Author's Note: The Duke is a combination of Arnold Schwarzenegger, the Punisher and Rainier Wolfcastle (that Ahnuld-esque Simpsons character). The name is from the title of English Bob's autobiography, Bob is a character from the movie Unforgiven.
____________________________________
- January 13, 2557 -
- Hell Creek City, Coalition frontier world Tombstone -
____________________________________
The pub was silent as a tomb, and it was just about to become one. Not a thing was stirring. None of the bar’s patrons dared to move, none of them dared to say anything and none of them even dared to breathe.
Blocking the only exit was a mountain of a man. Dressed in leather, and armed with a drum-fed double-barreled auto shotgun, he spoke in a cold, emotionless tone. “Steve Trevor, you’re coming with me. Now.”
His words were directed to a smartly dressed man seated in front of a poker table. The man addressed as Steve Trevor calmly placed his cards on the table and stood up. “So, they paid you to get me, huh? You know I’m never going to turn myself in, you dumb piece of inferior paleohuman shit!”
“Inferior, superior, I’m the guy with the gun,” the big man replied in a low voice, indicating the piece of man-portable artillery he held in his hands.
“Duke, you really are a stupid sumbitch, ain’t ya?” Duke barely perceived the insult Steve just spat out. If one looked closely into his eyes, one would notice something odd about them; that they looked devoid of any emotion, that they seemed detached, cold…and even dead. Those eyes, some say, were indicative of ocular implants. Trained medical professionals would say that some type of substance abuse would have probably caused those eyes. Others would say that eyes like those belonged to people with something a little loose in their heads, like psychopaths, lunatics, serial killers and people who just weren’t hugged enough when they were kids. Those dead eyes stared at (into?) Steve like the eyes of a machine, unblinking and giving out no hint of remorse whatsoever. Having enough, Steve decided he would have no more bullshit. “Boys, kill him!”
With that cue, the vast majority of the pub’s occupants rose up and upholstered their weapons. But as they did so, Duke was already in motion, unleashing a fully automatic fusillade of depleted uranium buckshots at the nearest group of armed men, tearing them to pieces. However, before these pre-empted gunmen’s corpses could even fall down to the floor, the rest of Steve’s men were already opening up at him, filling the entire pub with a whizzing exchange of semiautomatic pistol fire.
Before Duke could take cover, a round struck his chest and imbedded itself into the Kevlar vest hidden underneath his leather jacket. A second round went into his shoulder, which lacked the protection of Kevlar shoulder pads, and gave the beefy over muscled appendage a bloody hole. Flinching just slightly, out of surprise rather than pain, Duke instinctually decided to place himself out of harms way by dropping behind a bunch of tables and chairs, the same ones used by the guys he just murdered with his shotgun – which explained the half-dozen corpses that littered the floor.
The barrage of pistol fire stopped abruptly as one of the gunmen, a fat fellow with an accent and a large beer-gut, proclaimed that he bagged ‘The Duke’. He was rewarded with a loud thudding noise that, after he looked down, he realized was caused by a grenade that was lobbed by the no-longer-dead Duke. He gaped, uttered a “gawddamnit” and was summarily blown to smithereens.
Thanks to the dust cloud, shrapnel and the enclosed explosion, the Duke now had the advantage he needed, the advantage he that was counting on. Rising from the smoke and rubble, he unleashed a hell storm of high-velocity steel, with one hand blasting away with a double-barreled auto-shotgun that he held like a pistol, and the other hand perforating the bar’s unfortunate but not completely undeserving patrons with a Bragulan Needle Gun personal defense weapon.
One of Steve’s goons, a short chubby cowboy, realized his life was actually worth keeping and started to run away. The Duke would have none of that and the cowboy soon found his back riddled with over two dozen needle holes. Another goon, whose face was busted up pretty bad by the grenade’s shrapnel, popped up from a poker table and fired blindly at the general direction of the Duke with an old-fashioned lever action shotgun. Disgusted with such poor marksmanship, the Duke promptly filled the man’s face with buckshots. After a couple dozen more men turned into living (no, not really) pincushions and amputees, the Duke’s rampage was finally stopped when a busty waitress, armed with a tiny .38 caliber revolver, emptied her weapon at the his chest.
The Duke didn’t even flinch and simply swatted the gun out of the waitress’ hands with his shotgun.
“You wouldn’t hurt a lady, right?” the waitress pleaded.
“Wrong,” Duke replied, and the waitress was sent flying through the air with a point-blank shotgun blast to the gut.
With practically everything in the tavern rendered dead or dying, Duke came across a bloodied Steve Trevor who was pinned down to the ground by the corpse of the fat man who had a grenade roll up to his feet. If there was any time Duke’s impassive face was closest to forming a smile, this was it. He reiterated what he had said earlier when he barged into the bar. “Steve Trevor, you’re coming with me.”
Steve grunted and mustered all his strength to push the fat dead man off him. For a while, he struggled to breathe before responding to the Duke. “What, Bob?! So I can be extradited to US territory?! I’m not going to have any of that! Never! You bounty hunter piece of shit! I hate you!”
The bloody mess that was Steve Trevor, renowned psychic outlaw of the lawless world of Tombstone, screamed in anguish at the Duke of Death, uttering barely comprehensible profanities at the person who would be in time considered the best bounty hunter in the galaxy and a living legend in the Coalition’s Frontier. Finally running out of curses, Steve stuck his hand into his holster and drew his sidearm, only to have his chest emptied on by the Duke’s Needle Gun.
Dropping his expended sidearm, the Duke shook his head slowly. “Shame, Steve. Damned shame. You were worth a lot to me.” With that, he pointed his wristwatch’s 3D camera at Steve Trevor’s face, took a snapshot and abruptly left the building.
Shroomie's Shorts: Epiphany
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Shroom Man 777
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Shroomie's Shorts: Epiphany
Last edited by Shroom Man 777 on 2005-09-28 09:35am, edited 32 times in total.
