Post by Jack of Blades on Jan 22, 2007 19:18:39 GMT -5
"It was malt. This anomaly had took it upon himself to toast his insides with my triple malt. I had been preserving it for opportunities converse to this one. A time in which it could be savoured and reverred. Used as a celebratory beverage. A rare unique moment where I felt a harmonious balance in the laws of causation. And yet, here it is being pulled down his gullet, scorching his trachea with all the flavour and reserve of barbecued horse shit.
He even did that thing that fictional charaters do after consuming a plentiful value of spirit. That sort of pseudo-yawn attempting to dispel the unsavoury texture from boiling out the tongue's tastebuds. But there he went. In reality, I assumed that one would either swallow it without expression or cough wildly. But he actually did that. I'm beginning to detest this fraud of exceedingly greater fractions as he spends more time inebriating himself on my reserves. When he exploded into my dwelling at some unnatural time in the morning, it was a surprise to all. More so when he immediately went for the drinks bar. Holding a dry bourbon, he claimed to be sent from the WCF. A missionary to come to the barren lands of amicability and spread the law of the Lerchers. The invader.
Sent by the invisible forces from above, he is here as an advisor for my match. To ready me for the necessary protocal that such a match predicates itself on. After his third attempt at impressing his objective, he says that the main problem for me is my relationship with Logan. 'Precious', he calls me not referencing a term of endearment but estimating my value to the federation, 'nobody wants to see best friends hug on the biggest night of the industry or their own careers.' We have to find another path.
'The problem is your name, right? You see, Jack of Blades permits Logan to go...'Jack of Boudles.' His critique on aspects of my life is as administered with as much accuracy as a drunk medical student. But he continues. After a sip.
'What can we change Logan to? Lo--Shogan! But that even sounds masculine. We'd just be playing into his hands unless we have 'Slogan' or 'Blowgun.''
My preparation for the big time is predisposed to this man's idiocy. How shallow? I wonder why when he lifts his glass from the surface, he does not pause for the allotted four seconds before drinking. Surely, not complying to such a law could have despicable results on the entire cosmic graphology. It could move planets. Maim a race. Curse a child. Maybe it has not received widespread attention as a categorical imperitive. But for this week, I have noticed that you should always wait four seconds with the limb you're using to maintain the drink rubbing against the rib cage, before pouring down the gullet.
Enjoyable. 'That is our term of today: enjoyable. We want your time at the top to be...'
'Distorted by hard drugs?'
'Enjoyable!' I remove my playing cards. Two taps directly against the pack remove any possibility of paper cuts and the risk of infection that go with an exterior wound. I shuffle. Take two cards from the pack and obscure the chosen figures into each fist. I pick a certain fist to have the higher card in before re-integrating them into the deck and playing again.
After tapping twice.
'Hey, it's me Marc, yeah, I need you to think of something to mock Logan with just in case. Got anything? I was thinking something like Woe-gan?'
Finger goes down on the cards.
'Nothing that really goes with Logan that is applicable, huh?'
Five in the picked mit, Four in the other. I win.
'Maybe we have something else we could use. Something to do with Joe like sexually?'
Enter the fifty-two deck. The index hits again.
'The Face of --? The Face of Lechery?'
Two in the chosen. Five in the other. Mulligan.
'I don't know. Maybe. It's the best thing I've heard. But this is just a - yeah I get it. You still with that?'
Hits dead-centre of the top card once more.
'Yeah, well maybe.'
He takes a drink and puts it back onto its resting position. He lifts it after some more personal neglection and waits.
One...
'So are you gonna say that for a proviso then?'
Two...
'I love it. Tell your dept. guys, love and cookies from my part then.'
He takes a drink. I'm pretty sure he's just condemned a dog to the veterinary clinics for the snip."
He even did that thing that fictional charaters do after consuming a plentiful value of spirit. That sort of pseudo-yawn attempting to dispel the unsavoury texture from boiling out the tongue's tastebuds. But there he went. In reality, I assumed that one would either swallow it without expression or cough wildly. But he actually did that. I'm beginning to detest this fraud of exceedingly greater fractions as he spends more time inebriating himself on my reserves. When he exploded into my dwelling at some unnatural time in the morning, it was a surprise to all. More so when he immediately went for the drinks bar. Holding a dry bourbon, he claimed to be sent from the WCF. A missionary to come to the barren lands of amicability and spread the law of the Lerchers. The invader.
Sent by the invisible forces from above, he is here as an advisor for my match. To ready me for the necessary protocal that such a match predicates itself on. After his third attempt at impressing his objective, he says that the main problem for me is my relationship with Logan. 'Precious', he calls me not referencing a term of endearment but estimating my value to the federation, 'nobody wants to see best friends hug on the biggest night of the industry or their own careers.' We have to find another path.
'The problem is your name, right? You see, Jack of Blades permits Logan to go...'Jack of Boudles.' His critique on aspects of my life is as administered with as much accuracy as a drunk medical student. But he continues. After a sip.
'What can we change Logan to? Lo--Shogan! But that even sounds masculine. We'd just be playing into his hands unless we have 'Slogan' or 'Blowgun.''
My preparation for the big time is predisposed to this man's idiocy. How shallow? I wonder why when he lifts his glass from the surface, he does not pause for the allotted four seconds before drinking. Surely, not complying to such a law could have despicable results on the entire cosmic graphology. It could move planets. Maim a race. Curse a child. Maybe it has not received widespread attention as a categorical imperitive. But for this week, I have noticed that you should always wait four seconds with the limb you're using to maintain the drink rubbing against the rib cage, before pouring down the gullet.
Enjoyable. 'That is our term of today: enjoyable. We want your time at the top to be...'
'Distorted by hard drugs?'
'Enjoyable!' I remove my playing cards. Two taps directly against the pack remove any possibility of paper cuts and the risk of infection that go with an exterior wound. I shuffle. Take two cards from the pack and obscure the chosen figures into each fist. I pick a certain fist to have the higher card in before re-integrating them into the deck and playing again.
After tapping twice.
'Hey, it's me Marc, yeah, I need you to think of something to mock Logan with just in case. Got anything? I was thinking something like Woe-gan?'
Finger goes down on the cards.
'Nothing that really goes with Logan that is applicable, huh?'
Five in the picked mit, Four in the other. I win.
'Maybe we have something else we could use. Something to do with Joe like sexually?'
Enter the fifty-two deck. The index hits again.
'The Face of --? The Face of Lechery?'
Two in the chosen. Five in the other. Mulligan.
'I don't know. Maybe. It's the best thing I've heard. But this is just a - yeah I get it. You still with that?'
Hits dead-centre of the top card once more.
'Yeah, well maybe.'
He takes a drink and puts it back onto its resting position. He lifts it after some more personal neglection and waits.
One...
'So are you gonna say that for a proviso then?'
Two...
'I love it. Tell your dept. guys, love and cookies from my part then.'
He takes a drink. I'm pretty sure he's just condemned a dog to the veterinary clinics for the snip."
