Ceramic DM autumn '03(final judegment: new ceramic dm champ!) - Page 11




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  1. #101
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    Well here is my entry for Ceramic DM. Unfortunately I had to rush through it (school work is picking up). I wish the best of luck to my opponent and to all others in the contest. With a little luck, and a mysterious attack on PirateCat with a crowbar a la "Tanya Harding" thereby making him incapable to submit, I'll see you in the 2nd Round.



    Ceramic DM Round #1
    Gregor vs. PirateCat



    The fat merchant’s laughter rang out across the shallow muddy river, causing his narrow boat to rock back and forth and his turban to slip down over his eyes. His two female passengers dressed provocatively in sheer silks and glittering jewelry, gripped their seats tightly and released faint nervous giggles as the bobbing boat threatened to send them into the water. Moustafa Al-Jortir enjoyed nothing more than to spend his idle days careening down the river in his boat, his obese frame suspended by the piles of multi-coloured pillows which adorned the floor. Basking in the heat of the mid day sun, the large man would puff at his bubbling hooka pipe, drink his exotic teas which warmed in coal-holding braziers and entertain his many concubines on his routine river trips. As always, a larger second boat sat ahead of Moustafa’s and tugged it along the river. This larger slave-powered oar-driven craft held four such rowers and two of the merchant’s guards. The oars dipped noisily into the river, spurning the two boats onward and leaving a trail of stirred-up grayish silt in the brown water behind them.

    From where Kimose Mobaso could see, crouched among the reeds and branches of the river’s shallow edge, the fat man puffed at his pipe and stared out across the water. The ebony-skinned Kimose lowered his upper torso into the dark waters and leveled his camouflaged head with its rippling surface. Draped across his face hung the cured feathery carcass of a pearl-white river monitor [PIC 1]. The bird-mask created a life-like representation of a monitor, frozen in natural form by both rigor mortis at death and “koomba”, the thick waxy waterproofing glue Kimose’s tribe uses for such projects. From Moustafa’s pleasure craft, the unsuspecting passengers noticed only a typical river monitor swimming among the reeds and out into the deeper waters.

    With one hand outstretched beneath the surface to guide him and the other gripped tightly around the hilt of his dagger, Kimose propelled his naked form softly and slowly along the thick silt floor of the river. Approaching the slowly moving craft, the assassin studied his massive target. Rolling his eyes back and forth from behind the mask, Kimose tried to determine where on the silk-clad merchant his dagger should slip for immediate success. When the sickly-sweet scents of Moustafa’s hooka tobacco, the stale perfumes of the concubines and the fetid odor of human sweat began to tingle his nostrils, he knew it was almost time.

    * * * * * * * *

    There was once a time when Kimose was just another tribal boy, the sort who loved his day trips into Buuthma, the city of a thousand splendors. Buuthma was a frontier town, the last bastion of civilization in the south and the final destination for intra-empire merchants. Thus, it was a fair mix of wealthy eastern Imperials, poor southern tribesmen and every combination of wandering human, demi-human and humanoid. This mélange was especially apparent when the bazaar crowded the palm-covered streets of the city. The flood of silk and turban clad easterners, the dark skinned animal fur wearing southerners and the intermittent Imperial guard was truly a sight to behold. It was days like this that Kimose longed for as a child. The day when his weekly chores came to an end and he could bask in the glow of eastern civilization, spend his own money and live like a king. Every ten-day he would ride into Buuthma from the surrounding tribal outlands with his small group of friends, their almost-empty leather change pouches rattling noisily from atop their trotting Zebra mounts.

    Although Kimose enjoyed spending his coin in the packed palm streets of the market, taking in the rich scents of spices, cooking fires and various dishes, he especially enjoyed participating in one specific pleasure. While he was no stranger to cleaning himself in the rivers around his village, he could not help but spend the majority of his money in the outdoor hot-springs of Moustafa Al-Jortir’s canopied harem. Nestled into the ground and covered by richly dyed leather canopies lay a number of stone carved reservoirs filled with steaming perfumed water. It was here, surrounded by barely-dressed eastern women and bombarded by the cacophony of sitar music, that Kimose spent his gold. Whiling away his afternoons, he soaked his skin in the sensuous heat of the water and felt like an emperor, whilst his friends scurried through the streets like children [PIC 2].

