Hannibal could feel the shadows crowd around him. The denizens of the unseen darkness want to be privy to a fight between the unusual magician and the underworlds most noted thug. Hannibal knew they were accomplices in Lars destruction in the museum. However, he felt their alien reasoning didn't make them accountable for their part in this mess. He could easily understand. Hannibal feels his own thought processes are alien to this town. He experienced things that no normal person in this world has experienced. He brought a set of core values and beliefs that are constantly questioned by the peculiar way things are done in Everton. With a smirk he resolved to give these dark beings a show for their entertainment.
He could feel the power radiating from Lars' hideout. Proximity to power tells Hannibal what he needs to know. Lars is a powerful entity on a level Hannibal has only experienced once before. He spends a few moments, in order to savor the ambient energy and allowing it to flow into his form. He is now fueled for the fight and swallows a gulp of air, unsure of the outcome.
SO, I might be able to extend this scene a bit farther. IDK if I want to do such a thing. I know Ihavent gone into who Lars is or what his hideout actually is. My goal in this writing was to get back on the horse and establich a shot of a coming battle. I wanted to attempt to signify that other forces are interested in this figh besides Hannibal and his Antagonist. I wanted to indicate that Hannibal feels like an outside in the world he exists. I also wanted to set up how formidable a foe Lars, the Antagonist, is.
Showing posts with label Hannibal Moxy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hannibal Moxy. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Moving along
Catherine bounces an idea off him, “Maybe I can do a story about the people out in the woods and how they have to co-exist with the power-dome. You know if this technology will do anything about the soil blightening that has been spreading from the city into the valley?”
Martin shakes his head, “It’s only going to try and pull more energy out of the geothermic dome. All that means is probably more soot in the air and more dead trees. Woodford doesn’t care about who lives down in the valley. If you want personal stories, you should do a write up on a Privateer.”
Catherine scoffs at the thought. “You gotta find one that is personable. They’re hardly human or just live in their own fantasy world.”
“Perhaps you could find one whose fantasy includes a girl like you?”
She recoils in mock horror, pointing a finger from one of her carefully cared for hands at him. “Evil man! I shall nothave my honored sullied in such a way!” She quickly finishes her coffee and stands off the couch. She wags a finger in Brandt’s face and begins to back away from him. “You will not invite such ill portents in my presence. Good day to you, sir” before she winks, turns, and walks back up the stairs.
Catherine was certain that Wallace has had plenty time to calm down from thrashing about his favored photographer. She opened the door into the Alarm’s offices to see Hines sweeping up the debris from the earlier tirade, and notice the silhouette of Wallace changing his attire into something drier.
The offices of the Sunderville Alarm would generally be considered spacious, for any business located inside. Wallace was the only editor for the publication, and employed eight typists to generate stories for the 4 page daily in addition to any news that is transmitted via the World News Telegraph Wire, which is transmitted straight to layout editor, Mike James’, desk. Catherine sits besides Mike and Marshton in a row of four typists, their desks facing towards a small alley created with the four desks of the other writers for the Alarm. In the back of the office is a small printing press which Mike operates with the help of Martin, and now Catherine begins to realize how many people whose first names begin with the letter “M”. She shakes her head in slight embarrassment and smiles at how she can marvel at something so trivial.
Once at her desk she notices a curious sight. Atop her work area is a plain package addressed to her. Looking around to notice if anyone is watching her for their amusement and determining that no one is, she grabs the package and tears it open. Inside is a letter addressed to her, along with old newspaper clippings. She dumps the contents onto the table and scans them over. The message is written on the letterhead Sturm museum. The clippings were stories in Norwegian and Swedish about a Viking treasure horde known as the Sigmund Horde and the message asks that she interview the horde’s discoverer, Andersson Sigmund.
A few posts ago I trie dmy hand at doing this, and found it way too clunky. So lets see how the rewrite goes. Right off the bat I feel like I should be more descriptive of the Sunderville Alarm's offices and play up the mystery package.
Martin shakes his head, “It’s only going to try and pull more energy out of the geothermic dome. All that means is probably more soot in the air and more dead trees. Woodford doesn’t care about who lives down in the valley. If you want personal stories, you should do a write up on a Privateer.”
Catherine scoffs at the thought. “You gotta find one that is personable. They’re hardly human or just live in their own fantasy world.”
“Perhaps you could find one whose fantasy includes a girl like you?”
