darknation's Doomworld Forums Blog

darknation's Doomworld Forums Blog

31 years old January 31, 2014, 4:56 am
I am not mellowing with age.
5 Comments

chrischan burned his house down January 11, 2014, 7:36 am
and I cannot stop laughing. Help me.
24 Comments

started so I'll not finish January 9, 2014, 11:19 pm
couldn't really stop tho.


SCENE 1

FADE IN:

INT. NICK'S BAKERY NIGHT


DR. FAGGOT and CUNT are kneeling in a dirty, dirty bakery. A MAN lies on floor, his spine practically snapped in half by his own underwear.


DR. FAGGOT
Looks like foul play.

CUNT twangs the knicker elastic behind the MAN's head.

CUNT
Are you saying this is a sex game gone wrong?

DR. FAGGOT
Perhaps. Do we have an ID on the corpse?

CUNT
Yep. His mother sewed his name into the back of his y-fronts. It's Ni...

DR. FAGGOT
Even assuming those ARE his y-fronts. Could be someone else's.

CUNT nods, twangs knicker elastic once again.

CUNT
You mean a double bluff? A transvestite who wears mens' underpants?

DR. FAGGOT
I wouldn't put anything past sick fucks like these.

CUNT begins to play DUELING BANJOES on knicker elastic (jen, check clearance on music rights)

DR. FAGGOT slaps CUNT away and begins to check the body over. A giant, wet pair of BALLS slap down across the body's forehead.

DR. FAGGOT
My God! His balls are hanging down his back like Superman's cape!

CUNT
Better dust them for prints.

CUNT dusts the balls. Fingerprint dust and flour flies everywhere.

DR. FAGGOT
Anything?

CUNT
Everything. A thousand different sets of prints. It looks like everyone in the world was touching his balls at some point.

CUNT takes out a bit of sellotape and removes a single print, feeding it into his CSI FINGERPRINT MACHINE.

DR. FAGGOT
Boy that's realistic.

FINGERPRINT MACHINE BLEEPS.

CUNT
And we have a match! Let's see... fingerprint belongs to... I don't beleive this. According to CSI FINGERPRINT MACHINE, this print belongs to a perp who has been dead for twenty years!

DR. FAGGOT
My God! Again! What sort of demented pervert doesn't wash his balls for twenty years?

CUNT
That's assuming....

DR. FAGGOT nods sagely.

DR. FAGGOT
...that they even ARE his balls...

CAMERA PANS BACK THROUGH WINDOW. SIGN READS "NICK'S BAKERY"

OFF SCREEN NOISES OF EPIC FAPPING THAT LASTS FOR 2 HOURS OR THEREABOUTS


FADE TO BLACK




SCENE 2

INT. DR. FAGGOT’S APPARTMENT NIGHT

DR. FAGGOT and CUNT enter the kitchen, probably via. a door. A KITTY CAT by the window eyes them suspiciously.

CUNT
…and then they made me their chef.

DR. FAGGOT stops rock still and stares at the cat. He gestures for his companion to be silent.

DR. FAGGOT
Kitty cat.

DR. FAGGOT moves to the kitchen cabinet and retrieves a can of RAVIOLI.

DR. FAGGOT
Kitty. Kitty cat.

DR. FAGGOT opens and empties can of RAVIOLI onto a tea plate before placing it on the floor in front of KITTY CAT.

KITTY CAT
Meow.

KITTY CAT moves to plate and begins to eat.

CUNT
Cute.

DR. FAGGOT kicks KITTY CAT clean across the room with his size 12 Doc Martins. There is a sickening crack of ribs. KITTY CAT smashes right through DR. FAGGOT’S KITCHEN WINDOW.

CUNT
What the fuck! What the fuck did you… Your fucking cat, man!

DR. FAGGOT
(shouting like a death metal vocalist) THAT’S NOT MY CAT!

DR. FAGGOT runs back through kitchen door. CUNT follows at his heels.




SCENE 3

EXT. DR. FAGGOT’S HOUSE NIGHT

DR. FAGGOT and CUNT kneel over the corpse of KITTY CAT in exactly the same pose as before.

CUNT
I still don’t see…

DR. FAGGOT
Dust it for prints.

