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Author Topic: SHORT STORY COMP - 40TH ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL  (Read 1582 times)

Jacqusie

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Re: SHORT STORY COMP - 40TH ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL
« Reply #30 on: 18 February, 2017, 08:22:56 pm »
JACQUSIE.... you get the big one... the main man... BONJO FROM BEYOND THE STARS

Nah, you get ROGUE TROOPER nice one!


Nice one, thanks BCB! I've re-read some Bonjo recently & it wasn't that bad really, it had some Kev O'Neill art - although it did hurt my head by the end of it!

So to Rogue... no pressure!  :)

sheridan

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Re: SHORT STORY COMP - 40TH ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL
« Reply #31 on: 19 February, 2017, 03:20:03 pm »
JACQUSIE.... you get the big one... the main man... BONJO FROM BEYOND THE STARS

Nah, you get ROGUE TROOPER nice one!


Nice one, thanks BCB! I've re-read some Bonjo recently & it wasn't that bad really, it had some Kev O'Neill art - although it did hurt my head by the end of it!

So to Rogue... no pressure!  :)

I preferred Dash Decent to Bonjo (then again the 1980s Flash Gordon film is one of my faves).

Eamonn Clarke

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Re: SHORT STORY COMP - 40TH ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL
« Reply #32 on: 26 February, 2017, 12:45:05 pm »
Simping ain't easy.

The name’s Jack Point. Jack as in “You know ...”, and Point as in “I’m getting to it, already”.
Funny story as it happens. I’m all about the funny me. And trouble. Trouble is my business.

She came into my office just as I was starting a big sleep, or a little personal Jack off-time as I call it. She looked like that trouble I was telling you about, trouble spelled S-E-X. She had the sort of curves that would make an old Bishop weep.

The job was easy, find a guy, and recover some weird bird sculpture he had stolen from her. 50,000 credits for delivery of her little flappy friend. That would keep my in carrots for a while and stop my landlord chasing me with a two by four every time he saw me.

I asked all the usual, assured her of total discretion, said of course I wouldn’t ask any tricky questions about the statue. Sentimental value, gift from her little sister apparently. Keep your nose out was what she was telling me. She went like a long goodbye, and left me looking out of my high window. There was a bad smell, and it wasn’t coming from my size 18 clown shoes, or the crappy carrots I smoke. A little bird was telling me something strange was going down.

I put my big red nose to the grindstone for three days and then set up the meet. She didn’t want to come in to the office, wanted somewhere remote. I scouted out a disused warehouse and arranged to meet the lady in the Lake-side storage facility. I was early, she was late. She went straight to where I had left the little black statue on a packing case and immediately tore the label off its base.

“Looking for this?”I asked, holding up the data slug.

She opened her purse and pulled out a Lazinger pistol. I don’t like it when people point guns at me, tends to take the fun out of things if you know what I mean.

“Come clean, Lady. Tell me about this chip and we can end this the easy way without anyone getting hurt.”

She looked amused. “Hurt? Why, Mr Point, I believe I’ve got you covered.”

“Funny. I was just thinking the same about you. See I’ve got a little insurance policy. Double indemnity you might say. All I have to do is whistle and it will be farewell, my lovely.”

“Ever the joker eh, Point. But you’re bluffing. If you have the drop on me why haven’t you pulled the trigger yet?”

“Let me tell you the secret of great comedy ....”

I just put my lips together and blew.
The piano fell from the roof. WHUMPF! The lady vanishes.

“...it’s timing.”

Punch lines. They can be real killers.

People laughed when I said I was going to be a Simp, well they’re not laughing now.

Bad City Blue

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Re: SHORT STORY COMP - 40TH ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL
« Reply #33 on: 27 February, 2017, 10:01:24 am »
Nice one Eamonn.

The Legendary Shark

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Re: SHORT STORY COMP - 40TH ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL
« Reply #34 on: 27 February, 2017, 12:52:42 pm »
Waldo "D.R." Dobbs
in
What's the "D.R." Stand For?


Like, seriously, Man? The prison's on fire and that's the only question you got? Well, I get asked it a lot and we got plenty of time 'til the S.W.A.T. teams show up so, okay, I'll give you the Definitive Report. Hey, anybody got marshmallows? No? Shame. Seems like a waste of a good conflagration, yeah?

Anyhoop, you remember my first parole hearing when I'd been in this dump for, like, five years? Back then I said the "D.R." stood for "Definitely Rehabilitated," which it really didn't. I tried, though. When that spankstick of a governor learned about how I'd been in the movie biz he put me to work in the prison's animatronic workshop, and I was real spooky at it, Man. Made animatronic puppets for all sorts. You ever see "FartScrape" or "Stan's Labyrinth"? They were mine. Made tons of bread for the prison, enough to build a new wing. F-Wing, they called it. Dumb name. Should have called it the Dobbs Ranch, you dig? Pfah. Modern, though. You can see through the rubble it's the only wing not on fire. Cool, huh?

