^Hehe. ^^; Thankies. I'm glad you liked it. LOL Clowns. I know where my fear of clowns comes from...it comes from Stephen King and John Wayne Gacy. :S *wonders where Zerina gots hers from* Nice exerpts, though. ^^
Quotes From Your Own Work!
- Thread starter Daring Dylan
- Start date
I have many bad habits. Ask me and I won't hesitate to list them off: I smoke too much, I drink too much, I swear too much, I put people down constantly, I put myself up on a pedestal, I bitch and moan about useless ****, I watch too much TV, I go out of my way to blow out my hearing, I drive too fast, I bite my fingernails, I stay up too late, I think too much, and worst of all, I will **** almost anyone that moves so long as it has a dick. That's just who I am, take it or leave it. But you know what? I wish I could just leave it sometimes.
Which brings me to this: these past few months have been very exciting for me, and I'm getting ****ing sick of it. This happens on occasion. My libido will have a big ****ing winning streak, and suddenly my mind will jump in with this great moral dilemma. I suppose even the worst of us have a conscience, but mine just decides to stay silent until the most inconvenient of moments. At this point I usually fall into a great ****ing depression, complete with the mind numbingly boring periods of introspection and histrionics. I resolve to be a chaste and saintly soul, which holds up for a few weeks at most, before going right back on the prowl. Without fail, I just go crawling back to my old ways.
And~
"I'm in love with my best friend," Derek said, avoiding Daryl's eyes like they were the plague.
He just snorted. "You like Julie?"
"Uh, yeah . . . Julie. I like Julie."
That's when Derek noticed how cliche sounding it was to be in love with your best friend who's a boy and also has a girlfriend.
Also~
"Now me?" Daryl said, blowing a ring of smoke. "I smoke for one reason and one reason only."
"And that is?" Roza asked.
"It makes me look ****ing cool."
Which brings me to this: these past few months have been very exciting for me, and I'm getting ****ing sick of it. This happens on occasion. My libido will have a big ****ing winning streak, and suddenly my mind will jump in with this great moral dilemma. I suppose even the worst of us have a conscience, but mine just decides to stay silent until the most inconvenient of moments. At this point I usually fall into a great ****ing depression, complete with the mind numbingly boring periods of introspection and histrionics. I resolve to be a chaste and saintly soul, which holds up for a few weeks at most, before going right back on the prowl. Without fail, I just go crawling back to my old ways.
And~
"I'm in love with my best friend," Derek said, avoiding Daryl's eyes like they were the plague.
He just snorted. "You like Julie?"
"Uh, yeah . . . Julie. I like Julie."
That's when Derek noticed how cliche sounding it was to be in love with your best friend who's a boy and also has a girlfriend.
Also~
"Now me?" Daryl said, blowing a ring of smoke. "I smoke for one reason and one reason only."
"And that is?" Roza asked.
"It makes me look ****ing cool."
From my novel Shade, which is my MC's name. I'm not sure whether I like this or not....
Last edited:
From my Nano 2009.
The Messenger
And another part, which I'm putting in spoilers because it's a pretty big part.
Rebellion
The Messenger
And another part, which I'm putting in spoilers because it's a pretty big part.
Rebellion
The golden light slanted through the cottage window added a sober tranquillity to the room. It spilled across the heavy oak desk and reflected off the ocean of white linoleum floor.
Sharp azure eyes followed the simple layout of the study. The walls were panelled with shelves brimming with books. A wood filing cabinet stood pristine beside the emerald drapes of the window; the contents within held more value to Claire Johnston than the neat stacks of blue paper rands in the vault behind her.
Her father’s manuscripts lay within that cabinet; some were complete, others would never meet their ending. Rubbish, her mother called it. The only reason it hadn’t been thrown out was because Claire had a core of steel that she’d inherited from the great, unpublished Joshua Johnston, and she had put her foot down to keep the study untouched. She knew what she wanted, knew how to get it, and damned be the person who tried to contest her.
