The Writing Thread

[MW 002]

Any opinions here on writing protagonists who display symptoms of mental illness?

In my fantasy novel, there are a few instances where the protagonist has attempted suicide and has inflicted harm upon herself as a means to cope with inner anguish she feels from -thinking- she is responsible for her home being destroyed. Keep in mind she is a 17 year old girl who was used to her grades and bullies being the worst of her worries.

 

[Hummingbird]

Any opinions here on writing protagonists who display symptoms of mental illness?

In my fantasy novel, there are a few instances where the protagonist has attempted suicide and has inflicted harm upon herself as a means to cope with inner anguish she feels from -thinking- she is responsible for her home being destroyed. Keep in mind she is a 17 year old girl who was used to her grades and bullies being the worst of her worries.

Limyaal has tons of advice on writing (especially fantasy) and here's one on madness.

 

[chimpburgers]

Ever since I started to do some freelance writing for pay, I've slowly gotten better at not letting word count for assignments intimidate me. Breaking those assignments up into sections and approximating how many words each part should be helps a lot. I'm still learning a lot, but the experience has been rewarding in spotting my weaknesses and understanding what the clients want. Also, I'm working on using active voice more, and I proofread several times after I'm done writing to cut out any filler and redundant phrasing. It was trickier at the beginning getting started, but the feedback I've gotten on my writing and applying it has been good.

I hope I get good enough to try some other options besides content mills. There's another site I'm planning on joining tomorrow where I'll need to do a 500-word writing sample for submission.

 

[Florence]

I've had an idea for a while now about somewhere where all forms of technology are powered by spirits mystically bound into them; however, I'm not too sure whether I should set it in the past (might come off as a bit too steampunk), the present, or the future (possibly replacing the spirits with AI or an equivalent.) Which would you recommend?

 

[50K Death March]

I've had an idea for a while now about somewhere where all forms of technology are powered by spirits mystically bound into them; however, I'm not too sure whether I should set it in the past (might come off as a bit too steampunk), the present, or the future (possibly replacing the spirits with AI or an equivalent.) Which would you recommend?

If you set it in the present check out Werewolf: The Forsaken's core manual and for the future if you're not already aware of it all of Shadowrun could give you some fun ideas and avenues. While they are both Pen and Paper books they do have some fluff in them.

Personally it depends what kind of story you want to go for. If it's the present it could be a fun, slow burn supernatural horror/mystery or magical realism deal type thing. If you're going with a futuristic setting you have a lot more scope for adventure and less need to ground it in reality. Personally I'd go with a future setting.

I had an idea of making a cyberpunk-esque book regarding an John Constantine style character who used magic powered by literal words as physical books had gone extinct and were no longer used. He would harness the emotional energy that was latent in the writing to create different spells. So for instance a scribbled bar coaster with someone's number on it could denote powers aligned with lust and seduction. The crux of the story was finding a giant library which an AI had been putting together with all of the world's writing however trivial. I shelved it a while back and it just came to mind recently with me reading more Pen and Paper books and you mentioning that. So thanks for that.

 

[Jack Haywood]

I've written down some ideas for a story that parallels the uprooting of paganism by Christianity and focuses on themes such as alienation and how easy it is for the truth to be warped:

 

[Tragi-Chan]

I've been working on a sort of fantasy set in a steampunk version of 1899 London. The basic concept is that a gentleman thief sort of character finds himself embroiled in a war between two magicians. It's quite heavily inspired by the actual history of witchcraft in Britain (which means it's hard to avoid treading on the toes of Harry Potter and The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen). It was one of those things where I just started writing it one day and kept going - there's only a vague ending at the moment.

At present, it's at the write-and-write-and-fix-the-problems-later stage, so it's far from perfect, or even particularly good. Anyway, here's a bit of it.

Spoiler: Our heroes go to Whitechapel

According to the papers seized from Exitius' hedquarters, Fluke inhabited the East End, in Whitechapel. Despite the moral outrage raised by the murders that had shaken that district a decade previously, real change for the lower classes in that area showed no sign of imminence.