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
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Hey, it's based on the man's autobiography, he's entitled to a "poetic license", ya know. And that's poetry if I ever saw one 
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!
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Shroom Man 777
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I forgot to mention that that was an excrept from his autobiography: Tombstoner.
And Kuj, I know you think it's hot and that it's so much like an 80s action movie that you'd even start questioning your own sexuality
(I don't know what the fuck am I talking about).
EDIT:
Renamed the thread. Decided it'd be easier to post in here all shorts I'm going to make, instead of making new threads whenever I do these things. And I intend to do it a lot.
Weeee!
And Kuj, I know you think it's hot and that it's so much like an 80s action movie that you'd even start questioning your own sexuality
(I don't know what the fuck am I talking about).EDIT:
Renamed the thread. Decided it'd be easier to post in here all shorts I'm going to make, instead of making new threads whenever I do these things. And I intend to do it a lot.
Weeee!
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!
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Shroom Man 777
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____________________________________
- May 9, 2567 -
- Inside an extinct volcano, unknown Wild Space planet occupied by Bragulan Rebels -
____________________________________
Inside the cave, Sergeant Spovik Oleg was a silent sentry, gazing at the threshold of the cave and staring out to the abyss of white that comprised the frostbitten expanse beyond the mountain’s confines.
“What are your statuses? Report,” Oleg commanded. He and his team of four belonged to the Elite Commando Detachment of the Emerald Guard, a clandestine paramilitary organization that served the Imperator of the Bragulan Star Empire. Their current mission was simple; they were to covertly enter an extinct volcano whose honeycomb network of caves was suspected of being used as a bunker by insurgent militia. Should these suspicions be confirmed, they were to proceed in the placement of nuclear demolition charges to neutralize the insurgent presence inside the mountain. The suspicions had indeed been confirmed, there were insurgents hiding in the caves, stocking up on weapons, ammunition, fuel, food, water and other supplies. There were not only soldiers, but also women and children, entire families of refugees hiding in the caves while they waited for more suitable homes to be found. To Oleg, that was perfectly –
“We’re almost done. Five hundred pounds of atomic detonator is not very light, you know, Oleg?”
Oleg rolled his eyes and resumed his train of thought, which did not really get derailed; see, the ECD also had a very effective mental training regimen and they could teach you to multi-task your thought processes quite effectively. Anyway, to Oleg the fact that there were entire families in these caves did not bother him one bit. To Oleg, every traitor that was killed meant that one less Imperial citizen, one less child of the Empire, one less soul loyal to democracy would die under treacherous rebel hands. These insurgents, because they had abandoned the New Order, had forsaken their brothers in their selfish pursuits that completely and totally disregard and blaspheme the ideals of democracy and the Bragulan Empire itself. For they chose to raise their arms against the ideals that unified the Bragulan people, that ensured their survival through a bitter civil war that would have undoubtedly destroyed everyone and everything that they held dear, that ensured their triumph over an alien menace that had infiltrated and manipulated the now-defunct Bragulan nations to suit their own evil agendas. For these people had begotten the ways of peace and chose the path of destruction, the path that led to the slaughter of Imperial men, women and children, then they themselves shall be destroyed. From the second they spat on what was right, what was just, what was true, from the second they divorced themselves of the greater whole, of the Bragulan species, and opt to commit murder on their fellowmen, they had forfeit their lives. They had become obstacles to the glorious Bragulan Race, obstacles that had to be destroyed to ensure the continued existence of the Bragulan Empire of the Stars.
Once a man has chosen to blind himself of the greater whole, once a man has rejected the Manifest Destiny, once a man has been corrupted by goals so wretched that they would lead him to savagely attack innocents, to put car bombs beside nurseries, to pillage honest farm cities and rape their women, their elderly, and even their children. To brutally murder the fathers of children, the sons of mothers, the brothers of sisters, the lovers of women, once a man has been corrupted by these sinful ideals, he is no longer a man. He has willfully transformed himself into a cancer, an anathema to all that is good and righteous. And it is the duty of those who love these things that are good and righteous to destroy these cancers before they inflict even more damage.
These insurgents had become cancerous. These men, these women, these children, they are no longer people. They are a disease. And it is the solemn duty of one such as Oleg, a patriot, to rid the Empire of these foul pathogens, to cleanse the Empire of this sinful infestation that has threatened to infest and destroy its purity of essence.
A wise man once said that patriotism is the virtue of the vicious. He could have never realized how right he was. Entire worlds have had their surface turned to glass, their oceans turned into steam, their skies turned into blazing infernos, their populations consumed by nuclear fire, all in the name of patriotism, and because a sinful disease had, has and will have threatened to override the benign authority of the New Order and overrule its manifest destiny. Oleg believed he was a patriot, believed it with every fiber of his body, and he knew it was his duty to help in the destruction of this cancer that seeks to destroy all that had been fought for centuries.
For order must be maintained or else it degenerates into entropy, a process that destroys all that has been formed and achieved after the blood of a billion Bragulans had been spilt. And to maintain this order, the blood of a billion more had to be spilled. A billion more Bragulans that had relinquished their existence as people only to reemerge as parasitic bacterium. A plague that seeks to erode the very foundations of civili-
“The charge has been set. Our job here is done. Now let us get out of this mountain before it is turned into a crater!” it was the demolition expert, announcing that the mission had been accomplished. Finally, they could now go home.
“Another job well done. I told you it would be routine,” radio chatter. Most of them did not enjoy staying in a blizzard covered, grim and frostbitten world.
“Indeed, now let us get our rocket packs and get going!”
“Relax, it is not a countdown. I have the detonator in my codpiece.”
Laughter erupted from the comm.-link. Despite not being with the rest of his men, Oleg couldn’t help but smile as well. After this mission, they would be given leave and they could go and visit their families. Oleg thanked the Imperator for that. The rewards for patriotism, for ensuring the safety of not only one’s families, but of families throughout an empire that encompassed six thousand systems, were quite fulfilling and pleasant to the soul. “Come on boys, let’s move out. Before Vikliov needs to use the latrines.”