Her father had sat at this very desk for hours on end, lost among encyclopaedias and empty coffee cups. He’d poured his soul out here every available moment; the ink was his vessel, the paper his destination, as he’d explained it to her once. In the confines of this small room he’d created worlds and characters with flamboyant lives that used to tickle her imagination. Sometimes he let her read them; sometimes he kept his stories to himself.
Now his desk was void of his touch; it was tidy with only an orange stationary pencil holder, a disc ball of the world – still and coated with dust. A notepad sat square in the middle of the table, its pale pages fading into amber hue with age.
Claire missed her dad on days like these when her world seemed to be splitting into irreparable fragments.
She was used to seeking him out, to find him here, reclined in his worn out leather chair with his feet up on the desk, a blank book with his scribbles in spread out on his lap, staring off into space. He would look up when she entered, his grey eyes would smile, and he’d welcome her with his casual, “Just the person I was thinking of...” before he’d fall into a discussion of one or the other plot he was brewing.
Claire had never really been one for books, could never imagine herself sitting down for hours trying to write anything, but Joshua had been passionate about his work. His eyes, his voice, his body language – he became animated talking about writing in a way he never did around people. Claire didn’t think anybody knew just what a magnetic personality he really had. How great he’d truly been as a person.
He’d been her saviour when life got her down; distracting her with stories, reciting verses from other literary geniuses to give her courage and advise, and on occasion he would entertain her with tales where characters were going through similar experiences as she was.
“Claire, get downstairs this moment!” Her mother’s voice drifted from somewhere outside the study door.
Claire pursed her lips, and gazed hard at the cabinet for a long time.
Her mother – Angela as she called her – hadn’t set foot back in the room since Josh made the headlines in their local paper. Claire had known the truth for a while before the rest of their small community received the mind-blowing, heart-wrenching news. Joshua – sweet, quiet, enigmatic Joshua, the boy who had been a good student throughout his school career and advanced in his extracurricular martial arts, the boy who had many girls swooning over his golden looks, whom grew into the young man that married an Outsider to everyone’s disappointment, who brought forth a set of identical triplets whom everyone adored, the gentleman who had always liked to keep to his books – innocent, chivalrous, and kind Joshua, had brutally slaughtered a couple of tourists passing through the ill-located little haven of Blue Bessie Hill.
Claire had known something terrible had happened when she got home after school and saw the study door wide open at the end of the hallway. The study door was always closed – always. Josh had been half-sitting, half-crouching on the floor there beneath the window, his golden hair in disarray, his cool eyes downcast at the pile of papers scattered wildly around him, and the incredibly long O-Katana unsheathed and resting across his knee, the glossy blade stained with alarming red liquid. He’d looked every part the battered prince, fresh out of battle. She remembered the look in his eyes when his head had snapped up and he’d noted her presence. There had been clear sanity in his gaze. He’d slowly risen to his feet, and let out a long-suffering breath. “Don’t tell anyone about this. I want to be with you for as long as I can.”
She’d known then that he’d done something unspeakable, that the blood on that sword was of an innocent. Claire hadn’t said anything. She didn’t need to. In a small town like theirs, someone was bound to notice a couple of macerated bodies half-heartedly hidden behind a dumpster.
It had been a couple – Lou and Marissa Visser – in their early thirties, passing through on their way to Knysna for an annual family holiday, the newspaper depicted. A day later, the police showed up on their doorstep. They’d found the sheath of his katana at the crime scene. Josh hadn’t put up a fight when they shackled him to take him to the station for interrogation. He had, however, wrapped Claire in a tight embrace. His parting words to her had been a whisper in her ear, “Fear none, and all will fear you.”