She recoils in mock horror, pointing a finger from one of her carefully cared for hands at him. “Evil man! I shall nothave my honored sullied in such a way!” She quickly finishes her coffee and stands off the couch. She wags a finger in Brandt’s face and begins to back away from him. “You will not invite such ill portents in my presence. Good day to you, sir” before she winks, turns, and walks back up the stairs.
Catherine was certain that Wallace has had plenty time to calm down from thrashing about his favored photographer. She opened the door into the Alarm’s offices to see Hines sweeping up the debris from the earlier tirade, and notice the silhouette of Wallace changing his attire into something drier.
The offices of the Sunderville Alarm would generally be considered spacious, for any business located inside. Wallace was the only editor for the publication, and employed eight typists to generate stories for the 4 page daily in addition to any news that is transmitted via the World News Telegraph Wire, which is transmitted straight to layout editor, Mike James’, desk. Catherine sits besides Mike and Marshton in a row of four typists, their desks facing towards a small alley created with the four desks of the other writers for the Alarm. In the back of the office is a small printing press which Mike operates with the help of Martin, and now Catherine begins to realize how many people whose first names begin with the letter “M”. She shakes her head in slight embarrassment and smiles at how she can marvel at something so trivial.
Once at her desk she notices a curious sight. Atop her work area is a plain package addressed to her. Looking around to notice if anyone is watching her for their amusement and determining that no one is, she grabs the package and tears it open. Inside is a letter addressed to her, along with old newspaper clippings. She dumps the contents onto the table and scans them over. The message is written on the letterhead Sturm museum. The clippings were stories in Norwegian and Swedish about a Viking treasure horde known as the Sigmund Horde and the message asks that she interview the horde’s discoverer, Andersson Sigmund.
A few posts ago I trie dmy hand at doing this, and found it way too clunky. So lets see how the rewrite goes. Right off the bat I feel like I should be more descriptive of the Sunderville Alarm's offices and play up the mystery package.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Catherine has to lie down, again
Catherine decided now was a time to get up and walk out before debris finds itself in her auburn hair and all over her new attire. She put her arms through her grey jacket’s sleeves, shuffles her papers together, and places them in her desk to protect them in case Woodford creates another small storm in the office. She whispers a short phrase into the ear of Marshton Brandt, “Coffee Break” and hurredly moves out of the offices of the tabloid paper and down the stairs into the common lobby of the Campman Building.
The Campman Building is nestled between the Armstrong hotel and grocer on Fullman Avenue. On the second floor is the Sunderville Alarm. The third floor houses the offices of ward #8 representative Cameron Lager and a small investment firm, Manos-Taurus. The fourth floor was unknown to Catherine. She hadn’t met anyone that works up there, nor did she have the curiosity to go snooping around there. The common lobby of the building is decorated all around with furnishings from the east: Persian rugs, Ottomans, and Japanese fire-lamps. Shelves of throw away books line the walls, along with pictures of building proprietors and famous events captured in the news. A small kitchen and wait staff is maintained by the owner, Joseph Campman, to cater to the business tenants. Catherine finds a reclining couch near a far off corner, waving off an approaching waiter. She removes her jacket, exposing her deep red blouse. She lies down in the couch, frees her feet from the pointed flats she wears everyday to work, and begins to collect her thoughts and compose herself for the remainder of the day.
Catherine Faber had hoped for a chance to make a mark in the career of news reporting. For years women have begun to assert themselves in several literary fields. Mary Wollstonecraft’s Letters from Norway was a major inspiration for her. She wanted to write stories about society and the average person’s existence in the city. She wanted to be a champion for the normal person and show that people like her could lead fantastic lives. Yet, editors like Woodford prefer stories in the style of Mary Shelley. News was being overrun by outrageous accounts of mad scientists and the consequences of their dalliances with dabbling in mastering the God’s domains. Newsprints follow the idea that where there’s magic, it’s fantastic. Catherine is dismayed that mundane life had become so menial.
A second body sits at the foot of the couch. With delicate hands Marshton Brandt rubs Catherine’s feet, eliciting a purr from her lips. “5 more minutes” she says.
Brandt stops manipulating her feet and motions to a waiter. “2 cups of Colombian. Milk and sugar in one. Black the other.”
As the waiter leaves Catherine teases Brandt. “So, I’m going to be used as a way for you to obscure the fact you can’t take your coffee without a few additives.”
“You are my beard.”
Catherine runs a hand over his face, “Could you even grow one? I wonder what you’d look like with a mustache.”