For more information, go here: http://www.omniversezero.com/forum/show ... php?t=1001
- May 9, 2567 -
- Inside an extinct volcano, unknown Wild Space planet occupied by Bragulan Rebels -
____________________________________
Inside the cave, Sergeant Spovik Oleg was a silent sentry, gazing at the threshold of the cave and staring out to the abyss of white that comprised the frostbitten expanse beyond the mountain’s confines.
“What are your statuses? Report,” Oleg commanded. He and his team of four belonged to the Elite Commando Detachment of the Emerald Guard, a clandestine paramilitary organization that served the Imperator of the Bragulan Star Empire. Their current mission was simple; they were to covertly enter an extinct volcano whose honeycomb network of caves was suspected of being used as a bunker by insurgent militia. Should these suspicions be confirmed, they were to proceed in the placement of nuclear demolition charges to neutralize the insurgent presence inside the mountain. The suspicions had indeed been confirmed, there were insurgents hiding in the caves, stocking up on weapons, ammunition, fuel, food, water and other supplies. There were not only soldiers, but also women and children, entire families of refugees hiding in the caves while they waited for more suitable homes to be found. To Oleg, that was perfectly –
“We’re almost done. Five hundred pounds of atomic detonator is not very light, you know, Oleg?”
Oleg rolled his eyes and resumed his train of thought, which did not really get derailed; see, the ECD also had a very effective mental training regimen and they could teach you to multi-task your thought processes quite effectively. Anyway, to Oleg the fact that there were entire families in these caves did not bother him one bit. To Oleg, every traitor that was killed meant that one less Imperial citizen, one less child of the Empire, one less soul loyal to democracy would die under treacherous rebel hands. These insurgents, because they had abandoned the New Order, had forsaken their brothers in their selfish pursuits that completely and totally disregard and blaspheme the ideals of democracy and the Bragulan Empire itself. For they chose to raise their arms against the ideals that unified the Bragulan people, that ensured their survival through a bitter civil war that would have undoubtedly destroyed everyone and everything that they held dear, that ensured their triumph over an alien menace that had infiltrated and manipulated the now-defunct Bragulan nations to suit their own evil agendas. For these people had begotten the ways of peace and chose the path of destruction, the path that led to the slaughter of Imperial men, women and children, then they themselves shall be destroyed. From the second they spat on what was right, what was just, what was true, from the second they divorced themselves of the greater whole, of the Bragulan species, and opt to commit murder on their fellowmen, they had forfeit their lives. They had become obstacles to the glorious Bragulan Race, obstacles that had to be destroyed to ensure the continued existence of the Bragulan Empire of the Stars.
Once a man has chosen to blind himself of the greater whole, once a man has rejected the Manifest Destiny, once a man has been corrupted by goals so wretched that they would lead him to savagely attack innocents, to put car bombs beside nurseries, to pillage honest farm cities and rape their women, their elderly, and even their children. To brutally murder the fathers of children, the sons of mothers, the brothers of sisters, the lovers of women, once a man has been corrupted by these sinful ideals, he is no longer a man. He has willfully transformed himself into a cancer, an anathema to all that is good and righteous. And it is the duty of those who love these things that are good and righteous to destroy these cancers before they inflict even more damage.
These insurgents had become cancerous. These men, these women, these children, they are no longer people. They are a disease. And it is the solemn duty of one such as Oleg, a patriot, to rid the Empire of these foul pathogens, to cleanse the Empire of this sinful infestation that has threatened to infest and destroy its purity of essence.
A wise man once said that patriotism is the virtue of the vicious. He could have never realized how right he was. Entire worlds have had their surface turned to glass, their oceans turned into steam, their skies turned into blazing infernos, their populations consumed by nuclear fire, all in the name of patriotism, and because a sinful disease had, has and will have threatened to override the benign authority of the New Order and overrule its manifest destiny. Oleg believed he was a patriot, believed it with every fiber of his body, and he knew it was his duty to help in the destruction of this cancer that seeks to destroy all that had been fought for centuries.
For order must be maintained or else it degenerates into entropy, a process that destroys all that has been formed and achieved after the blood of a billion Bragulans had been spilt. And to maintain this order, the blood of a billion more had to be spilled. A billion more Bragulans that had relinquished their existence as people only to reemerge as parasitic bacterium. A plague that seeks to erode the very foundations of civili-
“The charge has been set. Our job here is done. Now let us get out of this mountain before it is turned into a crater!” it was the demolition expert, announcing that the mission had been accomplished. Finally, they could now go home.
“Another job well done. I told you it would be routine,” radio chatter. Most of them did not enjoy staying in a blizzard covered, grim and frostbitten world.
“Indeed, now let us get our rocket packs and get going!”
“Relax, it is not a countdown. I have the detonator in my codpiece.”
Laughter erupted from the comm.-link. Despite not being with the rest of his men, Oleg couldn’t help but smile as well. After this mission, they would be given leave and they could go and visit their families. Oleg thanked the Imperator for that. The rewards for patriotism, for ensuring the safety of not only one’s families, but of families throughout an empire that encompassed six thousand systems, were quite fulfilling and pleasant to the soul. “Come on boys, let’s move out. Before Vikliov needs to use the latrines.”
For more information, go here: http://www.omniversezero.com/forum/show ... php?t=1001
Last edited by Shroom Man 777 on 2005-05-04 07:39am, edited 1 time in total.
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!
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Crazedwraith
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Shroom Man 777
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It's the future though. And again, poetic license. Besides, maybe the Duke was egotistical.
Now whatcha think of the second one? Ponderings of a Patriot.
Now whatcha think of the second one? Ponderings of a Patriot.
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!
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Crazedwraith
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Well its pretty much the antithesis off the first one. Insteads of a fun campy shoot'em up. Its a relatively deep cerebral affair. Rather neat.Shroom Man 777 wrote:It's the future though. And again, poetic license. Besides, maybe the Duke was egotistical.
Now whatcha think of the second one? Ponderings of a Patriot.