It is almost impossible for the reasonably well-off Londoner to imagine the sheer vileness of the East End slums. To wander the narrow, labyrinthine streets, to smell the stink of rotting refuse and excrement, to gaze into the faces of emaciated children and hopeless adults, one could scarcely believe that you were less than a mile from the financial heart of the greatest empire the world had ever seen.

Even now, I shudder to consider the conditions in which people lived. Entire families would be crammed into a single room, and then they'd share that with another family,or even two. People would be forced by extremes of poverty into eating garbage - literal garbage, rotten vegetables found on the street. Work was hard to come by, usually irregular and often didn't pay well enough to support a single man, let alone his wife and children. Was it any wonder drunkenness and prostitution had reached epidemic levels? I daresay I'd want to take my mind off it any way I could, were I forced to live in such a h--l as this..

Naturally there were those richer types who thought they knew best. Religion was needed, they opined. Temperance. Fresh air. Moral fibre. Often, of course, these solutions were ones that didn't necessitate those making the suggestions to put their hand in their own pockets, or inconvenience themselves in any way. Personally, my solution would have been to burn the whole area to the ground and rehouse everyone in the spare rooms of Belgravia and Mayfair. That'll learn 'em.

This was the place to which Peacock and I were heading. I had explained to him in no uncertain terms that his normal, dandified mode of dress would certainly not pass muster in the mystic East End. While rich people were not unknown in the slums, they were usually there to gawp at the human zoo, or sample the pleasures unavailable in more genteel neighbourhoods. That was not what we wanted to pass for.

Fortunately, I have plenty of the sort of clothes that would enable one to blend in, as an essential part of my confidence trickster's armoury, and outfitted Peacock. I opted for the very latest in ragged couture, wearing a vest with a brown jacket worn at the elbows and a pair of too-large trousers held up with string and a pair of shoes so worn that they were practically socks. Peacock wore a collarless shirt, frayed at the cuffs, with a grey jacket. As Peacock was a deal taller than me, his sleeves and trouser legs were rather shorter than ideal.

"You know, I'm not sure about this," said Peacock, flexing his arms experimentally. "I'd prefer something a tad longer."

"We don't have anything a tad longer. Now, remember - you're a day labourer, scrounging work wherever you can. I am a vagrant."

"Well, yes, but would a day labourer dress like this? I mean, wouldn't he try to scrape together something better-fitting to make a good impression on any potential employers?"

"Peacock, I know how poor people dress."

"Yes, yes, but I'm just saying -"

"Who's the costumier here? That's what you're wearing, and that's final. If you don't like it, that's just too bad. Next, dirty yourself up." I gave him a handful of soot. "Rub it into your face, then wipe most of it off. You want to look like you're habitually just a dirty person. Now, can you do a Cockney accent?"

Peacock took a deep breath. "Gawd blin' me, guv, kin Oi do a Cockernee accint? Will, if -"

"Alright, if anyone asks, you're a recent immigrant. But on the whole, leave the talking to me. Come on, let's go."

 

[blastoiseplushie]

Sorry to necro a thread but I was wondering if any other writing kiwis could help me.

Does anyone have tips for getting your creative juices flowing when you feel like they've been drained out of you? Long story short, I came up with a character a few years ago that I used to write with, and I want to keep her alive because I'm really proud of her. I'd never put enough thought into a character before but this one had a real backstory and real flaws and relationships. She was my greatest project and I don't want her to die because my brain was eaten by my shitty jobs.

It used to be easy to write little vignettes while I was doing mindless tasks, but now I struggle, and it's really frustrating. This is pretty much the only creative outlet I have left, since I can't draw or make jewelry anymore (fucking arthritis) and I'm terrible at music...

I'm going through the same thing, actually! I completed a novel last year for NaNoWriMo, and even self published it on CreateSpace for Kindle. I started on my second, but during the summer I've been 'away' from my characters due to kids and family and odd jobs. I need to reacquaint myself with them.

