Doctor Calgori
Minister of Science, Shhh.....
Episode 1 to a nonexistent series.
Here's the backstory to this.
I started RPing on IScribble, a wonderful ( or at least, it used to be wonderful ) site for collaborative drawing and, it turned out, RPing. Back then, there were no forums or mods: you just joined a thread, posted a character and away you go. As you might imagine, this led to all sorts of interesting things, on all sides of the good/bad spectrum. These are some of the jewels I have produced. (IScribble has outlawed RPing on pain of a permaban, so no going back for more)
Now, this is a bit early in my RPing career, and you might smell the terrible quality in these: bear with me! I'll only post the gems, and I'll try to explain everything I can. Feel free to critique my old style...I'm still learning, even off of these guys.
This first one is a one-shot character: a motorcycle cop composed in ten minutes after having become completely frustrated with my fellow players. I decided: to hell with subtleties; this would be a full-out war of the adjectives. As I found out, even that didn't work; however I got a massive laugh out of rereading this, so it might be cool. Thanks, and have fun.
Each intent represents a fresh post. I don't have my fellow's post, but I don't think you'll need them.
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"No mercy. Break the door down. Well, figuratively, of course. Property damage was, unfortunately, considered…less than desirable these days. Naturally he didn’t like it, but then again, his was a job that little others could handle, and he felt contempt for those whom a duty to their country held no appeal. But the door banged open with more force than necessary. In stepped a pair of tall, dark boots, shining with a new polish. In, in stepped a golden badge, gleaming in the light of the establishment. In stepped a helmet, sparkling white and clean, and marred here and there with glorious battle-wounds of combat. In stepped a motorcycle patrol officer. Dark black aviators (that every single cop in these parts seems to wear) swept the building, looking over the motley crowd with little interest. Eh, nothing much. Hands on belt, grab a table, wave down a waiter with one finger. Yeah, you, get your lazy rear over here, and serve an officer of the law. He raised a lip…but you couldn’t see it, it was obscured by….Oh, god…Yes, that’s right, you are barely worthy to glance upon the world’s most glorious, flagrantly beautiful, rudely biznasty, handlebar mustache. A flaming frame of shining wonder, framing his mouth, a temple of sanctity, from which the glory of the law came. (In reality, this made him even more stereotypical of a cop than anything else. But he was really going after that. When you looked at him, you /saw/ the law, the face of justice, in that wondrous display of manliness and strength). He turned back to the table, having just nearly given a waiter a heart attack with such a gifted honor, to be shown the pinnacle of human achievement. There were other folks looking, staring, at the source of such glory…even that one odd girl, at that one table, alone…Here, have some! The lights lighting the table nearly burst with the strain of illuminating such an incredible sight, the walls were shaking, with the effort of containing such incredible power.
Clink, clink, clink. The boots were walking over now, the badge was moving. The mustache…oh Lord, that mustache…was shining its way through the restaurant, over to the table, where the girl sat alone, doing something or other. The aviators flashed, cruel and impassionate, for justice takes no names, and the law loves no man. Glasses cracked and spoons bent as he finally arrived right in front of her, the aura of manliness emanating from the sign of true power making the temperature around the table fly up the scale. “Ma’am, I’m here investigating a call of vandalism and public disorder. About five minutes ago a rock was thrown through the windows of this establishment.” He looked pointedly at the rock, practically melting under the heat of the ‘stashe. The voice of justice spoke with a loud, drawling, forceful tone, like a cowboy from Texas who went to West Point. And got a degree in being the dictionary entry for manliness. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you look like you have a rather hefty rock sitting right here on your table. Now, I don’t know about you, but where I come from, it’s a crime to throw rocks around. And I think you’ve been throwing rocks.” The badge flashed in the light, cold brilliance.
Justice does not take back-talk. He had no time for punks like this. “Ma’am, to be honest, I don’t really care why this rock was thrown. You have the rock, you see that window? I got no time for your stories; I’m going to bust somebody tonight, and if it’s not you, you’re going to tell me who” He leaned in a bit closer, up and personal. The ‘stashe was flaming now, making it hard to breath; the air smelled like everything manly ever could smell, crackling with a million joules of justice per inch. Snow melted outside as he lowered his voice, and the energy, intensified, shorted out most small electronics nearby. “If I were you, I’d come clean. Make your night a lot easier. I got a lot of patience, but I’d like to make this one…/clean/.” Emphasis on clean, one hand on the gun, other on the nightstick. Punks and their tattoos. The mustache was not pleased.
