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Post by SideWaysThinker on Apr 13, 2016 13:17:19 GMT
The world is a large and strange place. After you die, it gets even stranger. Every religion has it's own version of an afterlife, and every person in a religion has their own interpretation of that afterlife. Oddly, they are all correct. If you truly believe in a heaven of the standard sort, with clouds and harps and big beardy god, then thats where your soul goes when you die. Believe in Hell with devils and pitch forks? If you've been a bad person and think you are going there, then there you will go. Souls that get to an afterlife proper don't really worry about the problems of the Living unless some one makes it their problem. But what about the Souls that don't move on? Why, they appear in the Ghostly Bureaucratic Hub and get assigned to one of the Spectral Bureaus. The Spec Bees, the only people from beyond who seem to care about Earth after death. Granted their interest is self interest, but you can't expect miracles here. They're dead, not paragons. This tale will follow a member of S.A.M.L.A.R.B, the Spectral Acquisitions of Material Lands And Resources Bureau, also called the Spookies. Off you go then!
You are Samuel Larbawitz, or Sam Larb as your friends have been annoyingly insisting on calling you since you were seven. The day is finally over. After the last nine or so hours of staring at a filled in Excel spreadsheet while waiting for the Manager On High to pull himself away from his oversized box of doughnuts and ill-advised and poorly hidden affair with the less than attractive receptionist to sound the end of day alert, you are finally free! Free! Free and clear to trudge through the pouring rain to an apartment that PETA would say it would be unethical to house half of a medium sized house-cat in, let alone a human being. Free and clear to see your girlfriend who hates you sitting intently picking her nose on the bed and flicking the resultant gooey discharge onto your pillow. Free and clear to whittle away a few more hours before the grave. You think to yourself, as you have many a time of late, that free and clear are apparently relative terms, and that you're not sure if that makes you feel better, or worse.
You've been walking for some time, in the rain, without an umbrella. Your cheap and ill-fitting suit seems threatening to tear off of you like toilet paper off of a moist turd at any moment. You hide in the bus-shelter and wait. A bus arrives, it's not yours, it leaves. Another bus. Still not yours, it leaves again. You begin to see this as being faintly mocking at this point. You know it's illogical to think that the order of bus arrivals has been contrived to piss you off, but somehow you still feel and urge to act on this bizarre notion. You open your mouth to exclaim to the empty air...and then realise that an elderly...person has moved into the shelter as well. For a moment your horror at the callous nature of the British Public Transportation system is pushed off to the side in favour of confusion at the old person. You've never understood how this HAPPENS to some people. It's as if as they get to a certain age they become gender neutral. Your mind reels as it attempts to decide on if the hunched, wrinkled, dead-eyed, monstrous retiree before you is male or female. You give in eventually. Your verbal reaction to the bus situation is no longer an option, regardless of the state of this person's genitalia. You simply react internally. A little “Damn you god” inside your own head. Your little act of rebellion for the day, even if no one could see or hear it. You feel a bit hollow inside.
Another bus is coming. You lean forward out of the bus shelter. It has your number on it. A sense of excitement rises, along with full awareness that your bus arriving is a very depressing thing to get excited about. Is your life truly that empty that public transport gets the heart racing? It approaches yet still, and hasn't slowed down yet. Must be one of those cowboy bus drivers who thinks it's a good idea to come to a screeching halt in front of the bus-shelter. They clearly keep hoping that if they do it often enough one of the pensioners within the hurtling metal death-trap will eventually have a heart-attack and die, and then he can get fired and have a reason to not work his job anymore. You consider that you may be reading yourself into the bus driver. It's almost here, and it still isn't stopping. It's going to go right past you, and it's the last one. You'll have to walk home for three hours, to your terrible apartment with your hateful girlfriend to recharge before going back to your boring job with the ugly receptionist and the pigheaded manager. You make a decision. Today's act of rebellion was a little lack lustre, you should take it up a notch. You run out into the road and throw yourself head first into the speeding bus. The elderly genderless person doesn't seem to notice. You collide with the bus, and then you're gone.
You wake up. You expect to find yourself in hospital. Instead, you're in what looks for all intents and purposes to be a dentist's waiting room. The walls are beige. The floor is beige. The ceiling is beige. The furniture is beige. It seems like a mad interior decorator with a desperate fixation on making the world as boring as possible tried to make a camouflage room that still had chairs. The only things that don't badly try to blend in with the beige wonderland are a small coffee table covered in magazines and news papers, a large black CRT TV suspended by means unknown in the far left corner of the room, a full length mirror just below that, and a door in the far right corner of the room. The door is very NEARY beige, but is just off enough to be worth noticing.
What will you do?
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Post by SideWaysThinker on Apr 13, 2016 13:18:50 GMT
You glance at the table in front of you, brooding on your failure. You'd intended to die, but instead you've been transported to a room designed by mad scientists to implant the enjoyment of filing your own taxes, doing data entry work, and building model rail-way sets into the minds of anyone unfortunate enough to be trapped within it. Even the magazines are dull. They all appear to be absurdly specific niche magazines, or Sunday editions of newspapers that went out of bring a decade ago. Headlight Waxing monthly. Duck Fondling weekly. The Bi-anual caketin-stravaganza. Each of them of no use in passing the time. You reach out to them, intending on throwing them off into the room in an anarchic pile, a refusal on your part to be content and contained in this beige nightmare!
Squeak.
Your hand brushes against the top of a plastic laminated table. The magazines have been laminated INTO the table. You look down to the floor, a sense of failure rising up from your toes and sticking in your gut.
You take a few deep breaths. Samual Larbawitz isn't going to be defeated that easily! If you could survive five years of mind-numbing monotiny before trying to kill yourself, then damn it you can survive a bit more of this! You cup your hands over your mouth in an effort to increase your voice's volume (despite having known since childhood that this doesn't really work.) You call out, asking if anyone can hear you. As if in response, a beeping comes from an unseen PA system, and a voice as dull and drab as the room you are in speaks in an almost painful monotone.