I think the best thing would be to re-read what you have already written about them in the past. My problem is that I'm so critical of the first book I wrote, I cringe at some parts. I created minor characters who need to be explained more. (In fact, someone who read it said she was more interested in this one minor character than the main ones!) The plot is weak in some spots. I wish I'd made it better the first time around.

In fact, I'm going to redo the entire manuscript of the first book and republish it. Only 29 copies of the Kindle book were ever sold, so I doubt anyone would notice.

@Tragi-Chan I like your excerpt! When it is done, can you put up a link where we can read it?

 

[Another Fellow]

New year, new serious necro time.

On a whim, I revisited this thread and ended up banging out a quick vignette inspired by it. Open to tips and suggestions, btw...

Spoiler: probably trash

Bob breathed in the fresh Sierra air deeply and happily. The cold darkness of the mountains was far behind the creaky old Chandler Lumber Co. buckboard. Now the sunny, tree-blanketed vastness of the valley spread out ahead of them, and somewhere within, the little boomtown of Quickville.

In the back of the wagon, Barb was snoring like a steam train deep within their earthly goods, and Chris rode shotgun, amusing himself with various toys while mumbling about the new president back East.

“Eid, Seyah, eid,” he murmured as he bashed two of his toys against each other. His son was a strange one, but Bob had tried his best to raise him right.

The toy in Chris’s hands was a strange thing, transforming from a steam packet to some kind of automaton and back again, but Chris was crazy about it. He’d spent his entire government wage on the thing, and then spent their last night among civilization at a Western Union office, wiring out futile pleas for money to anyone who would listen.

At any rate, the journey to Quickville had been a smooth affair since.

As they trundled along, hills of tall grass gave way to even taller trees. Singing birds and rippling brooks came and went. The old homestead in Virginia was a faint and distant memory. Now, the Chandlers would start anew. Bob pushed Patti on as he took in the wonderful sounds of nature.

After some time, Bob heard a different sound, something rougher. Human speech. Was it another band of travelers? A lone straggler? Or worse, bandits?

“...or my mom’s horse, that when I was rough-riding, could not perform!”

Bob pulled on the reins, and the old horse slowed her gait. The first man he’d heard in three days, and he didn’t sound friendly.

“Chris, get in th’ back.” The hoary logger patted the underside of the seat, and felt the cold sharp iron of his trusty axe. He was an old man now, but he could still cut down with the best of them. Patti lumbered forward, closing in on the commotion.

“Couldn’t fuckin’ perform on the trail, and now this piece of shit is crash’, okay, and I can’t even kick the saddle off ‘cause it’s made of bullshit leather from Chinamen!”

The sight waiting for Bob in the clearing was, well, stranger than anything that he’d walk in on Chris doing. An unshaven young man in tinted spectacles and a rumpled U.S. Cavalry uniform stormed around his fallen steed, punctuating his disjointed screaming with occasional kicks to the beast’s flank. The horse itself was lying to one side, either unconscious or dead. Either way, its rider’s manic behavior wasn’t registering. A phonograph, strapped to the horse’s saddle, topped off the scene with a rather loud rendition of “The Charge of the Light Brigade.”

“Y’need some help, son?” Bob reined Patti to a halt. The stranded horseman either didn’t hear or didn’t care, for he was far too busy capturing his rage with the help of a whirring mini-kinetoscope clutched in his hand.

“I wan’nt even fuckin’ drunk!” he continued shouting into the ether. “I was just ridin’, y’know, like normal, I was tryin’ to rough-ride on the fuckin’ trail, and look at this bullshit! Look at this shit!” He threw his battered hat at the horse. “Totally useless and I hit—”

There probably wasn’t much to be done, and Bob didn’t want to get involved in the bizarre scene anyway, but it didn’t feel right to just leave this man stranded.

“Christian, pass me one o’ the whiskey jugs.”

He looked at the bottle his son passed up. The top-hatted visage of one Dr. J.S. Fanta looked back at him from the label of a cream-variety bottle of his “Good-Time Soda Tonic.” Chris’s favorite for sure, but not enough to last a stranded man like this one.

“Son, don’t we have any whiskey left? Weren't we distillin' some?”

