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Floydian Hate
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Postby shorty » Fri Aug 29, 2008 10:30 am

It started when he stepped a bit farther than he had intended, and an unprepared universe scrambled impotently to fill in the space where his foot was supposed to land. He looked down at what should have been the second stair on the landing, thinking that it seemed a bit long, but was understandably distracted by the sight of his leg stretching into an infinite blackness. He felt himself being pulled down, and found himself standing in the middle of an unfamiliar city. He looked around, and was amazed at how different each building looked from every other building. Words, in a font which resembled but never quite settled upon Comic Sans, floated up into his field of vision from nowhere:


Then, in smaller text:


The words then floated off into the building he was standing in front of. He looked up at the sign, which read in plain block letters, “MacGuffin Depository”. He followed the letters through the revolving door and up to the front desk. As the letters floated by the unassuming clerk, he looked up and pointed to the door behind him. The letters happily obliged and disappeared. The clerk motions him over and says, “Name?”

“Philbert Krum.”

“Right. You're gonna want Likeable But Reluctant Protagonist Affairs. It's in the Whimsy district, next to the Department of Unbearably Overused Jokes.”

“That must be where the Department of Redundancy Department is.”

“Cute. Run along, now, I've got a load coming in from the set of CSI. Tossers tripled my workload this season.”

“Wait. What do you do here?”

“I keep track of all the silly little plot devices that get thrown away by the folk upstairs.”

“That seems unnecessary.”

“Yeah, you're tellin' me, chief. Gotta keep the whole archive in my noggin, too.”

“What? Why?”

“If I write anything down, it disappears from our inventory.”

“Right. Well then.”

“Oh, hold on a moment. Seems I've got a package for you.”

The clerk hands him a box wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. There was no name or address on it.
“What's in it?”

“Were you listening? It's whatever you need. Now open it, before I call the Literary Police.”

“What could they do? Recite bad poetry at me?”

The clerk looks at him darkly.

“Right, right.”

Philbert opens the box, which then doubles in size and begins to devour his arm. The process was oddly comfortable, and as the boxmonster swallowed him, he found himself standing on the landing outside of his apartment, exactly as he was, twenty minutes earlier, and suddenly unsure of why he was standing immediately outside of his apartment. He shrugs and steps forward to the stairs, but misses the top step and lands on the second, which seems a bit long, at which point he looks down and sees his leg stretching into infinite blackness.

The clerk sighs as the box finishes its meal and waddles into the back of the warehouse. “You'd better have sent him to the right place this time, Bert!” he yells at the box. “One of these days they're going to hear about you taking a second lunch!”
A paranoid is merely someone who is in posession of all the facts.

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Bag of Ass
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Postby Bag of Ass » Fri Aug 29, 2008 4:02 pm

Interesting. The beginning immediately brought Bioshock to mind (Welcome to Rapture, Andrew Ryan, etc.) so I expected the story to be kind of like that. It wasn't though. I imagine that the guy is maybe having a drug trip or some other hallucination, and briefly regains coherency outside his apartment before tripping again.

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Floydian Hate
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Postby shorty » Fri Aug 29, 2008 6:52 pm

That's as plausible an explanation as any other.
A paranoid is merely someone who is in posession of all the facts.

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Postby SporkAndrew » Mon Sep 01, 2008 8:49 am

Is it a glazed MacGuffin Depository?

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