Was Priceless
Was Priceless is the name of a story that Petro the first Papa of the Ridleybank Resistance Front wrote in August 2005. The story has been copied and pasted from this thread so that it will be saved for all of time.
Impact
The story made a tremendous impact in the game, setting the tone for zombie roleplaying for years afterwards, and led directly to the creation of the Ridleybank Resistance Front, which reigned supreme as the classiest and most influential horde the game had seen until its decline in late 2007/early 2008.
Author's commentary
This is something of a trip down memory lane, the stories that led directly to the creation of the RRF. Most of the events in these stories actually occurred during game play in some form or fashion, and the police department in the first story is indeed the Moggridge Place Police Department, which was later the site of the first gathering of what was to become the Ridleybank Resistance Front. Gather 'round, my children, and read of the time shortly after the implementation of 10 AP to stand, when barricades were still new and most buildings weren't barely barricaded at all, when The Many smashed safehouse after safehouse, and survivors feared to roam the streets. It was a time when the game was young, and we were innocent.
The Story
Part 1
The recent changes in the town's architecture had been most fascinating. Unfortunately, Petrosjko was having a devil of a time finding someone who found the juxtaposition of Victorian architecture with Post-Apocalyptic to be as compelling a topic as he did.
It was a sad fact of life that many of his fellow zombies seemed to be possessed of very simplistic interests in life. He tried time and again to strike up conversations on architecture, literature, philosophy, or even current events, but the most common response was brief expositions on the tastiness of human brains.
Now, he was as fond of brains as any proper zombie, and considered himself something of a connoisseur in that area. But incessantly rambling on about this brain or that brain reminded him unpleasantly of the sort of fellow who never progressed past middle school in mentality and constantly obsessed with the purely physical aspects of the fairer sex.
At least he didn't to deal with that anymore. He sighed and shuffled down the street, hoping against hope that perhaps the next zombie he met would be capable of carrying off his part of a conversation.
Aha! There was a promising candidate, shuffling to the north as fast as his legs would carry him. The other zombie moved with an admirable purpose, if not with a great deal of efficiency. But then, Petrosjko himself had once been a fresh young zombie, slow and ill-coordinated. Youth in and of itself deserved no stigma, so long as the young directed their energies to mostly fruitful ends. He fell in step with the other zombie.
"Graagh," he said.
Good day, friend. I was wondering if I could interest you in a bit of conversation on the recent changes in architecture in this fine community?
"Brnhr!" replied the other zombie.
No thank you. Architecture sucks, and I'm in a hurry. I have an appointment with a recruiter for the Many.
"Mrh?" Petrosjko asked.
The Many? Quite impressive. I understand their recruiting standards are very high indeed. Quite a coup for one so young as yourself to be accepted.
"Graaaaaaaaaaagh!" the other zombie snarled rudely as they moved down the sidewalk, passing in front of a police station.
Go away! You're slowing me down! The faster I get there, the faster I get sweet, sweet brains!
Petrosjko came to a dead stop, placing his hands on his hips indignantly. "Brrngh!" he fired back, voice dripping with sarcasm.
And a good day to you too, sir!
The nerve. The gall. He hoped some human put an axe through that impudent youth's forehead. That would show him!
He looked at the police station, heavily barricaded like all of the other buildings in the area. Now this was precisely what he had been thinking on earlier. The plywood over the windows, torn-off doors with a bookcase jammed in their place, the blend was simply exquisite. It made him proud of his hometown, to be possessed of such cutting edge building styles, surely the envy of the entire world by now.
He wondered if any humans would care to discuss the matter with him. True, there was a 'war' on and all, but that didn't mean that humans and zombies couldn't interact. Why, many was the time he had observed humans leaving buildings and approaching his peers, groveling and speaking on the contents of those buildings. It gave him hope that eventually all of humanity could learn its rightful place under the zombie claw, and once more they could live in harmony.
As if in answer to his unvoiced thoughts, a trio of humans leapt from behind the barricades, weapons in hand.
It always took one with courage to begin the dialogue, he reminded himself, as he faced up against the trio and loudly announced himself. "Mrgh! Graaa..."
Good day to you all, I come in peace. Would any of you happen to be interested in a discussion on the merits of...
It was then that the shotgun-wielding human shot him, blasting his arm away. He paused, uncertain as to whether this was a kindly effort by the humans to emulate the official zombie Bite of Greeting. If so, it was a flawed, yet commendable attempt.
