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The 5 words are:
- deride
- destructive
- fiddling
- follow
- scraping
The stories:
- "You have to understand that I don't deride
- "De ride! De ride, you id-ee-ote!
- It was 12:33 am.
- Star Trek, The next generation: uncensored
- It's called public phone for a reason.
Foll-Ow Me!
Let's Go On De-Ride
It is My Ride,
An Impatient fiddling so destructive to morals...
Only a good scraping
a scratching, and bumping..
Hair whipping, Body tightening
This is my ride
(Triskie)
"You have to understand that I don't deride your destructive fiddling in that make-shift laboratory of yours, but everytime you come up with some other "interesting chemical" to screw around with, and I can really follow how important it all must seem to you, make no mistake, one of the cats gets plastered against the wall. And since you, my unsung hero, get so gooey when it comes to a measley drop of blood, I GET TO DO ALL THE SCRAPING !"
(Ignace)"De ride! De ride, you id-ee-ote! Git your nose out of that got damnt comeek book and schtop dot ride!"
Ben reached over and hit the yellow button on the control panel that would bring the parachute ride into its shut down sequence.
"How manty times moost I tell you: three minutes de ride, one und a half minutes de unloading, one und a half minutes de loading. Zix minutes all togetter -- 10 rides un hour on de ride."
Ben smiled up at Hans Zett, the owner of the carnival, and shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry."
"Pay attenzion."
"Deride this," Ben muttered under his breath.
When the ride stopped, Ben went around opening all the safety bar handles so the kids could "unload", then collected the tickets of the next group of riders and locked the safety bars back up. He hit the green button and the ride lurched into motion.
Ben stuck his nose back into the comic book and returned to the adventures of Battle Girl as she foiled the attempts of a bunch of mutants on a destructive rampage through a post-apocalyptic Las Vegas.
Ben's attention was diverted as he heard people on the midway laughing and clapping. He looked up to see Sandra, in a sequinned purple bodysuit and white vinyl go-go boots, fiddling as Bilbo the bear rode a unicycle. Most of the carnival patrons would follow Sandra and Bilbo to the stage for the acrobatic show, which meant that Ben should have a little bit of peace for the half-hour the show ran -- the kids who had been in line for the ride had run after the bear.
Ben hit the yellow button so that the kids on the ride now would be able to run after the bear. Once the ride was emptied, Ben's responsibility was actually to be dragging the dust pan and broom along the midway by his ride in searching of trash, but Battle Girl was unconscious on a crap table while a mutant dove at her with his meat hook of a hand. The fate of a post-apocalyptic Las Vegas was more crucial to Ben at that moment than scraping wads of spat out bubble gum off the ground.
Besides, Battle Girl wore a red, white and blue body suit and white vinyl go-go boots
(Brian)It was 12:33 am. Again, I was up *way* too late. Have you ever noticed, that those dorky comercials for insomnia are always on late at night? It's as if they know I'm watching. Makes me want to puke.
Anyway, I was watching another re-run of Jerry Sprunger. Not that I like Jerry Sprunger. He is making money off of other people's misery. This particular episode was the one where the female lesbian stripper had a big surprise for her boyfriend. He, of course, was the type that was into s&m and all that crap. I knew the ending, so it wasn't much of a thrill to me.
Then the phone rang.
I followed my first instinct and checked the caller I.D. Normally, the only people who call me so late at night are either trying to sell me something with lots of fancy talk, or don't talk at all and breath hard. I hang up on the former and as for the latter, well, I just set my alarm for one minute ahead and then put the reciever near the speaker until I hear the dial tone again. Seems to work well.
At any rate, the caller I.D. read something like this:
Clause, Santa
N.Pole, Earth
555-5555
I thought it must be some sort of joke. Everyone in America knows that those 555- prefixes for numbers are only in the movies. But I was curious, so I picked up the phone.
"Hellooooooo?"
There wasn't a sound from the other end except for heavy breathing and a scraping sound. It was sort of like the sound you might hear when dragging one of those cheap-ass tupperware containers along a hot sidewalk. I frowned. "Listen, I don't know who you are, or how the hell you got that crap to come up on the caller I.D. thingy, but if you don't leave me alone, I'm going to call the police. You follow?"
There was another sound, something like a donkey in heat...not that I've ever been around to *hear* a donkey in heat, but I imagine the sound I heard was what it would sound like. And then something else...at first I thought it was a zipper, and I was about to hang up, but then I realized it was more like the person on the other end of the line was fiddling with some sort of bell. There was, of course, still the heavy breathing.