“We can hear you. Your Spec Oreitnation Representative will be with you in a few moments. In the mean time-” He sighs audibly over the PA. “-please enjoy this song.” He then begins repeating “I'm beige, dabadee daba DEAD” over and over again...and it's clearly not a recording. Now not only is the room boring, it's also grown actively irritating. You must try something else or risk losing your mind entirely.
You get to your feet and move over to the mirror just below the television set. There should be SOME evidence of the game of chicken you played (and apparently won on a technicality) with the bus mere moments ago, surely? You look, and sure enough there you are. You take stock of your state. Arms and legs? All there. Genitals? Still present and mostly unused. Fingers? Every one of them in place. Indeed you look entirely fine, until you look at your face. You're sure you used to have an eyebrow there before...and an eye, come to think of it. And that large shard of glass protruding from your forehead MUST be a new addition. You wandered through your day mostly on auto-pilot but you think you would have noticed this particular passenger boarding along the way.
You're suffering from what is clearly a fatal wound in your (un)educated opinion, and should at the very least be half blind given that one of your eyes appears to be outright gone, but your vision is fine and you don't FEEL dead...or at least you think you don't. No one ever told you what the physical sensation of death would be. That would hardly be a fitting subject for a school assembly. “Yes children, today we're going to talk about how it feels when we die. It's cold, children, so very cold. Your parents lied to you. There is no heaven, only a howling black void in which you fall forever. Or a beige room. Or maybe that. Or maybe nothing, or maybe sweets. I don't know, children, I'm still alive. But I won't be forever. And neither will you. RIGHT that's it for today's assembly children, feel free to take your coupons for one free psychiatric evaluation on your way out!”
Better not think about what your state implies about your current situation. You decide to distract yourself from philosophical musings by fiddling with some out-dated tech. You step back from the mirror and begin pushing buttons and twiddling knobs and more than once performing a bout of percussive maintenance on the TV. It doesn't seem willing to respond to anything you do. You check the back of the machine as best you can and notice that not only is it not plugged into anything...there isn't even a wire coming out of the set. Pondering this, you notice a button you have yet to play with. You press it, and out from an as of yet unseen panel in the side of the machine, falls a VHS tape. Suddenly, with you behind the machine, you hear the telltale 'ping, fwiiiip, fizz' of a CRT starting up, and shortly after that, it speaks in a cheesy American game-show host's voice...with what sounds to be occasional glitches or hiccups in the recording.
“Hell-l-lo? Mr Lar-la-larbawitz? Where a-are you?”
You stand behind the TV...which appears to be talking to you. There is a VHS tape on the floor just in front of you, and the off-beige door stands till unopened at the far side of the room.
What do you do?
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Post by SideWaysThinker on Apr 13, 2016 13:19:22 GMT
The TV voice continues prattling on, confused in it's glitchy and used-car-salesmany way as to where you could be. You don't remember seeing any cameras in the room, but then you also don't remember the shard protruding from your forehead so it would seem you cannot trust your own memory. You blurt something out at the TV. As worrying as this is, you think to yourself, it must just be one of those new fangled adverts you've heard literally nothing about. The ones that can talk to you and know your name and almost exactly where you are and get oddly insistent if they can't see you. Your mind tells you that you're grasping at straws, but you ignore that for the moment. You tell the TV that you're not interested in whatever it's selling and ask it to go away. The TV voice laughs, or rather lets out one laugh which then glitches and loops about five times in an awkward simulation of a laugh before responding.
“Mr Lar-l-larbawitz, please come ou-o-out where I can s-see you. I p-p-p-p-p-p-p-promise you I'm not trying to se-sel-sell you anythin-thi-thing. You'll want to hear thi-this trust m-m-m-m-m-me.”
Apparently it's not an advert...or it's even more insistent than you expected.
You carefully move towards the TV. The voice can't harass you about it's amazing deals if you change the channel! You take careful steps...obscenely careful steps, in fact. There is something almost disgusting in the sheer amount of obsessive care you take with your foot placement as you move forward the few inches to the back of the TV. Staring fixedly down at your feet. Are you being careful or do you have a foot fetish and use care as an excuse? You shake your head. Get a hold of yourself, the vibrations are clearly getting out of hand. You have reached your destination. You raise a hand to the side of the TV and touch where you think buttons should be...and it's completely smooth. You try another spot, again, smooth. In fact, with the exception of the screen itself, the TV is completely smooth surfaced, with no indentations or...outdentations, where buttons could be hid. You give it a good rub just to make sure.
“He-he-hey stop that M-mr Larbawitz. That tick-tick-ti-tickles.”
You stop.
You suddenly remember your fear, and freeze underneath the TV...You can't get rid of the voice...but neither do you want to run out in front of it to try to escape. You need to know what's going on and as worrying as the TV talking to you is, it's the first thing that can provide you with any sort of explanation. In fact that appears to be exactly what it's for. You need answers and you need them now! Or...soon. Whenever, really. You'd prefer them as soon as, however.
You open your mouth to declare a question...but none spring to mind. Above you is the TV with it's chattering, glitching announcer. Behind you, is the mirror. On the ground to your left is a VHS tape, and opposite you, at the far side of the room, is a door.
What do you do?
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Post by SideWaysThinker on Apr 13, 2016 13:20:01 GMT
You stay underneath the television. Your previous mad courage gone. YOU SPOKE TO THE TV. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? ARE YOU MAD?! You take a few deep breaths. It'll be fine. You've experience in dealing with problems. You ignore them. Just sit silently under the television until it goes away. That's how you dealth with your terrible job and hateful girlfriend. Just pretend you can't feel her snot seeping from the pillow, into your hair, into your scalp, and ultimately into your soul. That's served you well in the past. It's hardly as if you killed yoursel...
…
...Well, technically you didn't kill yourself. You TRIED to kill yourself. You're still not sure if that worked or not. If this is Hell, then the Christians were WAAAY off.
