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| The Debacle of the Dramaturge; A Tag with Hippy | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Jan 25 2018, 04:16 PM (43 Views) | |
| TheTyrantOfTyrus | Jan 25 2018, 04:16 PM Post #1 |
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What is YOUR meat agenda?
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The Debacle of the Dramaturge From the drums built deep into that handcranked radio came the bellows and twangs of an old guitar long rotted and a singer long dead. Let it drum on, let it ring out, let it jive. That's what Bobo permitted. Bobo permitted the watered-down beer, cheap in all ways, selling it by the crate to anyone who had clothes on their backs, teeth enough to spare, or a favor or two. There were more tabs than there were people in Bucket Town for Bobo's dive bar, or so Charlie was told. Bobo permitted Raiders of all stripes, creeds and colors to lay their loot down on his table so they could wile away their hours in stupors even the most slovenly sots could only dream of. Which was why Charlie Klamcaboga was there. Feeling at home as he could outside of the festered walls and corpse-shangled roofs of the Crag. Bobo was the bartender, a mutant who traded skin for longevity, a leper with a silver tongue and an amiable personhood. When long ago, Copperton was just some po-dunk town that lived off the boiled meat of skinned dogs, Bobo was the bartender. Now, long after the town was forced to bear the yoke of a raider's folly, Bobo was still the bartender. It wasn't that the council of thieves and murderers that ran the town, who permitted Bobo to stay after they had purged it of any moral character. Bobo simply permitted the council to stay. The crowd, this morning, in Bobo's treaded on the creaking, long-sagging floorboards caked with mothballs and desert dust. The soles of their boots thumped to the drums of that long-dead drummer and their chatter danced to the melody of that long-dead singer. They were men in leather suits, padded cotton, metal pads, roughspun tunics, woolen trousers, rag-plaid vests, and tattoo sleeves. Some were hunters, most were junkies, but a few were raiders. You couldn't tell one from the other, however. The shelves behind Bobo, whose arthritic hands still deftly manuevered along the bar, was stocked to capacity and then some. It was a scene out of an old holotape western, the ones with the black-hats and the white-hats and the revolvers that shot out hot metal and staining smoke. Charlie loved it. Though the dead man was rather scary. For leaning against the bar was a memorial of dried, yellow dandelions and crispy, dead roses. The smell of incense, captivatingly strong, didn't mask the smell of embalming fluid permeate grotesquely through the room. Sloshing in the cold veins of the corpse. A beautiful, black-stained coffin of immaculate construction held the engorged corpus of a man in his middle age with a wirery moustache of the same color as his receding brown hair. The man bore a freshly-pressed bleach-white suit and held a panama hat in his crooked hands held fast with varicose, black veins. A plaque read above him: Here lies Houston Miller, Beloved Mayor and Gentlemen, survived by his mother, Tonya Miller, and his children, Richard Miller, Andrea Miller, and Enrique Miller. At least the drinks were free for today. Two cards flew from the deck of the dealer, whose lips curled to grin a set of pianoteeth as every other one of those pearlie whites stained a rich black. The man who sat in Houston's chair, softly tapped out a hand of his own. From the waist-up, bare of hair but clothed in the tattooed worlds of quarreling Yao-Guai's and Deathclaws in warm, faded colors. A wolve's pelt bore about his waist and covered his shame with a skirt of sundry revolvers, whereas about his neck was strangled a steel gorget, fitted like a bandolier with dozens upon dozens of cartridges, cased in red-tanned leather, streaming from red-leather tassels, and shoved into red-leather pockets, all of them stitched into that ancient plate of cold, battered steel. "Blackjack is a lucky girl's game, kimosabe." Codfondler nodded with a tongue of molasses passing through those sweet words. "I ain't going to lie to you as I respect you too. You do not seem like a lucky girl." "What?" Charlie cracked out as he covertly examined his cards: a Queen of Spades and a Four of Hearts. "I'm