“I’m workin’ on it!” In truth, Chris didn’t know how to distill, and he often just propped himself up against the barrels while he’d check out into one of his board games.

Bob looked at the tonic again. It wasn’t the best, but it was better than nothing, so he reached down as far as his old bones would let him and placed the bottle along the roadside. Maybe the morphine in the drink would calm the soldier down.

“H’ya!” With a lash of the reins, Patti began to plod forward again, away from that basket-case. The rumors that Quickville was a highly unusual town full of strange people like that cropped up in the back of his mind. Were they getting close?

“I’M A ROUGH-RIDING GOOOOOD!” the cavalryman howled to the sky as he receded into the distance. Bob flicked the reins a couple more times, and Patti ever-so-slightly picked up the pace.

 

[spaps]

I'm writing the story for a

Spoiler

VIDEO GAME

I'm hopefully gonna make someday. It's not supposed to be a terribly complex story, but I'm having some trouble figuring out some stuff involving military, since I'm not entirely sure how all that stuff works, especially in a pseudo-medieval context.

Spoiler: PLOT

I'm not sure how coherent this is gonna sound, since it's like 4:30 in the morning right now.

Basically there's two nations at war, Warszawa and Freecloud (if you figured out those references, good for you, there's gonna be more to come). The game is supposed to start out in a Freecloud-occupied town in Warszawa, where the protag and an emo asshole named Sam are mistaken for rebels and thrown in jail. In the slammer, they meet a witch named Janine, who tells them that there's an evil force coming to destroy the world, yadda yadda, that stuff's revealed to be a flat-out lie later on. She tells them she can get them all out of jail if they help her hunt down THE SEVEN STARDUST DIAMONDS, which are supposed to seal away the big bastard that's gonna destroy the planet or whatever, and they're all held in temples scattered throughout Warszawa.

The Diamonds are "actually" supposed to grant you supreme power (that's also a lie, but I'm not getting into that), and Janine wants them because her witch "friends" think she's a fucking loser because she can only cast stuff like simple fire, ice, and lightning spells. Before she tells the party all that, it's revealed that a high-ranking Freecloud officer named Pontius and a few soldiers he's rounded up have been hunting down the Diamonds so he can become super-powerful and destroy Warszawa because of reasons.

That's where I'm stuck, I can't figure out how Pontius' mission is supposed to work. He's collecting the Diamonds behind the Freecloud army's back, and I'm not sure how he would be able to pull off a huge kingdom-wide reconnaissance mission without seeming too suspicious, what rank he's supposed to be (general or captain), or how two parties can go on the same quest at the same time and gradually find out about each other. There's also a Freecloud soldier that joins the party because he knows about what Pontius is doing and wants to stop him because of reasons. Basically I'm just not sure how to make Pontius' mission cause a little bit of suspicion, but not enough for anyone but a paranoid mook to really investigate.

If anyone can understand that clusterfuck I just wrote, could someone help me figure out just what to do here? I'm totally at a loss of ideas. I'd play some games or watch some movies for inspiration, but I'm not sure which ones can serve as a decent example of this scenario, or a similar one.

 

[Hollow Cost]

I've got some friends that I hang with occasionally that I like bullshitting with
I'm gonna suggest we do that game where you all spend 2 minutes writing a story & then pass it to the right
always a fun exercise in creativity and how horrible a person you are

 

[[Insert Meme Here]]

I've got some friends that I hang with occasionally that I like bullshitting with
I'm gonna suggest we do that game where you all spend 2 minutes writing a story & then pass it to the right
always a fun exercise in creativity and how horrible a person you are

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atlanta_Nights

If it's not at least this good I'm gonna cry.

 

[DatBepisTho]

I'm hella burned out on writing and nothing seems to really help. Before I could get a short story hammered out in a day, now it almost physically hurts to write 250 words as it's like pulling teeth.

