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Old 10-11-2009, 01:56 PM   #1
That Frood
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Default Writing Contest 11: Film Noir

Out on my desk were two books.
The first was a book of matches; I used them to light my cigarettes. They kept me calm and kept me looking cool. When a dame's lookin' over her shoulder with a cigarette, starin' into your eyes and her face is saying to you "light me up, Johnny" then there isn't a better way to reach over to that pretty gal's face then with a lit match.
The second book, on the other hand, had very different purposes.
It was delivered this morning by the secretary, nothing but a note tied to it sayin' "the answer's in the lines".
It was a dumb riddle, I know. Pretty obvious and stupid if you ask me. At first I was just gonna chuck it or stuff it into a drawer, figured it was probably some kid's prank, some little snot-nosed runt with big, dumb ideas about how a mystery is, not knowing that that wasn't how the real world worked, the real world isn't a bunch of riddles and pretty little clues.
But then I opened the paper and there it was on the headlines: "Major Author, William T. Penning, Dead. Most Recent Novel Dissapeared".
I looked at the book and there it was "A Murder of Convenience - by William T. Penning"

So I sat there, starin' at my two books, thinkin' about what I was gonna do next. A good man would turn this over to the police but I wasn't a good man, I was Johnny Grabbs, private eye. Before I do anything with this book I need to know what it is.
So I guess I better start readin'.

-----------------------------------------------------------

You don't have to read that. I was just messing about.
Anyway, this contest is FILM NOIR. Write something in Film Noir style.
Do you not know what film noir is?
Shut up, yes you do. It's easy.
The classics are the Maltese Falcon and stuff that Sam Spade does. Movies like Chinatown or Sunset Blvd. Video games like Max Payne. Stuff with Femme Fatales and antihero private eyes, guys who got more cynicism than good in them, stickin' to a code of their own and makin' it just as they can.
So yeah, write a film noir spiel. It can be satire, it can be serious. Hell, you could write a story about investigating the delicious taste of your breakfast, as long as it's film noir.
Whatever. This is the realm of the hard-boiled man.
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Old 10-11-2009, 03:40 PM   #2
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Quote:
Originally Posted by That Frood View Post
Hell, you could write a story about investigating the delicious taste of your breakfast, as long as it's film noir.
Whatever. This is the realm of the hard-boiled egg.
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Old 10-11-2009, 03:43 PM   #3
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got an idea, vaber? :]
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Old 10-11-2009, 05:16 PM   #4
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Oh yes. And it shall be delicious.
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Old 10-12-2009, 11:45 AM   #5
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Ooh, film noir. I can do something with this.
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Old 10-12-2009, 06:41 PM   #6
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Thank you! I take great pride in my info.
I am sorry but I did not provide any sample questions or answers, unless you count the introduction as a "sample answer". However I can give you some now! Like: who you gonna call? and whatever happened to baby jane?
I'm glad this topic was useful to you! Your welcome!
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Old 10-13-2009, 05:35 AM   #7
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So that's what those are called. Sounds cool though, will probably start somethin' tonight.
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Old 12-12-2009, 03:52 AM   #8
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I feel bad that I started to write something for this almost 2 months ago and never finished it.

Frood topic change maybe?
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Old 12-12-2009, 08:04 AM   #9
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I wrote a detective novel for NaNoWriMo. Might that count?