CUNT
You want me to dust the fucking cat?

DR. FAGGOT
(seemingly possessed by Satan) DUST IT FOR PRINTS.

CUNT does as he is told. But, despite using all the fingerprint dust in his fingerprint dust bucket, he cannot find a print.

CUNT
There are no usable prints on this dead cat.

DR. FAGGOT
Did you dust the cat’s balls?

CUNT
No, I couldn’t see the cat’s balls.

DR. FAGGOT
(enraged) DUST THE CAT’S BALLS!

CUNT gingerly opens KITTY CAT’S back legs. There is a sickening Velcro noise as they peel apart. CUNT grosses out for a second, then steels himself and returns to the investigation.

CUNT
I… I don’t know how to tell you this.

DR. FAGGOT stands up and turns to stare into the streetlights. He is once again composed, but says nothing.

CUNT
Someone… Someone…

DR. FAGGOT nods sagely.

DR. FAGGOT
Someone has stolen the cat’s balls.




SCENE 4

INT. DR. FAGGOT’S KITCHEN NIGHT

CUNT and DR. FAGGOT stand in a makeshift autopsy room set up in the middle of DR. FAGGOT’S kitchen. KITTY CAT has been chopped to pieces with a steak knife. DR. FAGGOT is up to his elbows in blood.

DR. FAGGOT
(hisses from between his teeth) Give them to me. Give up your secrets to me.

CUNT
What can you tell from the autopsy results?

DR. FAGGOT
The victim was a common household tabby, between approximately two and twenty years old. Cause of death was a size 12 Doc Martin Boot that ruptured every single vital organ in its body. Wounds to the head and side were post-mortem, most likely sustained when it smashed through a large plate of glass, possibly a window.

CUNT
You can tell all that from an autopsy?

DR. FAGGOT raises a finger to forestall CUNT.

DR. FAGGOT
However! The balls, my friend, look at the balls. Or, rather, the lack of them. Look at this sad, empty sack. I can say with 100% certitude that the removal of this cat’s balls was done PRE-MORTEM.

CUNT
(aghast) You mean…

DR. FAGGOT
Yes. Some sick, deviant scum removed the cat’s balls whilst it was STILL ALIVE.

CUNT
My God man! Why? Why would someone do such a thing?

DR. FAGGOT
They were obviously evidence. Perhaps the cat could be identified by its balls. So, before whoever sent it sent it, they removed the cat’s balls so the cat couldn’t be traced back to them.

CUNT
You mean…

DR. FAGGOT
Yes. The cat was a spy. Sent here, I’d wager, to spy on us and, if necessary, remove us from the game…

DR. FAGGOT is interrupted by a loud ping.

DR. FAGGOT
Ah, excuse me.

DR. FAGGOT picks up fork and moves to microwave. He opens the door, pulls out RAVIOLI and begins to eat it.

CUNT
We are in way over our heads here. This is big. Bigger than all of us, maybe. We need to call for backup.

DR. FAGGOT
How can we? The entire force might be compromised. Hell, the backup’s backup might be the very people that are conspiring against us.

CUNT
We have to tell the chief.

DR. FAGGOT waves fork with impaled RAVIOLI beneath CUNT’s nose.

DR. FAGGOT
No. No chief. Not until I’m sure.

CUNT
You’re insane! You’re a maverick! You’re a rogue!

DR. FAGGOT
And that’s why…

DR. FAGGOT gestures savagely to the ruined pile of meat that used to be KITTY CAT with his fork. RAVIOLI flies off and slaps against the wall.

DR. FAGGOT
(continued)
…I get results.




SCENE 5

EXT. WELTON ROAD

DR. FAGGOT and CUNT are walking the streets in trenchcoats and fedoras. PROSTITUTES and PUNKS linger beneath streetlights before them.

DR. FAGGOT approaches PROSTITUTE.

DR. FAGGOT
I need info on a pussy.

PROSTITUTE
(speaks like she’s got a mouthful of Tupac) I’ma not fallin’ for dat shit, ya’ll G-Man nigga.

DR. FAGGOT
What.