I'd secretly built an animatronic of myself to send to that first parole hearing, Man, because I get, like, kinda upset an' shouty, "Distinctly Reactionary," you might say. Heh. The real me hid in the laundry but the Governor got wise because I used the wrong synthi-skin colour and he sent the animatronic off to the tip while I was put back in a cell, which was, like, really heavy, Man. Decidedly Recaptured.

So, here we all is, thirty five years later and this is my second parole hearing. You like the show I laid on for you? Exciting, ain't it? Destruction Rampant, Man! See, all I got to do is wait for E-Wing to blow up, 'cause that's where the cctv transmitters are, then everyone will think I died in the, like, explosion in here, Dude. A Defunct Recidivist. Wow, there it goes! Sure is pretty, yeah? Now I just open this drawer in my stomach and arm the atom bomb...

You look confused, Man. Ain't you got it, yet? I painted the real me with the wrong skin colour thirty five years ago, got myself Declared Rubbish and chucked away. Ever since then, the "D.R." has stood for Decoy Robot.

Like, boom, boom, Man...

Bad City Blue

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Re: SHORT STORY COMP - 40TH ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL
« Reply #35 on: 28 February, 2017, 04:40:42 pm »
Nice

The Legendary Shark

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Re: SHORT STORY COMP - 40TH ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL
« Reply #36 on: 28 February, 2017, 05:39:48 pm »
Ta.

The Enigmatic Dr X

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Re: SHORT STORY COMP - 40TH ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL
« Reply #37 on: 02 March, 2017, 09:28:49 am »
Splut.

Forty. Forty thousand. Four-oh-kay. He'd been running now for forty thousand years.

Splut.

And it always been there. In the background, under the bedlam and between the bullets. The sound.

Splut.

It was the sound of drip. Most people think of that as the sound of a drop of water. They were wrong, of course. A drop of water makes no sound. It coalecses and falls in perfect silence. A drip was the sound of it landing.

Splut.

This wasn't the sound you get from a picture. No perfect ripples reflecting light. This was dark and dank, the noise made when water hits something organic. Something turgid.

Splut.

It was his dark little secret. Every week that noise was in the background. Getting louder, growing impatient. Eventually, he had to scratch the itch. If he missed out, he could be out of sorts for months.

Splut.

No matter where he was, or what he was doing. Ro-busters rescues. The Black Hole. Termight. A smoking battlefield. It was there, in his mind, and he had to scratch an itch.

Splut.

It was just the way he was made. He knew he didn’t need it. But it had always been there.

Splut.

It was his dirty secret. He never spoke about it. No one would understand. At his age? Why hadn't he given it up? He could have it seen to. Reprogramming was cheap and easy.

Splut.

But conforming bothered him. Deep down, he was worried that this is what defined him. He knew it was daft. But he would miss it, miss it terribly, if it went.

Splut.

Once a week, he had to have his hit. Once a week, he had to unblock something. A pipe. A toilet. Anything solid but slimey. Something to bury his trowel.

Splut.

There had been tough times. A patch twenty thousand years ago when he'd been shovelling sand. But he'd stuck with it.

Splut.

Ro-jaws had to admit. He was an addict. He loved this shit.



« Last Edit: 02 March, 2017, 09:32:14 am by The Enigmatic Dr X »
Lock up your spoons!

Timothy

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Re: SHORT STORY COMP - 40TH ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL
« Reply #38 on: 04 March, 2017, 04:47:56 pm »
Wotcher, mateys, it's your old pal Ro-Jaws here. The cheeky nerk what keeps coming back to mix things up and put old Hammerstiff in his place. We've had a laugh together over the last 40 years, and it's been a lot better under snot-face Tharg than it was under that ponce Starlord, but you know what? I've just about had e-bleedin-nough. I mean, I know what people think. "Here come smelly Ro-Jaws" people say "he'll be good for a toilet joke and a comedy swear". But who gets to shift the story along? Who gets the action? Who gets the big speeches? The character development? The girls? Not muggins here, that's for sure, and that's what I'm pig sick of.

