JTanczos reminds me of a dragon. Not your every day “Rawr! *fiar!* ohnoesrun!” type dragon, though. Allow me to explain.

I woke up from a dream one night, looking up at the dark ceiling. Then house was quiet; it seemed that no one was home. I fancied a walk, so I dressed, put on some boots and headed outside. The wind outside was cold and cruel; it whipped at my face and eyes, but I did not mind. It was better than being inside, with nothing to do and nothing to see.

I neared the river that divides us from the woods. I looked into the water, and saw my reflection, pale and listless. Looking up, I saw the woods, across the river. They did not seem foreboding and fearsome as they had before. Rather, they looked inviting, enticing.

I looked down a way, and saw the little wooden bridge. I walked over, crossed it, and made my way down the leaf and moss carpeted floor. I looked up at the trees. The first few were uninteresting and bare, though tall and white. As I walked deeper, though, the trees began taking a more interesting shape, making me more and more curious to see the next. Before I realised it, I was lost on my own mind, lost in the forest, and didn’t quite care.

Snow began to fall. At first I did not notice. Slowly it grew heavier, until the road in front of me was covered. The trees were like two walls beside me, so finding the road was not a problem. The problem was how quickly and heavily the snow was falling. Before I knew it, I was up to my knees in some places, and I grew very cold. I tried to move around to keep warm, but it didn’t work. I felt my body grow cold, and I leaned against a tree, exhausted and shivering violently. Sinking into the snow, my back against the tree, I was able to look up. Way up high in the dark jewel-encrusted sky, a long white, blue haired dragon chased furiously after something very large and very black. A spout of flames came out of his mouth, and I lost consciousness.

JTanczos roared once more, but his flame was too week to penetrate even the mist. Feeling angered, lost and alone, he gave up the chase, and floated in midair feeling despair take over him. He looked down, trying to think. I can’t give up, he kept telling himself. I can’t, there must be something I can do. As he stared down, watching the swirling snow around him fall to the forest below, he caught sight of something on the side of the road. He flew down curiously, and saw it was a human! Picking her up in two of his many feet, he took off, heading home.

When I awoke, I felt warm, and comfortable. The sheets I was covered in, and the pillow, smelled of sweet timothy grass. I wondered if perhaps I had fallen asleep somewhere in the meadow behind home. Not wanting to open my eyes, I noticed suddenly that the warmth did not feel as if it was from sun. I opened my eyes and shrieked as I sat up quickly.

TO BE CONTINUED….

There was a Born_Acorn who fought to the death,

With his alter-Born_Acorn, to their last breath.

All through the day, and all through the night,

They did kick, and they did bite.

“That’s it!” said Born_Acorn

“These conversations are through!”

“Nuh-uh” said Born_Acorn,

As he threw some sheep poo.

“What would it take, for you to leave me be?”

Said Born_Acorn, deflecting fetid debris.

“A bucket!” said Born_Acorn, “Of Brussels Sprouts,

And I’ll refrain from throwing this net full of trouts!”

“Then let’s call a truce,” said one to the other,

“I’ll get you your bucket, from the great Earth Mother!”

And so they searched, far and wide,

Little did they know, the Earth Mother had died!

Discouraged, they were, as on they trudged,

When they came across one called Owen Rudge!

They asked and they pleaded “Where is the Earth Mother?”

But all Rudge did, was look from one to the other.

Now saddened by failure, they returned home,

And they met a Prof_Frink, under a geodesic dome.**

“Where is she,” they asked, with tears in their eyes,

He said, “Her heart was broken, and she’s in the skies.”

They looked at each other, enraged beyond recognition,

And both went off frantically, to look for ammunition.

To this day they stand, upon Mount Lovelorn,

Battling each other with large sacks of peppercorn.

**http://www.thedomecompany.co.uk/images/domes/10m/10m_guildhall_glow.jpg

Orudge, the SROTU, reminds me of… an Interpol agent. I have this fixed image in my mind of orudge grabbing someone’s arm, twisting it around to his victim’s back and slamming him against a wall, all inside an interrogation room (you know, one of those with the one-way-see mirror, and the metal table and chairs chained to the floor?).

