and the fell horrors in the woods
and sean bean stands around
aware that these things are happening
but unable to do anything other than look vaguely like a sad puppy

i really need to watch this show again
but i'd need to start with the second episode
and i can't find the dvd remote so the only way i can get it to start is on the first episode
AGAIN
and that's unacceptable

as soon as i find the dvd remote
i will watch this show
and figure out what's actually going on

chikkiboo @ 2011-05-26T20:31:00

2011-05-27T01:31:09Z

chikkiboo @ 2011-05-24T04:47:00

2011-05-24T09:47:03Z

Alfie did not enjoy his car ride.

BEHOLD: THE GAUDY THING

2011-05-18T21:53:05Z

I AM NEVER WORKING WITH METALLIC THREADS AGAIN

chikkiboo @ 2011-05-18T11:20:00

2011-05-18T16:20:40Z

THE MAIL CAME, I CAN RELAX NOW.

I need to finish the Gaudy Thing, but I have a headache. Maybe a couple hours off won't hurt and I'll still have time to finish it before I go to bed.

chikkiboo @ 2011-05-18T10:18:00

2011-05-18T15:18:28Z

AUGH. I know the mail never shows up until after 2:00 but I'm still going to spend the entire day checking out the window and stressing.

And the copper thread I'm using for this Gaudy Project is pissing me right the fuck off. If this fucking tinsel won't stop unwrapping I'm gonna have to do a murder or something. I'm working in six-inch lengths to give it less time to throw a joe and it's STILL fucking itself up every five stitches. This blinged-up bitch better be appreciated by its recipient.

chikkiboo @ 2011-05-18T10:01:00

2011-05-18T15:01:18Z

Man I am just one stressed-out ball of fuck-up today.

I'm glad I 'm such a listmaker. Helps keep me on track.