    On one such hedonistic afternoon however, Kimose’s world changed in an instant. Opening his closed eyes from their bliss-induced slumber with a start, the boy watched as a very large eastern man lowered his bare skinned body into the pool with him. His mounds of chest hair flattened and stuck against his wet skin as he shifted into position. Kimose gazed at him but said nothing. His large yellow turban hid his hair, but a long greasy goatee hung from his chin that framed his brown-toothed smile. Reaching out of the pool and off to the side, the large man brought forth a long spouted tube and sucked deeply. The low rumble of bubbling water and the escape of rich white smoke from the man’s mouth revealed the hooka positioned to the side. He stared at Kimose before speaking.

    “I see you here every week, yet you are just a child, how is it that you afford these pleasures?” said the large man, his words hissing slowly from behind his lips.

    “I work hard in my village” replied Kimose with a slight tremble.

    “You must work quite diligently to be able to afford these services. Pardon me … my services.”

    Kimose remained motionless, his façade an image of fear and confusion. “Who is this man and why have the guards allowed him to share my pool” he thought.

    “How rude of me” said the man with a grin. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Moustafa Al-Jortir, I own this harem as well as many merchant caravans.”

    “It’s very nice to meet you.” Replied Kimose, his voice continuing to tremble.

    “Do not be afraid little one, you have done nothing wrong and I am not here to harm you.” The large man coaxed.

    Moustafa sucked deeply from his hooka once more, this time exhaling through his nostrils and staring intently at the boy before him. He raised a wet hand from beneath the surface of the pool and placed it on the shoulder of Kimose who sat staring at it, afraid to move.

    “I can see that you are special” whispered Moustafa, his hand running slowly down the arm of Kimose. “You are young and virile, your skin is dark and tight and you have the form of a warrior.”

    Kimose pulled his arm away nervously and his breathing began to increase, the fear becoming clearer upon his young face.

    “How would you like to be able to afford these pleasures everyday little one?” Moustafa asked as he lowered his hand down beneath the surface of the perfumed water and towards Kimose’s lap. “I would pay you well and you would only have to provide a few minor services for me.”

    By the time Moustafa’s hand touched Kimose’s inner thigh, the boy was up and swinging at the fat merchant, his bony black hands connecting with his fleshy greasy face.

    “Guards!” shouted the merchant between punches. “Take this piece of garbage to my tent!”

    Before Kimose could react, he was pulled from the pool, his hands lashed with cord and was dragged along the dirt floor of the canopied harem. He landed with a jolt, his face buried in a pile of pillows and the closing flap of the canvas tent he now occupied muffled the outside music and chatter. His heart was pounding with terror, his chest heaving with each breath and his surroundings a blur. It was not long before Moustafa’s fat wet hand forced the boy’s face into the pillows, gripping tightly around his neck and warning him not to scream.

    “Now I will take what I want from you boy and you will serve another purpose” whispered Moustafa, his voice a viper’s hiss. “I will steal you from your family and you will fight for my enjoyment in the arena. But first…”

    The last sounds that Kimose could recall were the muted laughing voices of the concubines outside and the “swishing” of fabric that marked the loosening of Moustafa’s robe.

    * * * * * * * *

    The gladiator lowered her massive form into a defensive stance, her back legs squatting and shifting the weight to her rear. Her front limbs, ending in large tightly clenched fists, dug her knuckles into the sandy floor of the arena, her face reddening from the rush of blood to her head. She was exhausted, her deep constant breaths scattering the sand beneath her in all directions. Above her sat the throngs of the affluent, the many easterners and rare southerners who could afford this form of barbaric entertainment [PIC 4]. It was this crowd of cheering social elite that Kimose was focusing on, his gaze dancing across the rows of seats, his eyes for one man only. Acting almost instinctively, the young man leapt to the side as the thick female gladiator plowed towards him, her exhaustion evident in the sloppiness of her approach. Backing off, still full of energy and armed with a long knife, Kimose danced around his opponent. The woman knelt to the ground and grasped at long iron spear, one of the many deadly weapons scattered in the arena before each match. Using the butt-end to prop her weary body up and help her get to her feet, the woman’s face deepened in shades of crimson and her breathing increased. Kimose could clearly see his opponent’s vision swimming, her cognizance of surroundings fading rapidly. He stole another glance into the crowd and there he was, the corpulent merchant who watched him every day, the reason he had been fighting in the arena for years, and the butcher who violated him as a child. Kimose’s gaze was unyielding; it locked onto Moustafa and his greasy skin, matted beard and ochre teeth.