You reflect on your life. Ignoring your problems is what made you want to end it. Well, you know what? Enough! You decide to take matters into your own hands. You leap up into the air and chomp down onto the television. The thing can feel and think. LET IT THINK AND FEEL YOUR TEETH IN IT'S PLASTICY FLESH! You leap, bite, and then hang there. You're suspending yourself in mid air with only your teeth, hanging from the side of a terrifying television. You did not think this through enough before electing to follow this course of action. The TV yelps at first, and then responds to your odd predicament in as deadpan a way as possible.
“Mr Lar-lar-larbawitz, please get your teeth out of m-m-m-m-my casing. You're acting like a five year old.” You release, land on your backside on the floor, and apologise vaguely. The TV seems to accept...though you're still refusing to move in front of it.
You pick up the VHS tape at your feet. A brief look at the label confuses you from the get-go. It features a professionally made label featuring a bunch of Asian looking lettering along with a picture of a...oh damn it what do they call it? Those Japanese comic books...Mangos, you think? Yeah, that sounds right. It features a cat drawn in the style of a Mango character smiling while sitting on a lemon. Though you couldn't read the Asian lettering anyway, over it scrawled in black ink are the words “IF FOUND, RETURN TO THE ACCOUNTANCY DEPARTMENT”. You recall this falling out of the side of the TV. You attempt to re-insert it...but the VHS slot seems to have vanished. In the interests of Putzing around with the VHS tape, you delicately balance it on your head. You succeed. The fact that you feel a sense of achievement from this is a reflection on your life and life choices.
You are standing beneath a TV. There is an Accountancy VHS tape balanced on your head. On the far side of the room is a door.
What do you do?
Inventory:
Accountancy VHS tape with "Mango" style Cat picture.
Shard of glass embedded in head. |
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Post by SideWaysThinker on Apr 13, 2016 13:20:36 GMT
You, still overflowing with a mixture of exuberant pride and exestential despair, keep the VHS tape balanced on your head. A surge of undeserved confidence raises within you. You feel your soul screaming at you “COME ON SAM! YOU DON'T HAVE TO TAKE THIS SHIT FROM THE TV. DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.” Yeah! You don't have to take this TV voice's guff. You've got it's VHS tape! You decide to show it who is boss by galavanting prettily in front of it, as if to say “Hoi, look at me, I've got your stuff and you can't get it back!”
You step out and begin your dance of dominance. Granted your movements look a lot more like the rubbery flails of an octopus, but you don't let this hinder you. Your dancing spirit shall not be restrained any longer!
“What ar-a-a-are you doing Mr-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r Larbawit-witz?” The voice from the TV doesn't sound angered, or intimidated, just confused. You explain that you're displaying your dominance over the TV by parading around with it's VHS tape.
“That's not m-mine M-m-mr Larbawitz. It clearly states on the label that it belongs to the accountancy department. This is a waiting r-r-oom, and I'm not an accountan-an-an-an-an-t.”
You take the VHS tape off of your head. The TV man makes a good point, at no time did you get the sense that you were inside of an Accountancy Department of any description. A dentist's office maybe, but not an accountancy department. You gingerly remove the VHS tape from your head and replace it in your Inventory...wherever that is.
You take a deep inhalation, so deep you feel that your lungs might burst. You then exhale, you ask the TV man if you should give the tape back to the accountancy department. The TV man stares at you blankly with his creepy...creepy blue-white eyes. It strikes you this is the first time you've actually SEEN who it was speaking to you .Only seen from the shoulders up, the man's features are a strikingly over the top, almost parody, of what you think people in the eighties thought was manly. A huge chin, massive forehead, shoulders the width of the front of a moderately small truck. His hair is slicked back over his head, yellow rather than blonde, and so flat and perfect that it almost looks plastic...as do his teeth come to mention it. It looks more like a white retainer with tooth shapes drawn onto it than actual teeth. You also note that whenever he glitches in his speech, the entire video glitches, hitching and repeating several times and always coming back to him in a slightly different position and with an annoyed expression. To your question he simply states. “Yes, that m-may be a g-g-goo-go-goo-GOO-GOO-GO-GOOOO-GODO-GOOD-good idea but first, I'll need to take you through your orientation, I'm imagining there are a l-l-l-ot of th-things you are confused about Mr La-larbawitz.”
You internally decide that you will give the Accountant back his Lemony Mango VHS tape if it's the last thing you do! It fills you with determination.
You drift off in the middle of the TV Man's speech and find yourself irritated by something.
Yeah, that glass, it's really starting to grate on you, and not just in the literal and internal sense, but in the figurative sense. Whenever you turn your head too quickly you can feel it skratching at the inside of your skull. It hasn't happened yet but you just know it'll lead to awkward situations. You'll hit people with it when turning around, walk into doors and bang your glass against things, gross out children, get complaints from concerned and nagging mothers. What's more, it's hideous. You've made up your mind, it's got to go! You wrap your hands around it and start pulling...and try to ignore the massive gouges you're slicing into your hands in the attempt. You pull and you pull, but it simply won't give, not even the slightest wiggle of looseness. You reflect. Why did you want it gone in the first place? It's beautiful! A fashion accessory! It really reflects who you truly are! It's perfect, it belongs embedded in your face! What fool notion drove you to try to pull it out. You wipe your bleeding hands onto the beige walls.
The TV Chimes in. “Well...that was some-some-something Mr Lar-larbawitz. No-now now I could explain exactly what's going on-on-o-on but company rules state that I have to get you to ask me some questions fir-first. They say-say-s-say if you can come to the conclusions about your state yoursel-self then it's easier for you to accep-accept it and mo-move on. So, come along Mr Larbaw-witz. What do you think has happen-happened to you, and what do you think this place i-is?”
You are standing in front of a TV which is asking you questions. There is a door at the far side of the room. What do you do?
Inventory:
Accountancy VHS tape with "Mango" style Cat picture.
Shard of glass embedded in head.