Brandt cocks his head askew, asking, “Would you want me to wear something like Woodford had last year?”
Catherine erupts with glee, placing a hand against her chest to catch her breath as she giggles maniacly, “Oh god, no! That little broomshaped thing under the nose? Martin, don’t you ever do that!” Catherine tossles his short blonde hair destroying the part he put in it on the right side of his head. Martin begins to slump down in embarrassment. His shirt just drapes over his body. Catherine can tell how thin is he underneath his black, button-down, pocketed shirt. He likes to leave his shirt untucked a bit, as it gives him a sense that he has a larger frame than he really does.
Martin muses, “Perhaps I’ll grow out my sideburns and let my hair grow long.”
When the coffee comes in, Martin offers to cover the cost of both their cups, which Catherine gladly accepts. She put her feet back into their shoes and both her and Brandt sit side by side in the couch, silently sipping their drinks.
Catherine is pensive about returning upstairs. She has not had the chance to develop any real story for the next edition of the paper. It has been over a week since she could turn in anything she felt was up to Woodford’s standards. The last thing she wanted was to find her way into Wallace’s sights. Attempting to make conversation she asks Martin, “Have you gotten any leads you haven’t been able to follow up on, lately?”
Martin shakes his head no and lets out a deep breath. “I’ve only got my own lead. I’ve been working on a story about new advances to help extract more energy out of the volcano dome. The new director has been on a media blitz about this technology.”
Catherine whines to him, “Maybe I can do a story about the people out in the woods and how they have to co-exist with the power-dome. You know if this technology will do anything about the soil blightening that has been spreading from the city into the valley?”
Martin shakes his head, “It’s only going to try and pull more energy out of the geothermic dome. All that means is probably more soot in the air and more dead trees. Woodford doesn’t care about who lives down in the valley. If you want personal stories, you should do a write up on a Privateer.”
Catherine scoffs at the thought. “You gotta find one that is personable. They’re hardly human or just live in their own fantasy world.”
“Perhaps you could find one whose fantasy includes a girl like you?”
The Campman Building is nestled between the Armstrong hotel and grocer on Fullman Avenue. On the second floor is the Sunderville Alarm. The third floor houses the offices of ward #8 representative Cameron Lager and a small investment firm, Manos-Taurus. The fourth floor was unknown to Catherine. She hadn’t met anyone that works up there, nor did she have the curiosity to go snooping around there. The common lobby of the building is decorated all around with furnishings from the east: Persian rugs, Ottomans, and Japanese fire-lamps. Shelves of throw away books line the walls, along with pictures of building proprietors and famous events captured in the news. A small kitchen and wait staff is maintained by the owner, Joseph Campman, to cater to the business tenants. Catherine finds a reclining couch near a far off corner, waving off an approaching waiter. She removes her jacket, exposing her deep red blouse. She lies down in the couch, frees her feet from the pointed flats she wears everyday to work, and begins to collect her thoughts and compose herself for the remainder of the day.
Catherine Faber had hoped for a chance to make a mark in the career of news reporting. For years women have begun to assert themselves in several literary fields. Mary Wollstonecraft’s Letters from Norway was a major inspiration for her. She wanted to write stories about society and the average person’s existence in the city. She wanted to be a champion for the normal person and show that people like her could lead fantastic lives. Yet, editors like Woodford prefer stories in the style of Mary Shelley. News was being overrun by outrageous accounts of mad scientists and the consequences of their dalliances with dabbling in mastering the God’s domains. Newsprints follow the idea that where there’s magic, it’s fantastic. Catherine is dismayed that mundane life had become so menial.
A second body sits at the foot of the couch. With delicate hands Marshton Brandt rubs Catherine’s feet, eliciting a purr from her lips. “5 more minutes” she says.
Brandt stops manipulating her feet and motions to a waiter. “2 cups of Colombian. Milk and sugar in one. Black the other.”
As the waiter leaves Catherine teases Brandt. “So, I’m going to be used as a way for you to obscure the fact you can’t take your coffee without a few additives.”
“You are my beard.”
Catherine runs a hand over his face, “Could you even grow one? I wonder what you’d look like with a mustache.”
Brandt cocks his head askew, asking, “Would you want me to wear something like Woodford had last year?”