The court didn’t need to take their time with their decision. Josh admitted to murder. When asked what his motivation had been, the response he’d given was a smile that crept through her memory now and sent chills through her blood. A mysterious, alluring, boyish smile – not the smile of a killer, but the one he’d often given when Claire would ask him if he was planning a happy ending for his stories. “You wouldn’t understand.” He’d said, and refused to say more when he was questioned further.
He’d been assessed by the best psychiatrists appointed by the judge, and the result had come back: Joshua was mentally disturbed. They’d dissected his life’s works, evaluated him, ran numerous tests on him; it was final. He was far too dangerous to be placed in any regular prison. Today he was in a maximum security cell in a mental institute situated several kilometres outside of Blue Bessie Hill. Claire hadn’t seen him since they steered him out of the court that day eleven years ago. He wasn’t allowed any visitors.
“Claire!” Angela called again, this time with an edge to her voice.
Claire suppressed a sigh and lifted herself from the chair, giving the study another one over. Had the walls been soundproof, she would have mellowed within this sanctuary all day to separate herself from her mother and her sisters. As it were, Angela’s constant nagging was getting her nerves in a twist.
Claire stepped into the hallway and quietly closed the door behind her. She paused at the top of the sweeping white marble staircase and peered down at her mother. Angela was fussing with a set of gold earrings, clipping them onto her earlobes. Claire had inherited her appearance from her mother – the wavy blonde hair that glowed like liquid gold, the wide set azure eyes that captivated people with their brilliance, the dimpled smile that morphed them into visions of angels. Angela was, simply put, beautiful – and she knew it.
Her gaze was sharp and condescending when she noticed Claire.
“Randy and I are going out for dinner. Crystal is out at some or the other college party, but Courtney is home.” Angela rambled off in broken English, rolling her ‘r’ and emphasising her ‘t’. “You know the rules, Claire.”
Claire replied with a quiet stare of loathing. “I’m nineteen. I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Yes, you do.” Angela stopped her fussing and turned her slightly plump figure toward her, bracelet adorned hands resting on her hips impatiently. “Let’s not start on this again. You have proven time and time again that you can’t be trusted on your own...”
“I told you those were only rumours. I’m not into the occult, and I’m not planning on sacrificing the neighbourhood cats to some deity.” Claire said heatedly. “I’d be a lot more worried about what Courtney is doing with her boyfriend in her room, if I were you.”
“Don’t be cheeky with me, young lady,” Angela retorted sharply. “Stay put, and don’t give your sister a hard time.”
With that, she spun on her heel, curvy hips swaying, and promptly glided from the front foyer. The sound of the front door shutting drifted up the stairs a second later. Claire shook her head, grumbling under her breath about the unfairness of being labelled the black sheep in the family, and strolled up the carpeted hallway.
Her bedroom was tiny compared to the other rooms in their old Colonial style house, but the grand three hundred and sixty degree view of the Atlantic from her window made up for what it lacked in size. Claire pulled a tan leather jacket off a hanger in her cupboard and slipped it on over her white cotton blouse. She stared out at the ocean absent-mindedly while she listened to the purr of Angela’s new Mercedes growing faint down the street.
The sea was uncharacteristically restless tonight; the midnight blue shade was replaced by dirty brown water from the wild currents kicking up sand. Something about it disturbed her, but the feeling was brief and forgotten when she heard a door open down the hallway, and her peppy sister called out to her.
Sharp azure eyes followed the simple layout of the study. The walls were panelled with shelves brimming with books. A wood filing cabinet stood pristine beside the emerald drapes of the window; the contents within held more value to Claire Johnston than the neat stacks of blue paper rands in the vault behind her.
Her father’s manuscripts lay within that cabinet; some were complete, others would never meet their ending. Rubbish, her mother called it. The only reason it hadn’t been thrown out was because Claire had a core of steel that she’d inherited from the great, unpublished Joshua Johnston, and she had put her foot down to keep the study untouched. She knew what she wanted, knew how to get it, and damned be the person who tried to contest her.