Couple Noir-y excerpts:
As I punched out, I got a sour feeling in my stomach. I needed something. I didn’t know what it was, but just know that I needed it bad. “It’s bullshit,” I muttered. There was normally a place I’d go to vent, and get rid of this feeling, but I had to stay away. Instead, I drove around for a while, and popped my head into this arcade not too far from my apartment. I couldn’t wait till tomorrow for my MMA class.
Its been a while since I was here. All the Pac-Mans and Galagas have been dwarfed by dance mats and driving cabinets. Games that used to cost the change from the pizza place next door take dollar bills. But they still had the same game I blew all my money on since college: Time Crisis II. For all the stories in the media about violence in video games, they will never the cathartic pleasure of popping off a couple terrorists after your asshole boss shoves your nose into the grindstone.
As the game was starting up, I heard a familiar shout: “Hey, Robbie!”
“Mr. Stevens! How you doin’?”
“I’m doin’ fine, but the arcade… eh… you know how it is.”
“Yeah.”
“You ever beat this?”
“I’ve been trying for 11 years now, today might be the day.”
Finger on the trigger, ready to go.
READY? ACTION!
Kicked down the door, right into Breifcase Man’s hotel room. They’re coming at all sides, from under tables, and behind dressers. BAM! Hit in the face.
“Forgot about the red circles. That’s when they’re gonna hit you.”
As more men fall, more come from the same place to avenge their hiding buddies.
CLICK! CLICK! The recoil of the plastic pistol provides a steady rhythm, a drum beat that back the screams of pain. Then the guys with the rocket launchers come out, and I’m fucked. Game over.
“Try again?”
“Nah, I’m done.” I put the gun back in the holster. I felt bad playing only one game, but I really wasn’t there for pleasure.

---------------------------------

The bar, like the rest of the restaurant, wasn’t anything too extravagnet, but clean, and well stocked enough to register as a “pretty nice” (which, depending on the tone of voice, was either better or worse than “nice”). The shelves were well stocked like a Bastille of Booze, the patrons seemed happy, and the lighting was just dim enough to avoid searing the eyes like a laser beam. Alcohol has magic power of making ugly women attractive and fluorescent lights into Class 3B Laser.
“Dude, dude!”, then fade.
“I know man it’s like…” A bunch loud jocks were goofing around. Maybe the transition from city smog to fresh air was messing with my head a bit, but I could have sworn the sounds came in waves. There would be complete silence, followed by a wave of “Dude!”s and “Man!”s hitting me all at once. I needed a drink to drown out the sound.
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Old 12-16-2009, 03:41 PM   #10
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I guess DoGooderer wins...?
If he doesn't post a new thread I guess I will.
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Old 01-19-2010, 08:02 PM   #11
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I did a Sin City fanfic sometime back. Guess it falls into this catageory?

From the POV of 1 of my favourite charatacters, this is about Marv/Goldie.

Walk down the right back alley in Sin City, and you can find anything.
The rain is coming down in bullets, piercing me through the long duster I’m wearing. It’s not mine, though. I took it off a hit man who tried to introduce me to his brass knuckles after I’d already declined the invitation. The bloodstains around the collar are barely noticeable. It’s a shame, though. It’s a damn fine jacket.

I duck into an alley, away from the bright lights and prying eyes of the strip. When you look the way I do, you don’t like it when people stare at you. Instead, it just makes you angry. I reach into the pocket of my jacket and pull out my cigarettes and lighter. I knock one from the pack and put the filter in my mouth. Flipping open the lid of my lighter, I strike a flame and light my cigarette, letting the smoke trail out of my mouth. I take a deep drag and feel the smoke fill my lungs. Yeah. That’s the way I like it.

I start to walk deeper into the alley, past the back doors to the strip bars, pubs, and general trash pits that they try to pass off as restaurants. I take another drag off my smoke and try to ignore the sounds of a city that the Lord forgot. The catcalls of hookers, the blaring sirens, the angry shouts of angry patrons. It’s enough to make me smile. Not the sounds, mind you. I’m talking about the guys who’ve been tailing me since I ducked outta the rain to light my smoke. They think they’re being so sneaky, like some sorta stupid Jap ninja. Stupid pricks.

I stop to finish my cigarette, and they come up from behind me in a pack. They surround me, and all I can see in these guys is desperation. They’re too young for all the wrinkles they’ve got. Their leader looks like a real scrapper, though. Tall and stocky, just about my size, you can tell that he would’ve made a great linebacker if he’d had the opportunity. Not in this town. In Sin City, it’s kill or be killed. The only education you get is on the streets, and it’s nothing but the cold, hard truth.

“Give us all your money, old man.” Damn, that sure is a nice coat he’s wearing. It ain’t bloody or torn like mine is. It’d be a shame to ruin it. Boss Man doesn’t look too happy. “I said, give us your money, old man, or else we’ll just have to get it the hard way.” From the look in his eyes, he’s ready to fight to the death for the cash. Either he needs drugs, or he’s starving. Pity, kid like that shouldn’t be making a pay like this.

