Dangerous Fun In The House Of The Scorpion

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

I like it. Yes sir, I like it. Insightful and humourous.


Now the world will end.

Eh?! Why for this you say! You think dumb savage I?! You right some time maybe! Coffee for me now! Urgh! Urgh!

[SirNitram]

I like it. Yes sir, I like it. Insightful and humourous.


Now the world will end.

Eh?! Why for this you say! You think dumb savage I?! You right some time maybe! Coffee for me now! Urgh! Urgh!

I see you've been in the blend of eleven herbs and spices.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

I like it. Yes sir, I like it. Insightful and humourous.


Now the world will end.

Eh?! Why for this you say! You think dumb savage I?! You right some time maybe! Coffee for me now! Urgh! Urgh!

I see you've been in the blend of eleven herbs and spices.

Nah, just some Exhaustion Brand Tortilla Chips with Verilon's Special Sleep Dep Dip.

[LadyTevar]

Eh?! Why for this you say! You think dumb savage I?! You right some time maybe! Coffee for me now! Urgh! Urgh!

I see you've been in the blend of eleven herbs and spices.

Nah, just some Exhaustion Brand Tortilla Chips with Verilon's Special Sleep Dep Dip.

Ahhh, I know just the ones. I've had a platter of those more than once, myself.

Still good stuff, m'friend.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Okay, everybody run back to Page 8, there's an update on Day Four, which will be done by tonight.

Also, anyone care to pimp this article to their local paper?

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Day Four is now complete. See Page 8. Reviews are encouraged. Spoiler: Day Four is a cliffhanger.

[Kelly Antilles]

*heh* Most human's don't look up. Always a plus when roleplaying.

[Lagmonster]

Day Four is now complete. See Page 8. Reviews are encouraged. Spoiler: Day Four is a cliffhanger.

You're a good writer, obviously. That has been established.

The story is interesting and keeps my attention, but I'll give you the full review, plus criticism, once I've read the very last bit of it.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Intermission: Midnight Run

I am on my feet. To my right, perhaps four yards away, I hear angry shouting. Someone runs past me, over the back wall. The beam of a flashlight catches me in the face. Something hits the wall beside me, and shatters explosively. A shard grazes my arm, another hits my cheek.

"Daniel!" Meredith's voice, high and frightened. "Run!" I turn in time to see her disappear over the wall.

Someone is charging me, a dark hulk against the lighter concrete background. Reflexively, I fall to the side and push him past me into the wall with a wet smack. More shapes are closing in, breathing heavily. I do not wait to see who they are; I am over the wall.

I land on uncertain footing, and nearly lose my balance, but the shapes ahead of me are moving fast, and there's no time for fucking around, because now there are shapes behind.

No one says another word; there is only running, the occasional thrown object -- something catches me on the back of the head, jarring my teeth, breaking my pace. I do not go down; I've taken harder shots before. I go left down a narrow alley, over a fence and into a yard, through a carport and back to the road I've just left. I pause at the corner... silent. Empty.

My adrenaline still coursing through my veins, with every nerve in my body an inferno of electric terror, I instinctively return to Coffee Plantation. The others are already here.

James is nursing a cut on his forehead; Meredith's china-doll face is marred by a hellish black eye. No one knows where Sparky is. The gear is almost certainly being destroyed.

There is nothing we can do. We have no recourse whatsoever. Blinded by flashlights and darkness, none of us has even the slightest chance of identifying our attackers -- and even if we could, we'd be arrested ourselves. We are fair game, and it seems that hunting season is on.

The Fourth Day.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Day Four is now complete. See Page 8. Reviews are encouraged. Spoiler: Day Four is a cliffhanger.

You're a good writer, obviously. That has been established.

The story is interesting and keeps my attention, but I'll give you the full review, plus criticism, once I've read the very last bit of it.

Three more Days to go. Anybody have an average vs. total word count on this?

[LadyTevar]

There is nothing we can do. We have no recourse whatsoever. Blinded by flashlights and darkness, none of us has even the slightest chance of identifying our attackers -- and even if we could, we'd be arrested ourselves. We are fair game, and it seems that hunting season is on.

The Fourth Day.

What the hell?? Did you get shot at or something? You have no clue who it was that attacked? Police? "Concerned Citizens"? Local College Greeks?

(insert much cursing)

At least you're okay.. but anyone that gives a WOMAN a black eye should be shot.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

There is nothing we can do. We have no recourse whatsoever. Blinded by flashlights and darkness, none of us has even the slightest chance of identifying our attackers -- and even if we could, we'd be arrested ourselves. We are fair game, and it seems that hunting season is on.

The Fourth Day.

What the hell?? Did you get shot at or something? You have no clue who it was that attacked? Police? "Concerned Citizens"? Local College Greeks?