Her father had sat at this very desk for hours on end, lost among encyclopaedias and empty coffee cups. He’d poured his soul out here every available moment; the ink was his vessel, the paper his destination, as he’d explained it to her once. In the confines of this small room he’d created worlds and characters with flamboyant lives that used to tickle her imagination. Sometimes he let her read them; sometimes he kept his stories to himself.
Now his desk was void of his touch; it was tidy with only an orange stationary pencil holder, a disc ball of the world – still and coated with dust. A notepad sat square in the middle of the table, its pale pages fading into amber hue with age.
Claire missed her dad on days like these when her world seemed to be splitting into irreparable fragments.
She was used to seeking him out, to find him here, reclined in his worn out leather chair with his feet up on the desk, a blank book with his scribbles in spread out on his lap, staring off into space. He would look up when she entered, his grey eyes would smile, and he’d welcome her with his casual, “Just the person I was thinking of...” before he’d fall into a discussion of one or the other plot he was brewing.
Claire had never really been one for books, could never imagine herself sitting down for hours trying to write anything, but Joshua had been passionate about his work. His eyes, his voice, his body language – he became animated talking about writing in a way he never did around people. Claire didn’t think anybody knew just what a magnetic personality he really had. How great he’d truly been as a person.
He’d been her saviour when life got her down; distracting her with stories, reciting verses from other literary geniuses to give her courage and advise, and on occasion he would entertain her with tales where characters were going through similar experiences as she was.
“Claire, get downstairs this moment!” Her mother’s voice drifted from somewhere outside the study door.
Claire pursed her lips, and gazed hard at the cabinet for a long time.
Her mother – Angela as she called her – hadn’t set foot back in the room since Josh made the headlines in their local paper. Claire had known the truth for a while before the rest of their small community received the mind-blowing, heart-wrenching news. Joshua – sweet, quiet, enigmatic Joshua, the boy who had been a good student throughout his school career and advanced in his extracurricular martial arts, the boy who had many girls swooning over his golden looks, whom grew into the young man that married an Outsider to everyone’s disappointment, who brought forth a set of identical triplets whom everyone adored, the gentleman who had always liked to keep to his books – innocent, chivalrous, and kind Joshua, had brutally slaughtered a couple of tourists passing through the ill-located little haven of Blue Bessie Hill.
Claire had known something terrible had happened when she got home after school and saw the study door wide open at the end of the hallway. The study door was always closed – always. Josh had been half-sitting, half-crouching on the floor there beneath the window, his golden hair in disarray, his cool eyes downcast at the pile of papers scattered wildly around him, and the incredibly long O-Katana unsheathed and resting across his knee, the glossy blade stained with alarming red liquid. He’d looked every part the battered prince, fresh out of battle. She remembered the look in his eyes when his head had snapped up and he’d noted her presence. There had been clear sanity in his gaze. He’d slowly risen to his feet, and let out a long-suffering breath. “Don’t tell anyone about this. I want to be with you for as long as I can.”
She’d known then that he’d done something unspeakable, that the blood on that sword was of an innocent. Claire hadn’t said anything. She didn’t need to. In a small town like theirs, someone was bound to notice a couple of macerated bodies half-heartedly hidden behind a dumpster.
It had been a couple – Lou and Marissa Visser – in their early thirties, passing through on their way to Knysna for an annual family holiday, the newspaper depicted. A day later, the police showed up on their doorstep. They’d found the sheath of his katana at the crime scene. Josh hadn’t put up a fight when they shackled him to take him to the station for interrogation. He had, however, wrapped Claire in a tight embrace. His parting words to her had been a whisper in her ear, “Fear none, and all will fear you.”
The court didn’t need to take their time with their decision. Josh admitted to murder. When asked what his motivation had been, the response he’d given was a smile that crept through her memory now and sent chills through her blood. A mysterious, alluring, boyish smile – not the smile of a killer, but the one he’d often given when Claire would ask him if he was planning a happy ending for his stories. “You wouldn’t understand.” He’d said, and refused to say more when he was questioned further.