Allow me to relate how I got to this image:

Orudge walks nonchalantly down a street in St. Andrews, Fife, Scotland. It’s a rather clear day, and the sound of waves can be heard nearby. Gulls and other sea-birds can be heard squawking in the distance, and the smell of salt-water is sweet in the air. It is almost sun-down, and orudge is heading back to his dorm.

As he makes his way towards his abode, his mobile rings. It’s a ring-tone he hasn’t heard in some time, and it startles him. He reaches into his left pocket, and retrieves his Samsung D600. With a sigh, he answers.

“Agent, we have a situation in your vicinity,” says a strict and anxious female voice.

“What is it now?” asks orudge impatiently. He preferred his previous operator, who seemed to have retired in the past month. The older woman had a softer, calmer, more composed voice.

“We have new information on the location of an assassin working for Obhiamoo” says the woman.

Orudge stops in his tracks and blanches visibly. He had arrested the noted Ugandan arms-seller a year ago, on a trip to Brazil. It had only been chance that the man had been hiding in a dwelling near orudge’s father’s home, and that orudge had noticed and recognized the man despite his extensive plastic surgery. A DNA exam from a cigar Obhiamoo had discarded carelessly had confirmed his identity.

“Who is it?” asked orudge, and continued his nonchalant walk, regaining his composure. He hated these parts… when he didn’t know where the person was, but could feel his presence. But walking quicker would arouse suspicion. Orudge liked to keep the element of surprise whenever possible.

As the operator filled him in with details, orudge reached his dorm. He expertly extricated his MacBook from a jungle of cables, book, and dirty laundry, and turned it on. His fingers flew across the keyboard as he logged into the Interpol site and downloaded the file his operator had prepared for him. He sighed as he got to work, reading the asasin’s biography and personal details, including weaponry taste and special tactics abilities.

Hyronymus, as he was known in the criminal world, was a mystery. There was very little information, save for extensive detailing on his computer and cyber-world doings and crimes. Trained and dishonourably discharged by the U.S. Navy (Seal), he disappeared from the main-stream world after being sent on a mission by the CIA to Uganda, where it is reported he met with Obhiamoo.

Orudge sighed, it would have probably been best to accept the offer from Interpol to be put into protective custody in the United States. Apple wasn’t bad to work for anyway. But he had insisted on waiting until the summer, and now he had a professionally trained (and well-paid) assassin on his tail. Of course, it wasn’t too late to take up the offer if, that is, he could somehow avoid Hyronymous.

TO BE CONTINUED . . . .

GoneWacko reminds me of a vampire. Granted, the name itself (GoneWacko) is not a very vampiric name, but run with me on this one.

I saw GoneWacko’s picture on TT-Forums and I couldn’t help but think how good GoneWacko would look with long fangs. And then I wondered, what if GoneWacko was not really who he said he was?

As a vampire, GoneWacko would look rather stunning. I picture him wearing a fedora, with a cut peacock’s feather in it. He dresses in a black and green (the green to match the peacock feather) pinstripe suit, and has a cane, with a silver wolf’s head on the handle. In other words, he looks like a very white pimp with fangs.

GoneWacko walks the night streets, looking for prey. There are always hookers about, but GoneWacko is looking for some fresher blood. He could always try the jails nearby, but they’re too easy….

As he walks, he passes by an apartment building. Apartments. Those are always full of people to feed on. Without hesitation, and with a certain air of self-importance he walks into the building. At first he is greeted by a cop, sitting at a front desk. He smiles at the cop, who smiles back, tipping his cop hat. GoneWacko has one of those faces one seems to know from somewhere, and he often gets away with a simple smile, or nod.

As he walks up the stairs, he notices how well taken care of the place is. Of course, the carpet is a bit threadbare here and there, from use, but in all, it is clean, and, it seems, rather decent.

GoneWacko walks into the first hall, and waits for an elevator. When it arrives, there is a young man, dressed as a bellboy, with two dogs in tow. He looks harassed, as if uncomfortable handling the dogs. GoneWacko smiles and walks in. The dogs whimper, and go to a corner, as far away from GoneWacko as they can. They can tell he is bloodthirsty.

As the elevator closes, GoneWacko’s friendly smile turns into a greedy one; his eyes are full of lust for blood, and his lips curl back to reveal the now elongating bright white fangs as he walks towards the now terrified bellboy and the howling dogs. When the door closes, there is no sound to be heard.

