Update my ironically ironically (the irony is also ironic) cheerful blog about a person I made up.
You add another entry to "The Spectacular Life and Times of Eugene McGee", who you believe, possibly erroneously, to be a person that does not actually exist. You are fairly sure nobody really reads your blog all that much, but you find it a handy creative outlet, given your general distaste for the content of gossip rags, but an admiration for the style of writing employed (an admiration you would never admit to, hence the double layer of irony you use to gossip about the life and times of McGee so that nobody suspects you, not that anybody cares). It takes you about an hour to blog about his latest adventures on the Riviera (you don't know if French or Italian, since you're fairly sure the difference isn't important to your target audience), at which point you realize that you still technically have something more serious to do today (such as college, perhaps a job) and that maybe now would be a good time to start preparing for it.
Son of a bitch. Trapped like mice. I'm going to put that girl in a damn hospital if I get out of this. Jake thinks to himself as he tries to think of a way out or somewhere safe to get to. The panic and anger he feels are increasing, and now there is a twinge of fear. He bottles up his emotions, keeping a stoic face for the sake of his family. The dining room did have a sturdy table that they might be able to hide under, at least if the fire didn't get to them. "Let's get back to the dining room if we can. The table should be strong enough for us to hide under and weather this thing out." He states, leading hid family to the dining room and trying to get them under the table if the collapsed portions of the house or psychotic weather don't stop him.
You and your family make a break for the dining room, and with the help of your mother take the upturned dinner table to form a crude shelter - though it probably won't be much help, you realize that you have to take what you can get - outside lies certain death, while inside at least the rain and lightning can't get to you. Getting down beneath the table, you hope to god that it might be enough to protect you, as the lightning strikes increase in frequency and intensity, things begin flying about randomly at all times. Suddenly, the table flips over again, flying into the wall and breaking in half. In that same instant, Nick is also swept off his feet and sent flying into the ceiling, yelling in pain as he impacts it, then falling to the ground, slowly curling up in a ball due to the pain. The roof, you suspect, is gone, because you spot some holes forming in the ceiling above, bits of fuming acid dripping to the floor.
Selina's throat, raw from the screaming, couldn't make much sound. Her body exhausted and shaking from the ordeal and eyes wide with terror. She had started sobbing, not wanting to talk and barely able to if she HAD.
Her look is filled with pain, fear, and despair as she stares at those damning blue eyes. She barely manages to speak a single word in her current state.
"Mmm... mer...cy..."
"Well, okay. Mercy it is. Be back tomorrow. I need to get more tools anyway," the man says, waves to you, then leaves, turning off the light in the process. You hear him lock the door behind him, and the sound of footsteps up a staircase.
You do not see him for over twelve hours, and it actually does feel exactly that long, despite you having passed out somewhere along the way. A feeling of dread descends on you as the man returns suddenly and without warning, and the lights come on once more. He still looks as awful as ever, though he seems to have found a rag that makes the lower parts of his face look like a skull. He's carrying what looks like another instrument case. He bids you good morning and puts it in a corner, then turns to you.
"So. Feeling hungry, maybe? Thirsty? Should get you comfortable before we begin."
Carrie looks toward the source of the strange sound.
You notice the one man, the guy who was alive - he's standing there, looks like he's pushed a police officer to the ground. And your mother... oh dear. You're fairly sure she is dead. Very, very dead.
Please be alright, please be alright...
I waved at the girl, trying to catch her attention. She stopped, looking over at me, opening an energy drink as she rose a brow?
"What?"
"Do you, uhm, do you know Lucian or Dominic Navarro? I'm their sister, and they weren't waiting outside the school when I came to pick them up, I thought they might have gone to this store to get something to eat..."
"Lucian...he's one of those soccer guys, isn't he? I think I might have seen him, but I'm really not that good at remembering stuff like that. Not usually paying attention, ya know?"
"O-oh...alright. Thanks anyways...
I was deflated. The girl could tell, and I could tell that she could tell, because she looked like she felt bad and was about to say more. I wasn't sure if I wanted to hear it, but the decision was made for me as she took a step forward when I turned to go. I stopped, waiting to see what she said out of a sort of half-hearted hope.
"Um... I'm sure they're alright," she says in not the most reassuring tone of voice. Empty sentiment, really. "Maybe they went home without you? Class did end pretty early."