Blood (Hands) |
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Post by SideWaysThinker on Apr 13, 2016 13:21:09 GMT
You aren't entirely convinced by the Television Man's claims as of yet. He seems on the level, but you're smarter than that. You've seen those pranking television shows that the kids all seem to like. If you go along with this, you're certain that some idiot in a neon green backwards-facing baseball cap will leap out of an as of yet unseen ficus and scream “PRANKED” or “PUNKED” or “GLOCINSPIEL” or some other word. You won't be made a fool of...but you feel that if you don't go along with this then you'll never get out of this waiting room. You fold your arms, roll your eyes with as much vigour as you can muster, and huff as loudly as physically possible without winding yourself. You make it clear that you'll go along with his game, but you're not going to be caught doing it sincerely by gum!
You begin questioning the man as smugly as possible...though you find your questions without direction. What is the capital of Syra? How far is New York from here? Why does your hair look like that? Has Whoopi Goldberg died yet? How many fingers do you have, if any? What's wrong with your eyes? WHY IS THERE GLASS IN MY FACE?! OH GOD WHERE AM I?!
...You feel you lost your cool there. The man responds simply.
“You're d-d-dead M-m-Mr Larbawitz-z-z. Sorry.”
Dead?...DEAD?!...How can you be dead?! You actually committed suicide...and it worked. You stop and solemly reflect.
THIS IS AWESOME! YOU ACTUALLY WON AT SOMETHING! TAKE THAT EVIL GIRLFRIEND! TAKE THAT PILLOW SNOT! TAKE THAT BORING MANAGER ROB! TAKE THAT...MOM! Woo!
You perform a little happy dance of elation. The TV man seems concerned but doesn't comment.
You eventually calm yourself down feeling a mixture of joy and embarrassment. You quickly catch yourself and remember to be as insincere on the off chance that you may be being pranked. You request the orientation as snarkily as possible, and then quip about wanting some tea and biscuits.
“I can't offer you tea and biscuits, but I can give you the orientation. Please, go through the door at the end of the room.” The TV then shuts off.
The TV is off. The door at the far side of the room swings open. What do you do?
Inventory:
Accountancy VHS tape with "Mango" style Cat picture.
Shard of glass embedded in head.
Blood (Hands)
A sense of smug self-righteousness |
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Post by SideWaysThinker on Apr 13, 2016 13:21:42 GMT
So many contradicting thoughts buzz aimlessly in your mind! You know you have to follow through the door in order to get some explanation as to where you are...aside from your current explanation of you being dead. Granted that does explain quite a lot but it still seems a bit simplistic. You try to focus on one idea, on one thought, but find yourself unable. You can't take it any more. You move to the TV and punch a hole through the screen, not finding any other way to turn it off due to it's entirely smooth outer surface. You then whip out your John Thomas and begin awkwardly moonwalking towards the door, leaving a golden trail over the beige floor as you do, arms raised aloft throwing the horns in some desperate plea to make you seem less like a man who has suddenly gone extremely senile extremely early. You keep moving backwards, arms held high, until you eventually moonwalk yourself out of the door. You spin with a flourish...and see an entire floor of an office building staring at you...and your John Thomas. The shame. Oh god the shame. If you could kill yourself again, you would. You long for the soft embrace of the snot pillow rather than this undying realm of embarrassment and madness that you've been dropped into. All across the office floor men and women sit behind desks, as beige as the room you were just in, staring disinterestedly at you, staring at the freak. Then, with no warning, they all turn back to their work. Oh god, you're not even enough of an attraction to warrant more than a moment's consideration. You were praying they wouldn't look at you any-more, but now that they aren't you just feel worse. You return your John Thomas to your trousers and seek out the nearest television.
You find it and stand in front of it, wondering if the TV man was going to re-appear. Oddly enough, he does, you are almost comforted to see his insincere grin covering another screen.
“Did you r-r-r-really have to break-k-k-k the other televisi-o-o-n Mr Larbawi-i-tz? I'm no-no-not even going to ask about that little display-ay-a-ay just now, the newly dead are prone to such weirdness...Anyway, your Orientation. This is the GBH!” The image on his screen is replaced by a scrolling image of what appears to be an Office Complex suspended in a soup...a soup made of stars and screaming faces. How do you know they are screaming? You can hear it. You lock that image away in your Nightmare chest to torture yourself with the next time you are trying to sleep. Letters appear over the image reading GHOST BUREAUCRATIC HUB.
“The Ghost Bureaucratic Hub, the centre of all after-lifeless activity.” The TV man's grinning mug reappears on the screen. “When we die, we end up here, by and large. When I say We I mean anything with a soul. Man, woman, particularly intelligent dogs have been known to appear, and an endless array of less mentionable things from across the endless multiverses all end up here in the GBH for categorisation and work assignment. As I've told you already, you have died Mr Larbawtiz but death is not the end, in fact death is the beginning of a constant and soul crushing infinite existence which you can never leave regardless of how much you pray for it. Oblivion was a myth told to you by your parents to keep you awake at night Mr Larbawtiz!” He laughs...you are concerned as to why. “After your orientation you will be handed over to one of the GBH workers to see which department you'll end up in, be that Management, Janitorial staff, Administration, Corrections, Human Resources, Accoun-” He doesn't so much glitch...as much as he entirely crashes. The screen dies suddenly after emitting a horrible screeching sound and a terrible image flashes on the screen for a fraction of a second. You didn't see it, but you know it was there. Then the TV man returns talking as if nothing had happened. “- or our Field Operatives in the S.A.M.L.A.R.B division. Do you have any questions so far, Mr Larbawitz?”
The TV man is grinning at you, waiting for a response. You're standing in a huge office complex just as beige as the last room. Endless sad-faced dead men and women sit hard at a deeply depressing form of work, tapping mindlessly at keyboards each of them trying to work around the grotesque remains of the ways in which most of them died. You notice that the majority of them seem to have committed suicide, if the number of slit wrists, throats, and nooses around necks are any indication. What do you do?