~.~

GoneWacko steps out of the elevator, and onto the first floor of living quarters in the apartment. He twirls his cane as he walks nonchalantly down the hall, looking at all the doors. Suddenly he stops, for his cane has frozen, very close to a particularly clean door. With a sly smile he raps on the door smartly, three times.

There is a sound of moving bolts and locks opening, and finally the door opens just a crack to reveal a pair of blue feminine eyes.

“Yes?” asks a groggy young lady, dressed in a bath robe.

“Hi…” begins GoneWacko, and pushes his way gently through the door. Already his fangs are elongating, and the door closes behind him gently.

If we look down, to the gap between the floor and the door, the light from inside the apartment is casting strange shadows. There are two, one walking slowly towards the other. And then there is a thud against the door, and the two shadows melt into one, as a pair of shadow feet disappear and a soft scraping is heard against the wooden door. There is a whimper, and then complete silence. After a moment, a thud is audible, and GoneWacko opens the door again. This time, he comes out wiping the corners of his lips with a bright white handkerchief, which he stuffs back into his pants pocket.

Again and again, he goes up all 4 living quarter complexes.

When he gets to the top of the building, GoneWacko exits the elevator and steps out onto the rooftop. He goes to the edge of the roof, and looks down at the city. He is full, and the sun will soon be up. He must make sure to get back home before it does. As he turns, heading back to the elevator, he notices a small surveillance camera.

Wink for the camera, GoneWacko.

The apartment complex was called #tycoon. Lawl. >:3

Lewis reminds me of a CIA agent. I’ll tell you why.

How often do you find an amazingly sweet, sincere, down to earth, quirky and decent guy on the internet? NEVAR. Most of the guys I’ve met on the internet usually hide their professions, their family lives, their tastes and distastes, etc. But not Lewis. I have very rarely met a guy so sincere over the internet. Or… is he?

When I think of Lewis, I picture a taller than the average young man. Hi is in his early 30s, as he professes, and wears glasses. His brown hair, which sometimes grows to go near his eyes, or right under his eyebrows, is usually pretty well kept, unless he has been exchanging between headphones and baseball hats all day.

He gets up for work every morning, makes his coffee, as he should, etc. He carpools, like a good citizen, etc. Once he gets to work, he greets friends and coworkers etc. But once he steps into his office, it is a completely different world.

Lewis steps into his roomy office, and closes the door behind him. There is a window, at the other end, and a filing cabinet beside the window. The carpeting is good for attenuating sounds, and he steps over to his desk gingerly, after he makes sure he has locked the door. People respect Lewis’ closed door. He taps a small corner of his desk, andhe smiles as something begins to whrrrrrrrr

From the desk rises a small block. It is a tiny television. Ceefax seems to be broadcasting on it. But this is no ordinary Ceefax. It has a listing of the Top 10 Most Wanted criminals in the world. It has their case files, and any other information a CIA agent may ever need. He stis on the corner and brings out a Newton PDA, into which he registers any new information.

There is a gentle knock on the door, and Lewis looks up suddenly. No one ever knocks on his door this early. He frowns, and taps the TV on the top, making it whrrrrrrrrr once more, and go down. He goes to a corner of his office brings out a gold club from its bag. He then goes to the door, and opens it carefully. Standing there is a young intern, who looks a bit anxious. “Uh, Mr. McIntosh, some guy left this in my Inbox, but it’s sealed, and it has your name on it so…”

Lewis nods his thanks, and takes what is in the pimply intern’s hands. It is a black envelope. Lewis recognizes it immediately and slams the door shut, locked, and hurries to his desk, where he tears the envelope open. Inside is a short letter. It is from Headquarters! (Wherever that may be.)

He looks around his room frantically, and then up. He looks at the letter again, and then again, at the foam tiled cieling. He takes the closest chair, and steps up onto it. Even though he is tall, he can’t quite reach the cieling. He countrs the types. 3 from the south wall, then 1 to the west, then 4 south-east. He pushes that tile up. He can feel there is something heavy.

He hops off the chair as he removes the tile, and, lo and behold, it is a regular banker’s box. He takes off the top, and looks inside. There is a change of clothing, and a briefcase. He brings out the clothes and sorts it onto his table. There is a long tan trench coat, with a soft fleece inner lining, a ridiculously long, multicoloured scarf, a pair of khaki pants, a black t-shirt and a hunter green vest. It seems the powers that be trust him to pick his own socks, shoes and underwear.