"Who in God's name is this?" I guess any other person would have hung up by then, but hey, the whole thing was just a little too freaky to let go so easily. Then again, maybe it was the after-effects of the egg nog I'd had some of earlier.
Finally, there was a raspy, male, voice. He sounded like his nose was stopped up. I almost suggested Alka-seltzer. "I love you...You are like a bed of newly-frosted lichens upon a sand colored rock in the sun. I can smell you...like the scent of freshly cut hay over a nicely warmed hash. You are my jingle bell, my Northern Star to guide my way. When we make love, it's like that night I get to fly around the world, and time stops just to let us deliver our presents to one another in all that is special."
I was appaled. I mean, being described as 'nicely warmed hash' isn't exactly a turn-on. "Listen, buddy, either you have the wrong number, or you are one seriously disturbed individual. I hope you're aware of the destructive power that crack has on you." I guess I should have hung up, but it was too weird. I was too psyched out to hang up. I had to hear his response to *that* one.
"Oh, come now!" he remarked, sounding actually a little hurt for the first time. "You know all the other elves mean nothing to me! Yes, I know that that big fat ass doesn't approve of our relationship...but you must not listen to the others! Don't let them deride our hopes at love! Sure, Vixen and I had a thing, but it was long ago, my sweet. I know now that I was never meant to do this job, to live this lie. My antlers ache for you...the others complain because when I even *think* of you, my hooves dance upon the stall floor in complete joy!"
I sighed. "You DEFINATELY have the wrong number." I snapped, hoping the poor love-sick bastard would get the point.
There was a noticible pause, and another shuffling of feet. Or hooves. And this time I clearly heard the sound of jingle bells. I swear!
"Is this 555-5556?"
I sighed again. "No, kid, this is 345-3455. How the hell could you have dialed that one wrong?"
"Oh my! I'm terribly sorry...but it's very hard to get the right numbers pushed with ...er... hands such as I have. I hope I haven't caused you any trouble this evening..." He seemed very embarassed. I could almost see him turning a rosy red over the line.
"No trouble at all, hun. But I suggest you find out if you have the right number before you go on talking about love-making and nicely warmed hash." I grinned. Poor fella. Anyone could have made the same mistake.
"Well, I certainly do appreciate it, Mrs...?"
"Jennifer Truman."
"Yes, Mrs Truman. I'll be sure that the slave driver gets you something extra special this year for being so kind." And then he hung up. Too embarassed to chat more, I imagine.
I would have chalked the whole thing up to too much brandy in the ol' egg nog. But on Christmas morning, when I trekked out to the car to go out for a pack of smokes, it wasn't the same car. Hell, it wasn't the same key.
And there was a note attatched.
'Dear Mrs. Truman,
Thank you for being so nice to me. If it's any consolation, I've learned that elves and reindeer just don't mix, and have started a healthy relationship with a seal who swims not far from the pole.
Hope you like the car!
Your friend,
Prancer.'It was a 1999 VW beetle. For all of his poor choices in mates, the guy sure did have good taste in cars.
(Lisa)Star Trek, The next generation: uncensored
"Stardate 924.145
A few days ago we stumbled upon a classic M planet outside Federation Space in what is known as 'The Mirror galaxy', only recently discovered. After several attempts of contacting the local N'gul population we have decided to beam down an expedition team. Space technology of the N'gul seems to be in its early stages and we must proceed with caution in order not to disturb them with our presence. Number I, Laforge, Troi and Data will infiltrate, disguised as local inhabitants."
-beg a friend to pronounce the following words in a deep, hoarse voice: "These are the voyages of the starship 'Enterprise' continuing its mission: to discover strange new worlds, to seek out new lives and new civilisations, to boldly go where no one has gone before."-
*you are now supposed to hum the familiar tune, set the mood*
So far a classic episode. After the intro a few shots taken on the Bridge, Baldie speaking bold words worthy of the Federation. But then again, don't you ever wonder what's happening on the planetıs surface at the meantime? Let's be sceptical, shall we.
While Troi and Riker are in some hut, proving that there is some truth to "There is many a good tune played on an old fiddle". Data is confronted with the wonders of human execretion. Since the 'emotion chips' had a rather baleful influence he decides to do things differently this time and implements some technological changes to fully experience the joys of taking a pee. His little project runs out of hand, though, urine squirts out involuntarily at numerous occasions and apparently he didn't get the formula right: "After running a careful diagnosis I found the fluid that humans produce is concentrated sulphuric acid". The inhabitants decide to use him for toxic warfare.