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Shroom Man 777
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I just noticed that. And now that I think about it, that's actually pretty cool. Especially since I made one right after the other.
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!
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Shroom Man 777
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____________________________________
- May 2, 2567 -
- Vega City, Sovereignty primary world Mars -
____________________________________
“You have the right to remain silent,” the Solarian Robotics Model 101 law enforcement and patrol unit calmly stated as he shoved the punk onto the police cruiser’s hood.
“You metal mother-” cutting the well-ornamented thug short, the automated lawman twisted his tattooed arm to an odd angle in preparation for cuffing. The thug screamed in pain. “Ow, that hurt! Bitch!”
“If you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law,” the robot continued as he cuffed one of the suspect’s wrists.
“You got nothing on me!” the gangster protested, trying to break free from the robot’s vice like grip as his other wrist was cuffed. “I didn’t do anything-“
“You have the right to an attorney and to have an attorney present during questioning,” despite being incapable of feeling emotion, the robot really sounded like the excessively pierced hoodlum was starting to get on ‘his’ nerves. “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to you at no cost.”
“This is shit, man! I didn’t do anything!”
“Wrong. We happen to know for a fact that your gang has been peddling drugs. And selling bootleg porn. And stealing cars and hauling them into chop shops. And burglary. And armed robbery,” Officer Butch Dafoe, the robocop’s partner, went on like this for almost half a minute before stopping abruptly to take a deep breath. “We’re taking you downtown for questioning. That’s all.”
“Fuck you, wigger!” the thug, whose face was still partially pressed against the cruiser’s hood, spat out derisively. “I ain’t sayin’ anything!”
Officer Butch, who was standing at the other side of the cruiser and in front of the thug, calmly signaled his cybernetic partner.
The robocop then jerked the thug off the hood, hard, spun him around and shoved his ass back on the car. Then, with a thick accent that sounded like something out of one of them (non-reality) police TV shows staring a badass cop of African ethnicity and much immoral kick-assery, the robot said: “Looks like time for some good ol’ fashioned police brutality, oh yeah.”
The bot’s eyes flashed blood red and then ‘he’ emitted a beeping noise that, to the punk, sounded awfully like the ‘killmode’ activation sound RoboKombat killbots made during RoboKombat tourneys. The dreadlocked, sneaker wearing, bling-bling adorned, hard as nails ‘gangsta’ did the only thing he could do: squirm like a girlie-man.
After a half-minute’s silence, Officer Butch exploded with laughter and walked over to the robocop’s side. Patting the automaton’s back, Officer Butch tried his hardest to hold back the laughter that was making his eyes tear. He finally managed to stop, only to look at the gangster and burst out laughing again. Five minutes later, Officer Butch decided that enough time was spent screwing around. “Relax. Just a sound clip I got from that movie I saw.”
“You prick!”
“Shizzle ma dizzle ya sheeit biotch! Word,” Butch said, imitating the hand gestures rappers do and mimicking the ‘language’ used by street gangsters who probably have never even seen a school. Then he laughed again. “Shove him in the car, partner.”
“Affirmative,” the robot acknowledged as, in one swift motion, he jerked the poorly dressed gangster off the hood and into the low-flying repulsor car’s backseat.
“God, I love this job,” Butch sighed, enjoying the sight of the illiterate hooligan slamming into the backseat head first. What he enjoyed more though were the new robots the force was buying from those Solarian guys. They were smart and could even record holoscreen shows and take sound clips. “Come on; let’s haul this guy down to the precinct.”
“Oh yeah,” the robot replied, playing a part of that sound clip. Butch smiled.
“Word. Hey, you didn’t record that killmode beeping thing from the movie, did you?”
“Negative. I just thought you would appreciate it,” the voice was neutral, but Butch thought there was something warm and friendly in it. Those Solarian guys built real good robots.
- May 2, 2567 -
- Vega City, Sovereignty primary world Mars -
____________________________________
“You have the right to remain silent,” the Solarian Robotics Model 101 law enforcement and patrol unit calmly stated as he shoved the punk onto the police cruiser’s hood.
“You metal mother-” cutting the well-ornamented thug short, the automated lawman twisted his tattooed arm to an odd angle in preparation for cuffing. The thug screamed in pain. “Ow, that hurt! Bitch!”
“If you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law,” the robot continued as he cuffed one of the suspect’s wrists.
“You got nothing on me!” the gangster protested, trying to break free from the robot’s vice like grip as his other wrist was cuffed. “I didn’t do anything-“
“You have the right to an attorney and to have an attorney present during questioning,” despite being incapable of feeling emotion, the robot really sounded like the excessively pierced hoodlum was starting to get on ‘his’ nerves. “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to you at no cost.”
“This is shit, man! I didn’t do anything!”
“Wrong. We happen to know for a fact that your gang has been peddling drugs. And selling bootleg porn. And stealing cars and hauling them into chop shops. And burglary. And armed robbery,” Officer Butch Dafoe, the robocop’s partner, went on like this for almost half a minute before stopping abruptly to take a deep breath. “We’re taking you downtown for questioning. That’s all.”
“Fuck you, wigger!” the thug, whose face was still partially pressed against the cruiser’s hood, spat out derisively. “I ain’t sayin’ anything!”
Officer Butch, who was standing at the other side of the cruiser and in front of the thug, calmly signaled his cybernetic partner.
The robocop then jerked the thug off the hood, hard, spun him around and shoved his ass back on the car. Then, with a thick accent that sounded like something out of one of them (non-reality) police TV shows staring a badass cop of African ethnicity and much immoral kick-assery, the robot said: “Looks like time for some good ol’ fashioned police brutality, oh yeah.”
The bot’s eyes flashed blood red and then ‘he’ emitted a beeping noise that, to the punk, sounded awfully like the ‘killmode’ activation sound RoboKombat killbots made during RoboKombat tourneys. The dreadlocked, sneaker wearing, bling-bling adorned, hard as nails ‘gangsta’ did the only thing he could do: squirm like a girlie-man.