not a girl." "You aren't?" Codfondler's eyes grew wide before he squinted at the sight of the Signback. "With that hair?" "Yeah." "And that voice?" "Well, yeah." "And that body." "Yes?" "Well, even if you aren't, I'm certain you can make an old man very happy one day. Then very, very, very angry shortly afterwards." Charlie nodded. "Can we get on with this, now?" "Hit?" "I'm feeling like I'm a lucky girl." The dealer drew one card and laid it flat on the green. Jack of Hearts. "Oh. Not so lucky after all." The bear of a man leaned over, his chest extending him far past the width of the table like a snake hovers from a tree branch to strike. "Now. How about that collateral, you promised." The Shitkid Charlie remembered how loose his gunbelt was on his hip. An old jury-rigged revolver hung holstered there, an old thing he had known since he was in the crib. An ancient gun. His grandmother's gun. His family's honor. Everything he held dear on earth, Charlie had put at hazard for the thrill of chance and misfortune. So can we really blame Charlie for cutting and running? The Shitkid smiled as his hand went down towards his six-shooter, slowly and deliberately. But when his hand finally wrapped itself around the birch-grip of the revolver, feeling that engraved, stained tree-flesh, he cocked his shoulders and struck Codfondler. It connected to his jaw, breaking skin and plummeting blood unto that deep green table. Yet that man didn't flinch nor even turn his head, rather he smiled and nodded. "That was a bad decision." Charlie whimpered. "No. It was a fatal decision." Lightning hands shot from the table to strangle Charlie's neck, who dashed backwards on his rickety-hooks. They creaked and wobbled as the Shitkid bounced back. Not noticing and not caring, Charlie pivoted around and slammed straight into a waitress. A slurry of watery lager slicked the floorboards as bottles became shards and beer became obstacle. Bobo screamed. "What in Sam Hill are you doing, you fucking frenulum!" Lumbering towrds Charlie with his sharp, steel spurs rattling and boothells crushing the floorboards, the Codfondler flexed with muscles barely bound by the painted monsters that coiled around his body. A Yao-Gaui's maw opened wide and fangs reached out towards Charlie. A Deathclaw's bloody claw came forth to tear away at the boy. All these hounds of the Codfondler were set forth to hew at the limbs of the Signback, for their master reeled back on strong legs and pounced. An instance of thought and hardborne reflexes caught Charlie, iron fingers like links of lead sausages whipped past him. Locomotion and the animal brain of Charlie had seized his movement now, reacting like game and dancing to the tune of the predator's baneful roars and whinnies. Ignoring the crowd now forming, the soft-horror of Bobo at the mess and disruptions, the whole pandomaniacal circus of jibbering junkies and rowdy raiders, all for the staredown of this prancing bear called the Codfondler. Both of them circled now, the Codfondler on the sharp tips of his boots and the Signback on the tips of his hooks. Fingers remained taut, hands outstretched and wide, bodys were square with stoic, inhuman balance. A ballet for barnyard doors which trussed themselves around on their corners, such was the way they waddled to and fro. Nobody wanted to reach for their six-shooters and to let the grey gunsmoke roll through the bar. It wouldn't have been as fun or as satisfying that way. "Boy. I never got your name." Codfondler played his piano-teeth, exposing every bloody, swollen gum and dead-rooted molar in his tobacco-stained mouth. "Shame to kill someone without knowing their name." "Charlie. My name is Charlie." The Shitkid smiled widely. "You know..." "Yes." The both of them continued to circle each other. Around and around like the stars in the sky at the glacial speed of massive time. "This is only going to end one way..." Charlie glanced down to the pistol at his side. "I'm telling you this... It's going to end lik-" Before he even finished his sentence, the Signback pivoted away from their dance. Barreling through the half-drunk crowd, Charlie didn't have time for the pleasantries and basic human decency. Those he couldn't push away with the strength of his hands, the Signback had to evade and dodge for the entirity of the bar's crowd had began to crowd the two. Now through this sea of meat and sweat and alcohol, he paddled