That question was put to rest when the next human proceeded to empty a pistol in his general direction. While most of the shots missed, the pair that hit smarted something fierce. The human then casually tossed the empty pistol away, drew another one and repeated the procedure. Somewhere around the fourth shot the human's accuracy improved markedly, by approximately fifteen percent, Petrosjko calculated. The final human stepped up and swung a fire axe with all his might, burying it in the rather messy place on Petrosjko's torso where the bullets had impacted.
He sagged to the ground, feeling quite wearied by the whole process. What sort of world did they live in, where people simply shot first and asked questions later? An intense melancholia settled upon his soul.
The axe-wielding human laughed out loud. "H4H!" he said. "STFU N00B!" He delivered a vicious kick to Petrosjko's groin region.
That was entirely unnecessary, Petrosjko thought.
The axe-wielder delivered another kick. "¥0µ |-|4\/3 ß33|\| ß33|\| P\/\/|\|3Ð"
And humans say I have articulation problems, Petrosjko lamented mentally.
They left him there, battered and defeated on the steps of the police station. Inwardly, he seethed at the indignity of it all. He resolved that when he was feeling better, he would get up, tear those barricades down, and by god he would give them a piece of his mind. This was not proper courtesy to guests, by any stretch of the imagination.
The burning rage seethed within his soul. But did he even have a soul? The question diverted him from his anger as his mind mulled over the metaphysical implications of his current state. That he retained his sentience and even rudimentary memories of his previous existance would seem to argue in that direction.
The sun set as his tattered fingers dragged his arm back to his side, carefully aligning the stumps and beginning the reattachment process.
Good fingers, he commended his digits. Soon enough, he would leap to his feet and deliver his lesson. In the meantime, he occupied himself by staring at the stars. With no power in the city, the lights of the stars were brighter than he ever remembered. Why hadn't he taken notice of this phenomenon before? Always busy, always shuffling about, never stopping to appreciate the finer things in life.
He remembered that the stars formed into constellations with names, but for the unlife of him, he couldn't remember any. He decided to make up his own, designating one cluster of stars Sandcastle on the Beach, another Happy Puppy Dog and yet another Gaping Stomach Wound.
(That the constellations bore little resemblance to his chosen names bothered him no more than it bothered the Native Americans who had declared a distorted trapezoid to be a bear so many centuries before. And Gaping Stomach Wound was something of a mishmash that, when viewed properly, be said to bear some resemblance to its designation.)
He could feel his strength returning. It wouldn't be long now, and it couldn't come quickly enough, for his nose was itching something fierce. He would dearly love to scratch it, but it was a peculiarity of his nature that he could not move when incapacitated so, other than to stand up. It was a puzzling affair, one that he could discern no good cause for. None of his peers had been able to offer any suitable insight on the matter, either.
Doubt then began to nag at him- perhaps vengeance was not the course after all. Was it not incumbent upon him, as a rational being, to put a stop to this endless cycle of violence? He thought of the words of such luminaries as Ghandi, King, Jesus Christ, and Roy Rogers. Should he turn the other cheek? Had he truly never met a man he didn't like?
Perhaps he could retire to the country, get himself a nice bit of land, and a pond. Yes, a pond would be nice. He could keep ducks. He liked ducks very much. They were so graceful, swimming about, diving under the water and coming back up. And the screeching squawks they made when he rended their flesh with his talons was guaranteed to sooth him during even his most stressed and agitated moments. Furthermore, the explosion of bloody feathers that came from such actions reminded him blissfully of his all-too-vague memories of childhood pillow fights. Had the feathers been bloody then, too?
But then his mind's eye flashed to that callow youth kicking his withered genitals. While he had no particular use for the organs on that region of his body anymore, he full well understood the sentiment behind the assault.
No, he would have to do something about this.
It was time. He lurched to his feet, invigorated and ready to go. But first, a more pressing matter. He lifted his newly reattached arm and carefully, carefully scratched his nose.
How does a zombie with ten millimeter talons scratch his nose? Very carefully, he thought, immediately breaking out in a peal of burbling laughter at his own wit. And how does he wipe his... no, we won't go there.
He felt a pang of shame at his momentary diversion into scatological humor, but pushed that aside for the job at hand. Turning on the barricades, he began smashing at it. In his younger, more foolhardy days he had attempted to bite such fortifications, but to his dismay had learned that he had no more accuracy in such affairs as when he tried to bite moving, wiggling humans. Another mystery of unlife.
The police station was well-fortified, and it took a great deal of time and energy to break through. When he finally staggered through the entrance, he was exhausted.