(Fine, fine.) Alex would fling the knife to his side, already going to the ground. He would put his hands on his back, expecting a knee to be on him. He knew the process.
You have just sent a policeman flying. You have demonstrated supernatural powers. You are moving faster than usual, you're not sure why - the world just seems to run a bit slower compared to you - so what you're doing happens in roughly the space of a second. You just flinged an object suddenly. And these are the police of Edwardstown, who are ill-equipped to deal with such matters and are fairly certain that what you're doing constitutes a sudden move. So the police, feeling that it is better to be safe than sorry, collectively unload a whole lot of bullets your way - you haven't got a chance.
The bullets hit you almost as one, but the results are... unexpected. A thousand piercing needles there are indeed, and you topple to the ground from the hail of gunfire, but, despite being hit about twenty-two times, you only feel like a few, maybe one or two, have penetrated flesh, and even then not very deeply. You're fairly sure two bullets actually bounced off your skull. And though your head hurts like a bitch, your organs are bruised beyond belief and many of your ribs feel like they've been fractured, you aren't even close to being dead. And the pain of it all feels rather distant right now. This, you feel, is good, but you still have a hard time repressing the urge to use your power again and again to murder each and every one of these police officers one by one by shoving their own guns up their mouths and then firing until their brains become your private dimension's new carpet. You half-exhale, half-groan as you lie on the ground, feeling a bit impatient as the police seem so slow at realizing what's going on.
Lying limply on the sidewalk while the skinheads kick the living shit out of him steven begins lapsing in and out of concsiousness and begins to truly fear that he will die long before his assailants get bored or tired.
As he lays there drifting between being conscious and unconscious he eventually realizes his assailants have stopped tgeir assault and that he can hear sirens off in the distance, allowing himself to believe in that one ray of hope he falls unconscious again and waits to wake up somewhere safer.
Passing out does not help, though you do wake up somewhere safer than on the streets at night. Indeed, you seem to be at the construction site proper.
"You know, for a moment I thought they were after
us," the skinhead you ran into says.
"Still, better not risk them actually stopping to fuck with us," another says.
"Shit, is that guy dead?" one suddenly asks.
"I think he is, yeah..."
"Nah, nah, he's breathing. He's prolly not gonna live like this for long, though."
"Should we, like, call an ambulance?"
"Pretty sure there's no way that'd end well for us."
"And I already have two strikes, so that's right out."
"So, do we just run? Leave him here?"
"Somebody'll find him. How about we, like, bury him? There's a pit over there."
Oh shit.
"What, while he's still alive? That's fucked up, man. That is seriously fucked up! You know how fucked up that is?"
"Well, he's gonna be dead. He's not gonna care. Have you got a better idea? There's no manholes around, and somebody'll find him if we put him in a dumpster. And you can bet your ass he's not gonna feel very charitable when he goes to the hospital. This way, everyone's happy."
"Except the guy you're gonna bury alive!"
The skinhead who suggested the pit turns to you, noticing that you've been listening in.
"Hey, here's an idea. Let's make sure he's passed out first, then. He won't even find out what being buried feels like."
He kicks you right in the jaw, at which point you black out for a bit. You awaken inside the pit, missing your front teeth, your mouth full of blood, dirt being piled atop you at a steady rate. Sounds like shovels. It hurts to move, but you try anyway.
"This is taking too fucking long!" the guy who kicked you in the face says. "Did you get the truck?"
You hear a massive engine, then the crackling sound of tires rolling over gravel. And then hydraulics, followed by an avalanche of dirt falling on top of you, filling the pit you're in, pressing on your hurting chest, squeezing the air out of your lungs. There is nothing to breathe now, absolutely nothing, and you cannot move.
Carrie's eyes quickly found her mother, bleeding from her throat and half a dozen other places. Dead, her mother was dead. She idly answered the policeman's question as she wandered towards her mother. She stopped as close as she could get to her mother. Her eyes locked onto the man on the ground as her gaze drifted from her mother's corpse. "Officer, what happened here exactly?"
You question is interrupted by a burst of gunfire from most of the assembled officers, directed at the man who may have been about to surrender - within moments he is on the ground, not nearly as dead as he probably should be. Oh dear.
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Topic: Worm: Edwardstown (Read 135725 times)