Log in

No account? Create an account


Raised by Wolves

Gaki: writing myself Real

Previous Entry Share Next Entry

MurderPlus: Holiday Madness Issue!

The Chef was waiting for me when I stepped through the door.

"Boy, I think it's time we had a talk about your dietary rigeur," he intoned in a sociopathic, post-Southern drawl.

I realized then that I was a complete and utter fool. When Sony had sent me the Playstation-imprinted apron for the holidays, I took it as a mere pleasantry, packaged as it was with a George Foreman grill that threatened a tasty, low-fat assault on the senses. I never stopped to consider that despite it's Kevlar-lined surface, the thing had a sinister, organic heft to it. Not that it moved of it's own accord... no, not quite. But it seemed as though it had wanted to. And now that it had found a host body, it could do just that.

"A talk, eh? What, I generally eat pretty healthily, more or less, right?" I stalled, not even particularly thinking about the words. As I spoke, I dropped my shoulderbag to the ground, easing one hand closer to the sheathed throwing blades I kept under my sleeve. The grinning manikin that had once been my roommate stood eerily motionless. Maybe I could still get the drop on him.

"Less is what I'm talkin' about," he murmured, clicking those kitchen knives together, a quiet metal minuet. "You've cut it back to a couple of energy bars, a smoothie, and a salad every day. That's not enough. Healthy humansss need to feeeeeed." His eerie accent slipped a few notches down the ladder of evolution into something more siblant; some process was engaging that robbed him of vocal control. That was all the warning I had.

"I know Sony's trying their best to get their brand of products into everyone's living room. But this is completely demented." As I flung myself backwards over the DJ table in the front hallway, he rushed in with insectoid speed, chittering weirdly in some sort of mechanical corporatespeak. I landed badly on one shoulder, rolled, flung a knife blindly like a prayer, was rewarded with a hiss. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the final piece of the puzzle.

The box with the apron had also included this odd packing insulation. "Who would have the gall to trademark AIR?" I could remember thinking naively. Not just air; the Chef's slip in pronunciation while shifting processes had clued me in. Nanites. And I was in danger of exposure as well; there was just one chance.

"Healthy consumers must consume!" sang the rain of Kevlar and metal as it descended, blocking out the "Tru-light" wavelength coming from the kitchen overhead lamp (which lived up to it's claim of showing me things I'd never see under "normal" light, "things" in this case being stark biomechanical insanity). Again, Karma was kind; the Chef landed on one of our boxes of comic book literature; dropping low, I was able to kick it from under him at the precise instant his weight settled. Too slow, though, to avoid having my shoulder opened by those damned knives. Knives that probably hadn't been washed in months, like the rest of kingsnake's dishes. DAMMIT!!

I managed to get rest of the AirPlus containers into the microwave and toggle MinutePlus, before The Chef's next lunge caught him up with me to deal DamagePlus. One armed, he pitched me across the room into the bookcase. As I struggled to free myself from a decade's worth of unread college texts, art-hipster books, and coffee table pornography, his twisted shadow blackened the very air before me.

"Happy Holidays, Third Party Relation," the walking death-card sneered, as blue sparks of pain struggled to Erase My Save. The blades gleamed dully in the neo-light. Behind those sunglasses, cracked now, something hideous was birthing. Then he charged.

I don't know how the bokken came to be in my hand at that moment; that wooden blade has saved my skin enough times now that I no longer question it. As I rose into chudan no kamae stance, the point of the blade was able to deflect the Chef's direct charge. I spun the weapon in a manner I could not have done with a metal blade, slamming the grip into his jaw hard enough to send him flying into the refrigerator. I was utterly unable to keep from growling, "For Great Justice," as I grabbed the "blade" in my other hand and forced it into his throat to send him into the microwave, just as the remaining AirPlus containers detonated.

"You will dine on painONLINE PLAY ONLY!!" the Chef shrieked, as the remaining nanomachines in his system, caught in the static discharge of their dying brethren, seized. He dropped like a stone which has just been dropped.

The "apron" battlesuit seems to remain inert without any guiding nanomechanical interference, but just to be safe we keep the thing locked up. They also sent me Ratchet and Clank, and Killzone. I haven't gotten around to playing them yet.

  • 1
Okay,I just laughed so hard I fell off my bed. I would make more remarks, but my super-phone just rang and there's an Amazon Queen who needs rescuing from bus slaves and human filth. More to come on that.

Over and out.

At least I don't feel as jilted as when I watched that whole stupid thing on the Sci-Fi channel about M. Night Shamaylan(However it's spelled...grrr)

You guys need some serious designer influence in your kitchen, there, too. That looks like a converted closet, not a kitchen for cryin' out loud...

Too bad you can't slap some virtual wallpaper up there...

That kitchen is a behemoth among efficiencies. (as compared to mine)

This is , admittedly, a much larger kitchen than I had in my studio in Albany waaay way waaaaay back when I first was living with my soon-to-be-Ex. THAT was a closet. I decided that the place had once been an actual bedroom connected to another room,with a walk in closet. They split it in half and put a sink, toilet and shower in one side and a stove a sink and cupboards into the other half.

THat was still a step up from a one-cup heating element (great for quick cuppa tea or fast-mix soups...yay, Ramen.)I used in college so much I actually killed it. (lucky me, I got another for Xmas that year. Yehaw)

  • 1