    The spear whisked across Kimose’s face, its deadly barbed point coming within inches of contact. He removed his glance from his oppressor and focused on his attacker. He raised his knife and pointed it towards the woman, her motions slow and uncoordinated. Falling into his own defensive posture, the young man circled his opponent, the thick ropy muscles of his bare legs and arms visible with each movement. The spear came again, its tip flying towards Kimose’s chest. In one smooth motion, he stepped to the side of the blow and pushed the hilt of the incoming spear out of the way and caused the gladiator to lose her balance. Stepping towards her as she struggled to bring her spear back to the ready position, Kimose drove his knife into her stomach. The crowd let out a cry of enjoyment, their screams only a blur of noise in the young man’s ears, his senses blinded in the sickening exhilaration of murder. Her eyes turned white and rolled back in their sockets, her lips parting to allow a stream of blood to run down her chin and onto Kimose’s dark skin. He stepped to the side and allowed her lifeless form fall forward onto to the sand covered floor, the weight of her body driving the blade clean through her back. Kimose rushed to pick up the iron spear from the hand of his vanquished opponent, holding it in preparation to throw and scanning the seats for his last sight of Moustafa. His eyes found their mark, but a dissipating cloud of hooka smoke signaled the villain’s exit.

    * * * * * * * *

    It had been one year since his escape from Moustafa’s iron grip Kimose thought as he swam up next to the boat, his monitor mask concealing his presence.

    The guards had forgotten to lock his cell one evening, their inebriated states removing both their sense of duty and their ability to stay awake at their posts. As quiet as a gazelle, the young southern prisoner slipped out of his dirt-floored cage and murdered his guards with their own knives. Covered in the blood of his captors and gripping the hilt of a bloodied dagger, Kimose fled into the empty evening streets of Buuthma, his sprinting form delivering him from bondage.

    He listened to another of the fat merchant’s jokes, the squealing laughter of the concubines and the rough evil voice of his enemy caused his skin to crawl. Kimose swam the length of the small boat, his grip on his weapon becoming tighter as he approached Moustafa’s pillow covered position.

    “Oh what a pretty bird.” Exclaimed one of the concubines, her many jewels rattling with each word.

    “What bird?” inquired the merchant, his massive body rolling on its side to gaze into the water where his whore was pointing.

    Moustafa’s melon-sized cranium reached out over the water and his eyes met the brilliant white monitor. In one lightning-quick motion, Kimose shot his dagger-wielding arm out of the muddy water, its point penetrating the fleshy neck of his mortal enemy. Tearing the mask from his face and pulling his mud-covered body into the boat, he climbed over Moustafa’s choking and bleeding body. The concubines screamed in unison at the sight of their strange attacker and the convulsing, blood spewing form of their employer. Diving from their seats into the river, the soaking silk-clad women splashed noisily as they tried to swim towards the guard boat.

    Kimose stood over his bleeding foe, the wet gurgling sounds of his blood-splattering neck wound filling his ears. With a look of complete and utter satisfaction, he released a wad of hot spit upon the face of Moustafa, its translucent dallop distinguishable among the flowing crimson. With a flesh-piercing jolt, Kimose fell backwards, the end of a cross-bow bolt protruding from his chest. The guard boat had spun around and was moving towards the merchant’s pleasure craft, the screams and splashes of the concubines alerting them to danger. Kimose fell, gripping at his wound and watching his life-force drip from the opening in his flesh. His body collapsed upon the tea-warming brazier, its collapsing structure scattering red-hot lumps of coal into the boat. The many pillows and fabrics beneath his dying body burst into flames [PIC 3]. Despite the intense heat of the boat turned inferno, Kimose’s body remained cold while he died.

    “At least we die together” he thought, “for all the years of suffering …”

    A final smile permeated itself on his face. His world went dark.




    Pictures

    PIC 1 – Bird Mask
    PIC 2 – Child in Bath
    PIC 3 – Burning Man
    PIC 4 – Sumo Wrestler

 

  • #102
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    Ceramic DM Round #1
    Gregor vs. PirateCat


    ----------------------------------------

    Thump. Thump. Thump.

    By the time he heard the rhythmic stamping, David Korka already had a reasonably good idea of exactly how much trouble he was in. The wooden floorboards beneath his feet vibrated violently, and Korka braced himself as he wiped the sweat and sea water off his brow with one tired hand. His eyes stung.