(insert much cursing)

At least you're okay.. but anyone that gives a WOMAN a black eye should be shot.

We seriously doubt it was police. We have not ruled out anyone, however.

[Sriad]

Day Four is now complete. See Page 8. Reviews are encouraged. Spoiler: Day Four is a cliffhanger.

You're a good writer, obviously. That has been established.

The story is interesting and keeps my attention, but I'll give you the full review, plus criticism, once I've read the very last bit of it.

Three more Days to go. Anybody have an average vs. total word count on this?

Word count on the "Walking with Ghosts" days 1-4 plus intermission is 8,870 if that's what you were asking for.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Thanks, Sriad; yes, that's what I needed to know.

Based on that, I'm going to suggest to Cap'n Hector that we do these as a subseries on the site instead of one long article. I don't think anyone could go through 10,000+ words in one sitting.

[RedImperator]

Hey, Raoul, do you have any newspapers interested in running this? I could get you the editors and addresses of a few independent Philadelphia papers that might be interested in this sort of thing.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Hey, Raoul, do you have any newspapers interested in running this? I could get you the editors and addresses of a few independent Philadelphia papers that might be interested in this sort of thing.

That would be a seriously cool thing, Red. Nobody in the mainstream press is privy to the WWG series right now, so feel free to pimp my journalistic ass out to whomever you like. Or maybe that didn't sound as cool as I thought it would. But you get the idea.

I could use those names/addies, at the very least.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Day Five: Scorpion Blues

"Hey, man."
I raise my head. Groggy and disoriented, it isn't until I hear the recording of a pigeon dying that I remember I'm seated at a table at Coffee Plant. Grisly, if ironic, reminder of life out here. Someone sets a cup of coffee in front of me.
"Gotta have a minimum purchase if you want to sit here." Isaiah says. He drops a cigarette next to the coffee cup. "If you want cream and sugar, though, you'll have to get it yourself."
"Oh," I note the ache in my back, the matching one raging in my legs. "Yeah. Thanks, man." I notice similar cups in front of James and Sparky. Meredith has apparently wandered off somewhere.
"No problem." he starts away. "Have a good one, guys."

The inner warmth of the coffee is a nice contrast to the chill still in the 7 A.M. air. The eastern horizon is ablaze, but the sun isn't really doing much good yet.

"So." James steeples his fingers. "Who's up for damage control?"
"Damage control being...?" I'm just not up to snuff yet. More coffee is needed, maybe. I take another sip.
"The gear." James says impatiently. The Minimum Purchase Nazi wanders by, glares at us, and wanders off, frustrated by our steaming coffee cups.
"I'll do it." I volunteer. "Just as soon as I finish this coffee and rebuild my knees with sporks and stirry-sticks."

The "pigeon death-howl" recording blares over the P.A. again; it's irritating as hell, and does nothing for the generally foul but contained mood at the table. James looks up at something.

"Excuse me!" he calls, "You can't ride your bike through here, sir!" Facing the window, I can just make out a dark shape on a bicycle. I turn to get a better look; it's a Tempe bike cop. Oh, this should be fun.

There are a few tables between us and the cop; he overshoots, then tries to pull a graceful U-turn... only, because of the intervening tables, it isn't quite as graceful as he probably hoped. He clips one table, then slams -- BANG! -- into another. Sparky guffaws; I try desperately to hold in a belly-laugh, myself.

"What are you talking about!" Officer Friendly huffs.
James takes a long, lazy sip of coffee. "Well," he says, tapping the ash from his Marlboro, "do you see that sign over there?" James is playing The Avuncular Professor now, and I'm chewing on my lip to keep from interrupting his performance.

"What about it?" Officer Friendly glares.
"Well," James takes a drag of his cigarette. "It plainly says, 'NO BICYCLING, SKATEBOARDING, ROLLERBLADING, SOLICITING, ANIMALS PERMITTED ON THESE PREMISES.'"

I turn to look -- sure enough, so it does. In big, scary red letters, no less.

"You did read the sign, didn't you?" James prods Officer Friendly gently.
"Well, yes." Officer Friendly admits primly. "But I have permission."
"Oh! Well, that's truly excellent, and I mean that." James nods, stroking his red beard thoughtfully. He looks up. "So... how do I get permission?"

Officer Friendly senses a trap. He harrumphs officiously. "Well!" he thinks. "Well!" he repeats himself, then thinks some more. "I guess you'd have to talk to the property manager. They'll probably give you a card or something."
"Are you sure there's a card?" James shoots back.
Officer Friendly is caught, now. He can't backpedal in front of these ruffians -- he'd look like a fool. What to do? "Yes!" he declares with conviction.
"Well, then." James smiles like a hungry shark. "Can I see yours?"
"Uh... I don't have one."
"Why not?"
"Uh... I--" Officer Friendly's radio crackles to life. "Unit Two-Seventeen to Dispatch, Code Four."
"Sorry, gotta go!" Officer Friendly says, then proceeds to extricate his bike from a chair.
"Hey, you don't have to go!" I shout after him. "Code Four means 217 is okay!"
"Thanks for your time and expertise!" Sparky yells, then loses it and doubles over.

