Scary Clown in a Car Park by dave-llamaman, literature
Literature
Scary Clown in a Car Park
There is an old adage that you can always judge a man by the quality of his enemies. This is not something that has ever vibed with Milkman. After all, idiocy attracts idiocy. Just look at politics, for fuck’s sake. A truly great hero would fight dangerous villains, not random people he meets in the street and assumes are actually supervillains despite all evidence to the contrary. As a point of fact, Milkman has spent more time than is possibly healthy wondering why his own personal rogues’ gallery consists of a single deranged performance artist, the former special adviser to Boris Johnson and his own social worker; yet not for one second entertaining the idea that, as the common denominator, he could be the problem. The story that follows illustrates this. For it was in The Year After The Year After The Year of The Three Prime Ministers that Milkman found himself locked in a multi-storey car park, armed with nothing but his wits, while facing a terrifying hoard of weirdness. The
Ded Killy, An Ork Phanphishun Part One by JaredtheFox92, literature
Literature
Ded Killy, An Ork Phanphishun Part One
Da First Part: Afta Da Drop Warboss Dakkamasta Shootaluva had just gotten out of 'Da Drops', after having a bit woozy in his stomach from all the turbulence and a bad fungus brew mixed with the unwise consumption of a nice skorched squig pie to go along side it as a hearty meal. His Boyz were still holding "Da Line" with their Shootas and Flashgitz to the best of his knowledge, but the Boss was feeling only a tad better now and wanted to show off his shiny Kustom Mega Shoota. "Ugh, dat's da last time I eat skorched squig ta celebrate a proppa landin" the Bad Moon Warboss said to himself while moving in his massive cybork kustom mega armor as while having a nauseous episode of bad indigestion. "I betta find how da boyz iz doin ta get me out of me slog" Dakkamasta muttered to himself while his bacteria infested stomach was still upset. It had only been about a month since the Bad Moonz had collided their huge Rokz in an orbital raid invasion of the once rich agri-world of Dionysus,
Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me? by dave-llamaman, literature
Literature
Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me?
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She’d done it. Risen to the top of the pile. The very pinnacle of British public life. Just like her idol. But it hadn’t gone the way it was supposed to. The world had conspired against her. Her enemies in that axis of conformity had scuppered her best-laid plans to make things better. Now every interview was a nightmare, where journalists asked actual probing questions and weren’t satisfied with the wooden, pre-prepared answers she’d practiced for hours in front of the mirror. Some of them even dared to say that she was giving the same answer to every question, and that was just not right! It was correct, but asking that wasn’t right, damnit! In a rare moment of quiet, she allowed her mask to fall. Laying her head on the desk in her office, she wept openly. Looking to the heavens, she called out, ‘My god, why hast thou forsaken me?’ "Because you’re fucking useless," came the reply. At first, she thought she was going insane. It took a moment
Raymond Chandler's Snow White: A Grim Fairytale by dave-llamaman, literature
Literature
Raymond Chandler's Snow White: A Grim Fairytale
It was a stormy night. Rain heavy enough to wash the slime off the streets and back into the sewers where it belonged. And that’s when she came to me. I’d been workin’ late. Always did. Job like mine, you spent a lotta time on night shifts, lookin’ for cheatin’ spouses goin’ at it like bunnies. It was after one o’ these seemingly endless jobs that I got back to my office-slash-apartment, only to find her waitin’ for me. They say some broad somewhere had a face that launched a thousand ships. This dame could easily manage a couple o’ aircraft carriers and a flotilla of battlecruisers without breakin’ a sweat. Dark hair. Ruby lips. Sapphire eyes. Legs from here to next Friday. Rack like two Labrador puppies in a sack. ‘Must be my lucky night,’ I says, lightin’ a cigarette. ‘Are you Max Thrust?’ she says, in a voice that makes your underpants boil. ‘The private detective?’ ‘’S’what it says on the door,’ I says, lightin’ a cigarette. ‘Of course, it all depends on who’s askin’.’ ‘I
''Intelligent'' Design by dave-llamaman, literature
Literature
''Intelligent'' Design
“Intelligent” Design, or: a Camel is a Horse Designed by Committee The edict came down once again from the pantheon. Life was to be created on another world in this rapidly expanding universe and, as usual, the gods had something to say about it. Unfortunately for the angels down the sharp end, implementing the ideas from the “dream factory” known as the Policy Unit was never easy. Especially this time. Azazil rubbed their multiple eyes. Who the fuck decided that Ophanim’s physical appearance should be two interlocking golden wheels with eyes along the rim? That were on fire? Probably the same dickhead that had just sent down the memo that was causing Azazil’s non-existent head to ache. At least they could shape the flame to form whatever appendages they needed. Couldn’t set light to the fucking memo, though. ‘Let me get this straight,’ they said, for what felt like the thousandth time. ‘We’re supposed to kick-start two billion years of biological evolution on this backwater
All Life is 6 to 4 Against by dave-llamaman, literature
Literature
All Life is 6 to 4 Against
Milkman did not like Tuesdays. Tuesdays were pointless. It was still two days to his day off. But then that could be said of many other days, he thought, as he pootled around the southern suburbs of York with his erstwhile sidekick/bullet shield Paperboy in tow. Things were kinda boring lately. No exciting, dual-to-the-death battles with bank robbers; no duking it out with bottom-tier drug dealers pushing tiny amounts of crystal meth to disaffected high school dropouts; certainly nothing as exciting as getting blown up by a supervillain via blundering into a pitched battle with Girl Awesome (or her close personal friend Shop-Girl, the apple of Milkman’s somewhat wonky eye). There weren’t even any Covid restrictions for him to enforce any more, thanks to what laughingly passed for a government in Westminster. Nevertheless, Milkman persisted. He had no choice – it was a urinary tract infection. So on he plodded, desperate for something – anything – to break the monotonous hell that
Tales from a Failed State, Report #2 by dave-llamaman, literature
Literature
Tales from a Failed State, Report #2
Monday 11th Mogg, Year 10 AB (After Brexit - that's 2030 to you), People's Great and Bountiful Sovereign Kingdom of England. This morning I managed to get ahold of two tins of Asda cured chicken breast and only needed to beat one old lady to death to secure them. Add them to the tin of Batchelor's Marrowfat Peas (dated 2012), tin of Netto carrots and the big tin of Kwik Save new potatoes from 1998 and that's Christmas dinner sorted! I've been notified that this week's wages are being delayed, so it's unlikely I'll receive my allocation of hardtack, root vegetables and powdered egg until Friday. Which is a shame, since I wanted to put the root veg towards a holiday: I almost have enough turnips saved up for two nights in a Nissen hut just outside Croydon. But Lord Boris of The Johnson promises us that next year there will be plentiful supplies of vital items such as paraffin, charcoal and cholera-free water. At least I assume that's what he said before the power went off, bloody rota