    “Stranger?” The voice was surprisingly high-pitched, in accentless Japanese. “Turn around, stranger. I prefer not to kill you while your back is turned.”

    Korka sighed, a long and gut-wrenching sigh that eloquently expressed just how bad a weekend he was having. And slowly, reluctantly, he turned to face the person behind him.

    * * *

    Forty eight hours earlier, he had been seated in the empty cabin of a high tech agency plane bound for Central America. The agent briefing him had been short and squat, her face lined with fatigue. Her cigarette-roughened voice was almost drowned out by the thunder of the plane’s engines.

    “…when you get there.”

    Korka strained his ears. “What?”

    The woman gestured violently with her unlit cigarette, eyes irritated. “Pay attention, Agent Korka. I said you’re on a solo mission, and you shouldn’t expect extensive logistical support when you arrive.”

    “Where are we headed? No one actually briefed me when I boarded in Mexico City.” The plane pitched in the turbulence, but neither agent noticed.

    “Placencia, Belize. We’ll land there ostensibly for refueling and errands, and you’ll be smuggled out at the airport. Here’s your necessary ID.” Papers rustled. “Once you’re free of observation, you’ll make your way to Dangriga to investigate a drowned agent.”

    Korka smiled in eager anticipation, already picturing exotic femme fatales swimming towards him through azure water off of Belize’s coast. “Lighthouse Reef and the Blue Hole again? Sometimes I love this job. I’m always amazed by how much spying goes on in that place. You know, all you have to do is show some evil mastermind a photo of the Blue Hole and he immediately assumes that it’s a perfect location for his undersea lair. Idiots.” Korka chuckled to himself.

    The senior agent smiled to herself in grim and sadistic satisfaction. “Not this time, Agent. We save those assignments for more experienced operatives. We have something a little more… gritty… for you.” Korka’s face fell. “This time, you’ll be investigating a murder on the mainland. We’ve lost an agent named Anne Pitcairn. She was drowned. We found her washed up on the beach, but it wasn’t sea water that we found in her lungs; it was a mixture of gasoline and fresh water. There were defensive slashes on her hands and forearms.”

    “So she certainly didn’t drown while taking a midnight swim.” Korka gestured expressively with one hand.

    “Exactly. You’re to find the place where she was killed and recover her belongings. If someone stole them, track and remove them as necessary. The agency wants her equipment back in friendly hands.”

    Korka frowned at his Control. “We want her belongings? There’s something you aren’t telling me. This sounds like an amateur job, a simple murder. I’m not yet sure why we’re getting involved.” The other agent nodded slowly.

    “Pitcairn was one of our scientists recruited from Atlanta’s Center for Disease Control. She was top notch, with brilliant theoretical knowledge and a talent for experimentation and virus design. We pulled her out of the field because she reported that she had developed what could be a deadly new pathogen. Unfortunately, someone else got to her first.” She cleared his throat. “Pitcairn had encrypted data with her, containing all of her notes and research on biological contaminants. When they found her body, the laptop and PDA were both missing. Whether she was killed for that information or not, we want it back before someone else is able to decipher it.”

    Korka scowled. “Understandable. I hate bioterrorists. Homing beacon in the laptop case?”

    His Control rolled her eyes. “She had changed the homing code, and hadn’t reported it back. It’s probably listed in the PDA.”

    Korka laughed despite the noise and the turbulence, and his smile flashed at the challenge. “Then it’s going to be a fun one. Hand me the file, and I’ll get to work. I haven’t had a challenge since Leticia.” He flipped open the manila folder marked SECRET and began learning all about the life and habits of Anne Pitcairn.

    * * *

    The boy looked up at Korka with wide brown eyes. “This is where it happened, senor. The thing with the girl. The screaming.”

    Korka’s dark eyes took in the narrow little graveyard. Mostly abandoned, the cemetery was littered with empty beer bottles that lay beneath old crosses painted an odd shade of blue. “Tell me.”