with clenched fists and quick thinking. The ranks were thick and seemed a dozen-men deep yet behind him it seemed the Codfondler, the bear, the beast, the monster who tamed monster, was barreling through men like a duststorm through sand dunes. Never could the world seem so small and the Misery Road so closely. Finally, though, the boy found breathe as he waded past the crowd. Eyes focused on the front door, Charlie bounded for it with his hooks bouncing and creaking. To his side now was the ornate coffin of Houston Miller and resourcefulness came to the thought of Charlie as he landed on one leg and spun toppling over the body of Houston Miller behind him. The coffin groaned and fell as stiff as the corpse held within and the shadow of this cask consumed the Codfondler in pursuit. Reaching the frontdoor and to the applause of the crowd and the fury of Bobo, Charlie stopped in just the briefest of moments to bow towards his audience like the showman he was. Yet when the locks of his tangled, ratty hair broke open as he brought his eyes backs to gaze upon the sundry men of the bar, he saw the Codfondler in a deep and intimate tango with the late Houston Miller. The dealer, the bear, the monster of a man twisted the corpse before him before he knelt and laid it over his shoulder to carry. Rod Codfondler twisted on the ball of his feet and with the momentum, propelled the sullen body of a middle-aged man through the air. Towards Charlie. Quickness was in the hot blood of the Signback and he was out the door before the man went splat against the heavy, wooden door. Ammonia seeped through the bottom of the door and Charlie dusted himself off before he gathered himself and his surroundings. Emaciated junkies stared listlessly at the noise and hooting that pervaded the thronged town square of Copperton, then they stared at the crippled boy who paced quickly from the door and into the crowds. Short as he was, Charlie was easily hidden in the veil of people as they wandered aimlessly through the town-square. Most were tripping out on those sewer-brewed concotions that an old Raider boss was cooking up and so they marched to the drum of their heart and the directions of a fried mind. Others simply laid on the floor sunbathing and airbathing as they baked themselves to Torch. Most interestingly. many eyes and ears were drawn to the attention of an orange-hair whore who sang quite beautifully. She sang: When I was young, I could swear, that I never had a doubt or a care. I was young and a fool to believe anything I learned in school. Now I know, now I see, that the only thing that worries me, is the man with the heart whose love I never had at the start. Bobo's front door swung open and it's handle dented the metal walls of the establishment, bent-over and squeezing his way through the door, the Codfondler began to sniff the air and scan the horizon. Like a hound, he drew closer and closer, the men he pushed through crashing against him like waves against mighty, sheer walls. Uncannily, he followed the trail left behind by Charlie, each hook scuff and scent of fear and he began to bite at the air and lurch violently through the crowds. Biting his lip, Charlie melted into the crowd watching the whore. She looked as young as Charlie, maybe a year or so older, that pale-faced youth with eyes like smeared snot and hair round and orange like a badlands boulder. Slim and slender, she sang. Now closer and closer, I do feel his love and closer and closer, the heavens above sing louder and louder, with angels and doves, and his eyes meet my eyes and I feel that my guise of broken hearts and cold despise is melting as his arms wrap around me. Charlie had nudged his way through the mesmerized audience who stared at the fool who sang on a soapbox. She was wearing a joker's garb, colorful and silly and impractical. Streaming suspenders and bloody-silk sleeves and golden moccasins, an idiotic display of human frailty. The girl was glass. In the fields and in th- Five fingers rested themselves firm on the Signback's shoulder. Stiff, the boy couldn't help but whimper as the weight of an elephant began to crush his shoulders. Smiling nervously, Charlie didn't want to turn to see the Codfondler behind him, red in tooth and claw. Instead, he sighed. Resigned. Resolute to die. However, he opened his eyes and as deseperate as he was, he pushed himself away from the bear, that beast, the Codfondler. Throwing