Lewis proceeds to the briefcase, and opens it, knowing already that the code to open it is his ID number. Inside are a pair of keys, a stack of money, passport, driver’s license, and a couple other documents. Then he notices the envelope and realizes: He has a new assignment!

Immediately he brings out his phone. It rings only a second.

“Heather-” he begins, but he is caught off.

“I got one too,” she says, and she seems to smile as she hears his sigh of relief. “I’ll be waiting outside for you,” she says, and they say a quick goodbye.

Lewis changes quickly, and he laughs suddenly, noticing the car keys. They say SAAB!

He takes the stairs (which are usually empty) and exits through the rear of the building. There, near the trash bins, is a shinning new SAAB TURBO in a wonderful hunter green. He laughs as he sees the license plates.

The license plates say #tycoon. Lawl. >:3

Wallyweb is, I think, one of the most interesting of #tycooners. He remains aloof, never giving much personal information (except for every once in a while, when the ocassion calls for a smidgeon of personal info) and only in humorous ocassions does he offer any real insight of what he’s thinking. Wallyweb reminds me of… a gunslinger.

When I think of Wallyweb, I get the image of a tall man in a (probably leather) The Matrix style long coat, with great shinning silver buckles across the waist and smaller ones across the chest. Atop his head is a cowboy hat, black, to match his coat. His boots look heavy, and they too are made of black leather, with large silver buckles on the sides. Although heavy, his boots make no noise on the brightly lit stone pavement of the street as he heads towards a small dingy looking shop on the other side.

Wallyweb looks around himself before he knocks, making sure to keep his hat low over his forehead, shielding his face from the bright moon and lamplight. Something in the door slides to the side, and two black eyes can be seen peeping out into the darkness. The eyes seem to recognize Wallyweb, and, after the sound of some heavy bolts moving is heard, the door opens only enough for Wallyweb to slip through. The door closes with a heavy thud behind him.

It takes less than a second for Wallyweb to accustom his eyes to the bright firelight inside. It is a furnace, for smelting. Beside the furnace is a large fat man in a greasy and dirty white shirt and light brown trousers.

“You’re here about a pair of revolvers?” asks the fat man with a growling voice as he bends over to get something off the floor. It is a hammer, and he goes to an anvil and begins hammering away at something.

Wallyweb only nods, and for the first time we notice something around his waist, under the leather coat, resting on his hips. It is a pair of belt holsters. But they’re empty!

There is something akin to anxiety about Wallyweb, but he keeps his composure. Only his posture, a bit tense and rigid, betrays any form of emotion, and the blacksmith (the fat guy) grins.

“Don’t worry,” he says with a cheerfully gruff laugh. “Your guns are fine, come over here,” he says, waving him over.

Wallyweb stepped over carefully, and looked over the fat man’s shoulder. A smile spread across his face and he raised his hat to get a better look. In front of him, and in a crystal casing, laying atop a luxurious satin pillow, lit by the light of four candles, lay two revolvers.

“The design was difficult,” said the fat man proudly. “But I managed to keep the revolvers themselves intact. Didn’t take a single piece out of them,” he said, his chest swelling with pride.

Wallyweb steps around the blacksmith, and reaches inside the crystal case. He picks up a revolver and feels the design etched in white gold into the side. Very intricate, it gives him shivers, and he picks up the other one.

Without a word, he brings out a heavy money bag and pushes it into the man’s hands, who looks little more than flabbergasted as Wallyweb simply opens the door and walks out into the dark street, making sure to close the door behind him silently.

Out in the street he brings out a gun, and begins filling it with ammunition. He smiles as the white gold shines in the moonlight.

The name etched into the revolvers was #tycoon. Lawl. >:3

Lobster reminds me of a Viking. He reminds me of a very tall and buff Norse warrior with a great big horned helmet, which has a gold-gilded nose piece coming down. (MY GRILL LET ME SHOW YOU IT LAWL)

Lobster is just hopping off his Viking Trireme ship-thing and stepping onto a sandy and pebbly beach. It is before sunrise, but there is some light filtering in through the dense fog, which is being moved this way and that by a cool sea wind. Lobster looks around, surveying what little is visible of the land.