    “This place is very close to my house. A gang of bad men uses this place to meet. They drink here, and have women with them, and they gamble. Sometimes they fight. My padre used to try and chase them out, but they have cuchillos… knives. They used an empty crypt to hide the gasoline that they steal from the cars of las turistas.” The boy pointed to an above-ground grave, a covered stone box clearly designed to hold a coffin. The boy’s voice dropped, and Korka had to strain to hear it. “They take off the lid and pour it in here, then take it out later for their cars and motorcycles. The policia know, but they do nothing.” A barely concealed smile twitched at the corners of the boy’s mouth. “But somehow the lid to the grave got left off one night while it rained, and all their precious fuel was ruined. Que’ lastima, no? What a shame. I think they were very mad, but they never found out who did it.” The boy’s smile, when it finally appeared, was like the sun emerging from behind dark clouds. “Here. Let me show you this thing.”

    Korka grunted as he and the young boy pushed the lid off of the stone crypt. The slab crashed to the ground, and the smell of petroleum rose up to burn into his nostrils. “You weren’t kidding, were you?” he asked in amazement as he ran one finger through the rainbow sheen of the gasoline and rainwater mixture. “Now tell me about the girl.”

    “It was only a few nights ago, senor. I heard cars and a woman screaming, so I snuck out of my window and ran over. I could see people here! They looked like they were holding her, maybe robbing her? But one of them saw me and I ran.” The boy’s head drooped in shame. “I should have gone to la policia, but I was afraid.”

    “I’m not surprised, Esteban.” Korka was examining the ground and the edge of the crypt, and his experienced eye picked up a multitude of clues. He studied them carefully. “It looks like they threw her in here, clothes and all, and held her down. Charming. And I’m actually going to have to climb in there.” The agent made an involuntary face as he flicked at the liquid with a forefinger.

    Esteban’s head snapped up. “No, senor! A woman died in there!”

    “And she might have dropped something I need. I need to check.”

    The boy took a big breath. “Then I will search for you. It is my gift to the woman who I should have helped.” Before Korka could get close enough to stop him, the young boy had stripped off his shirt and clambered over the side of the crypt. Holding his breath, he sank out of sight into the polluted water.

    Korka shook his head. “What a helpful little idiot.” The hot equatorial sun beat down on his dark skin, and he wiped sweat from his forehead.

    Esteban resurfaced thirty seconds later, objects clasped in each hand. “I found something, senor! A purse!”

    Korka smiled in appreciation. “Esteban, you just earned yourself a bonus on what I’m already paying you. Thank you.” He reached out his hand to take the purse and help the boy from the water. A quick glance into the handbag told him that the PDA was still there. Then a stone clicked behind him, and the hair on the back of Korka’s neck rose in warning.

    He spun smoothly, putting himself in front of the boy. Five men in their mid-twenties stood before him, clothing ragged and much too tight. Their ugly faces were mocking and cruelly amused. “An’ what do we have here?” asked one of them, a pale skinned thug with a glint in his eye. “A gringo and un nino, poking around where they shouldn’t be. What a shame for them.” The four other gang members began to fan out.

    Korka smiled carelessly. “I’d like to know why you killed a woman here. I’d like to know who hired you, and why.” The leader’s eyes flickered like a snake, and Korka knew that he had hit paydirt. “We can do this the easy way, and I can pay you for the information. Or we can do it the hard way.” More quietly, he added, “Esteban, go.” Behind him, he heard the boy obey.

    The leader laughed, a harsh little sound that carried across the graveyard. “The hard way, I think. There are five of us and one of you. Maybe we will be paid a bonus for you. And we’ll come back later to finish off the boy.” The man shook his sleeve, and a long and very sharp knife slid into his hand. He was missing a tooth, and Korka could see the pale thug’s tongue probing the blackened gap like a tiny pink worm every time he tried to be threatening. Amateur, Korka thought, and shrugged.

    “Your choice.” His right hand dipped into a pocket as his left hand skimmed across the surface of the open crypt, sending a wave of watery gasoline through the air and onto the man with the knife. It soaked him thoroughly, and set him raging.

    “Hijo de puta! You’re going to die for that!” He rushed forward recklessly, teeth bared. Poke, poke went the tongue.

    Korka clucked his tongue. “I don’t think so.” He took three steps forward and one to the side as he used his left hand to evade the knife thrust. At the same time he brought his right fist smoothly across the attacker’s body. A tiny sound like the grinding of stones came from his hand. Cha-Click.

    “What?” The thug looked confused.

    Korka smiled helpfully and held up the object in his hand. “It’s a cigarette lighter,” he said. “Didn’t you know? Smoking can kill you.” He flipped the top of the lit lighter closed, even as gasoline-fueled flames blossomed from the knife wielder’s clothing with a dull whump.