Some thirty-odd humans stared at him, men, women, and children, with expressions ranging from horror to anger to confusion. He paused, daunted.
Humans most likely did not understand just how intimidating they were, all grouped up and driven by their relentless bloodlust and mindless thirst for violence.
He assured himself that it was not fear that caused him to reconsider his previous violent intentions. No, it was the voice of reason that came upon him, pressing him to try once more to establish the dialogue.
"Mrh?" he said.
Terribly sorry about the barricade, but I really wish to speak with you all on some pressing matters regarding courtesy and dignity, and perhaps even architecture, if you don't mind.
"Bloody hell!" the man on the far left announced. "It's a fucking zombie!"
Petrosjko saw red.
(Figuratively speaking, of course. Actually seeing red was a product of the fight or flight response pumping additional blood to the head and the precious, precious brain. It required a functional heart and autonomous nerve system, both of which he lacked.)
It was unseemly, MOST unseemly to use such language in front of ladies and children. Without a further thought, he leapt forward, lashing out with his talons and nicking the man.
It was an odd peculiarity of human behavior that they invariably assembled based on some form of odd seniority. He knew immediately that the human on the left was the most senior of the lot, though confusingly enough it didn't always directly correspond with competence and skills, making them rather unlike other pack animals.
(That zombies arranged themselves in an identical fashion must speak to their human descent, obviously.)
He decided to remonstrate the entire group, moving quickly to the next one in line and lashing out with his talons. Down the line he went, one strike for each. But at this rate, he'd never reach the one who had maliciously assaulted him outside. There, there at the very end of the line, was the one who had delivered the fateful kicks. He charged after the man.
"BRAGH!" he shouted.
Have at thee, insolent knave! I have come to teach you a lesson in manners!
The man screamed in a high-pitched voice and ran for the nearest window and hurled himself out to the pavement, landing with a meaty, fatal-sounding splotch sound.
Impressive, considering they were still on the ground floor. Irritating, because it was evident that some people would do anything rather than face up to the consequences of their actions.
In any event, the rest were rallying themselves, gathering weapons and generally roiling about like a disturbed anthill. Realizing that there could be no peaceable discourse here...
(A fact for which, he had to admit, he was shamefully culpable.)
...he quickly departed through the door. A hail of gunfire followed him out, thankfully missing. Mostly. He had not even reached the street before they began scrambling forward to repair the damaged fortifications, while he quickly darted across the street and fumbled open the door of the abandoned nightclub.
That had gone... poorly.
But in its way, he had a feeling he would savor this particular encounter. For when he had burst through the entryway and into the building, to see all the assembled humans, that had been a moment.
The look on their faces...
Part 2
He fumbled at the pages of the book. He couldn't read the words, but it had fascinating pictures in it, with dogs, cats, and horses.
He liked animals, though they didn't seem to like him. Cats tended to hiss at him when he offered to pet them, and a dog had bitten him once. It highlighted the singular tragedy of his existance- the utter lack of companionship.
He often wondered if it would be easier to be like his more simple-minded kin. They seemed content enough to go about chewing on things.
But it was his firm policy that it was always better to know, than to live in ignorant simplicity.
Petrosjko arose for the day. First, some calisthenics, spurred on by his dimly remembered military training. Arms out front, arms to the side. Bend over, touch toes. Stretch legs, then jumping jacks. He longed to do pushups, but his arms simply lacked the flexibility.
All the same, he worked up a good bit of ooze, something like a sweat, and felt refreshed and invigorated.
Time to go out and face the world! He exited the nightclub and stepped out into the crisp morning air. Birds chattered cheerfully, bouncing from perch to perch. The sun stretched down with warm, friendly fingers to caress his face.
He noted that the doors to the police department had been torn open once more. Dead bodies littered the area, and a crowd of his fellow undead milled around aimlessly. They seemed to be a small horde, one of innumerable groups that traveled the city together in a mutual quest for fine dining experiences.
He observed them shuffling about, grouped as always in that same line of seniority.
Should he take the plunge? He had been burned so many times in the past, most recently the day before, and he had grown somewhat soured on the prospect of companionship. But it still burned within him, the need for others to share his delight in worldy things with.
He decided to go for it. He was, after all, an eternal optimist at heart. Boldly he stepped forward, seizing the social initiative as it were, and gave the lead zombie a friendly Bite of Greeting.
To his dismay, the lead zombie promptly turned and bit the next one in line.
Why did it always work out like this?