He pulls out a switchblade and presses the trigger. A gleaming blade pops into place and it shines in the pale light. Around me, the rest of his buddies are pulling out switches, chains, and jimmy sticks. One guy even has a pair of studded knuckle dusters. It seems excessive, but at least this gives them a chance. Six of them against me. I hope every man is worth his salt, or else they don’t stand a chance.

They don’t bother giving signals, or trying to coordinate their attacks. A skinny black kid starts hollering charges me like a bull after a red blanket, swinging a long chain like a flail. I catch the chain and give it a yank, giving the stupid darkie an introduction to my fist. A big chink starts twirling his jimmy around like he was some sorta Bruce Lee and jumps at me. I swat him aside and laugh as his face crunches against the wall behind me. They come at me left and right, and I plow through them without breaking a sweat. That leaves me and Boss Man.

This boy looks me up and down, and a desperate light comes into his eyes. “Just give me your money, man! I don’t wanna hafta hurt you!” His pleas are almost laughable. The chances of him being able to hurt me are about the same as me getting laid by an angel. I tell him to just give it up, that a fighter like me ain’t got the green he’s looking for, and that he’d be better off begging for coins. Tough guy, he just spits in my face and sneers that this was my choice.

He comes at me with a roundhouse strike that he must think has the speed of a striking snake. I can see it coming from a mile away. I duck under his swing and let loose with an uppercut that could shatter concrete. He flies up and away from where he used to be standing. He hits the bricks hard enough to leave a man-shaped dent, and slumps to the ground with the little birdies circling his head.

I take his coat. Coat like this one is too nice for a kid like him. I leave him my bloodstained duster, remembering to get my smokes, my lighter, and Gladys outta the pocket before I drop it in his lap. As I turn up the collar on my newly acquired prize, I can see the tell-tale neon pink glow of the door sign for Kadie’s Saloon. I head out towards my one safe haven.

As I head towards the door, it suddenly swings open and a poor sap comes flying out like a bat outta Hell. A huge bear of a bruiser of a man appears behind him, and generously reminds him of Kadie’s “hands off the dancers” rule. I step over the poor grabby bastard and walk straight through the doorway. The bouncer, Mike, knows enough to back off. See, I’ve been coming to Kadie’s for as long as I can remember. On Mike’s first night, he tried to deny me entrance to my watering hole and wound up with four broken ribs, some busted knuckles, and a wounded sense of pride.

As I walk into the thick smoke of the bar, I can see that Nancy is just getting started with her act. Clad in leather cowgirl chaps, a leather corset/bikini set, and snakeskin boots, she looks like the sexiest cowgirl this side of the Rio Grande. She’s whipping that lasso around like it’s no ones business, and those hips of hers just keep moving. It’s no wonder that half the bar is having trouble breathing while the other half just keeps throwing down more and more bills for little Nancy to take home.

“Hey, Marv! Anything I can get for you, sugah?” I’d know Shelley’s sultry drawl anywhere. I don’t even have to turn and look to know that she’s still nursing a split lip, courtesy of her dick of a boyfriend. Bastard’s a hero cop, and that means I can’t touch him. I turn and give Shelley a genuine smile, something not many people get outta my ugly mug. “Shot and a brew, Shelley, and keep’em coming!” She returns the smile. “You got it. Take it easy now, sugah.”

The night wears on. Dancers come and go almost as fast as I can down my drinks. I have to break up a few fights, but nothing that I can’t handle. That’s the deal I have with the staff. They give me a tab that I don’t need to worry about, and I make sure that no damage is done to my favorite speakeasy. Either way, it’s a win-win situation. Unfortunately, when the call girls come out, they won’t even look my way. Hell, I couldn’t buy one of them with a million dollars. It’s my looks, and my reputation. I don’t mind it, though. It’s the life I live, and it’s the life I love.

All of a sudden, a brew comes sliding down the bar and smacks into my mitt. I didn’t ask for it, and I sure as hell don’t have a way to pay for it. I look at Shelley to see if she knows, and all she does is give a little toss of her head. I follow the direction she points out, and scan the crowd for whoever would be kind to a tired old dog like me.