Inventory:
Accountancy VHS tape with "Mango" style Cat picture.
Shard of glass embedded in head.
Blood (Hands)
A sense of smug self-righteousness
Nightmare Chest:
An Office Complex in a sea of screaming faces and stars |
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Post by SideWaysThinker on Apr 13, 2016 13:22:22 GMT
You ask the TV man how he died. He's odd looking to be sure, but you don't see anything overtly grotesque or deathy about his appearance. Your guess, before you begin speaking, is an illness of some kind. Though, another idea pops into your mind. You never see him from below the chest, what if he was horribly impaled and hides it? What if he was sliced in two and his legs are wandering around, tap-dancing all over people's paper work and he gets blamed for it despite him not being able to control his wandering limbs? WHAT KIND OF TAP-DANCING FOOL HAVE HIS LEGS BECO- “I was Forgotten, Mr Lar-lar-larbawitz.” You snap back from your internal revelry and listen to his response.
“You s-see, many a fiction-a-al character and creatio-on can and ha-a-a-ve ended up with Soul-l-l-l-l-ls of their ow-own. A mistake on the par-part of the living I'm afrai-i-aid. It only happens when too many people don't acknowledge the cre-a-a-a-ator, but only recognise the ar-art. I was a TV host from the ninteen eighties in England. My whole shti-ick was that I was a compu-computer gen-gen-gen-gen-gen-generated personal-it-y-y when in truth I was a ma-m-man in a lot of make up with a basic gree-gree-green screen effec-ect. I was bi-big once...” He seems to lose his compusre and starts ranting wilding. “--back in the eight-eighties I was bigger than big! Bigger-bigger than Che-ch-cher's implants! Now l-look at me! Cast adrift with all the o-other. Rrrrrrrelics!” You step up and give the TV a does of percussive maintenance. The TV man stutters and jitters...and eventually calms down. “Sor-sorry about tha-that. I g-get a bit emotion-al-al-al sometimes. But ye-yes. I'm a fictional charact-t-er who lost all popularit-ty suddenl-l-ly and so, I die-died, and my soul ended up he-here because I was so popular once, but no one remebered who playe-played me. Oddly, the man who play-played me is still al-al-li-ive. He'll be in for a sh-sh-shock.” He then laughs in his usual pompous stuttering and chipmunky way before glitching back to his standard position.
Now that you know how the TV man died, it's time to once again ASSERT YOUR DOMINANCE. Your mind and hand wander down to the zipper on your fly. John Thomas may be useful here, but you don't want to play your trump card in front of this many people...not again at any rate. You're not sure you could live with the shame, the burning, hateful, and entirely deserved, shame. Instead you decide to go the clever way, the smart way, the way that kings and prophets have used for generations before you. You made fun of his mother. You made fun of her weight, you made lewd references to her sexual history, orientation, and fondness for west highland terriers. You claimed that she was so fat that this, and so fat that that. A torrent of jests and japes and prods and stabs flew from your mouth, the strength of your grandiose wit showing stronger than ever before. Truly this was a once in a life-time opportunity, never again would you eviscerate the character of another man's mother more wholly and completely than you did today!
“Mr Larbawitz, did you for-forget our convers-sation? I'm fic-fic-fictional. I don't have a mo-mother.”
And with those simple words, hope turns to despair, to crushing despair. All that energy, all that potential, all that sheer GALL worked up for nothing! You want nothing more than to weep softly into the mucus laden cheap cotton of your pillow at home, waiting for the soft flemmy embrace of your hateful girlfriend's saliva when she wakes you up for work the next morning by spitting in your eye. Sadly, you have left that life behind, and must accept the consequences. You muster your courage, what little is left. You would muster your dignity but that horse bolted longer ago than you care to remember.
You ask about the Field Operatives. That sounds like something that could be fun. An ectoplasmic super sleuth! Sneaking around graveyards stopping all the...evil...spy...ghosts...When you think it out, it sounds amazingly stupid. Who do ghosts have to spy on? Unless you're trying to steal the best burial sites from rival after-lives. Take that Heaven! The Pet Cemetery is ours! Screw you Hell, we've got the town Graveyard! Okay, you've convinced yourself, you're totally into it!
“Oh, you can't choose your own job Mr La-larbawitz. That way lies madness. No no no, you'll be assigned a job. You were a suicide weren't y-y-you? I imagine it'll be de-de-desk work for y-you, yes siree. A nice, easy, mind-le-less job for you to cruise along in for the rest of eternity.” He sighs, as if wishing for the job himself, though your own mind recoils in terror at the notion. Another office job...but this one can't even be escaped by suicide. How is this not Hell, exactly?
“Well, you seem to be done with your questions Mr La-larbawitz. It's time for me to set you up with one of the Afterlife Employment Associates to find your new position. Her name is Bellintina la Poer, but she pr-prefers to go by L-lady Bl-blaze. It'll be obvious why when you find her. Just go through the cubicles to the very north-end of the hall and you'll find your interview room. Room 3. Enter, and Lady Blaze will be with you shortly. Go-g-g-goodbye Mr. La-la-larbawitz.”
The TV suddenly shuts off. You're standing in a huge office complex just as beige as the last room. Endless sad-faced dead men and women sit hard at a deeply depressing form of work, tapping mindlessly at keyboards each of them trying to work around the grotesque remains of the ways in which most of them died. You notice that the majority of them seem to have committed suicide, if the number of slit wrists, throats, and nooses around necks are any indication. You can see a path through the cubicles to the north...and another one to the south marked with the words “Accountancy , this way” written in what you imagine to be strawberry jam. What do you do?
Inventory:
Accountancy VHS tape with "Mango" style Cat picture.
Shard of glass embedded in head.