 

[MW 002]

My biggest struggle with writing is trying to find a word to replace "as" when describing an action. If I had a penny for every time I wrote "as they..." in my last draft I'd have enough to retire and write full time

 

[Replicant Sasquatch]

My biggest struggle with writing is trying to find a word to replace "as" when describing an action. If I had a penny for every time I wrote "as they..." in my last draft I'd have enough to retire and write full time

Just try removing "as" in its entirety. Instead of "as they did X" just try "as they X". It might make your sentences shorter, but you may wind up liking that.

 

[oasys]

If anyone wants a second set of eyes on something, feel free to pm me. I'd be happy to help.

 

[plautistic]

My biggest struggle with writing is trying to find a word to replace "as" when describing an action.

When I started writing my latest novel, I made a concerted effort to reduce my usage of "as" to indicate concurrent actions, especially when beginning a sentence (and even more so when beginning a paragraph). Unless my grep-fu is really bad, I've succeeded. While there are numerous occurrences of "as" in other contexts, here are the statistics for the first four chapters (the only complete ones). Each chapter is at least 8000 words in length.

1: 3 uses
2: 14 uses(!)
3: 6 uses
4: 8 uses + 1 quoted

These are all just text files, so I don't have stats like the number of sentences, but if we assume each non-blank line is roughly one sentence, that's about one percent of sentences. This might just be an improvement for me and I clearly have mixed success. I'd be curious to learn how it is in your case.

I second this advice:

Just try removing "as" in its entirety.

I often find that I begin composing a sentence with several things already in mind and naturally write it as the thought forms. I now force myself to say, "You just tried writing two actions happening at once. Do you really need to do that?" Most often I realize that, no, I don't.

However, there are times when this is what I want to do. If I've recently written concurrent actions using the "as" construction (i.e. I can see one on the same screen or I remember one not long ago), I try a few things to break up the monotony.

1. Changing word order. My default order is, for example, "As I walked, I looked at the buildings." In this form, the comma adds a pause that makes the "as" mannerism even easier to notice. A simple fix is to say "I looked at the buildings as I walked."
2. Adding an adverb. Not that we need more modifiers in our prose—quite the opposite, I'd say—, but I think one can accomplish more than just eliminating repetition in writing. A real example from the "corpus" I sampled above: "I had heard this mindless joke a hundred times already; X, for his part, paid it no attention even as he uttered it."
3. Using alternative constructions. You can often use "while" with a participle to similar, if not perfectly equivalent, effect. "While eating lunch, I scanned the paper for news on the suicide." If you are talking about two subjects, I think the meaning is almost exactly the same: "He snored while his wife tried her best to sleep." (or "While he snored,...").
4. A hybrid approach. Splitting the sentence up allows more variation with little sacrifice. "My buddy moaned outside the bathroom. Meanwhile, I was puking my guts out in the tub." Not that the preceding sentence was particularly funny, you can see the opportunities you now have for some sort of punchline.
5. Probably some other stuff I use rarely.

Obviously there's no drop-in solution, but you can make a lot of headway if you keep fighting.

 

[DeadwastePrime]

so i finally broke out of my writer's block and write a prologue for something i really wanna write. it's a first draft and will need to go through it's revisions and whatnot, but, it's something.

Spoiler: 1k+ word prologue type thing

INTRODUCTION

John Knight sat down on the near shredded to bits couch, his blood from some cuts on his face dripping into the fabric awaiting maybe the entirety of the new orleans police force to arrive to do what happens when they find dozens of bloody corpses on the wood flooring: either peace, or justice, or both. John’s heart and mind raced with a mixture of rage and terror, his hands shaking to the point of dropping his blooded katana to the floor. His feet tapped without intent, feelings in his leg going numb from an injury. Finally, after what only seemed like hours, the long awaited knocking on the door. Bang, bang bang.

“Open up,” a booming voice came from the opposite side of the door, “this is the N.O.P.D. Come out with your hands up peacefully or we’ll have no other choice.” John closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. It was finally time. John clutched onto his right leg and began to stand up, pained as he was. Before he could even limp his way to the door, he heard a weak chuckle behind him. As he turned, he saw a bloodied man on the ground, crippled from the pain and bleeding all over, managing to have enough strength to push himself up a little and put a pained grin on his cut up face.

