Dave, feeling the rage burn within his clown, is filled with the striking sentiment of complete indifference toward the rules that put him here. If following the rules of reality isn't doing him any favors, well, it's high time he rejected these rules and substituted his own. First and foremost of these - there are no rules specifically forbidding him from casting all he wants at once! And "all he wants" in this case happens to be an underwear storm, inspiration of booze, a bolt of hogweed, enragement of chimneys and a barrier of happy smut! Thrown into the cauldron of his mind, a witch's brew is sure to be made!
[Dave's affinity roll: 6-->6-1]
Inspired by his defiance of the status quo, Dave is filled with the holy fire of inspiration, and with a thunderclap lets loose over half of what he's got, all in one serving! For a moment, everything stops - the flow of dentures pauses, the entire dimension goes still, the image of things as they were before the... event... frozen in Dave's vision as his brain seems unable to process the happenings all around him. A dull roar fills his clown, growing louder and louder with every second. His clown begins to half-scream, half-laugh, and the squeals of his pig grow more and more urgent as they seem to realize what is happening. And it all leads up to a single, powerful pop that, despite being as pregnant with meaning as a freshly opened bottle of champagne, is nevertheless a very underwhelming note for Dave to black out on.
...
Dave opens his eyes. He appears to be lying on his back right now atop something very wet and slightly squishy. Several miles above him he can still see dentures, their pink and white bits mixing together, with multicolored, dense clouds and bluish little lights traveling in the sky as well. An interesting smell hits Dave's nostrils as he thinks about what this could mean - the smell of booze. Looking around, he notices even more surprising things. For one, he seems to be lying in a gently bubbling brook of at least 80 proof alcohol, the bed of which seems to be solid brick with embarrassingly shaped underwear sediments lining the top of it. At the edges of the brook he sees a somewhat interesting-looking earthy growth covering what seems to be drier land still composed of underwear, and further away the brook is lined by vast forests of skyscraper-sized, branching hogweeds stretching upward and disappearing into the clouds. Tiny plumes of strangely moving smoke can be seen off in the distance where the hogweed is less thick - black, long pillars somewhat far away appear to be the source.
Dave notices that his pig appears to have woken up some time before him, and currently appears to be lapping up the contents of the creek. No wonder he feels kind of wasted right now.
* * * * *
Larry, after spending a moment waving off any second thoughts, lets the ominous, tuberous chanting of
Halesey inspire him as he dramatically opens up his arms and calls out the power of cocaine!
[Larry's affinity roll: 6-->3+1+
2]
Halesey chants more and more urgently as Larry begins to sweat and shake, and small whirls of purplish white powder begin to appear in his hands, growing in size with each second to become small cocaine tornados that stretch out toward the sky for a moment before merging, the resultant clash of winds creating a massive blizzard engulfing the entire alleyway and possibly a bit of the street beyond - neither Larry nor Halesey can quite see anything in the storm, so it could very well have engulfed the entire neighborhood and they would be none the wiser, really.
[Larry's body roll: 4-1]
[Halesey's body roll: 3]
Though the two men instinctively hold their breath when the air becomes thick with flurries of magical opiates, they neglect to both close their eyes and shield any sensitive membranes - like it or not, bits of the cocaine fly into their noses, eyes and ears, and all three of those start to feel more than a little hairy all of a sudden, and in addition their eyes start to burn a little, which prompts their immediate closing. Not to mention their faces going more than a little numb in the storm.
* * * * *
Eta attempts to contain her enthusiasm about the way she just conjured shoes made of one of the more precious metals around out of thin air. Responsible adult that she is, she doesn't break into a full-on jig, but nevertheless allows herself a fist pump with a simultaneous, slightly embarrassing kick at the air from the sheer delight. Celebrations concluded, she commences the looting. Fortunately, this being one of the more affluent parts of town, there is a perfectly serviceable canvas bag from an expensive grocery store lying around atop one of the nearby trashcans - Eta shamelessly steals it and gathers seven matching pairs of golden shoes, which is all she can carry at the moment despite there being at least fifty shoes conjured in one go - maybe she needs to get some minions, she reflects. Now that she has infinite gold, she could definitely afford to pay them for at least a few months before the price of gold plummets from market oversaturation.
Unfortunately, just as she has gathered a whole bagful, she notices that quite a crowd appears to have gathered around her while she was busily looting - at least three amazed joggers, a couple of more shady vagrant-looking fellows, and a woman wearing a suit. All six of them appear to be staring at Eta right now in complete silence.
* * * * *
John, after a positively enchanting game of cowman charades and a short communique with Luz, waits for her to call back. It takes about ten minutes for this to happen, during which the cowman doesn't do much of note except fetching his koto and beginning to play a spot of muzak to calm the nerves. When Luz calls back, he immediately stops.
"Okay, so, I checked and I don't think we're being followed. Do you have any idea who might be on to you?" she asks, seeming very worried.
* * * * *
In the slowly brightening streets of the city, a mountain slowly moves not through the power of plate tectonics, but of his own free will, waddling along the sidewalks after a largely sleepless night in search of a place, any place, that is likely to satisfy his persistent craving. He had made good progress in the halfway house on cutting down, but now that he's out that's all gone to shit, he guesses. There's donut shops on every street corner in this town, tempting him with terrifying hints of strawberry-flavored glazing and freshly baked bread. He hasn't got a job, or a proper place to live, or anything like that, just a few suits, about fifty kilos of extra weight and an inescapable urge to treat himself a little. He's got a bit of money, after all.
And so
THE DUNKER wanders, still all dressed up from his first day on the proper outside and slightly leaning toward a bit of carefree indulgence.
Author
Topic: The Forgotten Art: Approaching the Nexus (Read 272088 times)