Catherine erupts with glee, placing a hand against her chest to catch her breath as she giggles maniacly, “Oh god, no! That little broomshaped thing under the nose? Martin, don’t you ever do that!” Catherine tossles his short blonde hair destroying the part he put in it on the right side of his head. Martin begins to slump down in embarrassment. His shirt just drapes over his body. Catherine can tell how thin is he underneath his black, button-down, pocketed shirt. He likes to leave his shirt untucked a bit, as it gives him a sense that he has a larger frame than he really does.
Martin muses, “Perhaps I’ll grow out my sideburns and let my hair grow long.”
When the coffee comes in, Martin offers to cover the cost of both their cups, which Catherine gladly accepts. She put her feet back into their shoes and both her and Brandt sit side by side in the couch, silently sipping their drinks.
Catherine is pensive about returning upstairs. She has not had the chance to develop any real story for the next edition of the paper. It has been over a week since she could turn in anything she felt was up to Woodford’s standards. The last thing she wanted was to find her way into Wallace’s sights. Attempting to make conversation she asks Martin, “Have you gotten any leads you haven’t been able to follow up on, lately?”
Martin shakes his head no and lets out a deep breath. “I’ve only got my own lead. I’ve been working on a story about new advances to help extract more energy out of the volcano dome. The new director has been on a media blitz about this technology.”
Catherine whines to him, “Maybe I can do a story about the people out in the woods and how they have to co-exist with the power-dome. You know if this technology will do anything about the soil blightening that has been spreading from the city into the valley?”
Martin shakes his head, “It’s only going to try and pull more energy out of the geothermic dome. All that means is probably more soot in the air and more dead trees. Woodford doesn’t care about who lives down in the valley. If you want personal stories, you should do a write up on a Privateer.”
Catherine scoffs at the thought. “You gotta find one that is personable. They’re hardly human or just live in their own fantasy world.”
“Perhaps you could find one whose fantasy includes a girl like you?”
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Double Thursday all the Way
I redid my introductiont o Catherine by giving Walace and Martin a bit of a back and forth. I wanted to provide some charcaterization of the two while also giving them dialogue so that I don't have to explain everything about them in narration. I assume that's a good thing, right?
Wallace Woodford was summoning a storm. Catherine Faber could hear objects bouncing off the walls. The door to Woodford’s office would rattle and creak as it almost blows off its hinges. Wallace had a habit of generating tornados in localized areas when angered. Catherine moved to keep her head down to her desk, sitting behind her Guttenberg Moveable Type-Writer among the remainder of the Sunderville Alarm’s writing pool.
The door could no longer resist the active forces behind it. It flies off its hinges. Papers, plants, pencils, and photographer Martin Hines burst out of the room. Wallace marches out of his office afterwards, swearing and pointing an accusatory finger at Hines. “Entirely tedious! These pictures don’t pop! All you got is a chimp with a smile and giving a thumbs up.”
Martin was sprawled out among a pile of papers, potting soil, and office supplies. He sits up off the wooden floor. “I’m sorry Mr. Woodford, but intelligent super apes that act like normal people tend to act like normal people. Rocky’s not some sort of menace to society. There’s no angle to play up”
Wallace snorts and yells, “Why couldn’t you have it dressed up in a suit or something! Outfit it in imperial military dress! Make it look like this Ape is from our future, and our future is murderous soldiers who subsist on a diet of plantains!”
Martin picks himself off the ground, “Sir, the monkey doesn’t own any clothes. Plus, whose imperial clothes do we dress it in: Germany, Japan, or England’s? I don’t think it’ll be a good idea to equate a country with monkeys, regardless if they are highly evolved animals from the future.”
Wallace’s face contorts into ragefilled menace as he unleashes a rebuttal to his prized photographer, “Newspapers don’t start wars! If the Queen of England reads our paper-“
“King, now, Sir.”
Wallace pauses briefly. “She’s now a man?”
Martin matter of factly states, “She felt her body was too immodest. The female form does nothing but inflame the passions of the opposite sex.”
Wallace yells into his typing pool. “Who wrote our story on the Sex-changing Queen!?”
Wallace Woodford was summoning a storm. Catherine Faber could hear objects bouncing off the walls. The door to Woodford’s office would rattle and creak as it almost blows off its hinges. Wallace had a habit of generating tornados in localized areas when angered. Catherine moved to keep her head down to her desk, sitting behind her Guttenberg Moveable Type-Writer among the remainder of the Sunderville Alarm’s writing pool.
The door could no longer resist the active forces behind it. It flies off its hinges. Papers, plants, pencils, and photographer Martin Hines burst out of the room. Wallace marches out of his office afterwards, swearing and pointing an accusatory finger at Hines. “Entirely tedious! These pictures don’t pop! All you got is a chimp with a smile and giving a thumbs up.”