The group promptly fell upon themselves in an orgy of friendly mutual destruction, claws and fangs flashing as they shredded each other's flesh, disregarding him completely.
Oh, how he longed to join in the chaos. Perhaps he should just dive in. But his shyness overwhelmed him and he retreated across the street, watching with envy as they tore each other to shreds.
It seemed he was doomed to always be on the outside looking in.
Part 3
"Ah c'mon guys, let me IN!"
The man stood outside the heavily barricaded building, plaintively calling out to those inside. Petrosjko ambled his way.
"Oh shit, there's a zombie out here!" The man said, his voice growing hysterical as he began to sob. The axe slid from his hand as he shuddered uncontrollably.
Petrosjko leaned over and sniffed him. The fear-stink was strong on this one, an intoxicating aroma.
"OH GOD HE'S SMELLING ME! HELP!"
"Mrh?"
Would you like to be my friend?
"Pleasedon'tkillmepleasedon'tkillmepleasedon'tkillme." the man babbled.
"Graagh."
I would really like to have someone around who could read to me from the books I'm always finding.
Petrosjko fumbled around in his shredding clothing, finally pulling out the book.
"Maraugh."
I don't know what it's about, but it has lovely pictures of animals. Do you like animals?
Suddenly the human found a burst of energy and grabbed his axe, chopping off Petrosjko's hand, book and all. He stared at the stump, a perplexed expression on his face.
Why did humans always have to resort to violence?
"NRGHAH!" he bellowed suddenly.
What is wrong with you people! And you call us savages? Has a zombie ever started a world war? HUH?
The human backpedaled suddenly, the distinct aroma of voided bowels and bladder wafting through the air.
He furiously lifted the book off the ground and stuffed it back under his flak jacket. Then he collected his hand, brandishing it in front of the human's face.
"BRNHR?"
In what way is this productive discourse, I ask you?
"I'm sorry!" the human babbled.
At last! Communication! A light dawned in Petrosjko's soul. Finally, someone who understood him!
His temper relieved, he placed the hand against the stump. "Nrrgh."
That's okay. It'll heal. Now, would you like to travel with me?
"Look out Jerek! We'll save you!" A shotgun blast slammed into him from behind. As he whirled, a flare struck his chest. It smarted ferociously. Several humans had emerged from the building, all of them attacking ferociously. In short order, he was shot, stabbed, smashed with a baseball bat, and unceremoniously trampled as they grabbed his new friend and dragged him into the building.
As he lay there, staring at the Sandcastle on the Beach, he contemplated the vagaries of life. Just as he'd finally broken the communication barrier, other humans had intervened and bolluxed the whole thing up. It was true what they said about peer pressure being a negative influence.
Oh well, perhaps they would meet again. Jerek. A name he would remember.
Part 4
It was true, what they said- no matter how thoroughly an area had been cleansed, humans would reinfest it in short order.
(It was also true that if one saw a single human, one could rest assured that there were thirty more hidden in the dark crevices and crannies, undoubtedly breeding with their usual prolificness.)
For the past few days, he had amused himself by playing tag with the new humans at the police department, though sadly enough they did not seem to derive the same enjoyment that he did from it.
He departed from his temporary lair, refreshed from his exercises and ready to commence a new round of the game. As usual, they had rebuilt their annoying fortifications and had deposited the dead bodies from the last game outside. Tearing down barricades was dreadfully dull work. Worse yet, the bookcases they used no longer contained any interesting books with novel pictures. Sheer boredom had led to the current game, as a means of passing the time.
Sadly enough, the humans inside took his predations personally, and abused him with all manner of foul language and gunfire every time he approached the station. However, it did make for an interesting challenge. He dodged from cover to cover as rounds zipped through the air around him, then slammed into the barricade at full-force. It creaked ominously, but otherwise showed no ill-effects, so he started tearing away at it with vigor and purpose. Even now, they would be gathering around the door to greet him with the usual hail of gunfire.
He stopped, staring at the bookcase in front of him, slivers of wood smarting painfully under his talons.
Oh no.
He had fallen into the trap of responding to negative attention. While he had intended nothing more than to enjoy playful times with his new friends, they in no way appreciated the thrill he brought to their lives.
(One would think that removing excess mouths to feed and reducing the crowded conditions of the interior would be lauded, but humans were as always an illogical breed.)
A human scampered past him as he stood at the entrance, transfixed, and jammed one of those obnoxious metal boxes straight into his cheek. It beeped and whistled as usual, and the man grumbled to himself.
"Fucking sampled already..."
"Mrh?" Petrosjko inquired, annoyed.