It hits me like a bullet to the gut, and I’m glad I’m sitting down. Otherwise, I probably would’ve fallen. She’s got fiery blonde hair that glows with a light bright enough to cut through the smoke that clouds the bar. Those luscious red lips of hers are enough to make my heart skip a beat. Then it hits me hard. I gotta know who this goddess is. I gotta know the name of the angel who just made my two-bit life seem a little brighter.

She doesn’t speak. She only smiles and runs a tentative hand down my arm, tracing the craggy scarred biceps with the fascination of a child, and when she looks at me with those big doe eyes, all I can see is fear, love, and hope. I flash a grin, and she dazzles me with a smile that would’ve charmed the pants off a preacher. Looping her arm through the crook of my elbow, she starts to pull me towards the door. I reach into my coat pocket and pull out what few grubby bills I have left and toss’em on the bar. Without a second glance, I let my seductive savior lead me out the door and into the heart of Sin City.

We end up at a cheesy motel, the kind of place where the bed is shaped like a heart, and the sheets are red and made of imitation silk. Before I even get the door shut, she’s all over me. She smells the way angels’ oughtta smell. She tastes of Jack Daniels and Turkish Silver cigarettes, and the medley is killing me. I want her. I know that much.

Somehow, she manages to produce a few bottles of Jack, and in due time, I’m down to my skivvies. My angel is on the bed, and she’s naked with the sheets covering her, hiding her from my eyes. She tells me she needs me, and I’m more than happy to oblige her.

To hell with the foreplay. In a matter of seconds, I’m on my back while she straddles me. She rises up, takes my dog and positions it right at her entrance. She lowers herself onto my cock, and it’s all I can do not to cry out. She rides me long and hard. Seconds turn to minutes, and minutes to hours. I lose track of time, and I don’t care. All I can focus on is my angel giving me the night of my life, and when we both climax, I manage to ask her name.

Goldie.

She says her name is Goldie.

So, when's this contest wrapped up? Come on, people, submit stuff. I like to read.

Last edited by sg_loudhailer; 01-19-2010 at 08:06 PM. Reason: Typo
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Old 01-29-2010, 06:12 PM   #12
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Wow, I'm glad I registered. this should be fun. Will post up later.
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Old 02-16-2010, 08:22 PM   #13
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Because I can. It might be stretch to call it cynical, but whatever. This is kinda old so... yeah.

