cpr
Pricks....
Keep going...these are getting interesting...especially the saucy ones...I'm starting a campaign for the thread title to be renamed "one handed reads"
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THUMPED FAN FICTION (1 Viewer)
- Thread starter Pantone247
- Start date
- Replies 65
- Views 7K
- Watchers 3
it'll be interesting to see if it reaches the heights of the 'if thumped was a cop show thread'.
alternatively it could be merged with the monster abortion thread from about three years back - could have feisty results
Moods For Mallards
Well-Known Member
- Joined
- May 13, 2005
- Messages
- 4,875
Moods for Mallards sat down on his favourite park bench, sticking his bleeding fist into the bag of chips and remembering. THe last time he bashed his knuckles against a pebbledashed wall repeatedly before seasoning his chips with the results, I Is John was there. They enjoyed the chips together on this bench, with those ducks, their demented quacks offsetting the chilled-out glo-fi that dribbled out of John's earpiece. Bloody chips.
cpr
Pricks....
Johnny Raz stepped outside, the gravel crunching under his boots as he made his first manful stride towards the vast and all encompassing night. His destination was as yet unplanned but with his camera slung round his neck and his trusty pliers in his pocket, the night was his, and his alone.
Stately, plump Broken Arm came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. "They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more," johnnystress said, and thought of the stony grey soil of Monaghan and the laugh from his love it had thieved. "Call me IrishUnsigned," he said -- he was a rough beast. His hour come round at last, he slouched towards Bethlehem to be born. "To be, or not to be", Hector Grey opined, and 'twas brillig, and the slithy Thumped did gyre and gimble in the wabe. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, and the sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.
froog carefully extracted his pulsating 12 inch war shaft from his custom whitewash 501's. he paused a moment, gazing at the magnificent purple headed warrior that lay whimsically across both his digger bucket hands. a single tear gently strolled down his left cheek, a tear of joy, a tear of admiration, a tear that suggested had god made anything more beautiful and more powerful than this fuck stick, he kept that shit for himself. froog arched his back and rolled his eyes back in his head as he plunged his battle pole deep into the lifestyle forum with no regard for human life. UURRRGGHGH he grunted, like a wildebeest on viagra who had been locked up with nothing but savannah porn for a year and suddenly found himself alone on the prarie with many beautiful and slutty lady wildebeest. he went to work on that forum, in and out for days, and all and sundry repped, +ed, and quote his mighty love sword. and finally after several days he blew a titanic load all over it, lolcats, relevant anecdotes, pictures of ginger people eating spaghetti and clever puns covered the forum. he sat back in his throne, sweating like niagra falls on speed and said "jaysis, some wank".
snakybus
Well-Known Member
The sociable cooking passed much as the day before had done. And the day before that. And the day before that. Jane took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in attending to what passed between Mr. G. Wazzy and his companion, Miss Squiggle, who were on the Internet posting about something rather saucy and chuckling while feasting on the remains of the dinner and downing copious amounts of Scrrrrrrumpy Jack.
"Haw, how delighted CPR will be to receive such a rep comment!" said Miss Squiggle.
He made no answer but grunted that she was a good lady, for a Guardian reader and vegetarian.
"You type uncommonly fast." said Miss Squiggle, gnawing on a pork chop.
"You are mistaken. I type rather slowly."
"How many posts you must have occasion to write in the course of a year! Nearly about drinking, too! How odious I should think them!"
"It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of yours."
"Pray tell CPR that I long to see her."
"I have already told her so once, by your desire."
Miss Squiggle took Mr. Wazzy's hands. Fried potatoes fell to the floor, and into Moose's mouth, who just happened to be lying there.
"I am afraid your hands are damaged from drunken fightin' with dirty Glaswegians. Let me dress the wounds for you."
GazzyWazzy pulled his hands quickly away.
"Thank you-- but I can attend to it my self, good lady."
He spilt cider all over Squiggle's jeans. She noticed not, for she was contemplating a lasagne on the dresser.
"How can you contrive to type so loosely?" she said after a time.
He was silent.
