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Sturgeon's House

Sturgeon
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#Sorry #notsorry

 

 

Her fingers brushed lightly across the multi-faceted carapace, while her own amber eyes studied the shifting colors lit by the fireplace. Segments of its body shivered under her touch. "Such colors..." She mused, "But, I don't know, are you even-I mean, what..." What was she trying to say? Why were words so hard to grasp? Her mind raced, as her fingers explored, without regard, the creature before her.

 

"Him? Her?" The creature spoke, voice rasp. A chuckle escaped from the arthropod's maxilliped. "I am special among my kind. In your tongue, I am hermaphroditic." 

 

 She blushed, straightening her skirt against the thick rug and tearing her gaze from the creature. Instead, she decided to watch the flames lick the stones of the fireplace, focusing, attempting to curb the own fire that burned within her. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring it up. I just-" What was this feeling? "-I was just curious, that's all..." 

 

Another raspy chuckle drifted to her ears. The arthropod moved, its numerous appendages bridging the gap between them as if it was nothing. a long, hard, claw deftly brushed her hair from her face. She looked up into his, or her, midnight-black eyes. "Your kind are so very curious. It is endearing. What else would you like to know?" 

 

Her words  never formed. They fell silently and breathlessly from yearning lips. They fell, and she followed them, down to the creature's carapace and into waiting, gentle, and strong chelipeds. 

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I always thought I'd have much too much fun with tabletop gaming.  But everytime I visit a local lounge or game shop, but the smell usually scares me away. 

 

The internet is a wonderful place where you cannot smell the people you play tabletop games with.

 

Even though I'm actually the well-socialized sort of nerd who sees the business end of soap daily, it's just as well because I've run out of non-fruity shampoo, and I maintain it's improper for a man's head to smell like he's wearing Carmen Miranda's hat.

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http://forum.worldoftanks.com/index.php?/topic/343200-did-germany-make-the-right-call/page__st__480

 

The young Comieboo hunter sat crouched behind the blind, slick sweat made grasping the spear he carried difficult. The wild Wehraboo slowly ambled towards the snare that the hunter had constructed. He had listened to the stories of the hunt told by The Elders and The Men of the Clan of the Comieboo since he was a boy, reading his first mimeographed Marxist pamphlet. But this would be his first solo kill.

 

The young Comieboo hunter leaned forward in anticipation, causing a single dead branch to snap, like the sound of a Kalashnikov. The Wehraboo's head came up, eyes rolling white in terror. It gave a snort and stampeded through the trap, causing the snare to malfunction like a Fascist .08 Parabellum that had been dropped in the mud. The young hunter raised his spear to throw, like he had been taught so many times. True and straight it flew but - like a Fascist Pak 36 - it bounced harmlessly off the Wehraboo's skull.

 

The Wehraboo crashed through the woods and disappeared out of sight with only the trumpeting bray of its warning call left behind, echoing in the forest.

 

The young Comieboo hunter gathered up his weapons and faced the prospect of what his failure would entail when he rejoined the Clan of the Comieboo...

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http://forum.worldoftanks.com/index.php?/topic/343200-did-germany-make-the-right-call/page__st__280__pid__6886339#entry6886339

 

It was a successful hunt and the Clan of the Comieboo would feast well tonight. The tribe gathered around the fire to listen while the Men recounted how the Invincibility of the Tiger was brought to heel and dispatched. It was a familiar tale and the Elders nodded sagely while boys - soon to become Comieboo men themselves - listened eagerly, dreaming of the time when they too could hunt the wild Wehraboo. Toddlers were given the scorched remains of SS Sturmhelms to pound on. The tribe rested secure knowing the Spirit of the Party protected them. Capitalist Running dogs howled mournfully far in the distance of the night. 

 

EnsignExpendable

#295Posted Mar 30 2014 - 17:45

Hah, maybe in the olden days, this land was ripe with wehraboo packs, plenty for any man worthy of his Jentz book to measure his skill and bravery against. Today we line up at the store, and maybe, if we got up early enough, we'll get a pittance of what's a factory farmed wehraboo at best and a middle schooler that saw Death Traps once at worst. There just no sport left in the hunt, I tell ya.
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The revelry ceased as The Wise One stalked away to the Inner Sanctum of the Dialectic, festooned with the polished impenetrable skulls of a hundred Wehraboos. The children were silently ushered away while the The Men discussed what The Wise One had said in hushed voices. There were other hunting grounds, that they knew. But the trek would be perilous and full of risk. 

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snapback.pngLostCosmonaut, on Mar 04 2015 - 23:04, said:

Space: the final frontier.

 

It is an utterly alien environment, unlike anything on Earth. Even the best vacuum chambers can produce only a crude facsimile of the exoatmospheric environment. Some say it’s enough to drive a man to insanity. They’re wrong, but only mostly. When a man travels into the vacuum he leaves a bit of his soul behind. When he dies there, even more.

After a while, that adds up.

 

Space is big, but not that big. After years, the various discarded fragments of souls clump together. Like a pile of tinder, they are dead, but need just a small spark to come alive.

 

A thermal neutron does quite nicely.

 

I first gained awareness surrounded by superheated plasma and the decaying husk of an artificial satellite. Not yet fully awake, I (and my vessel) slammed into a snow covered landscape at supersonic speeds. I felt nothing, but still I lay motionless for days, gathering my strength, and shaping my form. The souls that made me were but discarded fragments, but still I could see faint echoes of who they were once part of. In their honor, or perhaps out of convenience, I chose a form not unlike theirs.