He’d been assessed by the best psychiatrists appointed by the judge, and the result had come back: Joshua was mentally disturbed. They’d dissected his life’s works, evaluated him, ran numerous tests on him; it was final. He was far too dangerous to be placed in any regular prison. Today he was in a maximum security cell in a mental institute situated several kilometres outside of Blue Bessie Hill. Claire hadn’t seen him since they steered him out of the court that day eleven years ago. He wasn’t allowed any visitors.
“Claire!” Angela called again, this time with an edge to her voice.
Claire suppressed a sigh and lifted herself from the chair, giving the study another one over. Had the walls been soundproof, she would have mellowed within this sanctuary all day to separate herself from her mother and her sisters. As it were, Angela’s constant nagging was getting her nerves in a twist.
Claire stepped into the hallway and quietly closed the door behind her. She paused at the top of the sweeping white marble staircase and peered down at her mother. Angela was fussing with a set of gold earrings, clipping them onto her earlobes. Claire had inherited her appearance from her mother – the wavy blonde hair that glowed like liquid gold, the wide set azure eyes that captivated people with their brilliance, the dimpled smile that morphed them into visions of angels. Angela was, simply put, beautiful – and she knew it.
Her gaze was sharp and condescending when she noticed Claire.
“Randy and I are going out for dinner. Crystal is out at some or the other college party, but Courtney is home.” Angela rambled off in broken English, rolling her ‘r’ and emphasising her ‘t’. “You know the rules, Claire.”
Claire replied with a quiet stare of loathing. “I’m nineteen. I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Yes, you do.” Angela stopped her fussing and turned her slightly plump figure toward her, bracelet adorned hands resting on her hips impatiently. “Let’s not start on this again. You have proven time and time again that you can’t be trusted on your own...”
“I told you those were only rumours. I’m not into the occult, and I’m not planning on sacrificing the neighbourhood cats to some deity.” Claire said heatedly. “I’d be a lot more worried about what Courtney is doing with her boyfriend in her room, if I were you.”
“Don’t be cheeky with me, young lady,” Angela retorted sharply. “Stay put, and don’t give your sister a hard time.”
With that, she spun on her heel, curvy hips swaying, and promptly glided from the front foyer. The sound of the front door shutting drifted up the stairs a second later. Claire shook her head, grumbling under her breath about the unfairness of being labelled the black sheep in the family, and strolled up the carpeted hallway.
Her bedroom was tiny compared to the other rooms in their old Colonial style house, but the grand three hundred and sixty degree view of the Atlantic from her window made up for what it lacked in size. Claire pulled a tan leather jacket off a hanger in her cupboard and slipped it on over her white cotton blouse. She stared out at the ocean absent-mindedly while she listened to the purr of Angela’s new Mercedes growing faint down the street.
The sea was uncharacteristically restless tonight; the midnight blue shade was replaced by dirty brown water from the wild currents kicking up sand. Something about it disturbed her, but the feeling was brief and forgotten when she heard a door open down the hallway, and her peppy sister called out to her.
From Twisted Vision, my just-after-Fable-II-Reaver-loses-his-mind fic that was originally a crack fic, then became a rather morose drama, and now I've decided it's a humorous, adventure fic! All before the prolouge was ever written.... Anywho. Quotes:
And not five minutes later:
When Sparrow says clippings, he means newspaper clippings and Sparrow is indeed straight....
And not five minutes later:
When Sparrow says clippings, he means newspaper clippings and Sparrow is indeed straight....
Thread shall not die! D:
Anyway:
The result of a NaNo word sprint for my Death Note fic, Switched:
Teehee...ignoramus.... :laugh: I think S and Z like each other.
Does anyone else think of alphabet soup when they see all these random letters for names? @_@
Anyway:
The result of a NaNo word sprint for my Death Note fic, Switched:
Teehee...ignoramus.... :laugh: I think S and Z like each other.