"Tell CPR I am delighted to hear of her improvement in the drrrrrrrrums, and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a '50s dress, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Hives's."
He was silent.
Miss Squiggle cantered over to the ladies, who were having a competition about who could shove as many chocolate chip cookies into their mouths at one time. Bored with this game, they fell to discussing how difficult it is to meet someone in Dublin, especially when you don't want to because you're just fine on your own, thank you very much, and who needs a man anyway? And you certainly don't want a fixer-upper. This really, really interesting conversation was interrupted by the "fthunk" of GazzyWazzy's head hitting the keyboard.
"My word," sighed Miss Squiggle. "What a lush. But so charming!"
"Haw, how delighted CPR will be to receive such a rep comment!" said Miss Squiggle.
He made no answer but grunted that she was a good lady, for a Guardian reader and vegetarian.
"You type uncommonly fast." said Miss Squiggle, gnawing on a pork chop.
"You are mistaken. I type rather slowly."
"How many posts you must have occasion to write in the course of a year! Nearly about drinking, too! How odious I should think them!"
"It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of yours."
"Pray tell CPR that I long to see her."
"I have already told her so once, by your desire."
Miss Squiggle took Mr. Wazzy's hands. Fried potatoes fell to the floor, and into Moose's mouth, who just happened to be lying there.
"I am afraid your hands are damaged from drunken fightin' with dirty Glaswegians. Let me dress the wounds for you."
GazzyWazzy pulled his hands quickly away.
"Thank you-- but I can attend to it my self, good lady."
He spilt cider all over Squiggle's jeans. She noticed not, for she was contemplating a lasagne on the dresser.
"How can you contrive to type so loosely?" she said after a time.
He was silent.
"Tell CPR I am delighted to hear of her improvement in the drrrrrrrrums, and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a '50s dress, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Hives's."
He was silent.
Miss Squiggle cantered over to the ladies, who were having a competition about who could shove as many chocolate chip cookies into their mouths at one time. Bored with this game, they fell to discussing how difficult it is to meet someone in Dublin, especially when you don't want to because you're just fine on your own, thank you very much, and who needs a man anyway? And you certainly don't want a fixer-upper. This really, really interesting conversation was interrupted by the "fthunk" of GazzyWazzy's head hitting the keyboard.
"My word," sighed Miss Squiggle. "What a lush. But so charming!"
daydream_nation
Active Member
this could be the soundtrack
D
Deleted member 3435
Guest
i think when this plays out someone should organise a collective story thumped fan fiction on here.
strange fan fiction: http://michaelkelly.artofeurope.com/orb1.htm
It always starts the same way. I am in the garden airing my terrapin Jetta when he walks past my gate, that mysterious man in black.
'Hello Roy,' I say. 'What are you doing in Dusseldorf?'
'Attending to certain matters,' he replies.
'Ah,' I say.
He apprises Jetta's lines with a keen eye. 'That is a well-groomed terrapin,' he says.
'Her name is Jetta.' I say. 'Perhaps you would like to come inside?'
'Very well.' He says.
Roy Orbison walks inside my house and sits down on my couch. We talk urbanely of various issues of the day. Presently I say, 'Perhaps you would like to see my cling-film?'
'By all means.' I cannot see his eyes through his trademark dark glasses and I have no idea if he is merely being polite or if he genuinely has an interest in cling-film.
I bring it from the kitchen, all the rolls of it. 'I have a surprising amount of clingfilm,' I say with a nervous laugh. Roy merely nods.
'I estimate I must have nearly a kilometre in the kitchen alone.'
'As much as that?' He says in surprise. 'So.'
'Mind you, people do not realize how much is on each roll. I bet that with a single roll alone I could wrap you up entirely.'
Roy Orbison sits impassively like a monochrome Buddha. My palms are sweaty.
'I will take that bet,' says Roy. 'If you succeed I will give you tickets to my new concert. If you fail I will take Jetta, as a lesson to you not to speak boastfully.'
I nod. 'So then. If you will please to stand.'
Roy stands. 'Commence.'