And what is Lieutenant Laforge up to? Let's follow him, while Picard is talking with Dr. Crusher about noble concepts such as the impact of human interference in alien civilisations. We all know that to improve his eyesight Laforge wears a high-tech device. Today, it's acting up. After hitting a few trees, he still hasn't released a curse of some kind (Federation Policy). As he steps in a gooy substance, however, and the locals deride him as a headless chicken, he can't restrain himself any longer. Who'd think he had such an extended vocabulary.
Now the cameras focus on what's happening on the planet. Time for us to return to the starship. Picard has given up his act. He and Chief get really pissed (Klingon wine unfortunately). After playing with Wesley Crusher by manipulating the transporter and changing his patterns- in the end they actually have to scrape him off the platform- they dare each other to push the self destruct button and try to make a record by gradually lengthening the interval between pushing it and the moment they give the command to stop the process, destructive but quite a thrill. Back at the planet Riker looks up and points:
Wow, look,a supernova!
(Lizzy)It's called public phone for a reason. A reason unknown to most, from what I see. It wouldn't be as annoying, if the dude stopped the constant coin-against-phonecord scraping. It's driving me crazy. The noise is as dreadful to me nervous system as someone cracking his knuckles or the obsessive dripdropping of a kitchen tap.
MAN! He turns his head around and stares at me. I give him one of me I-dare-you-to-keep-talking looks, I got a whole range of 'em. If he turns around again, a I'll-kill-ya-if-ya-don't-hang-up look is sure to follow. I keep fiddling with me car keys, hoping the noise will distract him or confuse him or, possibly, annoy the hell out of him. Me call went from just-a-chat to a-bare-necessity. Me pride's hurt. Me honour's been challenged. Along wiv the fiddling, I'm now tapping me foot (always wear LOUD shoes, they do turn out handy, if only for the dramatic effect). He's stuck between the phone and the plastic structure. Me destructive psychological torture seems to be working. I have THE power. He's in me hands. I move slowly, like a hungry cougar. I circle him, like a nervous shark. I trip and almost fall, like the fool I am. Good, he hasn't noticed the tripping. Being derided by such a shameless bastard wouldn't do me ego any good. He's nowhere near finished. Not just that, but he keeps feeding the phone coins. 1 2 3...at 7 I stop counting. He's got no respect whatsoever. I wish I was 6, I wish I could call mom.
He's just pushing it too far. What would I give for a baseball bat. I'd smash his head, do a couple tapping steps on his gooey brains(?) and eventually steal all of his coins. The pleasure I'd have from that. Oh, pleasure. Mmmm, pleasure.
How did I end up thinking of sex?
Where was I? Oh yeah, wishing the guy was dead. Alas, he's not. Still alive and still talking on the blasted phone. He ain't gonna turn around. I decide for a tap on the shoulder.
-Tap Tap-
Mmmm, the feel of his jacket is soft. Not too soft, but soft. He turns around. The eyes r there, but the lips. Lips to bite, kiss, lick. Oh, THE lips.
No, I gotta be firm. Firm as his legs.
Regain yourself, dammit.
"I was...ehrm...wondering, you gonna be long?", that's what I manage to say. He flashes me a 36 teeth smile and basically mimes he won't.
I guess that settles it. He won't be long. He's gonna go away soon, leaving me the priviledge of using the cursed phone. He's gonna walk away. Oh NO! He has a nice ass.
I turn into a blushing teenager. The rage has been overcome by pure lust. The kind of lust that makes me wanna have him right there and now.
Ok, I got a plan. I'm gonna slip me phone number in his pocket.
A piece of paper. A pen. Damn me! Oh, ok. I write it and fold it up.
How to go about it? I make lil steps. I'm right behind him. I look around, no one's watching. Ok, the jacket is the safest bet. I slip me hand into his pocket. He twitches. I'm stuck. Oh god, I'm STUCK!
He turns around and hits me.
OW!
OW OW OW!
I run away. What a brute! but oh, he's strong. Man, he's SEXY!
(Carla)He was scraping the last piece of meat of the bone. His face, his hands, his chest was covered with blood and gore. No person would every deride his appearance. No person would ever hold him accountable for his destructive instincts or his blood lust. What he had done wasn't even a crime because there was none who could accuse him. After swallowing the last morsel of flesh he sighed. It had been his first real meal and of it's kind it would be his last. He started fiddling with the bones vainly looking for a piece he might have missed. It was a sorry sight him sitting there next to the remains of his hapless victim and the rocks and sticks he had used to kill and dismember her. He felt sleepy and curiously alone. He would stay alone till the end of his days. There would be none to follow in his footsteps. He was the first and the last of the cannibals. His name ? Adam.
(Peter)To see past months' stories, click here.