PROSTITUTE
Y’no run me up on charges, I’ma harassment, police harassment, y’all punk-ass bitch nigga’s betta run ‘fore ma pimp pimps up an’ bring the pimp hand yo.

DR. FAGGOT
(shouting as Scotsmen do when confronted by a foreign language) DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH AT ALL?

CUNT
I’ve got this one, man. I speak the lingo.

CUNT reaches into his pocket and then BACKHANDS PROSTITUTE into the wall, knocking her unconscious and possibly fracturing her skull.

DR. FAGGOT straightens jacket.


DR. FAGGOT
Nigga indeed.

DR. FAGGOT and CUNT move to the next PROSTITUTE in line, who we will call HOEBAG because I am sick of typing PROSTITUTE

DR. FAGGOT
Good evening.

HOEBAG
Pleasure to make your acquaintance.

DR. FAGGOT
Don’t give me your sass! You’ll give me answers and you’ll give them to me now!

CUNT
No sass!

DR. FAGGOT
Lie to me and it will go ill for you my sweet, sweet darling. Now, tell me, do you recognize this cat?

DR. FAGGOT reaches into his trenchcoat and pulls out KITTY CAT’S decapitated head.

HOEBAG looks suspiciously at KITTY CAT’S head.

HOEBAG
Maybe I’ve seen him around, yeah.

DR. FAGGOT
You’d better spill.

HOEBAG
Maybe I will. But it will cost you.

DR. FAGGOT
(screams) SPILL!

DR. FAGGOT pushes the decapitated head of KITTY CAT against HOEBAG’S FACE, rubbing it all over her and pushing her backwards.

HOEBAG
Arrrgh!

DR. FAGGOT
Tell me what I need to know!

CUNT decides to play good cop and kneels down beside HOEBAG

CUNT
You’d best do what he says. Because I don’t want to see you taken down to the cells. You know what the desk jockeys and clerks would do to a sweet little thing like you? It isn’t nice. They’d take you out. They’d turn you upside down and use you as a pencil pot.

DR. FAGGOT
(still shouting) Look at the cat! Look at the fucking cat!

HOEBAG
(crying) Alright, alright! I’ve seen it before! It’s the Jefferson’s cat!

DR. FAGGOT
You sure?

HOEBAG
Yes, yes, it’s the Jefferson’s! John Jefferson! John ‘Peanut Butter’ Jefferson!

CUNT
You’d recognize this John Jefferson?

HOEBAG
I’d recognize his cock.

DR. FAGGOT retreats a little and composes himself, leaving HOEBAG cowering in the dirt. He pulls CUNT aside and they conspire together.

CUNT
We can’t just have everyone whip their cock out at an ID parade.

DR. FAGGOT
We certainly can not. It would let them know that we were on to them.

HOEBAG
Please, sirs! Please! He’s a bad man! He’s evil! The things he makes us do! With cats! And peanut butter! Please sirs, I’m begging you…

DR. FAGGOT
Cunt. I think I have an idea.

HOEBAG
…I’m allergic to cats…

CUNT
An idea?

HOEBAG
(continued)…and I’m allergic to peanut butter, I thought the swelling would never go down, my pussy was black and blue for weeks afterwards, like Mike Tyson’s face with those big, bleeding, blubbery lips…

FADE




Scene Six

EXT. WELTON ROAD.

A large tent had been erected. There is a sign over the door. It reads FREE BLOWJOBS. A line of patrons stretches out as far as the eye can see.


6 Comments

bringing the ruin to the local newsletter January 3, 2014, 11:40 am
5 Comments

alcohol December 17, 2013, 5:26 pm
friday night: work's night out in hotel. Free Bar (eventual tab: 300+ quids). Behaved semi-reasonably by all accounts.

saturday night: woke up at 6pm and met up with old school friends. Forgot to eat before drinking. Got totally smashed on cheap beer before heading out for expensive beer. Might have had some (microwaved) stovies when I got home, evidence inconclusive.