I start at the ankles and work up. I am like a spider binding him in my gossamer web. I do it tight with several layers. Soon Roy Orbison stands before me, completely wrapped in cling-film. The pleasure is unexampled.
'You are completely wrapped in cling-film,' I say.
'You win the bet,' says Roy, muffled. 'Now unwrap me.'
'Not for several hours.'
'Ah.'
I sit and admire my handiwork for a long time. So as not to make the ordeal unpleasant for him we make small talk on topical subjects, Roy somewhat muffled. At some point I must leave him to attend to Jetta's needs. When I return I find he has hopped out of my house, still wrapped in cling-film. The loss leaves me broken and pitiful. He never calls me. He sends no tickets. The police come and reprimand me. Jetta is taken away, although I get her back after a complicated legal process.
There is only one thing that can console me. A certain dream, a certain vision...
It always starts the same way.
© Ulrich Haarbürste
strange fan fiction: http://michaelkelly.artofeurope.com/orb1.htm
It always starts the same way. I am in the garden airing my terrapin Jetta when he walks past my gate, that mysterious man in black.
'Hello Roy,' I say. 'What are you doing in Dusseldorf?'
'Attending to certain matters,' he replies.
'Ah,' I say.
He apprises Jetta's lines with a keen eye. 'That is a well-groomed terrapin,' he says.
'Her name is Jetta.' I say. 'Perhaps you would like to come inside?'
'Very well.' He says.
Roy Orbison walks inside my house and sits down on my couch. We talk urbanely of various issues of the day. Presently I say, 'Perhaps you would like to see my cling-film?'
'By all means.' I cannot see his eyes through his trademark dark glasses and I have no idea if he is merely being polite or if he genuinely has an interest in cling-film.
I bring it from the kitchen, all the rolls of it. 'I have a surprising amount of clingfilm,' I say with a nervous laugh. Roy merely nods.
'I estimate I must have nearly a kilometre in the kitchen alone.'
'As much as that?' He says in surprise. 'So.'
'Mind you, people do not realize how much is on each roll. I bet that with a single roll alone I could wrap you up entirely.'
Roy Orbison sits impassively like a monochrome Buddha. My palms are sweaty.
'I will take that bet,' says Roy. 'If you succeed I will give you tickets to my new concert. If you fail I will take Jetta, as a lesson to you not to speak boastfully.'
I nod. 'So then. If you will please to stand.'
Roy stands. 'Commence.'
I start at the ankles and work up. I am like a spider binding him in my gossamer web. I do it tight with several layers. Soon Roy Orbison stands before me, completely wrapped in cling-film. The pleasure is unexampled.
'You are completely wrapped in cling-film,' I say.
'You win the bet,' says Roy, muffled. 'Now unwrap me.'
'Not for several hours.'
'Ah.'
I sit and admire my handiwork for a long time. So as not to make the ordeal unpleasant for him we make small talk on topical subjects, Roy somewhat muffled. At some point I must leave him to attend to Jetta's needs. When I return I find he has hopped out of my house, still wrapped in cling-film. The loss leaves me broken and pitiful. He never calls me. He sends no tickets. The police come and reprimand me. Jetta is taken away, although I get her back after a complicated legal process.
There is only one thing that can console me. A certain dream, a certain vision...
It always starts the same way.
© Ulrich Haarbürste
nooleen
bad ape
that's too mad to properly describe its madness
terrapin?
terrapin?
D
Deleted member 3435
Guest
In this fantasy I am driving along the Autobahn between Köln and Aachen.
A large Winnebago has pulled to the side of the road ahead. An anxious-looking man flags me down.
'This could be trouble,' I say to Jetta. 'It is certainly irregular.' Jetta says nothing. Little do I know what is in store.
'Can you help me,' says the man. 'I am Roy Orbison's tour manager.'
'Also?' I say in polite surprise. I have already read the legend 'Roy Orbison tour bus' on the side of the vehicle.
I get out of the car. 'What seems to be the problem?'
He leads me to the back of the van. 'Roy has succumbed to a heart attack and is clinically dead,' he explains, indicating a certain well-known man in black sprawled on the floor of the vehicle.