Blood (Hands)
A sense of smug self-righteousness
Nightmare Chest:
An Office Complex in a sea of screaming faces and stars
The Concept of Eternity in an Office Job |
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Post by SideWaysThinker on Apr 13, 2016 13:22:55 GMT
You attempt to make the Accountancy Department sign point in the wrong direction, in the fashion of the cartoons you'd occasionally glimpse on TVs in shop windows before your mother dragged you to sit in dead silence while she smoked and got her hair done. You reminisce for a moment. Oh the hope of those younger days, when you could at the very least glimpse at what fun might have been through a window. No, got to stop these thoughts, that's what got you into this situation in the first place! Hopeful mindset! Practical solutions! You reach up to the scrawled message, intending to turn it. Your fingers scrape off of the wall with a just-too-loud “fwoot” sound, one that sends spears of self awareness crashing into your mind. Oh god, they've seen you grab at the wall like a cat with a television set. Them seeing your John Thomas was one thing, but this? BUT THIS?! You begin looking for another bus to leap before, until noticing that no one in the room appears to have looked up at you. Maybe they didn't notice it? Play it cool, Sammy Boy, play it cool. You called yourself Sammy Boy. This makes you feel ill.
This concern about your own image has gone on long enough! These people will only respect defiance! They've got more than enough timid weak men like you!...Uh, like you WERE! They don't need another! You begin marching through the rows of cubicles, an incredibly predictable funk tune begins playing in your head as you walk, legs far apart, arms swinging loosely (with effort), and your crotch thrust forward purposefully to show just how little you care about the MAN and his OPINIONS. Your flailing arms, unrestrained by the oppression of the so called MAN, swing wildly into the desks of the many post-mortem office workers. Papers fly everywhere, computer screens fall needlessly to the ground, keyboards are knocked, chairs are jostled, desks go slightly off to one side, none can withstand your sheer potent display of masculine energy! You decide to keep your flow going. You start physically harassing the workers. Pokes in the eyes, fingers in the neck-holes and wrist-cuts, occasional tweaking of the gaps in their faces where noses once were. Oh yes, you're a real rebel now Samuel Larbawitz, these squares just can't handle you. You can see them, judging you for the rabble-rousing miscreant you are, each one of them dispassionately gazing at you with the glazed eyes and blank, dim-witted expressions that scream “ I'm not hip to your groove daddy-oh. I'm not picking up what you're laying down, not smelling what you're stepping in. I do not understand you and your motives. Please stop this, I have never wronged you and you are making my already miserable existence measurably worse. Why are you such a monster?” Oh god. Oh god, oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god. What have you done! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!
You rush through what remains of the cubicles, cheeks burning with shame, salty tears dribbling from your eyes and flowing directly into your mouth and up your nose. You've turned into THAT man. That one man who thinks he's better than all the people just trying to do their jobs, the guy who misdirects his anger at the system onto the system's other victims. You're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem! You are trapped in a swirling vortex of your own shame and disappointment when you meet the door you were moving towards. You meet it head first, in fact. More accurately, you meet it revolting shard of glass first as you impact the door and bounce right back from it, landing on the floor. You can hear a dull voice singing. You pick yourself up and dust yourself off, and look to your left. Sitting at the desk is a man in his early twenties. He's a touch on the fat side, with a noose hanging from his neck in place of a tie, longish black hair, and a big pair of bushy black mutton-chops. He is staring intently at a screen displaying a video feed of the waiting room you were just in, and he's speaking into a microphone. “I'm beige da-ba-de-da-ba-dead...” He repeats it constantly, over and over again. Does he realise you're not in the room anymore? He looks up at you, makes eye contact. To your horror you realise that he does know you've left the room. The man simply doesn't care.
You turn away from that scene, and open the door marked “B. La Poer” The moment you step into the room, you worry you may have accidentally opened the wrong door and stepped into the sauna. The entire room is full of a thick smoke, and an unbearable heat. In the dimness of the smokey room you turn your eyes this way and that, attempting to find the source of one or both. To your dismay, you find it. Sitting behind a steel desk is a fire. Inside of that fire, is a screaming woman, her flesh burning and melting, only to regrow as it burns away to create a hideous waterfall of constantly sloughing flesh. Her eyes do much the same, boiling and bursting and regrowing in the sockets, over and over again. It's a nightmare, a true nightmare, something that will haunt you for the rest of your days. And then it speaks.
“Hello Mister Larbawitz. OH GOD NO! Do you mind if I call you Samuel? PLEASE CHRIST JUST LET IT END! I'm Lady Blaze, and I'll be conducting your employment interview today. WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS! OH PLEASE GOD LET ME DIE FOREVER! Please, have a seat. IT HURTS! IT HURTS! Do you have any questions before we get started?” She points to a misshapen lump of plastic and metal on your side of the desk that may have at one point been a chair before the constant scorching heat from the room's occupant turned it into slag. You sit down on it as best you can, though it chafes in a most uncomfortable place.
You're in an interview room. Before you sits a horrifying monstrosity of burning meat. It wants to know if you have questions. You're having trouble seeing, thinking, and living in this room. What do you do?
Inventory:
Accountancy VHS tape with "Mango" style Cat picture.
Shard of glass embedded in head.
Blood (Hands)
A sense of smug self-righteousness
Nightmare Chest:
An Office Complex in a sea of screaming faces and stars
The Concept of Eternity in an Office Job
Being Called Sammy Boy
Lady Blaze's Bloody Horrible Appearance
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Post by SideWaysThinker on Apr 13, 2016 13:23:21 GMT
This woman...you don't know how to put it, but she is SMOKING. No literally, she is smoking. She is a screaming human bonfire but DAMN SHE IS HOT! Literally, she's on fire. There is no more a literal description of some one suffering from intense heat than them being literally on fire, but christ she is FINE. Well, demonstrably not. You're getting at the notion that you think she is attractive, and this thought worries you. She is a screaming, burning, French, cadaver, and you think she is attractive. More attractive than your girlfriend anyway. She hasn't rubbed snot on your pillow yet. “Yet”, being the operative word, but so long as she is suffering in burning torment you don't think the thought will cross her mind. You're not even sure if you own a pillow anymore. You don't know if ownership continues through death, though the existence of A Last Will & Testament implies it doesn't. The thought of your hateful girlfriend inheriting what little you own fills you with impotent rage. As revenge, and as a method of climbing up the corporate ladder, you decide to TEST YOUR METTLE.