After a half-minute’s silence, Officer Butch exploded with laughter and walked over to the robocop’s side. Patting the automaton’s back, Officer Butch tried his hardest to hold back the laughter that was making his eyes tear. He finally managed to stop, only to look at the gangster and burst out laughing again. Five minutes later, Officer Butch decided that enough time was spent screwing around. “Relax. Just a sound clip I got from that movie I saw.”
“You prick!”
“Shizzle ma dizzle ya sheeit biotch! Word,” Butch said, imitating the hand gestures rappers do and mimicking the ‘language’ used by street gangsters who probably have never even seen a school. Then he laughed again. “Shove him in the car, partner.”
“Affirmative,” the robot acknowledged as, in one swift motion, he jerked the poorly dressed gangster off the hood and into the low-flying repulsor car’s backseat.
“God, I love this job,” Butch sighed, enjoying the sight of the illiterate hooligan slamming into the backseat head first. What he enjoyed more though were the new robots the force was buying from those Solarian guys. They were smart and could even record holoscreen shows and take sound clips. “Come on; let’s haul this guy down to the precinct.”
“Oh yeah,” the robot replied, playing a part of that sound clip. Butch smiled.
“Word. Hey, you didn’t record that killmode beeping thing from the movie, did you?”
“Negative. I just thought you would appreciate it,” the voice was neutral, but Butch thought there was something warm and friendly in it. Those Solarian guys built real good robots.
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!
-
Einhander Sn0m4n
- Insane Railgunner
- Posts: 18630
- Joined: 2002-10-01 05:51am
- Location: Louisiana... or Dagobah. You know, where Yoda lives.
-
Shroom Man 777
- FUCKING DICK-STABBER!
- Posts: 21222
- Joined: 2003-05-11 08:39am
- Location: Bleeding breasts and stabbing dicks since 2003
- Contact:
*bows* Thank you everyone. Thank you. More on the way. More on the way.
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!
-
Crazedwraith
- Emperor's Hand
- Posts: 11924
- Joined: 2003-04-10 03:45pm
- Location: Cheshire, England
-
Shroom Man 777
- FUCKING DICK-STABBER!
- Posts: 21222
- Joined: 2003-05-11 08:39am
- Location: Bleeding breasts and stabbing dicks since 2003
- Contact:
Another one's on the way.
BTW, I added you to my MSN contact list. Get on your ass and approve it! YEAH!
BTW, I added you to my MSN contact list. Get on your ass and approve it! YEAH!
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!
-
Shroom Man 777
- FUCKING DICK-STABBER!
- Posts: 21222
- Joined: 2003-05-11 08:39am
- Location: Bleeding breasts and stabbing dicks since 2003
- Contact:
____________________________________
- May 3, 2567 -
- Halcyon Primus city-platform, Sovereignty primary world Celeste -
____________________________________
William D. Turner bumped against a lizard-like Zigonian who was dancing erratically to the beat of the music and holograms that filled the place with a psychedelic musical lightshow. Not bothering to apologize, he moved on forward towards his objective. He was on a mission, a mission that he was - to put it simply - coerced to accept.
Until yesterday, everything was normal. Until yesterday, he had a life that was actually worth living. A life that was simple, uncomplicated and fulfilling, an existence that was blessed with a family composed of beautiful wife and two adorable little children. However, all semblance of normalcy ended yesterday when he was suddenly abducted on his way to work. Beaten to submission in a way that would ensure no lasting damage that would interfere with his errand, his abductors laid it all down to him. They were Bragulan terrorists, their exact organization they didn’t reveal, but because of their objectives (or the ones they gave him, rather), Will guessed that they belonged to the Gamma-Sigma. They didn’t threaten his life, oh no, it was worse. They threatened his family. He pleaded, and desperately asked what they wanted. One of them said, in barely comprehendible English, that all he had to do was to deliver a little package, and after that, it would be just like nothing ever happened. Having not much of a choice, Will agreed. He didn’t know if he was just some random guy they picked from the street to threaten into doing their bidding, of if they had been watching him for weeks, but he knew that he couldn’t risk it. He just couldn’t risk the possibility of either his wife or children getting hurt. So he had to do it. He had no choice. He had to deliver the package. A bomb concealed in a knapsack. No, he wasn’t going to be a suicide bomber. They gave specific instructions: put the bag on the floor, run, and blow it up with the remote detonator in the wristwatch. Then you’ll go to the parking lot and we’ll pick you up.
Then we’ll kill you and probably your family as well, just to be sure, Will thought as his laments turned into prayers, and prayers into questions asking ‘why did this have to happen to me?’
Bumping into another erratically dancing Zigonian, one who was tangoing with a human, Will’s thoughts were jolted back to the task at hand. He jerked his head from side to side, surveying the area with his bloodshot eyes. He was scared. His hands were trembling. If he was caught, the terrorists said that they would kill his entire family and probably mail pieces of them to him in prison. They also said that if any cops tried to catch him, he should detonate the bomb right then and there, killing himself and anyone else who happened to be in the blast radius.
Will tried to recollect his nerves. He looked back to see if there was anyone following him, and thought he caught a glimpse of someone he thought he also saw when he entered the bar five minutes ago. Wondering what to do, Will decided it was probably nothing. Just his imagination. But just to be sure, he hurried his pace.
“Lost sight of him, too many people,” reported one of the men tailing William D. Turner.
“I’ll re-acquire him,” a voice said over the comm.-link. It was the Infiltrator.
“You sure? You better not kill him?”
“Trust me,” the robot said slyly as its eyes scanned for the target. If it weren’t for the sunglasses that covered its face, which was practically indistinguishable from a human’s, one would notice a faint red glow emanating from those expressionless auburn eyes as they searched the area with a combination of sensors that could see through practically every wavelength of light, and then some more. And if it weren’t for the shades, one might also notice how the Infiltrator’s eyes were looking at separate directions, kind of like a chameleon.