    The burning man screamed and turned, leaping past Korka’s shadow for the dark stone floor of a nearby crypt. One of his friends reached out a hand to help pull him to safety. The forgotten knife clattered on flagstones.

    “Bastard!” Another gang member started for Korka, but reeled back as soon as he realized that a snub-nosed pistol had appeared in the agent’s clenched hand.

    “Have a seat, boys, as soon as you put out your friend.” Korka settled himself on the edge of the crypt. His voice was very sincere. “We have a lot to talk about and not much time for pleasantries.”

    * * *

    “You’ve found it?” Korka sipped the martini with his eyes shut, and grinned happily; just how he liked it. Under him, the agency plane taxied for takeoff.

    “We have.” His Control sat down beside him and dropped a file on his lap. “The PDA had the homing code, and the satellite has picked it up. Pitcairn’s laptop is on a small island not far from Japan. Those thugs you met apparently were hired by a reclusive Japanese millionaire named Yee.”

    “Why’d he want it?”

    “Not he. She.” The agent dropped a photo onto Korka’s lap, and Korka raised unbelieving eyes to his Control’s face.

    “A female sumo wrestler? You’re kidding. Tell me you’re kidding.”

    The agent shook her head. “Nope. She’s retired. Inherited millions of dollars from her father, bought her own island. Apparently she’s reclusive and hostile. In any case, we now have reasonable proof that she paid to acquire this information on infectious diseases. Lord knows what she’s planning, but you’re going to find out.”

    Korka snorted sarcastically. “Because an occidental black man is going to fit in so well in Japan. Why not let our Asian operatives handle it?”

    His Control smiled. “Secrecy; the fewer people who know, the better. Anyways, you always manage to find a way. That’s why you work for us.”

    “Flatterer. Any instructions?”

    “You’ll need to infiltrate the island, which is smack in the middle of an avian wildlife sanctuary. It’ll be tricky; shallow seas and abundant radar, so no easy way to approach by land, sea or air. I’m sure you’ll come up with something.” She dropped another file on the seat next to him, and left him to prepare.

    * * *

    So, this is something. Korka rolled his eyes as he removed the knife from the sniper’s back, and paused to pick a leech off of his arm. A nice set-up here. No one allowed near due to the endangered storks, water too shallow for easy scuba diving, both radar and sonar stations, and a whole ring of snipers guarding the island’s perimeter. Yee may be the size of a hippo, but she’s got some brains in her – and she’s protecting something important. Silently, Korka propped the sniper back in a life-like pose and slipped from the raft back into the shallow water. He readjusted the stork mask on his head. But all they see all day is storks. They expect to see storks. And that makes it a lot easier for me. Cautiously, Korka resumed his swim for the nearby shore, the protective coloration of his realistic stork mask the only thing visible to observers.

    * * *

    Infiltrating the sumo wrestler’s complex was even more difficult. Despite being built somewhat in a traditional Japanese architectural style, the place was alive with armed guards, electronic security, guard dogs, and even a tiny henchman who thought he was a ninja – Korka had run the whole gauntlet, and so far he had prevailed. He had found the bioterrorism lab and jiggered the locks, then tossed a couple of sleeping gas grenades into the sealed ventilation system. He had dumped the computer core and burned the backup tapes with thermite. The only task left was to retrieve the encrypted laptop itself, and so he found himself climbing four stories of bamboo stairs up into Yee’s personal quarters. He had been so stealthy, so careful…

    Thump. Thump. Thump.

    Korka turned around. Yee stood before him, crouched in the traditional sumo crouch, feet stamping the wooden floor. She was wearing full Kevlar body armor over her sumo garb. Behind her, Korka could see the laptop open on a table.

    Korka groaned. “I don’t suppose you’d like to talk about it?”

    Thump. Thump. Her feet pounded the floor, making the structure shake. “I’ve just gotten off the radio. It seems as if you’ve managed to disabled my entire operation in less than an hour, and I never even noticed. I have great respect for you, stranger. Now you will have to die.” She eyed him. “I’m fairly sure that I can crush you like a bug.” Privately, Korka had to agree.

    “What’s your problem, anyways? You’ve got - or rather, you had - an entire bioterrorism lab here. You had a decent woman killed in order to steal her research on diseases. This isn’t exactly a normal hobby.” Korka eyed her sumo gear. “Not that you’re necessarily into normal hobbies, mind you.”