sunday night: woke up feeling like a deep fried turd. throw clothes on, got on train to Glasgow. Cannot physically force myself to eat. Beer o'clock is 12 o'clock (afternoon). Got steaming minced ruined. Discover a 32% (ish) ale called a Tactical Nuclear Penguin and proceed to new heights of total destruction. Get into an argument with a Big Issue seller. Went to the O2 to watch Gogol Bordello. Amount of gig I can remember: none. Alcohol bill for weekend = two hundred quid and still rising. Return to youth hostel and experience extremely vivid nightmare about murdering the Queen of England. Awake at 4am and run around hostel room screaming about dead Queen (suspected alcohol induced psychotic break lol) with no clothes on. Other occupants of room (2 female) rather unimpressed with said behavior. Smoke cigarette through closed window to calm self down. Go to someone elses' bed still not wearing any pants.

monday night: liver in a state of severe distress. Finally ate a cheese sandwich. Bank account hanging in tatters. Still no idea if I like the new Gogol Bordello album or not.
23 Comments

spacehulk December 9, 2013, 2:16 pm


13 Comments

weird fucking dream that my subconcious subsequently made worse December 3, 2013, 12:27 pm
yeah, this sometimes happens. Mad dream that, upon entering that weird, semi-logical half-sleep state, somehow became rationalized enough to actually make enough sense for me to consider doing something with it.


This is a weird idea.

Try to get it straight: basic plot – four (five?) guys build a time machine and try to travel back in time. Only they fuck it up; they in fact travel forward in time, ever so slightly, maybe a year or two. Which is absolutely fucking useless, because it turns out it is impossible to travel backwards in time. And it breaks the world.

How to travel through time: make it relatively simple. One of the characters (the professor who is not a professor: he is in a field of chronophysics that he has entirely invented from scratch, there is no accrediting institute.) devises the theory that time is somehow connected to the laylines that criss-cross the Earth’s magnetic field. Dowsers merely follow the positive timestream with their stupid little sticks, thus gaining a slight forth dimensional advantage over their non-timestream following companions. Dowsers, by following future timestreams, can temporally access their future knowledge and use it to attain their goals in the present.

Of course, the ironic thing is that dowsers are only ever concerned with finding water with their stupid little sticks.

The professor uses this trick (or TIMEHACK) to access this week’s winning lottery numbers. Unfortunately, he can only access this week’s winning lottery numbers a full twenty seven seconds before this week’s actual lottery draw. The timesteam simply isn’t strong enough to let him see further into the future than that.

The professor has won the lottery over four-hundred times, which is a shame because he never has a lottery ticket.

But the theory is sound. The professor speculates that animals all over the world also have access to the timestream; giraffes that know how to walk mere seconds after they are born, instinctual behavior, everything previously attributed to intellectual coding on the DNA level.

Even humans occasionally get the hairs rising on the back of their neck when danger threatens. Doom. Dread. All attributable to limited fourth-dimensional access.

The professor tries to measure it and fails miserably. The experiment is always affected by the observer, after all. He comes to the conclusion that by measuring time one affects the outcome of the experiment and alters the universe on a quantum level. This is why animals have such ready access to the fourth-dimensional timestream: animals do not have pocket watches.

With this breakthrough, the professor can finally begin to design the time machine. The time machine cannot use computers or anything that analyses or documents the passing of time. The professor goes dowsing to access the timestream to hack into his future knowledge and memories and begins to instinctively piece together the time machine.

The machine itself has to be both simple but complex. Clockwork, for obvious reasons, is out. As are machines and computer components.

The time machine looks a little like a non-submersible submarine with a big paddle at the back of it.

The professor discovers a layline that runs the length of the River Tay. However, he cannot paddle fast enough to get any closer than thirty seconds away from winning the lottery. Additional paddles and oars are added: he recruits three alcoholics from the pub, drunk and incapable of counting in a straight line, to aid him in his quest.

This is probably where the book should start; all the rest is background material.

This time they miss the lottery queue by no more than fifteen minutes. The professor unveils his discovery to the alcoholics; as proof, he shows them the lottery numbers he accessed from the timestream, buys them all a pint and they sit in the pub and watch the lottery draw.

The professor weeps into his pint as millions of pounds are cruelly snatched from his grasp for the 432nd time.