Is it considered well-mannered among your kind to simply walk up and jam a metal device in someone's face that stabs a needle into his cheek without asking first?
The human yelped and swung clumsily at him. Strange that he didn't just run, like most of them did. Petrosjko leaned forward and took a hefty bite from his arm, feeling the warm flesh slide down his throat and begin to heal his wounds. It was obvious that no productive discourse would come from this. The human swung again, punching him in the eye. Now that actually smarted. He took another bite, the human screaming as blood sprayed about.
"Get inside, you idiot!" somebody screamed.
"GRAAGH!" Petrosjko yelled back.
Mind your own business, you!
The human took advantage of his distraction to scamper through a window, leaving him out on the streets.
Wretched busybodies, interfering with others' affairs. He stared at the barricade and decided that he really just didn't have the energy to continue plowing through it. He started his usual run away from the station while he contemplated just what sort of new hobbies he could partake of...
Part 5
"Graagh mrh braaaaaaaaanes graah."
So you see, unlike in string theory, the extra dimensions in brane worlds can be big, infinitely big.
"Mrh?"
Really?
"Brnhr graagh braaaaaaanes grah."
Branes don't require the full range of mathematical tools required for string theory, either.
Gordarmes was entirely a pleasant fellow, an excellent conversationalist, but for one small problem- his obsessions in life were dancing and branes. And while Petrosjko found both dancing and quantum physics to be worthy subjects of dinner conversation, after a day or two, they both wore rather thin.
But all the same, it was nice to have someone to pass the time with while they rested up and prepared for another game of tag with the humans at the local police department. Quite a crowd of his own kind had gathered out front, all patiently waiting their turn to go and attack the barricades. The humans had responded with a mixture of invective and firepower, the typical form of communication between the two species. Every so often, one of his kind would break through, charge in and wreak a little havoc, only to be gunned down and thrown back outside, where his comrades would cheer enthusiastically for giving it the old college try.
While he certainly enjoyed charging the barricades when his turn came, he also had taken to sampling the delights of the nearby nightclub and factories. The consensus among the local crowd was that Friday would have to be disco retro night, and that had sent them scurrying every which way in search of proper polyester, platform shoes, and bell bottoms.
"Mrh braaaaaaanes mrh."
Essentially, a brane is a discontinuity in space-time, a boundary where things meet, like the surface of a pond where the water meets the sky.
Seeking to change the subject, Petrosjko pointed at a relatively fresh corpse in the corner.
"Mrh?"
I don't recall killing that one. Did you kill that one?
Gordarmes looked over at the corpse of the woman and shrugged.
"Graagh. Mrh, brnhr braaaaaanes."
I might've. There were three or four in here when we entered. Anyway, we can't see anything outside our brane, because light can't escape or enter it.
Petrosjko looked at the body again. He could've sworn that he saw a finger twitch...
"Brnhr graagh braaaaaaaanes Einstein mrh."
Only gravity can't be glued to a particular brane. Gravity, as Einstein revealed, is the curving of space-time itself, so it wanders willy-nilly where it will, leaking off our brane into what physicists call "the bulk" -- the rest of space-time.
He definitely had seen a finger twitch. He tapped Gordarmes on the shoulder and pointed.
"Graagh."
I say, I do believe something is not entirely right with that body...
Suddenly, the woman sat up with a gasp, air rushing into her lungs.
Humans weren't supposed to do that!
"GRAAAGH!" "MRH!" "BRNHR!"
Run for your lives!
Ghost!
The dead are rising!
The nightclub emptied with incredible haste.
Part 6
He was deathly envious. GORDARMES had a pet now. There was simply no justice to life.
The pigeon perched on Godarmes' head, though the other zombie remained seemingly oblivious to it. The bird seemed to be constructing a nest up there.
How he would like to have a pet....
Gordarmes rambled on as they followed the Undying Scourge along for their next attack.
"Banana graagh mrh gramma brnhr gangbang mrh mrh."
The Mambo dance originated in Cuba where there were substantial settlements of Haitians. In the back country of Haiti, the "Mambo" is a voodoo priestess, who serves the villagers as counselor, healer, exorcist, soothsayer, spiritual advisor, and organizer of public entertainment. However, there is not a folk dance in Haiti called the "Mambo."
The human came running outside, gunshots nipping as his heels as he ran to the leaders of the Scourge, groveling before them and reporting on the contents of the police department. The spray can shook in his hand as he jabbered out his report.
"Mrh graagh brnhr gangbang," Petrosjko said cheerfully.