The Inauguration

The wheels of the end of the world churn and whirl in the ill-lit background of the dank red caverns. The beast’s corpse bleeds at my feet. Its tender black flesh ripped open from the Mauser bullets. I unloaded the whole clip into its carcass. He stands before me, all tall, brooding, and mighty. The dark mage says nothing to me, he just points towards the pool that has been filled with the creatures blood. My name is Edward Stooge. Welcome to my life.
The man has decided to cause me nothing but grief it would seem. I scream at him, refusing to go into the literal bath of blood. The old wrinkled wizard with a long-black beard and bald head howls a magic word at me, in the Devil’s Tongue. A hurricane force wind hits me, and blows me down the cavern. “I am Rasputin, the mage, you cannot refuse me,” He croaked out in a half dead voice. “Now, come to me.” The mage makes a motion with his hands that captivates me with a dazzling light that follows it. It feels as if a wire, an invisible string, latches on to my throat and pulls me toward him. Rasputin’s cloak is of pure black, arcane symbols of glowing blue and red rushing through it as he works his sorcery.
As I magically approach the old dark master his cloak comes to life. It twists and writhes on its own and opens up, revealing an empty unending darkness. A beam of eerily bleak light shoots from the wide forever of the cloak. I feel sick and tired of everything that has happened. My body is slightly numb from the horrific ordeals of today. The pool shines an unearthly light; Rasputin has enchanted the blood of the Deep One. My feet don’t even touch the ground as I more or less float towards the wizard. He opens his ancient mouth again and coughs out a few words.
“Do you feel it, young one?”
“Feel…feel what?”
“Your destiny.” He moans out the last word like it was the most important thing in the universe. The wheels keep clanging together, creating a horrible tune of deathly music and breaks apart the focus I am giving to the mage. Suddenly I stop in front of the pool of blood. I fall down onto my knees and I just stare at it. It’s a small pool, none too deep. I can’t tell if it’s all dirt or not.
He beckons me to bathe in the monster’s internals, the sickening dark blood. Rasputin’s eyes lock with mine, and they glow a dull color of horror and control. Nothing is here to stop me from getting up and diving right into the red pool. So that’s exactly what I do. The creature’s blood is not anything like that of a human’s. It’s thick, much too thick, and too dark, more like ink. I’m on fire, my every fiber burns like there is no tomorrow, and for I care there might not be. I try not to think about the present, so I think of the past, what got me here? As I concentrate, I listen to the large otherworldly clockwork gears in the back. I listen to the cracking and scraping of the metal, and then I can hear it. I hear the Hymns of the Apocalypse.
“Before…”
The New York air was hot and full of strife, as usual. The blinds on my windows were partly open, letting the light shine in and bleed a strange pattern of shadows on the ground. I already had the feeling of dread creeping into the pit of my stomach, but I hadn’t caught on quite yet. I hadn’t had any work for a few weeks now and I was running short on money. I needed some kind of job, just anything, to get me through the next month.
I got up that morning with moan and was greeted with the sounds of my joints cracking. I felt still as a mummy and as depressed as I thought I could ever get. It was Saturday no less, and the rent for my office/apartment was due in two weeks. I thought I was screwed, but I still had some kind of crazy hope that a job would come my way, something that would pay a hundred dollars or so. I knew it wouldn’t happen, not with my luck, but I held on thinking that some kind of blessed miracle from above would shine down on my poor little head. My apartment doorbell rang and I, quick as possible, slipped on some clothes and ran towards the door. As I cracked it open it was a flash of red hair, slightly large glasses, and I already knew who it was.
Dana Sinclair, not exactly a miracle from above but close enough. She just forces open the door after I unlock it like always, she hates to wait. Dana closes that door behind her and locks it almost too quickly, like she was sure someone was following her. “Hey, slow down.” I said catching her as she pivot turned a bit to fast. She was holding a black briefcase with a strange pentagram-like symbol on the front. Dana straightened up and got her balance back before shoving the briefcase in my hands.
“You got a job!”
“Nothing weird right, Dana?”
“Well…not as far as I see.”
“Great then. I feel oh so much better.”
“I could do without the sarcasm.”
“Meh.” I laid the case on my coffee table and popped it open. The contents within was a huge amount of files on a man named ‘Randolph Blackberry.’ With all the information inside those manila colored folders probably I could tell you what he ate for breakfast that morning, and where he was going to be in one year to the day. The problem with that was the fact that Blackberry was gone, and the only clue was that he was last seen in a small village called Innsmouth. That was the first signal that touched my brain and told me not to get into this. I found a certain page with contact information on a man only named as ‘Gregori,’ who was obviously my client. Like a total idiot I dialed the phone number on the sheet and left a message on the man’s answering machine. I agreed to the missing person’s case.
The meeting at the airport was awkward beyond all reason. Dana had gone to get a drink or something of the sort, and I was left to converse with my client, Gregori. He was Russian, and it wasn’t just the thick accent that gave it away. He was taller then your average American, about 6’ 4, and had a head so bald I could’ve fried an egg on it on a hot summers day. There was something so strange about him, an aura of cosmic wisdom, like his black eyes led to the very pits of the universe in all its horror and power. He hardly spoke a word, only muttering under his breath in a language I couldn’t even try to understand. It wasn’t Russian, it was something older…something more chilling, like it was spoken by dark magi from eons ago, the kind that struck down the Great Old Ones and sent them to the Hells from whence they came, but that comes later.