The coffee is soon done, the cigarettes smoked. Something occurs to me. "I feel like a shower. What about you filthy bastards?" I've just realized it's Friday.
"Oh, shit!" James slams down his empty coffee cup. "You're right! Meth church!"
"Let's go!" Sparky springs out of his chair, and I'm already on the move.

After rounding up Meredith -- who has to be pulled away from her rather animated conversation with a neon-green haired girl inside Coffee Plant -- we're on our way. Meredith reacts to a retelling of James's bicycle cop exploit with a mixture of glee and trepidation. "He really said that to a cop?" she asks me, her eyes wide, her tiny hand over her mouth.
I nod.
"You crazy punk-ass!" she scolds James, slugging him in the arm. Then she loses her grip on her giggles, and they bubble out like whitewater in a fitful river.

The air is already warm by the time we reach the cream-colored flank of the United Methodist Church. The ranks of Lost Boys and Lifers are thin for some reason this morning, the stable of bicycles noticeably diminished compared to Monday's full house. Sparky lingers outside with his cigarette.

Inside, there are perhaps half a dozen people. "I wonder where everybody is?" Meredith asks.
Having only been here once before, I have to wonder why this is strange.
"What you saw Monday was normal." James says distractedly. "It's probably about eight, I'm guessing. By now, this place should be packed to the walls." By their mood, I can tell that something is definitely wrong.

"Hiya, Daniel!" Gretchen greets me cheerfully as she scribbles my name on her list under James's and Meredith's. "Are you hungry?"
Now that I think about it, I am. Gretchen goes around behind the kitchen service window, and heaps rice and beans onto plates for first Meredith, then James, then myself. Sparky meanders inside, a confused frown on his face, and collects the same.

We leave the church refreshed, but ill-at-ease. Only a few stragglers have arrived while we were there -- perhaps half a dozen people, at most, raising the attendance to 14, including us.

We make our way toward Craterville, keeping nervous watch over passing cars. As we make the turn down the final street on our approach, a Tempe P.D. cruiser gives us a slow pass. Its tinted windows are up, coolly reflecting the cloudless sky -- we can't see inside, but we can feel two pairs of eyes appraising us. We are field mice, and the barn cat has just let us know it is in the grass with us.

"I don't want to go in there." Meredith squeaks.
"Don't stop, sweetheart, keep walking." James prods his diminutive girlfriend back into motion gently. "If you stop, they'll stop. Come on. Don't give 'em a chance to talk to us, sweetie, let's go..."
"Come on... sweetie." I chuckle nervously, and poke Sparky in the back.
"Fuck you." he says, but he's moving again.
"Sorry, pal, you're not my type."

We continue, step by jittery step. The odd look over the shoulder now and then reveals no second passes from the cruiser, and now we're at the low concrete wall. James hoists Meredith up, and she drops in running. James is over. Now Sparky. I'm the last one in, and I'm off across the broken field that used to be a front lawn.

I jump the knee-level wall behind which our stuff has been, safe and secure, all week. The first thing I see is Meredith crying. She's holding what clearly used to be a teddy bear. Teddy's head is missing. So is one of his arms. The fuzzy, tan torso is gashed open; a billow of bright white stuffing trails out to a thin wisp that's flipping back and forth in the breeze. His crotch is thickly coated in what looks like hot pink lipstick. A cluster of stomped and dirtied shirts, shorts, socks and panties lies spread beneath us.

Meredith raises her streaming eyes to James, who takes her in his arms, clearly choked up himself. I take this opportunity to discreetly disentangle my foot from a brassiere, toss it aside. Meredith drops the thrashed teddy bear and begins to sob openly.

I don't know what to do here. I don't know what to say. Probably better not to say anything at all -- just collect what's still usable and get out. I check for the sleeping bag. There's no sign of it. I find half my cigarette case embedded in the ground, the hinges snapped. A quick search reveals no sign of the other half. Pointless, anyway -- I doubt it could be fixed, in any event. Disgusted, I toss the half I found aside.

I cast a distracted glance out toward the street, and my balls make a beeline for my stomach. The cruiser is sitting outside the gate, a pair of officers, radios scratching, are climbing the low concrete wall. The barn cat has finally pounced. "Don't look now, kids," I announce wearily, "but we're fucked some more."
"Great." Sparky buries his head in his hands.
There's no point in trying to hide -- they've already seen me. I stand up, hands empty but still at my sides.