Time was I could have done the lot. Slapstick - no problem; action - let me at it; romance - I'd tug your heart strings like nobody's business. I had range, see. Range, and real potential. Like a young Dudley Moore but with better teeth. And you know when it all went wrong? The minute I bumped into that twannock, Mills, that's when. Promised me the world, he did. Told me about how he wrote nearly everything in comics worth reading and how if I stuck with him I could have a piece of the action. Told me I'd be a cover star, that I'd have parts in all his big stories: Ro-busters, Nemesis, ABC Warriors, he told me I could have the lot and more. What he didn't tell me was that the parts were no more than mockney light relief to set against his real stars. So for 40 flamin' years I've been typecast as the cheeky little chappie to be trotted out whenever he had a new fake swear word to road test. So now what am I good for? Chuff all. My career is right down the pan, which is ironic given the role I've been stitched up with.

I don't think I'd mind so much if I actually was a salt-of-the-earth lovable cockney, but I'm not. I'm actually from pretty good stock, not that I ever get a chance to show any sort of breeding with the parts I'm landed with. I mean, it just sickens me to have to wave that ridiculous shovel about when I've got all the proper attachments - soup spoon, fish slice, the lot - but I'm not allowed to use them. It makes me look like such an oaf. And my casing is actually Rolls Royce you know, yet Mills has it smeared in shit every time I'm on. I reckon he's just jealous.

Well no more. This worm has turned, and unless I get some decent roles - proper meaty stuff that'll have me up for awards - then Mills can stick it up his arris . It's time for a new me; smart, polished, a robot with a bit of class and with smooth moves to match. See you on the podium, chums.

NapalmKev

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Re: SHORT STORY COMP - 40TH ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL
« Reply #39 on: 10 March, 2017, 08:17:46 am »
                             Old Man Slade.


He woke to the tune of his own screams, 'Broken bones in Pain Major'. Blessed unconsciousness quickly followed.


"He's Fucking OLD! His mind's gone! What possible use can he be?"


Waking up was a lot easier the second time. The symphony of pain had dulled to a slow, rythmic aching.

The room was dark; save for a small glow just above, which only illuminated a mess of tubes protruding from his chest. Synthetic Serpents, slithering into the darkness taking his body and soul with them... Or so he thought. Thinking hadn't been his strong point for a good many years now. Until the treatments had happened.


"Excellent results for the most part, Sir! 'Machine-Killer Dave' didn't make it I'm afraid. And 'Sausage John' went right off the deep end... We had to put him down!"


Sam tried to pull him self upright, disturbing the life-sucking chest snakes, and sending new waves of pain through his broken body. A small alarm began chirping just off to his left... Is this what it had come to? A lifetime of destroying Robots and now he was being kept alive by a machine. The irony of it all!

Broken! That was exactly how he felt. Not damaged or frail... Broken! The once great Sam Slade: Robo-Hunter. Scourge of the Mechanical Miscreants, Bane of the Beta-Test! (He wasn't quite sure what the latter really meant so he never used it in public). Forced out of retirement into a War he forsaw years ago...


"We've picked up a signal, Sir. It's.. 'Alpha Team'... Sir, they've secured the target!"


Sam shouted into the darkness, "Hello! Is anybody there? If so could you please turn THE FUCKING LIGHTS ON!"
The Void roared back - The sound of deafening silence mixed with imagined whispered mutterings. Surely they wouldn't have forgotten an old war hero? Would they?


"Once the target is in custody I want all teams to be shut down! We have no further use of them!"



"The movers, the shakers... Largely abject Fakers!"

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Modern Panther

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Re: SHORT STORY COMP - 40TH ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL
« Reply #40 on: 10 March, 2017, 03:26:28 pm »
Old Max, he’s been around for a while, you dig?  The pinstrike freak is long past his peak.  But sure, sure, I’ll give you one more dance at the shuggy ball.  Shall we say, a hundred creds for the win?  I’m a little rusty.  You can break.

Shuggy’s a dying art.  Was a time, there were parlours on every corner.  A game of skill and chance.  The great equalizer. Folks complain about the immigrants, aliens and apes and muties.  Shuggy don’t discriminate and neither does Max.  Its less about the DNA and all about how they play.  A man of any hue can wield the shuggy cue. 

Nice. Nice separation you got there.  Hand me the chalk would you, friend?

Young Max, he grew up in parlours like this one.  All the charm of cheap bracelet.  Max had a genuine talent from a young age. Purple ball, third pocket.  Spent more time in the shuggy groove than was healthy for a fresh faced juve.  Talent got me noticed by some important people with non of their own.  Max got a criminal patrician, who saw the creds that could be made from magician with ambition

I travelled Big Meg, from the low life streets to the penthouse suites.  Let me tell you, some of the scenes I’ve seen on the scene have been obscene.  Its a flat world, full of squares, living their lives in little boxes.  Orange ball, rebound to top pocket.  From Sector to Sector, Max made money for bad guys, raking in the funds, taking out pros and rubes alike, taking in all the crazy this crazy world has to offer.  It was a good life, compared to most.  But being a performing monkey wasn’t my style, you dig?