The tension in the airport was mounting; something was working behind the scenes. It was like as if a greater, grander creature was eyeing over the entire complex, waiting for its plan to happen. That creature, of course, appeared before us in a quick and abrupt fashion. It, he, was styled as a pharaoh, which seemed appropriate seeing that he had a large number of followers that day. Several dozen people stared at him, watched his every move with lust and envy. The creature had a hold on the weak minded. He sat down and picked up a small cup of tea which materialized in his gold dressed hand. “My name is Nyarlathotep, as Gregori should know.” He sipped on the tea with an English flare. Gregori’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the wannabe pharaoh.
“Leave here, Outer God. You do not belong.” Nyarlathotep only chuckled at the Russian’s threat. He took another sip of tea then looked at me.
“Ah, Mr. Stooge. How pleasant to meet you.” As he spoke, another vision of him flashed in between words, like some short little vision. It was bone chilling, horrific to its very core. Tentacles for legs, a large bulbous head, long flowing body with a ghastly muted grey skin tone.
“What…are you?” I stammered out, mustering up what little courage I had.
“Me? Why, I’m an Outer God. I work above this…level.” He unfolded his arms, as if to say he worked above Earth itself.
“If you’re above this, Earth I mean, why are you here.”
“For you of course, Mr. Stooge.” Suddenly my head went into a state of vertigo, I couldn’t think straight. Gregori finally stood up and screamed out words of magic, words of power. The room blurred, the room burned, the room fell to pieces. I woke up on the plane to Innsmouth, Massachusetts, with Dana sitting by my side, and Gregori in the next seat over. My inauguration into a war beyond all conceivable imagination had just taken place. For some inexplicable reason I wanted my gun, so I could go shoot myself in the head.
After I had gotten through my suicidal thoughts we arrived at a small landing zone a mile or so away from were we needed to be. The pilot to our private plane told us to, “Hurry up, I’ll only be here for three hours before I get the Hell out of here!” I already knew by now there was no missing person, it was all a ploy for Gregori to get me to Innsmouth. Dana stood close to me the entire time, jumping at each sound as we walked along the road to the small village Gregori described. The road was rocky, riddled with wild animals and the smell of dead things. Bad things happened here, that’s all there is to it.
I started to remember some of the stories my dad read way back when. They were written by some guy named Randolph Carter. My dad said he met him a few times, he said Carter was a nervous but brave guy. My dad even said all those stories he wrote were true. All those stories- about ancient astronauts, giant god-like aliens, Great Old Ones, and cosmic evil- all of them were supposed to be true. I never believed a word.
The mood was so tense, the atmosphere was so thick, I felt like throwing up and running back the way I came. I felt like something was watching us, ever since we got off the damn plane. It was like a pair of the worlds largest eyes were just beaming down on us. I asked Gregori why we were here, the real reason why anyway. He only smiled and chuckled.
After what seemed like hours of endless dirt road and wild animals we reached the village. It was so poor and dingy, you could hardly look at the sight of it. Broken down, rotten buildings, with garbage and dead animals littering the ground, it was a saddening sight. Torches lit what they could; it would seem the entire town had no real electricity so far out into nowhere. The locals weren’t that nice looking either. Broken teeth, haggard skin, worn out dirty clothes. I felt sorry for them in all honesty, but something seemed off about them. Some of them looked, almost, inhuman, more like creatures then men. I could almost see a hint of amphibian nature in a good amount of the populace. I think I saw a little girl with gills.
It was about 3:00 p.m. which seems so long ago now. I’d look at my watch but my skin hurts too much as it is. The next set of events are going to sound strange, because I could even chalk off that encounter with Nyarlathotep as some kind of hallucination, of course it couldn’t be, but it’s nice to think. We made our way through the relatively small village, moving through all the crazy harassers, bloated preachers of a monstrous God, and the like. As we went on I still felt like we were being watched, but not by real eyes if I could be so bold, but as if something cosmic was spying on us from the heavens.
Gregori led us to the sea near at the very end of village. I felt cold, but not your normal kind of cold, I felt like I had frostbite on my insides. Something was in the water near Innsmouth, something bad. Gregori just looked at the sea with a look of scorn, as if he actually knew what was there. He did.
“Father Dagon and Mother Hydra. That sinking feeling your feeling is Cthulhu.” He turned to look over at Dana. She was shaking like a leaf, he was addressing her worries. I bucked up and fought back the feeling.
“Who’re they?” I asked.
“Great Old Ones. Earthly bound creatures of cosmic powers. Enemy to all that lives.” He spat on the ground with disgust.
“And the Outer Gods?”
“Not as bad. Much more powerful, but they are too “high-and-mighty” to care about Earth.”
“Then why do they want me?”
”Who knows? They’re almost impossible to comprehend in the first place.”