'So,' I say.
'Are you perchance a doctor?'
'No. I studied at a catering college for some years but was forced to leave for reasons I prefer not to disclose.'
'Ach! Then I am at a loss what to do.'
'There is one thing we might try,' I say with elaborate nonchalance. 'If we were to wrap him in cling-film, this would prevent corruption setting in until we can get him to a hospital.'
'It is certainly worth a try. But I have no cling-film.'
'Fortunately I have several rolls in the car.' I go to the car and retrieve it. The tour manager looks anxiously over my shoulder as I set to work. 'I must work undisturbed,' I tell him. He nods and gives me privacy.
Now it is just me and Roy Orbison and the cling-film. I start from the ankles and work up to the trademark dark glasses, wrapping slowly and carefully. Soon Roy Orbison is completely wrapped in cling-film. He is like a big black beetle wrapped in a silvery cocoon. The satisfaction is unparalleled by anything in my previous existence.
'He is completely wrapped in cling-film,' I call to the manager. 'I will accompany him as you drive to the hospital.'
Four hours later Roy Orbison sits up in bed in hospital and smiles at me.
'I hear I owe you my life,' he says. 'Please accept these concert tickets.'
I bow politely. 'There is something you perhaps should know. While you were in a coma I was forced to wrap you entirely in cling-film.'
'Quick thinking,' says Roy.
'You did not mind?'
Roy's expression is unreadable. 'I wasn't aware of it.' But was there the slightest twinkle behind those dark glasses?
Of course, I reflect as I return to the patient Jetta, there can be no question of him enjoying it, for he was dead at the time.
Or was he...???
no more hijacking i promise.
nooleen
bad ape
i think i might have to buy that guy's book
anyway back to thumped fan fic i guess
anyway back to thumped fan fic i guess
He stood still even though the pedestrian light had turned green. Ernesto, rubbed his tired eyes as he stepped off the curb heading towards Whelans. Momentarily startled by the horn coming from the car directly in his path, “For Fuck Sake!” the driver yelled but he continued to meander across the road riffling through his pockets. He promptly lit the half smoked cigarette he found, despite the fact; he made a bet with a friend that he could quit. He obviously broke the night before so why bother trying to pretend now? After the first drag of smoke, his other pocket revealed a receipt with a name and number scribbled on it and few coins. What had happened the night before? His recollection of the last evening was blurred.
What time is it, he wondered? Where had the day gone? He recognized a familiar face walking toward him. It was Pad, an acquaintance from many gigs and festivals. “You heading in?” he asked. Remembering of the contents of his pockets he replied, “I’m waiting for my ticket, Jimmyb should be here soon… who’s supporting tonight?” “Jogging, of course, “Pad quickly replied, “see you inside!” Ernesto a bit disappointed, hoping for Bats, waited for JimmyBreeze to show up. He took a coin out of his pocket and thought about the mysterious receipt. He couldn’t make out the name, as it was smudged, but the unknown number was clear as day. Heads, I’ll call it. Tails, I’ll toss it, he thought. Then he flipped the coin.
What time is it, he wondered? Where had the day gone? He recognized a familiar face walking toward him. It was Pad, an acquaintance from many gigs and festivals. “You heading in?” he asked. Remembering of the contents of his pockets he replied, “I’m waiting for my ticket, Jimmyb should be here soon… who’s supporting tonight?” “Jogging, of course, “Pad quickly replied, “see you inside!” Ernesto a bit disappointed, hoping for Bats, waited for JimmyBreeze to show up. He took a coin out of his pocket and thought about the mysterious receipt. He couldn’t make out the name, as it was smudged, but the unknown number was clear as day. Heads, I’ll call it. Tails, I’ll toss it, he thought. Then he flipped the coin.
typos abound guyz
Everyone needs an editor.
my typos are an intrinsic part of my free-flowing prose, reflecting my outlaw nature.
nooleen
bad ape
ho ho
nooleen
bad ape
i thought everyone's typos were added to give that authentic fanfic feel
i also type with my kncukles.
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