Does anyone else think of alphabet soup when they see all these random letters for names? @_@
- Mitis Forest
People wouldn't get the reference if they don't know me well, but my zodiac is Capricorn ie. the goat.
- Mission 666
DragonMaster2010
Don't Let the Fall of America be Your Fall
GUNS & CHAINSAWS (DmC: Devil may Cry X Lollipop Chainsaw)
Chapter 4
Juliet's old cheerleader teammate just slapped Juliet and continue.
"You…! W-What is this, Juliet?-! What the hell are you?-!" She yelled at Juliet. The other girls were also shocked by what this single girl was doing.
"W-What?-!" Juliet tried to explain as she reached a hand out, ""W-Wait a min- -!"
"Don't ****ing touch me!" The brunette girl yelled, "You…! You're nothing but a freak! You swing around that chainsaw like some psycho and expect us to be grateful!-? Are you retarded?-!
Juliet couldn't say a thing. She could only look to her feet in sadness and fidget with her chainsaw. "I-I just…I just wanted…to help…"
"Help?-! What help?-! The more you kill, the more zombies keep showing up! Don't you get it!-? It's your fault! If you would have just ran with us to safety, we wouldn't be in this bullshit! We'd be safe! But no, you had to play Ms. Wonder bitch and **** all that up for us!"
Juliet's eyes widened unbelief. Suddenly, the other girls also shared the brunette's face in anger for the pig tail blonde. Juliet felt as though she was getting beat mentally by the ones she once called friends. To think all that friend ship and trust could be broken so quickly. "I-I really…Just- -"
"Save it, Juliet!" Said another girl in the angry group.
"Yeah! It's all your fault!"
"And is that your boyfriends head?-! You should be ashamed!"
"And on your birthday too! How sad!"
Juliet wanted to try and explain, but couldn't say nothing…Because in a way…they were right. If Juliet wouldn't have fought, maybe things would have been different…maybe less zombies would be showing up at the school…Maybe she would still have her boyfriend Nick In one piece. She began to bow her head as tears slowly formed in her eyes. What was she to do? After all…it was in a way her fault. Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder and quickly raised her head to see Dante beside her.
"D-Dante?" Juliet said. Dante didn't say a word. However his expression told more words then he could say; He was ****ed. He simply tossed Nick in the air, where Juliet was able to catch him, as he walked up to the brunette and grabbed her by the collar of her shirt!
"Listen here you dumb bitch." Dante started with a quieter angry voice, to which it was raised as he continued, "This girl went through a lot of **** just to make sure you hoes don't get any more holes in you then you already have. She's gone through hell just to try and at least save those she cares about! Unlike you dumb broads; she's been fightin' this battle solely to make sure no other people have to die and get hurt! So unless you got some personal wish with death, then get the **** out of our way, and let. us do. what we were put on this hellhole of an Earth to do." He let go of her collar and then said, "Let's keep going Juliet."
Chapter 4
Juliet's old cheerleader teammate just slapped Juliet and continue.
"You…! W-What is this, Juliet?-! What the hell are you?-!" She yelled at Juliet. The other girls were also shocked by what this single girl was doing.
"W-What?-!" Juliet tried to explain as she reached a hand out, ""W-Wait a min- -!"
"Don't ****ing touch me!" The brunette girl yelled, "You…! You're nothing but a freak! You swing around that chainsaw like some psycho and expect us to be grateful!-? Are you retarded?-!
Juliet couldn't say a thing. She could only look to her feet in sadness and fidget with her chainsaw. "I-I just…I just wanted…to help…"
"Help?-! What help?-! The more you kill, the more zombies keep showing up! Don't you get it!-? It's your fault! If you would have just ran with us to safety, we wouldn't be in this bullshit! We'd be safe! But no, you had to play Ms. Wonder bitch and **** all that up for us!"