He moaned out. I noticed that as we went along Gregori started becoming… different, more withered then when I first saw him. Dana avoided him like the plague the entire way. As we talked she just looked at me like I was…not crazy, but like I was from another world entirely. Gregori told me what he could about what was happening. I was going through a test of some sort. The fact I was able to stand in the same room as, and resist a spell by, Nyarlathotep was no less then extraordinary.
A cave was before us, after a little bit more walking through the gross town. A strange mark was carved near the caves mouth. I can’t really describe it better then as a pentagram on steroids. The Russian studied it for a second then nodded. His body had morphed slightly, into that of an old husk if you will. He looked as if he was getting older by the second, but I could feel an aura of wisdom perpetrating from him. Then I realized he was ‘sweating’ magic. The kind of magic that made you shudder, the magic that you really wanted to know as a kid. Gregori motioned me to go in, but he put out a hand to stop Dana.
“Dana?” I sighed.
“I can’t come, can I?”
”No. I’m sorry. This is Edward’s task.” He said in a much raspier and
older voice. She stepped back reluctantly, and I took a deep breath through my nose, and released through my mouth. That seems to always calm me down. I entered the cave with a little fear in my heart, considering I had no idea what this was really about. It was dark, damp, cold, and awful. I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face, so I reached for the lighter in my coat pocket. With a little flick, the lighter turned on and lit my way. I wished it didn’t. Bones littered the path; small strips of flesh were thrown about the walls.
I moved foreword, never looking back to even see if Gregori was behind me. That’s when I heard them, the gears clanking and churning in the background. I suddenly found myself a statue, my body was frozen in total, statuesque numbness . Gregori stepped from the shadows, wasting away what was left of his youth. The veil he hid under was gone, his magical façade gone.
“Listen to the winding, the churning of the gears Edward Stooge,” He crocked out with what little youthfulness he had left. “What do you hear from them?”
“I hear a faint song,” I thought aloud. “A mournful orchestra and it…it sounds like angels suffocating...” A tear rolled down my cheek, a symphony conducted by the dead playing in the background. Gregori pulled a gun out from the sleeve of his new materialized cloak, a Mauser pistol, and loaded it slowly and delicately with his long brittle fingers. The tempo of the orchestra hastened, the music getting louder and louder, frantically climbing! The old wizard slid the gun into my unmoving hands.
“It is a gun once possessed by Hitler. Enchanted and powerful. Although only special bullets work for it.” He coughed out. The gun felt different, mystical, I could tell there was truth in Gregori’s words. In the black distance of the cave, just out of reach of the lighter’s light, was a moving figure. Something huge and horrible was lumbering my way. I couldn’t move, no matter how hard I tried. A little voice in the back of my head screamed in vain, “Move you idiot!” My body wouldn’t listen. Out of the blanketing shadows it stumbled. It was…I can hardly really explain. It was like a frog crossed with a man but the clashing genes fought, and the frog DNA won. Ghastly quickly comes to mind.
The frog-creature twitched and seemed to almost seizure as it pathetically crawled towards me. Even though it was a horribly strange and sorry sight, I realized that beast would tear me apart limb-from-limb if it was to get to me. Suddenly I could feel as if control was giving me back my body. Gregori gave me back the wheel to my body, and gave me a gun to save myself. I aimed the pistol and squeezed the trigger without any remorse, without any thought. Each shot bucked like a mule, this was a Mauser alright, but it definitely was different. The entire round ripped through monster, each wound fiercely glowing a pale green.
It fell to the floor with a sickening thud; its blood spaltered upon the ground. I noticed something then, the creature’s blood was being redirected by a slightly deep, about 3 inches, route in the ground. I cautiously stepped foreword, and quickly saw what the blood was being redirected towards. It was quickly filling a shallow pool.
“Good,” the old man hisses out. “The Deep One is dead, and now it may begin.” Yes, that’s all that has happened. My life has now gone to Hell, literally by the looks of it. But, I feel strange now it’s like I’m slipping out of reality…
“Now”
I open my eyes to a bleak sky filled with dark clouds, darker then they should be. I stand upon a bridge overlooking a smashed and battered art deco styled city that was most likely beautiful long ago. A name comes to mind, as if another entity was speaking to me. “R'lyeh,” I hear in my mind, in my own voice. Something was talking to me, and my brain, some lost dormant part of it, translated the words.
“It was my city, my world.” The voice speaks. Then the true speaker rose from the annihilated city. A mountain, a moving part of the earth, is the only real way to describe its size. The Great Old One, the fiercest of them all. It...It has a bulbous head with large pupil-less red eyes and tentacles, not unlike that of an octopus, where the mouth should have been. Green skin, and, by proportion, long skinny arms connected to boney, taloned, and long fingered hands fill my vision. It roars and unfolds a massive pair of scaly, leather-like bat wings from behind it.
“I am Cthulhu, little one,” It growls at me inside my brain. “Do you wish to actually challenge me? And the Great Old Ones?” It leans in to hypnotize me, to drive me mad with its eyes. I don’t know how I know that, but I stare into the yes of madness, and I see nothing…
“Yes.” I hiss. Whatever this thing is, whatever the Great Old Ones are, they must be destroyed. Cthulhu nods.
“Anotherlambtotheslaughter.” The last words are gargled and smashed together, but I know it’s a warning. The feeling is back, I’m returning…