I do believe he's saying that there are twenty-three humans inside, several wounded.
"Harman brnhr banana," Gordarmes said dismissively.
Whatever. The fusion of Swing and Cuban music produced this fascinating rhythm and in turn created a new sensational dance. The Mambo could not have been conceived earlier since up to that time, the Cuban and American Jazz were still not wedded. The "Mambo" dance is attributed to Perez Prado who introduced it at La Tropicana night-club in Havana in 1943. Since then other Latin American band leaders such as Tito Rodriquez, Pupi Campo, Tito Puente, Machito and Xavier Cugat have achieved styles of their own and furthered the Mambo craze.
Having satisfied themselves that juicy brains resided behind the barricades, the Scourge began storming the police department. As was their wont for being senior zombies and not affiliated with all this Scourge nonsense... (Charging dues for membership, indeed!), Petrosjko and Gordarmes lingered back and let the youngsters enthusiastically shamble forward. Storms of gunfire greeted them, knocking down several, but in several places the defenses began to come down.
Finally, the door was opened and the way inside lay clear. Petrosjko looked over at Gordarmes.
"Gramma mrh mrh brnhr hambargar graagh brnrh graaagh mrh."
Shall we?
"Mrh," Gordarmes replied.
Let's. The Mambo was originally played as any Rumba with a riff ending. It may be described as a riff or a Rumba with a break or emphasis on 2 and 4 in 4/4 time. Native Cubans or musicians without any training would break on any beat. It first appeared in the United States in New York's Park Plaza Ballroom - a favorite hangout of enthusiastic dancers from Harlem. The Mambo gained its excitement in 1947 at the Palladium and other renowned places such as The China Doll, Havana Madrid and Birdland.
Gordarmes continued his dissertation on the history of the Mamba as they strode into the station. Around them, the vicious battle raged on. A screaming man leapt over the desk brandishing a fire axe, inspiring Petrosjko to deftly sidestep him. The man buried the axe into the chest of one of the Scourge members, who snarled and lashed out, breaking the man's neck.
"Brnrh graagh mrh," Petrosjko said.
Now see, they had planned on renovation of the interior, but hadn't gotten around to it.
He pointed, then pulled back his hand as a woman fired a shotgun, downing the zombie next to him.
"Graagh gangbang mrh."
As you can see, they had put plumb lines in on the wall, and had begun reconstruction of the entryway, but stopped at some point prior to the beginning of our Ascendancy, likely due to budgetary constraints.
Gordarmes lashed out suddenly, raking his claws along a man's back, blood and viscera spraying as he severed the man's spinal column.
"Graagh bang gang mrh?"
Is that all you think about? Architecture?
A crawling human tried to make it past Petrosjko and bail out the door. He ended that with a solid stomp on the man's tailbone, then reached down and began twisting on his head.
"Mrh bang gramma hambargarz!" he retorted as the human's neck snapped. Digging his claws into the skull, he began peeling the top away in order to get at the sweet, juicy brains.
You, sir, are one to talk, with your incessant chatter about quantum physic and dance trends!
Gordarmes took a shotgun blast in the stomach, tore the shotgun away from his assailant and began beating him with it.
"Bang mrh mrh brnhr!"
Why, I never!
The battle was short, sharp, and vicious. The Scourge were triumphant once more, and brains were passed about. Toasts were made, initials scratched in walls, desks, and on the floor with razor sharp talons, and the sweet boquet of victory wafted to dead nasal passages. As quickly as they struck, the Scourge melted away, off to their next conquest. The pair were left in a room full of dismembered corpses, many of whom were already beginning to twitch and squirm their way back to life. Petrosjko and Gordarmes sat on a desk, watching the army shamble down the street.
"Graagh brnhr gang mrh," Petrosko began.
About what I said during the fight...
"Brnhr," Gordarmes said, waving a hand dismissively. His pet pigeon returned to the top of his head, bloody eyeball clenched in its beak. It settled in comfortably and listened to the conversation intently.
Heat of the moment, old friend. Are you going to finish that brain?
Petrosjko shook his head. "Banana gang gramma," he answered, offering the skull.
No, I'm quite full. Do help yourself.
Twilight crept across the town. Petrosjko pointed at the darkening sky. "Mrh brnhr mrh,' he said.
Have I ever pointed out my favorite constellations to you? With the new moon, Gaping Stomach Wound should be quite bright tonight.
"Graagh mrh graagh graagh gangbang mrh brnhr banana."
Do tell.