The Infiltrator began its search, walking in a zigzagging pattern that would grant it the highest probability of re-acquiring the target. One eye glanced at a Zigonian who was dancing as if he was having a standing epileptic seizure and within nanoseconds switched to another object, determining that it wasn’t the target. The person it was searching for wasn’t an alien, he was a human. The tactical readout that digitally overlapped the Infiltrator’s view of the world listed specific details of the target, as well as random constantly changing alphanumerical gibberish that only a machine mind could understand. The other eye of the Infiltrator briefly glanced at a human that matched the target’s height, and for a brief second, a wire-frame image overlapped the man’s image as he was scanned and identified to be someone who wasn’t important. The Infiltrator moved on to another object. The next one was a waitress, and the Infiltrator immediately dismissed that one without wasting a nanosecond. Sooner or later. The Infiltrator knew with every digit of code that was its software and with every molecule of hyperalloy that composed its interior chassis that it would eventually find its target. Nobody could hide from it and nobody could run from it. It would find him because that was what Infiltrators were built to do. That was all they did. Sooner or later.
In this case, it would be sooner. As the Infiltrator brushed past a waiter-bot, one of its less sophisticated and less dangerous cousins, it caught sight of a man’s back, a man’s back with a knapsack on it. Locking the man in its targeting reticule, the Infiltrator alerted its fellow agents and immediately gave chase. Calculating the speed of which its quarry was walking, and factoring it with the placement of the people who were obstructing its way, the Infiltrator came up with a path that could perhaps take him ahead of the target.
I will proceed to head him off, the Infiltrator voicelessly said through the comm.-link.
“Copy that. Go!”
The man-machine immediately picked up its pace and brushed past several dancers, waiters and patrons. One of its eyes glanced at the target and performed a more detailed scan. The target’s identity was confirmed, and X-ray sensors confirmed explosive device in the knapsack. In addition, the passive radar antennae built into the Infiltrator’s hyperalloy cranium also detected the presence of a wireless remote detonating device that could be triggered by signals coming from as far as ten kilometers away. The Infiltrator determined that it was quite possible that the target’s cellmates could trigger the device if he failed to detonate it on time. Electronic countermeasures were immediately turned online and jamming protocols were initiated as the Infiltrator alerted its partners.
“Alright, that’s it. Neutralize him. Non-lethal only!”
Affirmative. As it kept itself all but invisible to the target, the Infiltrator finally headed him off and waited in its pre-determined position. It then began selecting the weapon most suitable for harmlessly neutralizing its target and had to choose between its hands, which were very delicate despite being capable of smashing through reinforced concrete, a P-113 Enforcer loaded with explosive bullets, and a pen-like dart gun that could shoot tiny centimeter long projectiles laced with neurotoxin. It chose the latter. The dart shooting pen-gun.
“Hey, Willie!” Will’s train of grim and very dark thoughts was derailed as a big guy with an odd looking grin plastered on his face approached him.
“Wha? Do I know you?” Will couldn’t remember if he had any friends who looked like that, with a smile that weird.
“Yeah,” the big man took a pen out of his breast pocket and pointed it at Will. As Will wondered whether this guy was a stranger or some long-lost friend, a tiny barely perceptible projectile flew out of the pen’s tip and struck Will at the neck. There was no pain, but he could feel the impact.
“What th-“ his throat stopped working. Alarmed, Will realized that he’d been caught and that he had only one thing left to do: blow them all to hell. Will reached for his watch, and discovered to his horror that he couldn’t move his arms, or his legs, or any other part of his body. He was even having difficulty in breathing.
As William D. Turner’s vision blacked out, and as he stumbled backwards, two other men in black appeared out of the crowd of dancing teens and aliens. They caught Willie as soon as he lost consciousness. But right before he did, Will heard the big man in black utter two words that he could, despite his state of near half-consciousness, still comprehend: “Target acquired.”
- May 3, 2567 -
- Halcyon Primus city-platform, Sovereignty primary world Celeste -
____________________________________
William D. Turner bumped against a lizard-like Zigonian who was dancing erratically to the beat of the music and holograms that filled the place with a psychedelic musical lightshow. Not bothering to apologize, he moved on forward towards his objective. He was on a mission, a mission that he was - to put it simply - coerced to accept.
Until yesterday, everything was normal. Until yesterday, he had a life that was actually worth living. A life that was simple, uncomplicated and fulfilling, an existence that was blessed with a family composed of beautiful wife and two adorable little children. However, all semblance of normalcy ended yesterday when he was suddenly abducted on his way to work. Beaten to submission in a way that would ensure no lasting damage that would interfere with his errand, his abductors laid it all down to him. They were Bragulan terrorists, their exact organization they didn’t reveal, but because of their objectives (or the ones they gave him, rather), Will guessed that they belonged to the Gamma-Sigma. They didn’t threaten his life, oh no, it was worse. They threatened his family. He pleaded, and desperately asked what they wanted. One of them said, in barely comprehendible English, that all he had to do was to deliver a little package, and after that, it would be just like nothing ever happened. Having not much of a choice, Will agreed. He didn’t know if he was just some random guy they picked from the street to threaten into doing their bidding, of if they had been watching him for weeks, but he knew that he couldn’t risk it. He just couldn’t risk the possibility of either his wife or children getting hurt. So he had to do it. He had no choice. He had to deliver the package. A bomb concealed in a knapsack. No, he wasn’t going to be a suicide bomber. They gave specific instructions: put the bag on the floor, run, and blow it up with the remote detonator in the wristwatch. Then you’ll go to the parking lot and we’ll pick you up.
Then we’ll kill you and probably your family as well, just to be sure, Will thought as his laments turned into prayers, and prayers into questions asking ‘why did this have to happen to me?’
Bumping into another erratically dancing Zigonian, one who was tangoing with a human, Will’s thoughts were jolted back to the task at hand. He jerked his head from side to side, surveying the area with his bloodshot eyes. He was scared. His hands were trembling. If he was caught, the terrorists said that they would kill his entire family and probably mail pieces of them to him in prison. They also said that if any cops tried to catch him, he should detonate the bomb right then and there, killing himself and anyone else who happened to be in the blast radius.
