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Discussion in 'General Discussion' started by Backalley Abortion Doctor, Jul 16, 2009.
This thread gets the official Zof stamp of "Best Thread Ever".
you should post the picture just so everyone knows where all this is coming from
what the fuuuuuuuck...now what is the deal with this??? further explanation per favore?
edit: never mind i fuckin get it now...Ine weetahdud
Look three pages back in wacha look like thread.
(Backalley and I talked via pm's, and I'll be writing the part of Sheriff Peterson. We'll be taking turns as the story progesses. Enjoy.)
The phone rings.
Three people are dead after their vehicle was struck by an Amtrak train. Authorities say five people were in the vehicle hit by the Texas-bound train shortly after 3 p.m. Monday.
The phone rings again.
You peek over the top of the newspaper at the black behemoth sitting on your desk. It's the same phone that's been sitting on your desk for the past 26 years as County Sheriff. Heck it was even here when you started as a Deputy. It'll probably still be here after you're dead and buried. Not like the department has the money to replace it anyhow. They can't even afford a damn air conditioner in this hellhole of an office. Folding the paper and setting it down, you reach for the receiver just as the third ring starts.
"Brock here." You croak into the mouthpiece.
"Sheriff Peterson? It's Deputy Everson. I need you down here right away. There's a dead girl sun bathing in Edgar's soybean field."
im glad i said something hahaha.
we should make this into like the 5 word story thread...except its not five words you just continue where the story left off.idk man.that would be dope.
Vagrant and I agreed to co-op.
haha.dope.we should keep this going as long as possible.southerntrendkill is the new jason...
oh btw yall should call him the collector....it just sounds cool.
the collector or the vagina ripper whichever one....
The Trim Ripper (grim reaper) lawls.
We'll find out whatever the small town media names him, soon enough.
Your writing is very impressive, Rots.
This story, is awesome, please continue.
Haha, I love it
holy shit... WHAT HAVE I DONE?!!??11!
You have inspired one of Bombingscience's best threads in a while. You're a muse man, it's a good thing.
You set the phone receiver back on the base. A satisfying "clunk" confirms it is seated properly. A quick glance back at the paper and you grimace. It'll have to wait until later. You lower your dirty military-style boots from the desk to the floor and stand up, the creak from the decrepit office chair sounding like a gasp of breath. The office is not much bigger than a single stall in a horse stable, 10 feet by 12 feet. The furnishings are meager, at best. A desk, and chair command center attention in the room. A phone and two tiered wire mail basket rest on the desk. Nearby sits an overflowing trash can, a small refrigerator barely big enough for a six pack, and several large cream colored filing cabinets, which match the cheap wood paneled walls quite horrendously. A few framed newspaper clippings, licenses, and diplomas hang about the room, trying to hide the tacky paneling but failing completely. Across the room, in the corner next to the door with a broken handle, is a large floor standing fan. Set to high the blades shake the entire contraption violently, emitting a pulsing screeching sound similar to the trademark shower murder scene music in the movie Psycho. In the other corner lives a dead potted plant.
You turn to the mini-fridge and open it. After snatching a can of beer from its grasp, you pop the top and look out the window. It's 104°F outside and you might as well get some fluids in you before heading out. It'll take a few minutes but you're in no hurry, the girl's not going to get any deader.
A dead girl in Edgar's soybean field. That must be the Wright farm, considering Edgar Wright is the only farmer in the county growing soybeans right now. Most of the land, apart from his plot and the town, is trying to grow corn right now. They're all hoping to cash in on the Ethanol boom, even though everybody in the county knows this dirt ain't good for much more than blowing in your face. Good ol' Edgar lived during the Dirty Thirties, when this whole area was known as the Dust Bowl. Ever since then he won't grow nothing but soybeans, something his pappy taught him when he was a kid back then. The soybeans thrive here, and now-a-days them yuppies out east can't get enough of 'em.
You finish your now warm beer and walk outside to your squad car, an old '66 Ford Galaxie 500 which has see many, many better days. The two-tone white and black paint job has been almost completely covered in dust for years. The county name can't even be read on the door. The sound of a dying cow fills the air as you open the driver side door and get in, the beige vinyl interior hot enough to make you stand for a week if not for the scrap of carpet you have on the drivers seat. You put the key in the ignition and start the beast, bringing life to all 8 cylinders of the 7 liter engine. You start to pull away, but the engine stalls and dies. Cursing loudly you bang on the steering wheel and restart the car. Still cursing, you pull onto the dirt road and head towards the Wright farm.
You pace the room anxiously, your heart leaping with each step. Your left hand repeatedly gropes at your earlobe and pulls, a nverous habit you'd had since your boyhood. Another day had gone by. By now, the elderly farm-keep's body had begun to bring about a stench to the entire house. The hot, 104'+ weather, coupled with the lack of an air conditioning in this old style building made for a quick rot. Flies buzzed around the body en masse, adding to this disturbing atmosphere. The night before, she'd slept. Whether it be from exhaustion, or simply passing out from hysteria, it didn't matter; she was beautiful as she slept. As your mind again wandered over the filthy things she'd done, the men she must have given herself to, the godless ways she'd presented herself, all she'd done, you feel your rage growing yet again. You grab the tweezers from the nightstand as you had the night prior, a jerking, rage-filled motion, knocking over a bedside lamp as you do, her eyes light up with horror as she sees you do this.
The tips of your fingers connect violently to her soft, sweat-soaked, greasy cheeks, jerking her face into position. Her eyes shut as tight as she can get them, she knows what's coming. "You should have been fucking faithful to me, you bitch!" You spit, screaming at her through clenched teeth, bringing the tweezers down, into her clenched eye. You pull at her undamaged eyelid as her head uselessly tries to jerk from your grasp. "Just, just hold still fucking who~ore!" your voice carries, ripping up her eyelid in a rage-filled motion, splitting it down the middle, just as you had the other. This outlet doesn't fill your rage today, not for this harlot. "Ahhhh!" you yell in pure rage, bringing the tweezers back heavily and stabbing them into her tender, fleshy shoulderblade mercilessly, then pulling the bloody prongs out, and jamming them down again. Again, again, again, until your rage has finally been outletted.
You throw them to the night stand. Her sobs pathetic; gentle, hopeless whimpers into the pillow of the man who'd only wanted to love her, hold her, protect her. trickles of blood caked her shoulder from the multiple tiny stab wounds you'd inflicted. You could still save her, change her. This harlot could someday become worth something to someone. She could still be your loved.
She just needed to be retaught, how to be a lady.
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