Martin was sprawled out among a pile of papers, potting soil, and office supplies. He sits up off the wooden floor. “I’m sorry Mr. Woodford, but intelligent super apes that act like normal people tend to act like normal people. Rocky’s not some sort of menace to society. There’s no angle to play up”
Wallace snorts and yells, “Why couldn’t you have it dressed up in a suit or something! Outfit it in imperial military dress! Make it look like this Ape is from our future, and our future is murderous soldiers who subsist on a diet of plantains!”
Martin picks himself off the ground, “Sir, the monkey doesn’t own any clothes. Plus, whose imperial clothes do we dress it in: Germany, Japan, or England’s? I don’t think it’ll be a good idea to equate a country with monkeys, regardless if they are highly evolved animals from the future.”
Wallace’s face contorts into ragefilled menace as he unleashes a rebuttal to his prized photographer, “Newspapers don’t start wars! If the Queen of England reads our paper-“
“King, now, Sir.”
Wallace pauses briefly. “She’s now a man?”
Martin matter of factly states, “She felt her body was too immodest. The female form does nothing but inflame the passions of the opposite sex.”
Wallace yells into his typing pool. “Who wrote our story on the Sex-changing Queen!?”
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Two for Tuesday
Inside the abandoned warehouse, Moxy examines the mysterious steel ball. At the top of the object is a small hatch.Upon opening the hatch Moxy can make out that the interior is entirely mirrored. "Aw hell." he mutters under his breath.
Jason Raines from the Advanced Geometric Institute joins Moxy an hour later to confirm what Hannibal fears most. Jason's advanced mathematical skills can precisely calculate most objects area to the tiniest fraction. But his sense of precision are confouning him. "Hannibal, this thing is coming up as a perfect sphere. I haven't stopepd calculating Pi to the 200th decimal. How can someone construct such a thing? For what purpose?"
Hannibal can only posit. "Magic and Metalurgy to create a perfect sphere. Inside, the sphere is mirrored. It was once believed a mirror is your reflection in another world. An alternate you in another time. Meta-scientifically, this is the 5th dimension. The existence of multiple timelines existing side by side each other. If geometric 2D planes can cross each other to form polygons, then a 3D object is the intersection of multiple planes in space. If the 4th dimension is a timeline, then the 5th dimension is a time plane, and the 6th dimension is 3D time. Mirrors only operate on planes, so to access multiple timelines you need to be in 3d time space, thus the sphere."
Raines stares bewildered at Moxy. "What now?"
Moxy simply states, "Time travel through dimensional planar hopping. That's how our thief was able to nab those jewels and leave without a trace. Once he hops into the perfect sphere, he has access to an infinite number of alternate dimensions and can use magic to cross back and forth between worlds. Each point in the sphere is another timeline he can insert himself into. If he finds the right point in the sphere, too, he may be able to move back and forth on his own timeline. Theoretically it means nothign though. Each pint in time in 3d time is the convergence of several timelines. so anythign he does to alter the future just shifts him int another timeline. Dammit. Blow it up Raines."
Jason asks incredulously, "You're kidding right?"
Moxy sighs, "I was hopping I wouldn't have to run after him and get stuck in some dimension where ants are pets kept on farms or something equally as crazy. To pinpoint the exact spot in the spehre our friend ran to is ludacrously difficult. If I'm off by a fraction of PI, I'll go tumbling into a world our culprit hasn't visited. Or worse, on the return, I may never make it back here. Bad enough if an evil twin is somewhere doing this same thing and exits the sphere just as I leave through it."
"Odds of that?" asks Raines.
"Better than your mom being celibate tonight." replies Hannibal.
Ok. I have no idea where this is going except i needed to jot this down to actually mold into a better story. I like this idea from Edogawa Rempo's short story on what it must look like to be in a spherical mirror. I just comined it with my own mad thoughts on what the 4th, 5th, and 6th dimension must represent, and threw some grade school one-liners, and out pops this menagerie.
Wacky super science moment. What if Archimede was still alive in this world, and he's kept in a room where he must continue to speak the next number in the sequence of Pi, and that's how this world with no computers was able to do that?
Jason Raines from the Advanced Geometric Institute joins Moxy an hour later to confirm what Hannibal fears most. Jason's advanced mathematical skills can precisely calculate most objects area to the tiniest fraction. But his sense of precision are confouning him. "Hannibal, this thing is coming up as a perfect sphere. I haven't stopepd calculating Pi to the 200th decimal. How can someone construct such a thing? For what purpose?"