You prepare yourself mentally. You fix your gaze upon the burning pile of meat and aristocracy that is Lady Blaze. You wiggle your toes and your eyebrows and do that squinty thing with your eyes, your best effort at a 'come hither' stare. It doesn't appear to be working, she seems more confused and in pain than seduced. You pull out the big guns. You stand to your feet and lean backwards roughly ninety degrees. You try to ignore the searing pain in your back as you do this. You wiggle your pelvis suggestively in her direction, and you begin to feel it. Yes, it. Confidence. You da man, Sammy Boy, you da man.
“Mr Larbawitz -PLEASE GOD MAKE IT STOP- are you okay? -MY FINGERS ARE NOTHING BUT ROTTING BURNT STUMPS- You seem to be having some kind of -MY EYES ARE RUPTURING AGAIN SOME ONE HELP ME- fit?”
And there it is. Confidence gone, and all you are left with is back problems and regret. You give one last furtive wiggle in her direction, and then sit back into your seat, dejected and alone. You used to be DA MAN Sammy Boy! How could you have let your moves rust in a shed for so long? No...it must be a cultural thing. She's from several hundred years ago...and she's FRENCH. She just doesn't understand how women are supposed to react to your masculine wigglings. It's her fault, not yours, clearly. You try to convince yourself of this, and many other, pathetic attempts to save your own ego. Now, like then, it doesn't work, and you realise you're mouthing out your words and mumbling gibberish. You look insane. You probably are insane. Maybe you should just kill yours-...You already did that and it didn't work. Both life and death are cruel mistresses...Wait did you call yourself Sammy Boy again earlier? Oh dear god, you think you're going to throw up. Perhaps the vomit would help douse the flames consuming Lady Blaze? Maybe she would be happy? No...if she could be put out some one would have by now, wouldn't they? Or maybe this place is just very inhuma-
You are shaken from your self-hatred spiral by another round of pleasant conversation, and screaming.
“Mr Larbawitz -SOME ONE GET WATER OH GOD- since my request for questions seems to have -WHY WON'T THIS TORMENT END- confused you, perhaps I should be more blunt. Where -IS THERE NO GOD IS THIS HELL GAH- do YOU feel you'd be best placed to work with us here at the GBH?”
You're in an interview room. Before you sits a horrifying monstrosity of burning meat. It wants to know where you would like to work. You're having trouble seeing, thinking, living, and loving, in this room. What do you do?
Inventory:
Accountancy VHS tape with "Mango" style Cat picture.
Shard of glass embedded in head.
Blood (Hands)
A sense of smug self-righteousness
Nightmare Chest:
An Office Complex in a sea of screaming faces and stars
The Concept of Eternity in an Office Job
Being Called Sammy Boy
Lady Blaze's Bloody Horrible Appearance
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Post by typeandkey on Apr 13, 2016 17:30:22 GMT
>Spin a fantastical yarn about yourself. Over-exaggerate and oversell EVERYTHING. There is no job too great, nothing you can't handle. You are a man of skill and action. In some circles you are known as Action Sam. You're just that good.
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Post by redisokay2803 on Apr 15, 2016 3:54:38 GMT
>Hand the 'Mango' tape over wordlessly. You are certain that will tell her everything she needs to know.
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Post by SideWaysThinker on Apr 18, 2016 17:22:49 GMT
>Spin a fantastical yarn about yourself. Over-exaggerate and oversell EVERYTHING. There is no job too great, nothing you can't handle. You are a man of skill and action. In some circles you are known as Action Sam. You're just that good.
“Son” spake he “Son, there are times in your life when a man is asked to account for himself. It could be to get a job, or to stay out of prison, or to trick a woman into his bed. These times may come for many reasons, but these times will come, and son,” spake he”son, I have but one piece of advice for you.” You remember how you rolled around on the floor, barely paying attention, but your father didn't seem to care. He was drunk and he wasn't even looking at you. The alcohol was cheap and largely industrial rather than edible. He mistook a ficus for his own son. “Lie, son. Lie your weasly black guts out. No man in our family has ever amounted to anything, Son. The Larbowtiz's aren't even walking jokes. We're walking nothings. So when you are asked to account for yourself, lie and make them think you're worth SOMETHING. Lie son, please lie.” He then wept into the ficus, stroking it gently and singing lullabies.
The memory disturbed you more than you are willing to admit, but the message was clear. You are going to lie Sammy boy, and lie good! You puff up your chest, stick out your pinkies, and spin a yarn so wild and free that the woman has to either believe you or declare you clinically insane. You tell a tale of adventure, of romance, of OFFICE romance (eyebrow wiggle and pelvic thrusting included, you've not given up on seducing this flaming hot bitty just yet). You speak of the monsters you have slain! Demons in the east! Terrors of the west! Krakens of the deep! Dragons in the north! You tell of how you saved children from burning orphanages, and orphanages from burning children! How you romanced it up with your hateful girlfriend before slaying her in the name of RIGHTEOUS FURY! YOU. ARE. ACTION. SAM! AND NOTHING WILL STAND IN YOUR WAY! YOU HAVE TESTED YOUR METTLE TIME AND TIME AGAIN, AND COME BACK VICTORIOUS! YOU ARE A GOD! YOU ARE A GOD DAMNED LORD OF ALL THI-
“None of this is in your background check Mr. Lawbawitz.”
