Welcome to Gaia! ::

My name is totally Erika and I am here to make communists of your children. *shoots a president*

Also: here's a little something I wrote in my spare time. It took me a while to get right and I'd like your thoughts on it, if you wouldn't mind. Ky has already helped a bit with some nice constructive criticism and even gave me some inspiration. I dedicate this story to her, my beloved and fiery attic wife. heart

Ready? Just don't tell me if it sucks sweatdrop

Once upon a fruitloop, there was a bird named by his dearest father-in-law, who was one of the greatest hayseeds in the buffalo feed industry. The bird, Um No Coldstone, went to the apothecary in search of wondrous carpet, in order to refurnish his pen, which was increasingly smelly and furry with a touch of frosted flakes fresh from the great big box which he kept in his pants, next to the END OF SENTENCE. And also the stool was very present in his pile of Christmas trees. He was determined to get good trousers in which to put new deflated balloon remnants. Um No Coldstone was the sort of bird who needed to be very much like a kind of stereotype which would resemble him to inspire change in the way that he did a special sort of very interesting and most intriguing yet strangely attractive and frankly quite arousing activity that he did so well.
Searching for carpet, Um No Coldstone made his way to the deepest pits of Michigan, in which one very bizarre chemist or pharmacist, one of the two, I'm not sure, danced a dance of such striking pestilence that the wildebeest who gathered were smitten with a most glorious attack of gout brought on by the dancing, duh. When he gazed upon this madness, he could not remember his quest and instead ogled the gray workbenches which were covered in capitalist blood, lovingly smeared there by plants. The foul odor of a deceased rabbit was pervading the noxious wildebeest farts, which trespassed the nostrils in a manner most ungodly. When the bird finally recovered from the sight of these bizarre happenings, he recalled his happy, youthful days as a strapping young woman, when he would do certain things while attired in pants. This brought a tear to his one eye, the other being in safe keeping under the care of a leper who frequently projectile vomited. Inspired by his musings, he finally got to the final round. That being said, his final round was very unimportant. The final round WAS NOT IMPORTANT. His final round does not matter. His final round won't be discussed until his final word is said, at which time no one will remain ignorant of the final round.
"Can I super-size that for you?" said the clerk, clerkishly. Um No Coldstone jerked his head, snapping into reality with a bagel, which was delicious, incidentally, and smothered in nasty green goo bred by the emperor. The clerk asked again if Um No Coldstone would like to be super-sized, but he declined brusquely. By now, the clerk had realized that the wildebeest were yodeling with some Nilla Wafers. This was unacceptable, so he beat them senseless with a jar of expanded metal until they bleated and were within an aquarium. Also, they were within an inch of their respective lives. Some, being clones of each other, shared a life. These lives too were within inches of their respective owners. Some of these lives, being clones of each other, et cetera.
Finally, the lives and wildebeest collided with each other and everything went willy-nilly. Um No Coldstone was splattered with a hint of life and jam. He lay in the carnage, bewildered, and wept on the patched shoulder of the clerk. The clerk shooed him away, and then sucked on his trousers and laughed. It was, in a word, horrible.
A passing gentleman passed on by and waved his gentlemanly flag quite civily, to show gentlemanliness. This went on for several years, leaving everyone rather sick of his flag. Um, so they burned him at the garrote, while simultaneously making carpet for his charred corpse. Um No Coldstone was too busy with these affairs to notice that he had quite a supply of fissionable blasting materials, and he needed to move on. His lusty vine twitched at this thought, and he moaned. A nearby damsel heard his cry, shewing sparkles as she gazed with Mary Sue wonder at the straining of his box-filled trousers. She took pity on the feathered stud and strode towards him, taking the rose of her chastity with her. This she bore in a most sparkly hip holster with vibrating attachment at all times. Her eyelashes fluttered as Um No Coldstone grunted a manly grunt of manliness. Their eyes met and time stood as though it were, perhaps, still. To appease her, he started to unzip his pockets, where he kept you-know-what. "Goodness!" cried the startled, but pleased, damsel, who was waving her tresses and unlacing her stockings with vigor. The clerk saw, and became murderous at the sight of her naked dainty damsel feet. The lovestruck pair heaved and fled the glint of rage, escaping to an abandoned factory. Conveiniantly, there was a monkey in a bin, who showed them the bloody Time Warp. Then, they saw a magical leoplureodon who guided their clumsy lovestruck ways to Candy Mountain. But there was an impediment, which caused them great suffering. This impediment was in the form of an opiate. It thought. It thought lots. And then it realized, there is no god! Our creed is but for ourselves. He went to the nearest Barnes & Noble and purchased for himself a latest edition of The Portable Atheist.
Upset, the damsel, who until this time was very abused by her former wife, rent her clothes! The bird helped most dashingly, leaving only a brassier made of tape to linger on her supple frame. She grasped his deflated vine, and tried to resurrect the sad, limp stump of his manhood. ROYAL RAINBOW! Suddenly daisies poured forth from the seemingly harmless yet decidedly deadly orifice of his engorged loveworm and the damsel gasped with a fleeting breath of pure arousal. She swooned into his forceful embrace, but he dropped her brassier accidentally. Bare-breasted and unconscious, the damsel was thrown into a burlap sack and flown to a carpet factory in Calcutta. Groves of mossy mangoes surrounded the carpet factory, and offered a bountiful landscape in this otherwise barren land of carpet. The factory workers saw Um No Coldstone and his package of womanly damsel, and knew what to do. They sent her down into the basement, where she was forced to iron the rusty thimbles of a war-torn third world country. Um No Coldstone prepared his good supply of fissionable blasting materials, with which he stormed the factory and finally got the goddamned carpet.