"Good morning!" Officer #1 calls out. "Come here for a minute, let's have a chat!" I hike my thumb at my chest. "Yes, you! Step over here, please!"
I make my way slowly and carefully over the wall, smacking my left kneecap pretty good in the process. I barely notice.

"What seems to be the trouble, officer?" I ask on reflex. Too many moving violations, I guess.

"Can I have your name please, sir?" he asks. His name-tag reads "Ramirez". The warrant-check routine. I give him my pertinent information. Then, "We got a report from some people in the neighborhood about a bunch of kids sleeping on this property."

His partner, Officer Dillard, has already moved on to the others; Sparky is nervously reciting his information.

"I can neither confirm nor deny that allegation." I reply with a sheepish grin.

Officer Ramirez returns the grin. "Okay, here's the deal -- this place hasn't had an owner for over five years. That means we can't call the owner and ask if he wants to press charges for trespassing. So, nobody gets arrested... today. Did you hear me?" he calls over to James and Meredith. Meredith nods, wipes at the tear-tracks running from her blackened eye; she winces. James hugs her a little tighter to him, holding a bundle of clothes under his other arm.

"But," Ramirez goes on, "you are trespassed, officially, as of right now. If I catch you back here, or if any police officer catches you back here, you will not pass go -- you will not collect two hundred dollars -- you will go directly to jail. Got it?"
We all nod our agreement.

"Okay." Ramirez nods, satisfied. "Now assuming you all come back clean, I am further instructing you to clean up whatever you can still use, and take it with you."

We do come back clean -- Ramirez and Dillard give us a gigantic black trash bag. I have nothing left here to carry. Neither does Sparky -- he hasn't taken his backpack off in the last twenty-four hours, aside from the shower this morning. The bag is filled with clothes inside of ten minutes.

The track of the sun across the gusting desert sky blurs... the western sky is a line of burning blood beneath a gliding formation of birds when James taps me on the shoulder. I am sitting in the patio section behind Borders, nursing a Valinna Coke. I look up.

"Found our new squat." he says. "It should be pretty warm, but it's probably going to be kind of loud..."

These words haunt me as the freight train roars past, less than two dozen feet from my weary head. The wheels and tracks don't seem to get along just right -- they literally scream. The earth shakes under the passage of the cars. The buffeted air kicks, icelike, down my shirt, around my ankles and up my pants legs.

Finally, I can't think anymore. I can't focus anymore. My eyes seal shut.

And the evening and the morning were the Fifth Day.

[Batman]

*delurks*

This is good stuff. I am eagerly awaiting the next installment.
Keep'em coming.

*relurks*

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Bad review!

I posted a link to the Dangerous Fun web site at TrekBBS (I must've been high, I don't know what I was thinking...) and:

I think your stuff is rubbish. As pastiche, it breaks even. As fiction, it isn't. Go away, get an agent, listen to her advice. Fire her, go into business for yourself, come back.

Indeed. And to which article, in particular, are you referring, you worthless little creep? Name one. Pastiche? I'm shocked. I'm shocked that, with your level of literary appreciation, you are aware that 'pastiche' is a literary term, rather than an item of French cuisine.

You are entitled to your opinion, of course. You are also entitled, dear sir, to smear your body with expired margarine and dance nude among a pack of hungry jackals. Or, if a family reunion simply isn't in your shed-yule, you may find rabid anteaters of similar utility.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

I'm starting to wonder whether or not this series is actually of any worth, kids.

Call it a mild depression.

Is this really as good as I think it is, or am I just deluding myself into thinking that there's a place for this on the literary market?

[Batman]

I'm starting to wonder whether or not this series is actually of any worth, kids.

Call it a mild depression.

Is this really as good as I think it is, or am I just deluding myself into thinking that there's a place for this on the literary market?

Because of one bad 'review' (if we care to count it as such) that makes no points whatsoever?
I can certainly not speak for the entirety of the literary market, but 'I' think it's rather good, and there's a lot of stuff out there that gets published and is far worse (need I really mention KJA?).

For whatever my opinion is worth, I say keep it up.
I unfortunately have no contacts in the industry I could offer, but will it help if I pledge to buy should you manage to get published?

EDITed because I couldn't format my way out of a wet paper bag

[Kelly Antilles]

Come on, RD, you have us hooked! Don't give up now. But, do take a break. I know all about what you're going through. I've been through it countless times before. *huggles*

[Batman]

There, a huggle from Kelly. If that doesn't cheer you up, check your pulse-chances are you're dead.

I like the new avatar, Kelly.

[Korvan]

If your series was published in Playboy, it'd be the first article I'd read. (After a quick peek at the centerfold.)

[Kelly Antilles]

There, a huggle from Kelly. If that doesn't cheer you up, check your pulse-chances are you're dead.

I like the new avatar, Kelly.

Thanks Batman... on both counts.