Sangamon Taylor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
toxicspiderman) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
damned_institute2009-07-19 04:15 pm
toxicspiderman) wrote in damned_institute2009-07-19 04:15 pm
Entry tags:
- akihiko,
- blue beetle,
- daphne,
- haseo,
- hk-47,
- junpei,
- kibitoshin,
- lelouch,
- leon (so2),
- lockdown,
- s.t.,
- spider,
- suzaku
Nightshift 42: Callahan's Grocer
S.T. was bored. Bored and feeling useless. He'd stomped around town, looking for a distraction from his own self-pitying funk, as the light had waned. Boredom and feigned anticipation had given way to dread. He'd circled back around to the grocery to see if there was anything less useless on the bulletin. No dice.
Then it happened. Everything changed, without the comfort of a closed door and an unchanging dormitory room. Usually it was like an elevator with a dinner service -- if the doors open on the same sight as you left, either it's a crap elevator or you're in a stockbroker's office tower. And if it were the latter, the food would need more unpronounceable French things.
This had no frame, no steady point of reference. The smell of rotting fruit, esters and alcohol, hit him first. Papers curled and became brittle. The ambient temperature dropped at least five degrees.
It was night, and the closest thing he had to a weapon was a ballpoint pen and a rack of rotting tomatoes. At least he hoped the tomatoes were on his side.
[for Spider Jerusalem, open to threadcrashing once we get going]
Then it happened. Everything changed, without the comfort of a closed door and an unchanging dormitory room. Usually it was like an elevator with a dinner service -- if the doors open on the same sight as you left, either it's a crap elevator or you're in a stockbroker's office tower. And if it were the latter, the food would need more unpronounceable French things.
This had no frame, no steady point of reference. The smell of rotting fruit, esters and alcohol, hit him first. Papers curled and became brittle. The ambient temperature dropped at least five degrees.
It was night, and the closest thing he had to a weapon was a ballpoint pen and a rack of rotting tomatoes. At least he hoped the tomatoes were on his side.
[for Spider Jerusalem, open to threadcrashing once we get going]
no subject
"The pen is not, as it turns out, mightier than the sword." He flung the pen at the pile of tomatoes. It bounced off with a dull squelch. His voice took on the brain-dead patter of a radio announcer on the graveyard shift of an oldies' station. The kind that knew all their listeners were tucked into their Alzheimer's wards by 8pm, and the only listeners were the FCC.
"Last year, more people were killed by automobile accidents, heart attacks, lung cancer, and natural causes combined than by any one tomato." It was true, though he'd put entire phone-tree squadrons off their pizza by pointing out that it'd be decades before the US crop was DDT and dieldrin-free.
"I was looking for information when the special effects started. Found the usual passive-aggressive soap opera and fuck all else. Come on, let's get the fuck out of here before the meat counter decides to walk again." Or before the smell got to him and he puked on Spider. Again.
no subject
"FUCK YOU!" he screamed, front-kicking the advancing zombie in the chest. It lost balance, and tried desperately to grab his foot as it dropped to the floor. He turned back to S.T.
"WHERE ARE THE GUNS? TAKE ME TO THE GUNS."
[move them out of here. PLEASE!]
no subject
[to here]
no subject
S.T. sprinted back into the grocery. One shoplifted six-pack of diet blue-black-purple-berry soda, two chocolate bars, and one package of extra-long matches later, he was back out the door. Except for the part where the six-pack became a five-pack, due to one stuck in zombie teeth.
"There's more dental disasters in that mouth than a double-decker bus of British rugby players. Try flossing, cheesebrain."
[returning to here]