SOD.119 – It's a date Thing

9 Responses to SOD.119 – It's a date Thing

  1. I like this drawing.

  2. Thing only has four fingers/toes!? Is that the drawing or the source material?

  3. I am far from a Thing authority, but all the images I saw had him with just three fingers and a thumb.

  4. Lolbster on a silver lolplatter with lollerskates. (excessive lols. I could go on :P.) It is a funny pic, and well done. Nice job.

  5. And by the way Jeff, I think you should open a critique chain for stories and novels made by the Heromachinegoers. But I’m probably the only person who writes stories for free time :(.

  6. That’s not a bad idea, Connor, and actually quite a few folks ’round these parts are writers. One frequent poster actually has written a number of super-hero themed novels, one of which I got to read, and he’s very good.

    I’ll need to think about a way to do something like that, it definitely would be an interesting experiment, at the least.

  7. I’ll give you a couple paragraphs of one of my more adult themed stories. Here goes, and please comment back by tommorow (Saturday)

    It is kind of a modern past sci-fi fantasy twist thingy. Not the best of my stories, but the others are more for children like the series Percy Jackson. And being a child, most of them are like that.

    The Thief In Red
    Introduction
    This world crumbles at the edges. The thieves, the beggars, and the murderers all take advantage of this chaos, and use it for our needs. We kill, and nurture our insatiable bloodlust. We beg for the money we do not deserve so we can spend it on drugs and alcohol. We steal the money of honest, hard working people, and still we need for more. We support the end of the world, bringing it near, and flaunting it in the “good guy’s” faces.
    As for me, I am Jacques Francois, the Red Thief. I am no Robin Hood. I am no hero. I am the heart and soul of the demon that is theft. And I am on this world to show that I take these pitiful laws and rules, and spit on their golden plaque. Because… rules are made to be broken.

    Chapter 1
    The Red Thief ran down the broken streets of Paris. Signs for bars and tattoo shops hung in tatters. Armories with swords were the only open shops. Jacques remembered the days when fools used guns. And he remembered when historical men before them used swords, like today. Guns no more, he thought. The guns never worked, except to destroy the world. Now the only guns were wielded by mercenaries, crooked kings, and underground cults. And those stupid police.
    Beggars held out their beaten hands for money. Jacques almost laughed. He was on a mission, and if one of these wretches delayed him, accident or no, they would know that this was a mistake not worth making.
    The thief stood out among the people of Paris. They wore tattered clothes, and slept on the streets or in moldy apartments. He wore a rich, red hooded cape, and on his golden belt hung several sheaths. Sheaths for throwing knives, daggers, and swords. Also on the belt was a clipped quiver with twenty-four magical arrows that fit the green bow strung over his shoulder, along with poison gas, a mask, and several euros in a pouch.
    One beggar stood, and walked over to Jacques. He said in a raspy voice, “Please sir, to feed my family.”
    Jacques stopped, and stared into the man’s soul. What he saw was death, and he was glad to let it loose. Before he killed the man, he said, “Do not have a family you can not support.”
    Before the man could react, he dug under his cloak and pulled out a jeweled dagger. He then sunk it into the man’s throat, and pulled it out. He wiped the beautiful surface clean, and stuck it back into its sheath.
    He then fled the scene, and ran towards his destination. When he reached it, he stopped and sized it up. It was a large mansion, on of the few in the neighborhood. It looked like a golden nugget mixed in with a bucket of coal. Jacques saw that the entrances were protected by pairs of guards wearing full suits of chainmail, and decided that he’d have a better chance of not raising an alarm if two guards showed up missing.
    So he quickly scaled the remains of a building across from the mansion, and leaped over the heads of the guards. He landed lithely on a windowsill, and put his ear on the window. There wasn’t any noise coming from within, so he opened the window and dropped into a basic room. It contained a bed, several portraits of hawk-faced men, and a small vase with an ugly, neglected bush sitting in it.
    Jacques walked to the door and opened it a crack. When he poked his head outside, he saw a guard at the end of a long, plain corridor. He gently closed the door, and picked out an arrow from his quiver. The arrow was made of fine mahogany, but it had a green tip and green feathers. He notched it on his bow, and once again cracked the door open.
    Then he stuck the head of his arrow a centimeter out from the door, and fired. The arrow wasn’t intended to hit, and it exploded into a green gas next to the man. He grabbed his throat, made a choking sound, and dropped.
    Jacques hurried over to the man, and dragged him into the room where he had just been, and laid him on the small bed. Then he grabbed the bottle of whiskey that had been clasped to the guard’s belt, and poured it in a steady dribble down his shirt. Then he checked to make sure the man was breathing, and sighed in relief. One down, one missing. But at least they would find the man unconscious with whiskey on his shirt, and he would be fired.

    The rest of the search was uneventful, and he didn’t so much as come apon a single living thing. But finally, he saw it. The vault. He had come to this testament to the rich to steal the jewels and rubies and euros and gold hidden in the vault. Now he was standing in front of a sturdy, metal door, and wondering how to penetrate the beasty. He sure couldn’t knock it down with one of his arrows, or he’d attract too much attention.
    Luckily this hall had several doors, and he could probably find another window to sneak out of. He would then scale the side, and cut out a section of roof above the vault. Too easy, he thought with a smirk.
    He chose one door, and came into another room similar to the one he had just been in. The only difference was that the lights were dimmed, and in the bed was a guard and a maid. The guard reacted by rushing at Jacques, fully nude.
    Jacques grabbed him by his neck, and redirected him to crash into a wall. He made a grunting noise, and fell over with a trickle of blood running from a crack in his head.
    Jacques quickly crawled out of the window of the room, ignoring the maid. If he was to make love to a woman it wasn’t going to be on one of his missions.