himself towards the soapbox, the Signback tripped over himself into the arms of orange-hair whore. "Wait!" Charlie blurted out. "Wait! Wait! I'm-I'm- wait- I'm not a wastrel kid like you believe I am. No! I am actually -uh- a member of the trope that this fair lady has started." Quickly, the Signback got unto his feet and wrapped his arm around the shoulder of the twiggy whore. He continued, "See, I'm just an actor. I was just getting into my character as a shifty, no-nothing kid, whose an idiot outlaw with no regard for anyone." "See!" He continued, "I-I-" The Signback drew his pistol and began to tap out the bullets from it. "See, I mean, this thing isn't even loaded. I mean wow, see! Hahaha!" "Please. I-I didn't mean any trouble. I mean, it's this girl's fault. She forced me into it. I'm just a kid. I mean I'm a cripple, look at me!" "Enough!" The Codfondler spoke. "You said something about... a play. I am a cultured man. A man of taste and talent and wisdom. But I am no fool." The massive man unholstered one of his many pistols and aimed it towards the two of them before he sat on the ground Indian-style. The dealer spoke out, "This is a lucky girl's game. Life. Show me a scene from this play of yours before I grow bored." |
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Marshel Vic HC 7 4 8 6 6 4 5 Aryanna Leatherback 9 2 7 2 4 8 5 Charlie Klams 5 4 5 6 8 8 3 | |
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| Hippy | Feb 11 2018, 01:00 PM Post #2 |
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Wastelander
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Her hair was on end. Each bundle of curly red from the slim seductress now pointed skyward. Tooty had been swaying and singing atop her soapbox in front of small gathering, and peacefully at that, until a lumbering brute and pint-sized imbecile now took the stage. Or so it seemed the stage was theirs until the barrel of a gun conceded the spotlight back towards her. This made her angry. Today was about her, it was always about her! And no crippled shit-face and his lies were going to split the crowd's attention, not if she had anything to say about it. “That man is lieing! We are not apart of-”, she stopped herself from denying the situation and brushed her freckle covered face for a brief moment as she thought. “I mean… we aren't just any troupe, we are Tooty Poodles and Company! Greatest entertainers of all time, in all of Texas!”, she said with a confident pose. Resisting this publicity would have been a mistake for her. The gathering of people, who were once as frightened as she was of the conflict, now turned to awe and amusement of what was sure to be a good show, or at the very least this is what she gathered from the various rough and wretched faces. Perhaps she could spin this whole ordeal to her favor, and make her mark in this town, or die trying. Tooty smiled brightly at her clever plan until her confirmation of Charlie's lie had only urged the gun-brandishing behemoth to glare at her as if she had just tried to cheat him in a game of cards. So she indulged his request and stepped down off of her crate, that acted as an improvised stage, and cartwheeled next to Charlie. “Round and round she goes! Wherever she lands nobody knows!”, she squealed as she toppled next to the cripple in a dramatic and practiced tumble. “Oh dear, I don't suppose you could give me a HAND could you?” she mocked Charlie, inciting a few hardy chuckles from the crowd. Shooting to her feet, she took Charlie by the shoulder with a sharp and pinching grasp. “I hope you got a nice trick up your sleeve.” she whispered with an offended tone. “Don't make me look like a fool either!”. |
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Juan 'Heavy' Hernandez - S4 P7 E7 C7 I7 A3 L5 Lvl 2. Traits: Stout Body, Perfectionist, Improv Artist Appearance: Odd looking Mexican man with many dog bites and whip marks. Bushy black eyebrows and mustache and bright green eyes and a shaved head. Triple chin and bouncing belly surrounded in a brown leather jacket and sweat pants. Equipment: Post-war musket, six-shot revolver, ×2 gunpowder mines, tattered leather jacket, pocket knife, pipe pistol, hobo stove, large burlap sack Bucket Town Rep: +5 O'Boyle's camp rep+15 Tooty Poodles Equipment: Switchblade, ×2 stun grenades, ×2 molotov Armor: Packrat Clothing Special: | |
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