“So,” the man began in his gritty, weak voice, “you’re a pussy after all?” John nodded his head in disappointment and ignored the insult and slowly limped towards the door. The man gave out a louder chuckle, wincing in pain as he coughed up some blood and landed face first to the ground, continuing his taunting laughter.

“Some of these men,” he continued, beginning to push himself up again, “they died for their cause, and you? You’re just gonna surrender? Give yourself up to the man? You know what they’ll do to you? You know what they do to folks like y’all?” he let petty, pained laugh. John, pissed as he was by the man’s taunts, knew it wasn’t worth it.

“Y’know,” john spoke, “for a dying man, you sure do like to shit talk, but pissed as i am, i know you’re just doing it to piss me off. Well, let me tell you now, it’s not worth taking my anger out on you. So just die or something.”

“Not even after what we did to your bitch wife?” a nerve in john’s head, something he thought he didn't have anymore after what he went through, snapped after hearing that comment. His hand balled into a fist as his face turned red in rage. The man grew a devilish, crooked smile on his face.

“So that’s your trigger?” john walked back to the couch and picked up his sword then began to hobble over to the man. Bang, bang bang. The police knocked at the door again.

“Mr. Knight, open up! You have a minute to reply and come out peacefully or else we’ll have to use deadly force!” john stopped and turned at the door, knowing he just wants this to all end.

“I bet your retarded asshole friend o-or that tiny cunt you called a daughter deserved what we gave them!” all the man was doing was resorting to childish insults to aggravate john, and it was working. John gripped tighter onto the katana’s handle. John knew what the guy wanted him to do to him, but as hard as he wanted to just leave, he didn’t want some stranger to start shit talking about his family and friends he lost over the few short years, but he didn’t want to fight some asshole, all John wants is for all, the fighting, the losses, this whole us civil war crap, to just stop.

“I know what you want to do to me.” the man’s face had a near masochistic grin on his face. He coughed up some blood as john stepped over some broken glass, standing right in front of the guy, blood boiling to the third degree throughout his body. The man scoffed.

“Well,” “what are you waiting for? Kill me. Why stand there like a jackass?”

“Knight, you have thirty seconds!”

“That’s why, you piece of fucking anarcho-communist shit. I’m tired of fighting, and as much as i hate you and your hypocritical private army bullshit, it’s all over. It’s done. And i rather you waste away from blood loss than i just end it quickly for you.” the man gave out a weak, but booming laugh, coughing up some more blood before his upper body falls back to the ground, still grinning in pain.

“The end? No mate. It’s only beginning,” the man chuckled weakly as he lay dying in his own pool of blood, “but, if you’re not gonna stop me, then…I’m gonna...” the man began weakly reaching for a gun near john’s foot, grunting weakly with his efforts. John kicks the gun towards the cracked bay window in the building, away from the man. The man gives up on trying anymore.

“Fine. You win. Leave. You obviously don’t care enough to even finish me off, so i’ll fucking die like you said.” but after wasting all this time, time that could’ve been used earlier to have the officer drive john to jail, maybe, john was gonna give the guy the wish we wanted earlier.

“No,” john decided, pissed and raged, “you begged for ‘sweet release’ so I’ll be damn sure to give it to you.” the man gave a weak smile upon hearing it.
“Time’s up Knight, you had your chance!” the sound of the police began to piss off john a bit. John took a long sigh.

BANG! “ONE!” the sound of the battering ram meant he had to make this quick. John began to raise his sword.

BANG! “TWO!” john swung the sword downwards, hitting the man’s neck. It didn’t even fall off when the police breached the door finally.

“Holy shit.” one of the officers went. It wasn’t until an officer in a darker uniform, the lieutenant maybe, noticed the sword a third of the way deep in the man’s neck.

“Shit, he’s got a weapon! Shoot him!”

Gunshots rang throughout the hallway.

please feel free to give criticisms, they're very much welcome as i'm sure this can be improved on.