One of the alcoholics, who has an even less-sound grasp of the universe he lives in, suggests the possibility of traveling backwards through time and winning the lottery that way. If they could find a layline that moved backwards against the rotation of the Earth then they would be traveling fast enough, relatively speaking, to break whatever bullshit Einstein came up with to make the job of science fiction writers harder.

They venture outside and see three of their names engraved into the wall outside the pub. None of them remember doing this; it must be a message from the past; it is themselves telling their present incarnations that they will indeed succeed.

It also suggests that one of them doesn’t survive the process. This flies right over the poor victim’s head, but his friends pick it up. Greed, desperation for the winning lottery numbers, mean that the three would-be survivors come to an unspoken pact that such a sacrifice is acceptable.

And so, we come to our drunken heroes in their time machine, paddling like fuck against the current in a desperate attempt to break the laws of physics. A battle that they must surely lose, because the time-machine leaks somewhat. They fall into the river and nearly drown, are washed ashore on the banks of the Tay and traipse home to their miserable beds.

And have, inadvertently, traveled forward through time.
They awake to discover they have broken casualty; time is all fucked up. People around them are moving too fast or too slow, their eyes won’t adjust, the entire universe is glitching. They have crashed the laws of physics and the entire system is heading towards terminal breakdown.

Explanation: the creator of the universe, be it God or whatever, laid down the laws of physics to hold everything together. The universe we live in is God 2.0 operating system, which was installed by his child, Jesus, on the eve of the new testament (children are always better than their parents, on a technical level, and always end up performing their IT tasks for them). God 1.0 was old testament style, which explains why everything was so fucked up back then. Upon seeing this new operating system, the population of the world pulled a Mac Fanboy style rage-reaction and killed the person they held responsible.

God got understandably annoyed by this and moved to a new universe shortly afterwards, but only after inventing Linux.

So the rules of physics are in fact the code that stops the system from turning into a buggy shit-feast. And the thing that is breaking the system are the same, identical, atoms co-existing in the universal timestream at the same time. Which means, if you think about it, our heroes manage to return to their own time after all, later in the novel, in order to be present in the future. But no one think of that, mainly because they are idiots.

Time and space continue to bork up: at its worst, events happen to the characters out of sequence as they desperately try to fix things. The time machine is sitting at the bottom of the River Tay so that’s out. Every time one of them tries to consult a watch or clock, everything goes even crazier. The world and the people around them are going riot-apocalypse crazy.

Then one of them sees himself. His future-self, probably doing something really crazy. The professor comes up with the ‘co-existing atoms’ theory as a result.

He knows how to fix the universe. They must remove the offending atoms from the present timestream. They have to either kill themselves or assassinate their future incarnations and somehow remove their atoms from the current timestream. Firing their remains from a cannon at sub-lightspeed might do it (theory of relativity) or the Large Hadron Thingie would do. Even loading them onto a spaceship and firing them out of earth’s atmosphere would, in theory, save the universe after a thousand years or so.

They are in the future. These things are (maybe) possible.

Thus begins a game of Cat and Mouse, kill or be killed. Even though their future incarnations have already lived through this once already on the opposite team, they don’t know the timescale of events (watches break the universe, remember?) Finally they corner one of their number and prepare to bash his skull in, but they are not murderers; they can’t do it.

This is when a third, super-future version of the Professor turns up on a new, superdooper time machine and casually executes their intended victim. Time begins to shit itself less noticeably; the professor explains that he came back in time to kill all the present versions of the chrono-naughts and save the universe. He has already driven a bus over two of them and vaporized the remains with his new raygun, which is made out of a mirror and some dowsing sticks. The only person that remains to be removed from the timestream is the super-future professor himself; he can’t kill himself in the past, because then he wouldn’t exist to save the universe in the future.

The present-day professor must kill his future self with the raygun. “It’s suicide, either way, when you think about it.”

The friends jump aboard the new time-machine and head back to their own past. They burn the infernal contraption to the ground outside the pub, shortly before realizing that they forgot to get the lottery numbers en-route.

Fin.