Will tried to recollect his nerves. He looked back to see if there was anyone following him, and thought he caught a glimpse of someone he thought he also saw when he entered the bar five minutes ago. Wondering what to do, Will decided it was probably nothing. Just his imagination. But just to be sure, he hurried his pace.
“Lost sight of him, too many people,” reported one of the men tailing William D. Turner.
“I’ll re-acquire him,” a voice said over the comm.-link. It was the Infiltrator.
“You sure? You better not kill him?”
“Trust me,” the robot said slyly as its eyes scanned for the target. If it weren’t for the sunglasses that covered its face, which was practically indistinguishable from a human’s, one would notice a faint red glow emanating from those expressionless auburn eyes as they searched the area with a combination of sensors that could see through practically every wavelength of light, and then some more. And if it weren’t for the shades, one might also notice how the Infiltrator’s eyes were looking at separate directions, kind of like a chameleon.
The Infiltrator began its search, walking in a zigzagging pattern that would grant it the highest probability of re-acquiring the target. One eye glanced at a Zigonian who was dancing as if he was having a standing epileptic seizure and within nanoseconds switched to another object, determining that it wasn’t the target. The person it was searching for wasn’t an alien, he was a human. The tactical readout that digitally overlapped the Infiltrator’s view of the world listed specific details of the target, as well as random constantly changing alphanumerical gibberish that only a machine mind could understand. The other eye of the Infiltrator briefly glanced at a human that matched the target’s height, and for a brief second, a wire-frame image overlapped the man’s image as he was scanned and identified to be someone who wasn’t important. The Infiltrator moved on to another object. The next one was a waitress, and the Infiltrator immediately dismissed that one without wasting a nanosecond. Sooner or later. The Infiltrator knew with every digit of code that was its software and with every molecule of hyperalloy that composed its interior chassis that it would eventually find its target. Nobody could hide from it and nobody could run from it. It would find him because that was what Infiltrators were built to do. That was all they did. Sooner or later.
In this case, it would be sooner. As the Infiltrator brushed past a waiter-bot, one of its less sophisticated and less dangerous cousins, it caught sight of a man’s back, a man’s back with a knapsack on it. Locking the man in its targeting reticule, the Infiltrator alerted its fellow agents and immediately gave chase. Calculating the speed of which its quarry was walking, and factoring it with the placement of the people who were obstructing its way, the Infiltrator came up with a path that could perhaps take him ahead of the target.
I will proceed to head him off, the Infiltrator voicelessly said through the comm.-link.
“Copy that. Go!”
The man-machine immediately picked up its pace and brushed past several dancers, waiters and patrons. One of its eyes glanced at the target and performed a more detailed scan. The target’s identity was confirmed, and X-ray sensors confirmed explosive device in the knapsack. In addition, the passive radar antennae built into the Infiltrator’s hyperalloy cranium also detected the presence of a wireless remote detonating device that could be triggered by signals coming from as far as ten kilometers away. The Infiltrator determined that it was quite possible that the target’s cellmates could trigger the device if he failed to detonate it on time. Electronic countermeasures were immediately turned online and jamming protocols were initiated as the Infiltrator alerted its partners.
“Alright, that’s it. Neutralize him. Non-lethal only!”
Affirmative. As it kept itself all but invisible to the target, the Infiltrator finally headed him off and waited in its pre-determined position. It then began selecting the weapon most suitable for harmlessly neutralizing its target and had to choose between its hands, which were very delicate despite being capable of smashing through reinforced concrete, a P-113 Enforcer loaded with explosive bullets, and a pen-like dart gun that could shoot tiny centimeter long projectiles laced with neurotoxin. It chose the latter. The dart shooting pen-gun.
“Hey, Willie!” Will’s train of grim and very dark thoughts was derailed as a big guy with an odd looking grin plastered on his face approached him.
“Wha? Do I know you?” Will couldn’t remember if he had any friends who looked like that, with a smile that weird.
“Yeah,” the big man took a pen out of his breast pocket and pointed it at Will. As Will wondered whether this guy was a stranger or some long-lost friend, a tiny barely perceptible projectile flew out of the pen’s tip and struck Will at the neck. There was no pain, but he could feel the impact.
“What th-“ his throat stopped working. Alarmed, Will realized that he’d been caught and that he had only one thing left to do: blow them all to hell. Will reached for his watch, and discovered to his horror that he couldn’t move his arms, or his legs, or any other part of his body. He was even having difficulty in breathing.
As William D. Turner’s vision blacked out, and as he stumbled backwards, two other men in black appeared out of the crowd of dancing teens and aliens. They caught Willie as soon as he lost consciousness. But right before he did, Will heard the big man in black utter two words that he could, despite his state of near half-consciousness, still comprehend: “Target acquired.”
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!
-
Elheru Aran
- Emperor's Hand
- Posts: 13073
- Joined: 2004-03-04 01:15am
- Location: Georgia
-
Shroom Man 777
- FUCKING DICK-STABBER!
- Posts: 21222
- Joined: 2003-05-11 08:39am
- Location: Bleeding breasts and stabbing dicks since 2003
- Contact:
I'll keep em cumming all right
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!
-
Einhander Sn0m4n
- Insane Railgunner
- Posts: 18630
- Joined: 2002-10-01 05:51am
- Location: Louisiana... or Dagobah. You know, where Yoda lives.
-
Shroom Man 777
- FUCKING DICK-STABBER!
- Posts: 21222
- Joined: 2003-05-11 08:39am
- Location: Bleeding breasts and stabbing dicks since 2003
- Contact:
It was kinda meant to be a blatant thinggy.
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!
-
Shroom Man 777
- FUCKING DICK-STABBER!
- Posts: 21222
- Joined: 2003-05-11 08:39am
- Location: Bleeding breasts and stabbing dicks since 2003
- Contact:
Not really a short, but I just wanted to show it to you guys since some of you avid followers of my sci-fi universe (the SOTSverse) have noticed the prevalence of OrGazmo in some of my stories.