Oh. Yep. There it is. Here it comes. You can taste the vomit at the back of your throat. Bile rising in shame. Your own stomach acids are too horrified of the ass of yourself you just made and want to vacate. They want to distance themselves from what you just did. You don't blame them, you want to distance yourself from what you just did as well. The sheer enormity of the fool you just made of yourself hits you in the back of the head like a sledge hammer. Not once, not twice, but thrice! You're amazed the piece of glass stayed embedded. You want nothing more than to crawl in a hole and hide for the rest of time. Well, you want one thing more. You want to kill yours-GOD DAMN IT! ...Did you call yourself Sammy Boy again? >Hand the 'Mango' tape over wordlessly. You are certain that will tell her everything she needs to know.
You are panicking. Lady Blaze is looking from the Mango Cat tape on the desk, to you, expectantly. What do you do?
Inventory:
Shard of glass embedded in head.
Blood (Hands)
A sense of smug self-righteousness
Nightmare Chest:
An Office Complex in a sea of screaming faces and stars
The Concept of Eternity in an Office Job
Being Called Sammy Boy
Lady Blaze's Bloody Horrible Appearance
Small Fruit
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Post by typeandkey on Apr 18, 2016 22:12:57 GMT
>PANIC! Start baffing her about the head with the tape while continuing to insist you are Action Sam all the while weeping at your own incompetence.
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Post by Ender on Apr 19, 2016 3:00:35 GMT
>Oh god it's over, it's all over Sammy Boy, just give up, ask her what can you even do at this point as you consider the years of possibly literal soul crushing work.
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Post by redisokay2803 on Apr 19, 2016 13:43:10 GMT
> Just play it cool. Fight fire with coolness. Give her your best poker face and stand resolute. This will show her that you mean business.
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Post by SideWaysThinker on Apr 26, 2016 19:47:11 GMT
> Just play it cool. Fight fire with coolness. Give her your best poker face and stand resolute. This will show her that you mean business.
Calm. Be calm. Don't let your emotions run away with you, you can control this situation. You can't let this woman's HIDEOUS JUDGING FACE or COLD EMOTIONLESS HEART drive you away from your goal. This has happened entirely too many times in your life. She is on fire, so you will be ice. Get your game face on, Sammy Boy. You shift your face unnaturally, drawing your lips into a long flat line, squinting your eyes, puffing out your chest, and then you stare at her. You mean buissness, and she knows it. Before she can even respond, you reflect on what you've done to make it clear that you mean buissness. Long thin mouth, narrowed eyes, puffed out chest. You look like a mutilated duck.
Oh god. The shame. The shame. The shame. The shame. The sha->Oh god it's over, it's all over Sammy Boy, just give up, ask her what can you even do at this point as you consider the years of possibly literal soul crushing work. >PANIC! Start baffing her about the head with the tape while continuing to insist you are Action Sam all the while weeping at your own incompetence.
You are Lady Blaze. Your most recent applicant is currently having an obvious mental break down and is trying to hit you over the head while saying something about Action Man. Also, you are in great pain and always will be. What do you do? |
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Post by typeandkey on Apr 26, 2016 19:50:12 GMT
>Lady Blaze: Fail to react strongly in any sense. This happens about every applicant. There are contingencies for this. Press The Button.
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Post by Neptz on Apr 26, 2016 20:13:44 GMT
>Lady Blaze: Fail to react strongly in any sense. This happens about every applicant. There are contingencies for this. Press The Button. >Seconding this course of action. |
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Post by Ender on Apr 26, 2016 20:26:22 GMT
>Lady Blaze: Fail to react strongly in any sense. This happens about every applicant. There are contingencies for this. Press The Button. > Tripled (Or thirded, whatever the trm is for this) The Button is the only answer here. |
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Post by Goop on May 2, 2016 1:08:43 GMT
>Lady Blaze: Put him in a headlock,let him feel your eternal pain...even if only briefly
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Post by Mr Brightside on May 2, 2016 20:46:50 GMT
>Sam: Try to calm down and stop only to fail miserably and and curl into a ball muttering about Action Sam
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Post by SideWaysThinker on May 3, 2016 21:23:02 GMT
>Sam: Try to calm down and stop only to fail miserably and and curl into a ball muttering about Action Sam
The man is curling into a ball now, weeping softly. Still talking about Action Man. It's a bit beyond your time, but you've been led to understand that Action man was a kind of children's toy from the twenty first century in England. You don't see what bearing this has on the situation. This man is clearly deranged or just...deeply deeply sad. The man shuffles his weeping carcass into the far corner.
>Lady Blaze: Put him in a headlock,let him feel your eternal pain...even if only briefly >Lady Blaze: Fail to react strongly in any sense. This happens about every applicant. There are contingencies for this. Press The Button. >Lady Blaze: Fail to react strongly in any sense. This happens about every applicant. There are contingencies for this. Press The Button. >Seconding this course of action. >Lady Blaze: Fail to react strongly in any sense. This happens about every applicant. There are contingencies for this. Press The Button. > Tripled (Or thirded, whatever the trm is for this) The Button is the only answer here.
The door bursts open, and a horse wanders in, screaming obscenities. Stitched to the top of a horse is a cowboy who won't stop gibbering about Pilgrims. The horse bites your client's arse and drags him out of the room, now muffling obscenities. He leaves crying. Once they're gone, the music stops. You take your party hat from your head and put it, and the noise-maker, back in the box. You're alone with your pain again. You burst into steaming tears.
You are Samuel Larbawitz.
You are Action Sam. You are Action Sam. You are Action Sam. You are Action Sam. You are Action Sam. You are being dragged by the arse, by a horse, back through the cubicles you walked through before. Ohgodohgodohgodohgo- …Did you call yourself Sammy boy a few updates ago?
You are Samuel Larbawitz. You are weeping, screaming about Action Sam, and being dragged through an office complex with your lower cheeks in the mouth of a horse. What do you do?
Inventory:
Shard of glass embedded in head.
Blood (Hands)
A sense of smug self-righteousness
Mango Cat Tape
Nightmare Chest:
An Office Complex in a sea of screaming faces and stars
The Concept of Eternity in an Office Job
Being Called Sammy Boy
Lady Blaze's Bloody Horrible Appearance
Small Fruit
Everything about your current situation
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