|
| Some of you may be wondering why I am still updating this. Answer: I don't know. No one reads it, and I don't care, but it's something to do while I'm bored, I guess.
| | |
| Wow, I haven't used this in...ever. Anyway, yeah...stuff... I glued my fingers together earlier tonight. It was not very fun. I had to soak them in nail polish remover. So, yeah...bye... | | |
| Hi, guys. I just wrote the prologue for the second arc of PRC, and I thought I might as well post it. Here you go.
Arc 2 Prologue: The Scent of Reality
It was nice and cloudy. The stupid sun couldn't get into Mark's eyes.
Mark enjoyed days like this, when there was a cool breeze and a good
overcast. Then again, Mark realized, from his position, the sun was
behind him. Oh well, he was not planning on moving for several hours
anyway, so the clouds would come in handy later.
Mark looked at the watch on his left wrist. It read nine-forty eight.
And thirty eight seconds. You can't forget about the leftovers just
because it was convenient. He learned that half a decade ago.
So, that meant he was out for eight hours and...twenty six minutes. A
good sleep, considering he did it on concrete. He took in a deep breath
through his nose and absorbed his surroundings. The pungent mixture was
intoxicating and delicious. No, not delicious. Actually, it was sort of
disgusting if you lived in a sanitized place for a long time. Michael
liked to keep things clean. What's more, Mark helped make the cleaning
solutions. Sometimes, Mark wondered if he should not have made their
home such a clean smelling place.
At the moment, Mark realized that it was for the best. After all,
cleanliness meant safety. Mark was not safe in bad smelling places.
Antonio's apartment smelled like home made alcohol. Mostly because
there was some there. The boss's office smelled like sweat and spit.
Mostly because there was some there. The burning house smelled like
burnt flesh. Mostly because there was some there. And the sidewalk Mark
was sleeping on smelled like beer-ridden vomit.
Mostly because there was some there.
Mark took in another deep breath through his nose. Cigarette smoke,
smog, garbage, the unconscious hobo sitting next to him, and the fish
store across the street all entered him. Mark concluded that this place
was one of the best places on earth, not because it was nice, but
because it pulled no punches.
This was reality.
This was Sanadel City.
This was a place where a girl with deep red hair was staring down on Mark.
This... Oh, crap. | | |
| I have returned! Sunday might have been one of the saddest days of my life. I pulled my old Playstation (from China) and wired it to my TV. The thing is, is that it was given to me as a gift from a cousin in China around eight years ago, but the power cord was not US outlet-adaptable, so when I first got home, I never used it. What's more, there's a chip inside of it that allows to play burnt games, which is illegal to install in America. It was buried, and I just rediscovered it this weekend. I plugged it in with a different power cord, hooked it up to my TV, and attached the gun controller. I put in the original Time Crisis disk and started playing. It was so beautiful... for the whole of five minutes. As it turns out, the controller is broken. Apparently, spending eight years being ignored is bad for a controller. I can't shoot on the far left side of the screen. I was so sad. | | |
| Not that I'm trying to complain, but it seems odd to me that we only ran 2000 today. I wasn't feeling as good as I was some other days, but that was still suspiciously easy. Maybe that wasn't even Weigner...  He might've been replaced with an alien! Ah! PS- Shotty main cannon. | | |
|
|