Gregori stands over me. He must have dragged me out of the pool, considering I’m still wet, my clothes stained with the Deep One’s thick blood. He holds out a hand and I take it in mine. He pulls me back up and I suddenly feel a lot better.
“What did you tell Cthulhu?” The mage asks.
“I told him I’m…I’m gonna kill him.”
“Good…good. Welcome, to the Angel’s Fold.” He bows to me. “It is our duty to battle and protect the world from the Great Old Ones and the like. You Edward Stooge are now the Chronicler, like Randolph Carter before you. Even though he’ll never know he was the first of us. As he traveled he wrote his encounters into tales that gives us the information we need. And so shall you.”
My mind draws a blank as he speaks. Those stories Randolph wrote…were real. It all makes sense when I put that piece of the puzzle into the grand scheme that I’ve been shown. I’m to travel the world, and protect it from whatever comes my way, then write down my experiences for not only the Angel’s Fold to use, but for the world to see. I nod and shake Gregori’s hand. “But when will it start, “I ask. “When will I-“Gregori decides to cut in.
“All will come as it should, do not worry.”
“So, I just wait?” He nods at those words. With that Gregori Rasputin stroked his beard and faded away. I make my way outside, after picking up that Mauser and putting it in my coat pocket. Dana is on the ground sitting with knees just under her chin. I keep on telling her there’s no need to come with me on these travels, but she always does. “It’s…it’s going to get dangerous now Dana.” I say more nonchalantly then I really care to do.
“Why’s that? What the Hell did you do in there?”
“I can’t really tell you…It’s just that this isn’t fun and games now, and I…and I don’t want to see you getting hurt.”
“Edward Stooge, do you honestly believe I think this line of work is safe from the get-go? I follow you around because…” She pauses and sighs a little. “Because you make life wo—“ She stumbles over her own words. “You make life interesting.” I help her up and she pats me on the shoulder.
“No worries then?” I ask her again.
“We’ll whatever’s going on I don’t care, as long as I come with you.”
“Alright, but I suggest you always bring a barf bag.” I smile and we walk back to the plane with time to spare.
__________________
Girl-I-Know:You know, life's a lot like riding a horse. Exhilarating, dangerous, and depressing when it ends...

Me: And sad when you see all the things just fly by.

Girl-I-Know: What's scary is that I feel like I'm falling off that horse.

Me: No worries, I'll catch you.

Girl-I-Know:... don't say things like that... idiot.

Me: Hey, I say what I mean.
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