Ma and Pa Normal, they didn’t raise a fool.  Max decided he wouldn’t play by the rules.  Hence the threads.  Thank you.  They’re custom made.  I’ll give you my tailor’s card.  Ball nine into pocket two.

I know what they all see...just another freak.  Never judge a kook by his cover, my friend.  Maxie Normal is unique. The cool cat in the bowler hat, he knows where its at.  And being the golden goose for the mob isn’t exactly a long term plan. 

A young man with a talent, through tooth and manicured claw, he can change the world.  But in the Big Meg, that deck is stacked.  Amid all this insantity, the real problem is the criminality.  So what Max did next, well, that knowledge is more common than those polka dot kneepads with the red trim.    Old J.D, he doesn’t exactly put the “b” in “subtle”, whilst a lounge lizard, pinball wizard stands out like a dapper thumb. 

Standing up for the common man, for what’s right, that’s every man’s duty.  Besides, the shampaine and sartorial stylings don’t pay for themselves.  Black stripes, middle pocket. 

Bad luck, Buddy.  Looks like old Max got lucky.  What do you say to double or nothing?

RaggedMan

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Re: SHORT STORY COMP - 40TH ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL
« Reply #41 on: 11 March, 2017, 03:01:22 pm »
500 Words with Zenith
By Phoebe Thorn
Guardian Magazine 11/02/17


At 49 Robert Neal Cassady Macdowell is still disarmingly handsome. He’s currently laughing about an ill-fated collaboration from his ill-fated  ‘not-a-comeback’ album, 1995’s World-Shaper. ‘I’m on the old Apple Corps building and Acid Archie’s across the street and we’re Frisbee-ing Crispy… Crispin… whatever he’s called, to each other [Crispian Mills, lead singer of Kula Shaker]. He’s screaming and Archie’s singing Let it Be…’ He nearly chokes on the remains of his second bottle.  ‘I heard he shaved his head, moved to India and became a terrorist… There’s nothing worse than a posh boy with a guitar...’

‘But you don’t want to talk about the music. No one ever does. You’re here about that time I punched a Nazi’.
Yes, I admit, I want to talk punching Nazis.
‘It hurts… Ha! …Don’t think I’ve told anyone that before.’  He orders another bottle. ‘Bullets bounce off the guy. Getting your hand through that, the skin, the muscle, the ribs, the spine. It hurts.’ He sneers at me. ‘Is that what you wanted to know?’
Was he scared?
‘No… it’s all so fast. One second Siadwell’s kicking arse the next he’s dead and London’s on fire. There’s no time to feel anything.’

He’s never spoken about what happened next.  I read him John Smith’s famous eyewitness account ‘…poison cloud of teeth and eyes, seething from broken body, sickening the world…’
He downs his glass in one and bats the question away. ‘That’s just what happens when you put your fist through a Nazi.’

It’s this incident that has given the forgotten pop-star and former super-brat an unlikely new life as the symbol of protest against the rise of the global right. Every march, every demo from London to Washington to Moscow; emblazoned across the chests of thousands is the electro-Z swoosh of the Zenith logo.

MacDowell’s response was to sue for royalties. ‘Lies’ he waves over another bottle. With perfect timing the TV has started showing today’s protests in Parliament Square. ‘I initiated an exploratory process to clarify issues of ownership.’ Unusually he sounds like he’s reading from a script. ‘Anyway, I don’t own it, rare oversight from Eddie there, RIP, but no one’s making any money off it. Today’s freedom fighters like things free. Do you know how many records I’ve sold off the back of this? So few it’s less embarrassing to say none.’

‘I blame St John.’ 
For your record sales?
‘No. For all of it. This.’ He waves at News 24. ‘He thought he was so bloody clever.  Had us all in his palm. But he slipped and everything’s gone to hell.’ 
He raises a toast ‘Save us from those who want to save the world.’

I think I’ve finally caught a glimpse of the real Robert. The man behind the brat.
Do you have a message for them? He looks at the screen, the army of ersatz Zeniths swarming over William Whitlock’s statue. Then he turns to me, eyes clear, mouth set. ‘Buy. My. Records. You. Cheap. Bastards.’


 

Bad City Blue

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Re: SHORT STORY COMP - 40TH ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL
« Reply #42 on: 11 March, 2017, 06:53:38 pm »
Now we're cooking with gas.

The Legendary Shark

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Re: SHORT STORY COMP - 40TH ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL
« Reply #43 on: 11 March, 2017, 07:09:13 pm »
Charming...

Echidna

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Re: SHORT STORY COMP - 40TH ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL
« Reply #44 on: 11 March, 2017, 08:43:30 pm »
That is bloody good though isn't it