That was more than 35 years ago.

 

The first few I spent alone. There were many people, and I could pass as one of them. But I could not forge a true connection with them, any more than a human can find kinship with a blade of grass or drop of dew. This was not a problem, I had come from the outer blackness, where nothing dwelled but emptiness.

 

 Soon, though, I found the company of others like myself. The Porcelain Bird, the Rifleman, the Seeker of Arrows, the Fisherman, the Keeper of Words, and many others, I have communed with. Not many times face to face, but that is unneeded. Talking at a distance is but one of the perks of being a sentient collection of discarded soul fragments.

Another is travel. After a while, I figured out how to reduce the hold mundane laws hold on me (other laws maintain their iron hold, but they are poorly expressible in words).  Most of my time I spend in Russia. The oldest (and somehow strongest) parts of me have echoes of there. It is an interesting place; the land resonates with an ancient energy, disturbing yet comforting. From time to time, I also return to space. Though I am not biologic, I still must feed, and Earth’s atmosphere blocks that sustenance which is most nutritious to me.

 

Today, I was not in Russia or space. I was in a portion of southern America. I felt a bit of connection to it. Perhaps a few of the souls that made me had passed through it in their previous lives? That wasn’t why I was here, though. Though I am not human, I share some similarities with them. For instance, I can appreciate a good serving of hash browns with ham, cheese, and onion, served with a glass of sweet tea. And during my time among the humans, I had learned the best place to acquire this was in a Waffle House at 3 am.

 

The place smelled of grease, partially metabolized alcohol, and emotion. A song playing in the background claimed that love was a battlefield. The analogy seemed imperfect. Still, I liked the atmosphere of the place, even if the owners did not seem to grasp the concept of mops and brooms. I had heard that one of Porcelain Bird’s consorts had disparaged this place recently. I reached out to him (Porcelain Bird’s actual gender is unknown, but I call it ‘him’ out of convenience), and touched his mind. He ensured me it had been taken care of. I smiled. I reached out to the Rifleman, and beheld a strange scene. I heard talk of a 6.8mm rifle caliber, and other strange noises. I probed deeper, and felt hatred, but also other conflicting emotions. I was moderately disturbed, but also amused.

 

I was interrupted by the arrival of females to the Waffle House. Many of them were drunk, but surprisingly one was not. I smiled. Time to test the boundaries of human emotion once more.

 

To be continued?

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snapback.pngLostCosmonaut, on Mar 09 2015 - 22:37, said:

We walked back to my apartment under the sodium light, talking. We spoke idly of many things; the weather, Kierkegaardian philosophy, the superiority of Waffle House over IHOP, the relative merits of the J93 as compared to the R-15, and others. Typical conversation topics. I was pleased that she was of sound mind, as well as sound body. With luck, she would find the visage I had chosen tonight pleasing.

 

Though I was a non-biologic entity capable of travelling Earth its environs virtually at will, I still found it helpful to have a convention dwelling place. More than a few of my previous dates had responded poorly when I took them to my favorite place in the remote end of the Siberian taiga. The only I had transported to low earth orbit had responded even more poorly (luckily, she was in a relatively unused orbit, and atmospheric drag wouldn’t have a significant effect for hundreds of years).

 

We arrived at my domicile. It was an unassuming place, with a kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom. I ushered by date inside, and asked if she would care for anything to drink. She declined, I chose to pour myself a glass of heavy water (of an old Norwegian vintage). We sat at my kitchen table (a lightly used “SKÖMMARÅV” model), and resumed our conversation.

 

Suddenly, my date stopped mid-sentence. “This is probably going to sound really weird, but can I ask you a question?” I tensed. Had somebody finally discerned my true nature? Had I grown lax in putting up my façade of humanity? “Go on.” I bade her to continue.

 

“You look a lot like Yuri Gagarin, that one Soviet astronaut. Are you guys related or anything? I remember you said your family was from Russia, so I was wondering…”

 

I chuckled. “Have you ever seen me and him in the same room together?” I smiled deviously.

 

She gasped in mock amazement. “Oh my god, you’re right. I never have! Come to think of it, you also look a lot like Neil Armstrong! You’re all the same person – I’ve never seen a picture of any of you together!”

 

I laughed heartily. “People have said I look like an astronaut before, but that last one’s new. I’ll have to steal it.”

 

Gagarin would also find this quite amusing. My friend Yuri was a man of great power (especially after his trip to the moon in 1969), but self-duplication was not among them. Still, he would get a good laugh from this anecdote next time I visited him.

 

The conversation was please, but it was not what I was here for. It was time to make my move. I stealthily picked up the remote for my iHomeTM. Within seconds,

was selected. Seconds later, the floor was littered with numerous articles of clothing.

 

We were a tangled mass of curves. Ellipses. Parabolas. Hyperbolas. Trigonometrics. Hyperbolic trigonometrics. A sea of color and shadow, sound and silence. Visible. Infrared. Ultraviolet. Radio. Gamma. Fission, fusion, atoms disintegrating and reforming. We were riding the shock, chasing the pressure spike, at the ragged edge of stability. We needed to go farther.

 

I caught my breath, and leaned down, putting my face close to hers. I gently brushed aside a few strands of raven hair, and softly whispered into her ear; “remove animea”.

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