WELL. This chapter is shorter than the last one, but makes up for that lack by being exponentially more unpleasant! ENJOY
BREAK THE SKY: Prologue|1
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Break the Sky: Prologue
New writing project! Rated R, probably for sundry unpleasantness. Not really sure where this is headed, as of yet.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Unemployed
A random snippet I wrote in class from Alter, my current never-to-be-drawn comic project.
Sometimes Mikhail wondered how many people he had killed.
He remembered the first; certainly. He remembered most of the one's he'd been paid to kill,m during his brief but insanely lucrative stint as the Galaxie's Greatest Assassin.
He was cold and merciless and deadly; he also had a kitten named (for reasons best unknown) Ashtray but that was soooo beside the point.
"So Ashtray," he said one day in rapid-fire Russian "I was thinking of finding another job."
Ashtray, as usual, said nothing, merely gazing at Mikhail with mad, sage-green eyes.
"I am tired of killing for money. Takes all the fun out of it."
Pet me, Ashtray said with a pointed meow. Damn you, PET ME.
"You are useless, Ashtray. Sometimes I am wishing I had friends."
Pet me, you murdering Rusky fuck!
"But what else can I do? What else do I know?"
I HATE YOUR IDLE HANDS!
"You are right, my tiny friend. I need a fresh perspective."
DIE, said Ashtray, sinking tiny dagger claws into the impermeable nanomaterial of Mikhail's trousers. DIE. In a FIRE. That I START.
"I love you, tiny friend."
Sometimes Mikhail wondered how many people he had killed.
He remembered the first; certainly. He remembered most of the one's he'd been paid to kill,m during his brief but insanely lucrative stint as the Galaxie's Greatest Assassin.
He was cold and merciless and deadly; he also had a kitten named (for reasons best unknown) Ashtray but that was soooo beside the point.
"So Ashtray," he said one day in rapid-fire Russian "I was thinking of finding another job."
Ashtray, as usual, said nothing, merely gazing at Mikhail with mad, sage-green eyes.
"I am tired of killing for money. Takes all the fun out of it."
Pet me, Ashtray said with a pointed meow. Damn you, PET ME.
"You are useless, Ashtray. Sometimes I am wishing I had friends."
Pet me, you murdering Rusky fuck!
"But what else can I do? What else do I know?"
I HATE YOUR IDLE HANDS!
"You are right, my tiny friend. I need a fresh perspective."
DIE, said Ashtray, sinking tiny dagger claws into the impermeable nanomaterial of Mikhail's trousers. DIE. In a FIRE. That I START.
"I love you, tiny friend."
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
It's a SCREW YOU Tuesday
Today's Screw You Tuesday is dedicated to you, Sock Boy.
So today Chris and I went to San Francisco for a day of smiles and health food - or at least a day of sniping, clashing neuroses, nervous hypertension, seething resentment, and health food- during which we made one of many stops to the Hate Assberry or whatever the hell that place is called, the place twentysomething hipsters bow towards during their six daily prayers. We went (don't ask me why) to a store that sold socks. Yes, indeed, it was a store dedicated in it's entirety to socks.
The clerk was a perfectly affable boy whose resemblance to Jeffrey Dahmer was unfortunately pronounced and who couldn't make up his mind which one of us he was flirting with (Chris or myself; he went for me originally, but after my fourth somewhat pointed remark about his place of business he went back to making calfs-eyes at Christopher) and we asked him what place he reccomended for lunch. He recommended the thai restaurant next door.
And it was fucking terrible.
Fuck you, Sock Boy.
So today Chris and I went to San Francisco for a day of smiles and health food - or at least a day of sniping, clashing neuroses, nervous hypertension, seething resentment, and health food- during which we made one of many stops to the Hate Assberry or whatever the hell that place is called, the place twentysomething hipsters bow towards during their six daily prayers. We went (don't ask me why) to a store that sold socks. Yes, indeed, it was a store dedicated in it's entirety to socks.
The clerk was a perfectly affable boy whose resemblance to Jeffrey Dahmer was unfortunately pronounced and who couldn't make up his mind which one of us he was flirting with (Chris or myself; he went for me originally, but after my fourth somewhat pointed remark about his place of business he went back to making calfs-eyes at Christopher) and we asked him what place he reccomended for lunch. He recommended the thai restaurant next door.
And it was fucking terrible.
Fuck you, Sock Boy.
Monday, December 14, 2009
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