    He was directly above the center of the vault room. He quickly slid an arrow out of its quiver, stood back, and fired. The arrow hit the metal ceiling and it quickly rusted through.

    The Red Thief ran down the broken streets of Paris. Signs for bars and tattoo shops hung in tatters. Armories with swords were the only open shops. Jacques remembered the days when fools used guns. And he remembered when historical men before them used swords, like today. Guns no more, he thought. The guns never worked, except to destroy the world. Now the only guns were wielded by mercenaries, crooked kings, and underground cults. And those stupid police.
    Beggars held out their beaten hands for money. Jacques almost laughed. He was on a mission, and if one of these wretches delayed him, accident or no, they would know that this was a mistake not worth making.
    The thief stood out among the people of Paris. They wore tattered clothes, and slept on the streets or in moldy apartments. He wore a rich, red hooded cape, and on his golden belt hung several sheaths. Sheaths for throwing knives, daggers, and swords. Also on the belt was a clipped quiver with twenty-four magical arrows that fit the green bow strung over his shoulder, along with poison gas, a mask, and several euros in a pouch.
    One beggar stood, and walked over to Jacques. He said in a raspy voice, “Please sir, to feed my family.”
    Jacques stopped, and stared into the man’s soul. What he saw was death, and he was glad to let it loose. Before he killed the man, he said, “Do not have a family you can not support.”
    Before the man could react, he dug under his cloak and pulled out a jeweled dagger. He then sunk it into the man’s throat, and pulled it out. He wiped the beautiful surface clean, and stuck it back into its sheath.
    He then fled the scene, and ran towards his destination. When he reached it, he stopped and sized it up. It was a large mansion, on of the few in the neighborhood. It looked like a golden nugget mixed in with a bucket of coal. Jacques saw that the entrances were protected by pairs of guards wearing full suits of chainmail, and decided that he’d have a better chance of not raising an alarm if two guards showed up missing.
    So he quickly scaled the remains of a building across from the mansion, and leaped over the heads of the guards. He landed lithely on a windowsill, and put his ear on the window. There wasn’t any noise coming from within, so he opened the window and dropped into a basic room. It contained a bed, several portraits of hawk-faced men, and a small vase with an ugly, neglected bush sitting in it.
    Jacques walked to the door and opened it a crack. When he poked his head outside, he saw a guard at the end of a long, plain corridor. He gently closed the door, and picked out an arrow from his quiver. The arrow was made of fine mahogany, but it had a green tip and green feathers. He notched it on his bow, and once again cracked the door open.
    Then he stuck the head of his arrow a centimeter out from the door, and fired. The arrow wasn’t intended to hit, and it exploded into a green gas next to the man. He grabbed his throat, made a choking sound, and dropped.
    Jacques hurried over to the man, and dragged him into the room where he had just been, and laid him on the small bed. Then he grabbed the bottle of whiskey that had been clasped to the guard’s belt, and poured it in a steady dribble down his shirt. Then he checked to make sure the man was breathing, and sighed in relief. One down, one missing. But at least they would find the man unconscious with whiskey on his shirt, and he would be fired.

    The rest of the search was uneventful, and he didn’t so much as come apon a single living thing. But finally, he saw it. The vault. He had come to this testament to the rich to steal the jewels and rubies and euros and gold hidden in the vault. Now he was standing in front of a sturdy, metal door, and wondering how to penetrate the beasty. He sure couldn’t knock it down with one of his arrows, or he’d attract too much attention.
    Luckily this hall had several doors, and he could probably find another window to sneak out of. He would then scale the side, and cut out a section of roof above the vault. Too easy, he thought with a smirk.
    He chose one door, and came into another room similar to the one he had just been in. The only difference was that the lights were dimmed, and in the bed was a guard and a maid. The guard reacted by rushing at Jacques, fully nude.
    Jacques grabbed him by his neck, and redirected him to crash into a wall. He made a grunting noise, and fell over with a trickle of blood running from a crack in his head.
    Jacques quickly crawled out of the window of the room, ignoring the maid. If he was to make love to a woman it wasn’t going to be on one of his missions.

    He was directly above the center of the vault room. He quickly slid an arrow out of its quiver, stood back, and fired. The arrow hit the metal ceiling and it quickly rusted through.

    I still have yet to work on it. I just don’t feel like it sometimes, but when I start I can’t stop. Please critique a little. There is an introduction but it wouldn’t copy. The title is, “The Thief In Red.”
    There you go. And please note that I’m still a kid, and don’t neccesarily know all the great writing techniques of Tolkein and Crichton. (Both wonderful authors)

  8. Oh, I guess the title did copy. And so did the upper story… Erm. Uh… Yeah, don’t read it twice lol.

  9. Hi Connor, I said this was something I would consider, not that I would be willing to host it here. Which I’m not, yet. And if I were, this wouldn’t be the place for it, I’d have a new post like I do for the open critique stuff.

    So, no critiques or comments coming from me on this one, sorry about that if it wasn’t clear.