Juliet's eyes widened unbelief. Suddenly, the other girls also shared the brunette's face in anger for the pig tail blonde. Juliet felt as though she was getting beat mentally by the ones she once called friends. To think all that friend ship and trust could be broken so quickly. "I-I really…Just- -"
"Save it, Juliet!" Said another girl in the angry group.
"Yeah! It's all your fault!"
"And is that your boyfriends head?-! You should be ashamed!"
"And on your birthday too! How sad!"
Juliet wanted to try and explain, but couldn't say nothing…Because in a way…they were right. If Juliet wouldn't have fought, maybe things would have been different…maybe less zombies would be showing up at the school…Maybe she would still have her boyfriend Nick In one piece. She began to bow her head as tears slowly formed in her eyes. What was she to do? After all…it was in a way her fault. Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder and quickly raised her head to see Dante beside her.
"D-Dante?" Juliet said. Dante didn't say a word. However his expression told more words then he could say; He was ****ed. He simply tossed Nick in the air, where Juliet was able to catch him, as he walked up to the brunette and grabbed her by the collar of her shirt!
"Listen here you dumb bitch." Dante started with a quieter angry voice, to which it was raised as he continued, "This girl went through a lot of **** just to make sure you hoes don't get any more holes in you then you already have. She's gone through hell just to try and at least save those she cares about! Unlike you dumb broads; she's been fightin' this battle solely to make sure no other people have to die and get hurt! So unless you got some personal wish with death, then get the **** out of our way, and let. us do. what we were put on this hellhole of an Earth to do." He let go of her collar and then said, "Let's keep going Juliet."
DragonMaster2010
Don't Let the Fall of America be Your Fall
Haha I have a story that I never finished but here's a quote that a friend of mine seems to really like.
Desmond: "So why exactly did you object yourself to that pile of garbage when your barricade is more comfortable?"
Oswald: "No cable!"
Desmond: "Figures"
and this one from the same two characters.
Oswald: "Well over here is where I stash all our weaponry."
*pulls out a suitcase*
Desmond: "?"
Oswald: "Say hello to The Dominate-or!" "The best of the best for melee combat!"
Desmond: "It just looks like any old bat...with a classy design, mind you."
Oswald: "Not quite!" "It's made of titanium and the base is wrapped in buckypaper." "It's light yet effective and if you press this button here..."
*presses button*
Oswald: "It sprouts spikes!"
Desmond: "Damn that's something"
Oswald: "Yep and I keep it next to a picture of my ex wife." "Sexy piece of ass right?"
Desmond: "Yeah."
Oswald: "...You know what I mean when I say that right?"
Desmond: "Of coure I do..."
*In unison that say*
Oswald/ Desmond: "I was talking about my ex." "You were talking about the bat."
Desmond: "..."
Oswald: "..."
Desmond: "So why exactly did you object yourself to that pile of garbage when your barricade is more comfortable?"
Oswald: "No cable!"
Desmond: "Figures"
and this one from the same two characters.
Oswald: "Well over here is where I stash all our weaponry."
*pulls out a suitcase*
Desmond: "?"
Oswald: "Say hello to The Dominate-or!" "The best of the best for melee combat!"
Desmond: "It just looks like any old bat...with a classy design, mind you."
Oswald: "Not quite!" "It's made of titanium and the base is wrapped in buckypaper." "It's light yet effective and if you press this button here..."
*presses button*
Oswald: "It sprouts spikes!"
Desmond: "Damn that's something"
Oswald: "Yep and I keep it next to a picture of my ex wife." "Sexy piece of ass right?"
Desmond: "Yeah."
Oswald: "...You know what I mean when I say that right?"
Desmond: "Of coure I do..."
*In unison that say*
Oswald/ Desmond: "I was talking about my ex." "You were talking about the bat."
Desmond: "..."
Oswald: "..."
A skit where my twins are conversing over some pizza. :inlove: HAHAHAHAHA!