    “Revenge is a wonderful motive. You have no idea how – ”

    “Blah, blah, blah. You know, I’ve seen all the James Bond movies. I’ve heard all that, and it doesn’t ring true. The real world is more complex. There are consequences for actions.” Korka used the machine gun that he’d taken from a guard to let off an ear-rattling burst of gun-fire, raking the bullets back and forth across the wooden floor to make a dark line of bullet holes. Cartridges twisted and spun as they leaped from the gun.

    “This is your last chance, lady. Stay where you are, surrender and face justice. Cross that line, and I’ll have to kill you.”

    Yee smiled coldly. “Goodbye, assassin.” Four hundred and fifty pounds of muscle rushed forwards towards him, inexorably –

    And as Yee crossed the line Korka had made in the floor, the bullet-riddled boards snapped and parted under her weight. She plummeted downwards, screaming as loudly as the snapping wooden planks. Korka listened as she hit the floor below, fell through, hit the floor below, fell through that as well, and finally hit the distant ground. The noise was indescribable.

    “Warned you,” said Korka out loud, and maneuvered his way around the unstable flooring to pick up the stolen laptop. Some people never learned.
    - Piratecat, EN World Admin. Now writing TimeWatch, an investigative time travel game.

  • #103
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    The Grand Druid (Lvl 20)

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    Gregor, that story is GREAT. Nicely done! Geez, I wanted to kill Moustafa myself.
    - Piratecat, EN World Admin. Now writing TimeWatch, an investigative time travel game.

  • #104
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    Cheers PKitty!

    I just finished your story and I am speechless ... its just THAT good!

    I especially enjoyed your usage of the pics.

    Well, now comes the nail biting of the waiting period. Best of luck mate!

  • #105
    trust me, waiting is agony.... (or did I miss the post that tells me I lost?)
    sometimes nothing is a real cool hand

  • #106
    Community Supporter COPPER SUBSCRIBER
    Gallant (Lvl 3)

    Macbeth's Avatar

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    Quote Originally Posted by cool hand luke
    did I miss the post that tells me I lost?
    No, but it's on the way.
    Be bloody, bold, and resolute! Laugh to scorn The pow'r of man, for none of woman born Shall harm Macbeth
    Avatar by Sialia

  • #107
    Writing TimeWatch!
    The Grand Druid (Lvl 20)

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    Quote Originally Posted by Piratecat
    “You know, all you have to do is show some evil mastermind a photo of the Blue Hole and he immediately assumes that it’s a perfect location for his undersea lair.”
    So, I apologize slightly for this little in-joke. The boy in the grave made me think of central america, central america made me think of Belize, Belize makes me think of the Blue hole, and the Blue Hole makes me think of a spy movie. And sadly enough, that's where my story started. So I thought I'd mock myself.

    Writing and ranking these is hard! Lordy, I'd hate to be a judge.
    - Piratecat, EN World Admin. Now writing TimeWatch, an investigative time travel game.

  • #108
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    Speaker's Avatar

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    All judgements in.

    You folks are amazing. I've read everything at least three times now. Highly enjoyable! Your wife is a big hippo!

    I'm sure things will only get worse/better as the contest moves on. Hey, I am having fun!

  • #109
    lunatic COPPER SUBSCRIBER
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    Wow, two cool stories.

    I was surprised at Gregor's implied brutality, but it works within the story.
    And Piratecat: that Blue Hole is sooo cool! I mean, who doesn't immediately think of an underwater hideout upon seeing that?

    P-Pricken.de

    "I desperately needed to go throw up, but I was so busy reading your story I made myself wait until I was done reading it" – Sialia

    Read my stories (PDF):
    Gwen / One Hour Later, Three Days Ago / Cold Fish / Indian Summer / Disillusionment / Rememberance / For Lack of a Better Term / The Hunt / The Second Coming (AU-Serial)
    "Berandor, what a beautiful story. It made me cry at the end." – Eeralai on "Rememberance"

    Disclaimer 1: Above all, I am a very silly man. So if a statement of mine can be construed as joke - especially if it's not funny - it likely is.
    Disclaimer 2: I am also opinionated, so when not joking I am still voicing my opinion. Except when I am stating facts.

  • #110
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    I Defended The Walls!

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    Yes, I love the supervillan honeypot. And swimming in gasoline...aaaa....
    When God hands you a gift, he also hands you a whip; and the whip is intended for self-flagellation solely. (Truman Capote)

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