Hannibal can only posit. "Magic and Metalurgy to create a perfect sphere. Inside, the sphere is mirrored. It was once believed a mirror is your reflection in another world. An alternate you in another time. Meta-scientifically, this is the 5th dimension. The existence of multiple timelines existing side by side each other. If geometric 2D planes can cross each other to form polygons, then a 3D object is the intersection of multiple planes in space. If the 4th dimension is a timeline, then the 5th dimension is a time plane, and the 6th dimension is 3D time. Mirrors only operate on planes, so to access multiple timelines you need to be in 3d time space, thus the sphere."
Raines stares bewildered at Moxy. "What now?"
Moxy simply states, "Time travel through dimensional planar hopping. That's how our thief was able to nab those jewels and leave without a trace. Once he hops into the perfect sphere, he has access to an infinite number of alternate dimensions and can use magic to cross back and forth between worlds. Each point in the sphere is another timeline he can insert himself into. If he finds the right point in the sphere, too, he may be able to move back and forth on his own timeline. Theoretically it means nothign though. Each pint in time in 3d time is the convergence of several timelines. so anythign he does to alter the future just shifts him int another timeline. Dammit. Blow it up Raines."
Jason asks incredulously, "You're kidding right?"
Moxy sighs, "I was hopping I wouldn't have to run after him and get stuck in some dimension where ants are pets kept on farms or something equally as crazy. To pinpoint the exact spot in the spehre our friend ran to is ludacrously difficult. If I'm off by a fraction of PI, I'll go tumbling into a world our culprit hasn't visited. Or worse, on the return, I may never make it back here. Bad enough if an evil twin is somewhere doing this same thing and exits the sphere just as I leave through it."
"Odds of that?" asks Raines.
"Better than your mom being celibate tonight." replies Hannibal.
Ok. I have no idea where this is going except i needed to jot this down to actually mold into a better story. I like this idea from Edogawa Rempo's short story on what it must look like to be in a spherical mirror. I just comined it with my own mad thoughts on what the 4th, 5th, and 6th dimension must represent, and threw some grade school one-liners, and out pops this menagerie.
Wacky super science moment. What if Archimede was still alive in this world, and he's kept in a room where he must continue to speak the next number in the sequence of Pi, and that's how this world with no computers was able to do that?
Back at the office...
Wallace Woodford was summoning a storm. Catherine Faber could hear objects bouncing off the walls. The door to Woodford’s office would rattle and creak as it almost blows off its hinges. Wallace had a habit of generating tornados in localized areas when angered. Catherine moved to keep her head down to her desk, sitting behind her Guttenberg Moveable Type-Writer among the remainder of the Sunderville Alarm’s writing pool.
The door could not continue to resist the active forces behind it. It flies off its hinges and papers, plants, and pencils fly burst out of the room. Photographer Martin Hines comes tumbling out of the room. Wallace marches out of his office afterwards, swearing and pointing an accusatory finger at Hines. “Entirely tedious Hines! These pictures don’t pop! All you got is a chimp with a smile and a hand out. It doesn’t even talk! Why couldn’t you have it dressed up in a suit or something! Outfit it in imperial military dress. Make it look like this Ape is from our future, and our future is murderous soldiers who subsist on a diet of plantains!”
This is a re-do on my introduction to Catherine Faber, her surly editor Wallace Woodford, and Peter Parker simulacrum Martin Hines. Tried to give the introduction more pop by mentioning a literal tornado being called forth behind Wallace's closed doors.
The door could not continue to resist the active forces behind it. It flies off its hinges and papers, plants, and pencils fly burst out of the room. Photographer Martin Hines comes tumbling out of the room. Wallace marches out of his office afterwards, swearing and pointing an accusatory finger at Hines. “Entirely tedious Hines! These pictures don’t pop! All you got is a chimp with a smile and a hand out. It doesn’t even talk! Why couldn’t you have it dressed up in a suit or something! Outfit it in imperial military dress. Make it look like this Ape is from our future, and our future is murderous soldiers who subsist on a diet of plantains!”
This is a re-do on my introduction to Catherine Faber, her surly editor Wallace Woodford, and Peter Parker simulacrum Martin Hines. Tried to give the introduction more pop by mentioning a literal tornado being called forth behind Wallace's closed doors.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)