A nearby U.S. Geological Survey station would register a disturbance of almost one whole Richter as the ground shook with the crackling energy of justice. A god descended among men as the cop leaned in just a bit closer, melting not only the rock but the acrylic of the table into a heaping pile of sludge, which reformed into a tiny choir of plastic angels, singing praises to their Creator and Savior, the perfect being of the Universe. “A brother, huh? You know what? I don’t think you have a brother. I think you’re lying to me. Now, I don’t like being lied to. It makes me angry. Do you know what that means? Now…are you going to make this…difficult?” Satellites in orbit were shook from their paths, and most major radio and WiFi networks knocked out, as the cop leaned forward and placed a hand on the table, resting the cornerstone of perfection’s bearer upon the sludge of the choir angle’s platform. The aviators flashed again, the anger of the law bearing down on its victim. Quick. Efficient. Merciless. This was its motto.
The mustache was not impressed. It was amused, the static electricity building from the amusement shorting out local power lines. PG&E was already mobilizing a desperate Emergency Response Team, the blasts from shorted-out transformers ripping across the city, downed step-up plants spraying coolant and stray voltage everywhere. “You know…I really don’t have time for your antics. Now-“ he pointed out of the door. “-You may think you can get off with other cops with stuff like that. But I want you to look at me. Right now.” The mustache…it was…hypnotic, almost, a swirling rush of energy, power emanating from such perfection. To even gaze upon it…left one trembling, shaking, weak, for such glory could not be seen properly by mortal men. “Now…” he said it slowly, the mustache seeming to attract every eye in the room, “do I look like the cop…you’re going to mess with tonight? I didn’t...think….so…” he almost whispered, low, dangerous, as time seemed to slow down, and the laws of physics bowed down and joined the plastic-choir in worship. Truly this man was justice itself, the face of all that is right and just. Even the darkest of magic or strange power trembled at the flash of his helmet, the roar of his metal steed, the King Arthur of legend.
He grinned at her, triumphant, cold, the face of justice smiling at the victory, teeth shining in an odd, much-too-shiny way. “Oh, that’s just what I want to hear. You want to know something? I am arresting you for resisting arrest, assaulting an officer of the law, and, oh, just good little insubordination.” A clink: a pair of handcuffs was sitting at his belt, ready for battle, hungry for the taste of human flesh. “You have two options. You can come on quietly out, and I’ll take you to the station, and…process you. Or” He smiled a bit more, liking this option, “You can resist. Then I’ll smash your head in and take you to the station in a stretcher.” The mustache was afire, streaming the purity and virtue of the king of saints themselves, as he leered down at her, eyes obscured, aviators bright in the fires of goodness. The hunt was almost over, the king was unfailing in his duty. Move in for the kill.
She just didn’t get it. He found these kills much less challenging, the thrill of the chase diminished, when they agreed. The nightstick on his belt was hopeful, but the intense burn of his mustache faded a bit, the air suddenly became breathable again, as he backed up. A little notepad was out, a little pen. And just like that!-….color returned to the room. The energy was gone. The mustache, though still…amazing, beautiful…was not afire any longer. The aviators were again impassionate, cold, though less…sadistic. “So, who did you say threw the rock, ma’am? Was he related to you in any way?” It was an amazing switch, and yet, nothing had happened; the memory of the glory, the flaming, shining god among men, was obscure, and it seemed as if the cop had simply been standing there the whole time. No problems here: the room was back to normal. He clicked the pen a couple of times, waiting for her to recover from the sudden change. “If you would be as detailed as possible, that would make things a lot easier.” The god was gone, it was just the messenger, still bearing a symbol of perfection. But not so much as before. The law’s service was to its people, after all. "
And that's it. I still have at least a gig or two of this stuff left, so if you like it I can find more probably.