He turns back to look at his ship. It is a grand and large ship, with shining oars sticking out from the sides, the sail blowing gently in the wind. He looks back at the land. He think it will be difficult to find wood like the type his trireme needs. Regardless, he sends out a scouting party. Meanwhile, Lobster sets up a perimeter, and a bonfire. His soldiers need nootrishun.

After hunting down some game, the scouts come back, reporting the different types of wood found in the small forest. Lobster nods as he jots this down. He was right, there is no such wood as he needs for the final piece of his ship. Disappointed, he calls everyone to pack up.

Lobster and his men sail for days in search of another island. He stands at the front of his row of men, who are busy at the ores. He looks around his ship, proud of how far he has come from the misery of his past. Lobster’s hair shines brightly in the sun, as he pulls of his helm. Suddenly there is a cry of land, and he rushes to the side. Verily, there it is, a group of rocks jutting out in the bright blue sea. He commands his ship be directed that way, and it is done.

There is a great commotion as they prepare to dock. There is hidden coral and rocks jutting out of the water. Lobster decides to have his men dock far from the shore, and take a small boat out to the land. AHA! Already Lobster can see the trees he has been searching for.

He brings out a small roll from inside his heavy bear fur jacket and unrolls it. Inside is a very intricate design. In the middle is a woman, with a… lobster tail instead of legs. Her breasts seemed to be very firmly clenched on by a lobster, whose tail seemed to end at her navel.

“Those trees are perfect,” he said to himself, and immediately set his men out to cut them down and work them into the design he would affix into his majestic ship.

The name at the bottom of the design was #tycoon. Lawl. >:3

Sometimes RPharazon reminds me of a rather portly and old Englishman (maybe even a retired Knight) who sits in his room smoking pure tobacco (or so he says it is) and reading a very old book in leather binding with various words written around the margins. From this angle, one can’t really see what these notes say, but it seems he is very intent on making sure that a single paragraph does not pass without his reading these notes.

When he is hungry, he rings a little bell, and his maid comes in. she is a rather elderly lady who has been with him for a rather long time, but she likes working for RPharazon because he is a kind and generous master.

Well, he asks her for a quesadilla, and the little maid nods, making sure to pick up her feet as she walks out of the room, to not scuff at her shoes (which are made of leather) or the floors (which are a dark cherry reddish brown) because she knows it annoys Sir RPharazon II of Weathertop.

She comes back some minutes later (she knew already that Sir RPharazon II of Weathertop wanted a quesadilla) and she hands it to him in a china plate made of neat porcelain. The dish is pretty; it has small and almost faded pink carnations on the edges, which are rather wavy, and whose tips are gilded with gold.

She also brings on her stainless steel tray, a nice cup of warm tea (spearmint) because she knows he does not like the taste of tobacco before he has his quesadilla. He claims it interferes with the cheese’s salty, yet sweet and comforting flavor, which he is a great fan of. In all truth, Sir RPharazon II of Weathertop does not like tobacco, but he was told at an early age by a rather respected Philanthropist that he seemed the type to like tobacco by the pipe, and so Sir RPharazon II of Weathertop adopted the habit. He makes sure, however, that he has regular exams at his doctor’s, lest he develop some form of cancer. See, Sir RPharazon II of Weathertop likes to keep his habits in check.

Well, the little maid sets the tray on Sir RPharazon II of Weathertop’s favorite loveseat-side-table. Sir RPharazon II of Weathertop’s moustache bristles with delight at the smell of his dinner, as he picks up his teacup. His moustache, much like his dark curly hair, is peppered with white hairs, and is a little wet when he returns the teacup to its plate. He lets out a sigh of satisfaction when he has had enough to his heart’s content, and he lays his book aside, making sure to fold the corner of the page he was reading carefully. From this angle one can see many pages are rather dog-eared.

Picking up his quesadilla he calls out to the retreating little maid, “Come, dear, light up the fireplace, and bring yourself some tea. I’d like a big of conversation tonight” as he does every other night.

The little maid does as she is told, and soon the lavishly decorated room is shinning gold and red with a hearty fire in the log fireplace, which warms the room to a furnace-like temperature. Sir RPharazon II of Weathertop notices this, and opens a window a crack as the little maid comes back with her tea tray and sits on a little divan, across from RPharazon.

The little maid’s name is #tycoon. Lawl. >:3