Here we must talk of matters concerning the final round. Um No Coldstone's final round was something like a series of hand-gestures made by a drunken hobo on the dawning of a rainy Saturday, with only the bankers to notice. This is what it was like.

The end.

It seems entirely likely that the carpet is fuzzy and is owned by a scurvy knave.

It's also why it has a pink floaty heart in it and is dedicated passionately to Ky. ^.^

Before I post, I totally apologize for hijacking Erika's thread especially if it turns out that I should have posted this in Arcisan's character thread, but OMG, inspiration struck like a bolt out of the blue at 3 in the morning, and it's Erika's fault for not being on MSN messenger so I can tell her all about it. For the inspiration is divine. It literally explains EVERYTHING.

Okay, okay. Here we go. Haven't we all wondered WHY Arcisan is such a rotten bloody p***k of a b*****d? Haven't we all wondered what his precise relationship is to all of Rabid 'Rika's other characters is? Well, if you haven't, you're quite possible not Charlie. He has.

Anyway, it came to me. You see, a certain person murdered another person. Well, according to law, murderers get executed, and quite painfully too. With me so far? Good, good. Well, since it turns out that this person is, despite her best pretenses otherwise, female, that there is a loophole in the law. If a female who has committed murder gets pregnant, she isn't executed. Instead, they tattoo a redmark on her forehead, which must be visible at all times, and the police check regularly on people who resemble known criminals.

So far, so good, right? Oh wait, it gets even better. There is a certain somebody who has TASTES. These tastes aren't exactly wholesome, and he's about to be engaged. Knowing that as a member of high society, it wouldn't do to indulge these tastes, he decides to practice them on a criminal to get it out of his system.

I think you see where this is all headed now, but wait for it... Since the taste-full person won't ever admit to his b*****d offspring, and because the female in question suddenly finds employment practically impossible with both a redmark AND a screaming child, (we can actually make her LIKE it for added guilt trip/torture, can't we?) the child is dumped in an orphanage.

And if, by a one out of a million chance (which crops up nine times out of ten), the father of that child was rendered into a babbling idiot with a metal arm, well, let's just say that a certain female might find it extremely amusing to keep him around as revenge. That's right. Janus is a mommy. Kasume is a daddy. And Arcisan IS literally a rotten bloody p***k of a b*****d. See, I told you it would all make sense! You're welcome.

That's why I apologized first. Inspiration, she is a harsh mistress.

Of course you do. All your boyfriends will fail at making you laugh/ killing your brain like I do and therefore you'll end up being a crazy assasin-obsessed ferret-lady when you grow up. Oh, and Diablo 2 has assasins. They are girls. Since you're 17 now, you might be allowed to play it.