5 Comments

FINGERNAILS November 6, 2013, 10:40 pm
YES
34 Comments

justification September 14, 2013, 7:18 pm
so, rewrite number four of the dn novel is about to begin. writing a blog about it to solidify the reasons why rewrite number three didn't quite work. If you're interested then I applaud you, but this blog is mostly for me, to get my ideas straightened out. I need to examine why this latest period of editing has failed to produce the results I was hoping for.

brief synopsis of where the project currently stands; what has emerged from the rubble of yet another rewrite is a 90'000 word straight-line monologue. Every single piece of exterior dialogue has been stripped out and replaced.

This has been a huge, monstrous, pain in the ass. Writing a novel featuring multiple characters with their own actions and motivations entirely from the standpoint of one person, without the aid of dialogue? Not fucking likely.

And yet it was done.

Why? Mainly so the voice of the protagonist isn't forced down to bad, one actor radio play status. The "he said, I said, she said..." complete with bad impressions of the person being imitated. For one thing, nobody speaks like that in real life. It's a contrivance bad novelists (looking at you, Anne Rice) have now made the norm and I'll be fucked if I'm going to fall into that lazy bullshit trap.

I have also went with the principal of having the protagonist witness everything he reports. If a crucial piece of plot happens offscreen, away from the eyes of the narrator, then he does not know about it. If he mentions how he learned about it later on then that, in turn, suggests that the protagonist survives the events of the novel. Which fucks dramatic tension.

Bearing this in mind, having the narrator speak to the reader in the past-tense throughout the book was, perhaps hilariously obviously, a complete and total cocksnarfling fuckup on my part.

This is one of the problems the fourth edit will rectify. It is being rewritten in present tense.

During the second draft I came up with the concept (after watching far, far too much 24) that the novel should not skip from scene to scene, but rather flow in real-time. The novel is, in a sense, a single entity. There are no moments of unaccounted for time; we spend every second with the narrator over the course of two days with no convenient 'fade to black' or perspective change when things get quiet or plot holes (how did they get from A to B?) need convenienced out of existence. Again, this was done. Again, this was absolute, mental break-down inducing lunacy, but it was done none-the-less.

I quickly came to the conclusion that 80'000 words of straight-line, no-break monologue is just too much for someone to be expected to sit through without some form of relief. I introduced segues between chapters (mostly featuring previously excised material; these, I reasoned, could be considered flashbacks to previous days and help explain the origins / motivations of characters. These I did in the same signature monologue style as the rest of the novel.

So, to fix an 80'000 word non-stop monologue, I added a further 10'000 words of monologue. Because I am a fucking retard.

Reaching for the delete key when I put months of hard work into these segues is pretty fucking heartbreaking. And it leaves me with several fairly major fucking problems; if motivation for a character's actions during the course of the novel was explained in the now-deleted segue, then it must be reintroduced. Somehow.

A concept that I introduced mid-way through the third editing cycle (the narrator used to write shit-tier children's books) has now evolved into a secondary book, pages of which are inserted between chapters. I've got an artist whom I used to know at college drawing scenes of lemmings flying kites, stuff that is metaphorically connected with what is happening in the forthcoming chapter, sketch-lined Winnie the Pooh shit. These will be accompanied by court documents, lines of script, declassified medical records, newspaper cuttings, etc. etc. etc. that will deliver the same information as was present in the segues.

These, after more than three years of writing more-or-less in the first-person, are proving to be a challenge. I'm actually enjoying both the research and writing of these. It has been a long time since I have enjoyed doing anything connected to this fucking piece of shit book.

Finally, there is a stylistic change. Going from past to present-tense has forced my hand somewhat in this; the flowery, faggoty flowing prose of the third-edition edit simply will not survive the transition. Moving things to the immediate tense sharpens words, shortens them, events are happening NOW so there is no time to fuck about and prettify the language. This, again, I am enjoying.

Right, that's enough bullshit procrastination from me. The plan for the forth edit is now carved in stone. Fuck your mother and fuck her anus.
5 Comments

FUCK NO June 27, 2013, 10:18 pm
After three levels of starving to fucking death I finally find a motherload of food, eat till satiated, jump a yeti and stab that motherfucker to death. Then I think 'Hmmm, resistance to cold intrinsic' and decide to eat the yeti's corpse.

Player, over-satiated, chokes to death on a yeti.







punchline: was playing as a valrykie, who start the game with resistance to cold as standard.
4 Comments

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