 

[Dr. Meme]

Spoiler: writing

John Halbert was a piss man, allways had been. A real dick and balls detective with the smell of sulfur on his lips. He was a decorated man, sporting a leather trench coat in an erotic piss yellow colour. in his pocket he carried a neon green six shooter with an orange spray painted tip on it he liked to call "ol gorgeous". It wasnt a heavy gun but damn it it was good enough to get the job done and then some.

JOhn had recently come across information from an outside source, something going wrong at the docks. One hundred loads of crack cocaine being stored inside a couple barrels of urinal cakes. The perfect crime, or so it wouldve seemed like it. The informant was a guy who looked like a real motherfuck with big greasy clown glasses and a sweaty tame impala t shirt. "heh" John said to himself, "only a real tool mother fucker would listen to tame impala he said to himself."

"This situation at the dock is gonna be really illegal so i need you guys to go in and take these dudes out." the informant said, wiping his dirty glasses in his rediculous t shirt.

"fuck you bitch, im gonna go gringo on these motherfuckers." John said in an angry voice "Im gonna go whole hog i'm gonna give them the ol half and half, I'm gonna drinktheir urine out of an iv when im done with them" he said to the informant. then he took his pistol out and shot himself in the nads just to prove how serious he was about taking these mothers down.

Down at the docks there were some suspicious things going on. John could smell the villainy from a mile away. as he pulled his 1994 piss yellow altima into the handicap parking spot he reached in his glove compartment and took out his Agent Orange grenades. "When im done with these rat mother bastards they'll not be reproducting anymore children from now on" He said with a Chaotic good INTJ smirk.

sneaking into the docks was easy because he bought a silencer for his pistol so he could shoot anyone he wanted and no one would sound the alarms. once he made his way into the bunker where the drugs were being kept he hid behind the door and listened to the druggers talk.

"Man i love drugs" said the big one as he shotgunned a can of heroin. "My favorite thing about drugs is selling them to make money to rape women and children"

"yeah me too. its a good thing obama left these borders wide open, we were so easily able to sneak in the country with no problems" said the rat mexican looking one.

John had about had enough of hearing this and reacting to it. He falcon kneed the door down and pulled out ol gorgeous. "freeze you sons of mother fuckers" he said in a booming voice like if somone taped a megaphone to his chin andthen pluged it in and then turned it on. "You think this is a game thats funny to me? selling drugs and raping the borders? you should be ashamed of yourselves."

"what are you gonna do about it" the drug lords said in sync together as they pulled out their double barreled shotguns. "weve got two guns and you have just a shit gun. an embaressment gun. id be embarressed to be seen in public with that nerf gun ass looking wonky ass gay ass looking gun." they said

The words cut deep into john like a steak knife on ash wednsday. he grabbed his gun and made a final warning. "if you do not put your guns down then i will have to take them down myself, rambo style." then he shot one of them to prove he wasn't playing any games.

"ok you win, all the drugs belong to you" said the drug guy. "thanks" said john "but the only drug i need is the one put in a urinal" and then executed him by shooting him in the head. "shit i don't mean the drug urinal cakes you guys were making i meant like piss because i like piss. thats my thing. i dont do drugs, i had pot at a party once in high school in a brownie but that was it, i dont even drink alcohol that much like maybe a glass of whisky once every few weeks but not that often and usually just for recreational or for celebratory moments. I drink a hell of a lot of piss tho. mostly women piss because i'm not gay but i'll take whatever i can get to be completely honest with you guys."

after securing the perimeter he tweeted the cops to tell them he defeated allt he bad guys and they could come over now. "thanks for your help john how could we ever repay you" the sexy woman police cheif said. "I bet you already know how as he unzipped her zipper and then she pissed in his mouth."

The end.

please feel free to critizize and let me know what i can do to fix it, i finally finished the first chapter after getting over my writers block. this is partially inspired by the movie "drive"


just want to addendum i'm not into piss my character is. I dont' have any fetishes.

 

[bearycool]

I should write a story where a bunch of autists on a forum get together irl and it turns into The Hangover: Shitting Pants Edition.

...anyone want to be part of the ensemble?