Encyclopedia Galactica > Food and Drink > OrGazmo
Symbolizing the sexual promiscuity of the Sovereignty and the League of Free Worlds, OrGazmo is one of the most popular ‘candies’ in the T3 and is regarded by the vast majority of humanity as the best thing ever since sliced bread.
Acclaimed as an integral and irreplaceable component of modern culture by the populace of the USE and LFW, and branded in the Coalition as a shameful vice that is the incarnation of all things wrong with humanity. Ogled at by the Zigonians and Apexai as a perplexing yet entertaining curiosity, and deemed by the Bragulan Star Empire as a degenerate influence wrought about by the disease that is humanity, no matter what part of the galaxy you reside in, you’re bound to have strong opinions on OrGazmo one way or another, regardless of species and sexual orientation.
Classic OrGazmo is a narcotic-like candy in the shape of a cylindrical lollipop. It causes mild and harmless addiction by subtly stimulating the brain’s chemical composition, much like chocolate but more extreme, and by generating an artificial orgasm (hence the name) regardless of the user’s sex. However, its effects are restricted to mammalian species, as discovered via extensive animal testing done by the Coalition’s Committee of Medicine and Disease Management (whose research was funded by several special interest groups concerned with the preservation of the morality and safety of the Coalition’s youth).
Although the ingredients have remained the same for nearly a century, OrGazmo exists in many shapes and sizes other than the classic lollipop. OrGazmo gum exists, as does coin-sized OrGazmo candies that melt in the mouth. There is liquid OrGazmo used to lace drinks, and even OrGazmo powder that can be snorted. One of the most successful variants is one that is very similar to the classic lollipop, but much larger and shaped in the form of a phallus. Hard-On OrGazmo, as it is called, is exclusively meant for females, its chemical makeup optimized for the female biochemistry. However, many males also purchase Hard-On OrGazmo, preferring its form, shape and feel over that of the Classic OrGazmo lollipop.
OrGazmo can come in a variety of flavors and corresponding colors.
Gazmo Biomedicals was the company responsible for the invention of OrGazmo, and is the sole distributor of the product. Its owner and CEO, Eric Wu, is rated as one of the richest men in the Sovereignty. Ever since its orgasmic breakthrough, Gazmo Biomedicals has geared itself to the production and distribution of OrGazmo, ridding itself of its other pharmaceutical products. Recently, Gazmo Biomedicals found another niche to exploit in the form of commercials. Gazmo commercials depict scantily clad women (OrGazmo Girls) advertising OrGazmo while feigning sensual pleasure and performing erotic acts. CEO Eric Wu lovingly calls this form of entertainment ‘pseudo-porn’.
In the Sovereignty and LFW, one can consume OrGazmo at the age of 16 and onwards, while in the Coalition, selling OrGazmo to people below the age of 18 is considered a crime. In the Bragulan Star Empire, the mere possession of OrGazmo will warrant a meeting with agents from Imperial Intelligence or even off-duty Emerald Guard operatives.
Encyclopedia Galactica > Food and Drink > OrGazmo
Symbolizing the sexual promiscuity of the Sovereignty and the League of Free Worlds, OrGazmo is one of the most popular ‘candies’ in the T3 and is regarded by the vast majority of humanity as the best thing ever since sliced bread.
Acclaimed as an integral and irreplaceable component of modern culture by the populace of the USE and LFW, and branded in the Coalition as a shameful vice that is the incarnation of all things wrong with humanity. Ogled at by the Zigonians and Apexai as a perplexing yet entertaining curiosity, and deemed by the Bragulan Star Empire as a degenerate influence wrought about by the disease that is humanity, no matter what part of the galaxy you reside in, you’re bound to have strong opinions on OrGazmo one way or another, regardless of species and sexual orientation.
Classic OrGazmo is a narcotic-like candy in the shape of a cylindrical lollipop. It causes mild and harmless addiction by subtly stimulating the brain’s chemical composition, much like chocolate but more extreme, and by generating an artificial orgasm (hence the name) regardless of the user’s sex. However, its effects are restricted to mammalian species, as discovered via extensive animal testing done by the Coalition’s Committee of Medicine and Disease Management (whose research was funded by several special interest groups concerned with the preservation of the morality and safety of the Coalition’s youth).
Although the ingredients have remained the same for nearly a century, OrGazmo exists in many shapes and sizes other than the classic lollipop. OrGazmo gum exists, as does coin-sized OrGazmo candies that melt in the mouth. There is liquid OrGazmo used to lace drinks, and even OrGazmo powder that can be snorted. One of the most successful variants is one that is very similar to the classic lollipop, but much larger and shaped in the form of a phallus. Hard-On OrGazmo, as it is called, is exclusively meant for females, its chemical makeup optimized for the female biochemistry. However, many males also purchase Hard-On OrGazmo, preferring its form, shape and feel over that of the Classic OrGazmo lollipop.
OrGazmo can come in a variety of flavors and corresponding colors.
Gazmo Biomedicals was the company responsible for the invention of OrGazmo, and is the sole distributor of the product. Its owner and CEO, Eric Wu, is rated as one of the richest men in the Sovereignty. Ever since its orgasmic breakthrough, Gazmo Biomedicals has geared itself to the production and distribution of OrGazmo, ridding itself of its other pharmaceutical products. Recently, Gazmo Biomedicals found another niche to exploit in the form of commercials. Gazmo commercials depict scantily clad women (OrGazmo Girls) advertising OrGazmo while feigning sensual pleasure and performing erotic acts. CEO Eric Wu lovingly calls this form of entertainment ‘pseudo-porn’.
In the Sovereignty and LFW, one can consume OrGazmo at the age of 16 and onwards, while in the Coalition, selling OrGazmo to people below the age of 18 is considered a crime. In the Bragulan Star Empire, the mere possession of OrGazmo will warrant a meeting with agents from Imperial Intelligence or even off-duty Emerald Guard operatives.
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!