Archive for the ‘Vincent Crampton’ Category

Blood, Blood, Blood… by remains on DeviantArt.com

You drag me into an argument that doesn’t even exist.

Fists start flying. Two on six.

You pop Frat Boy’s nose. He’s down.

Wide Shoulders charges. I trip him, teeth meeting table. He’s down.

Big Chuck throwing knives, inches from your nose.

You bing him with a glass mug. He’s down.

Tweedle dee and Tweedle dum vamoose.

Only this behemoth left. Mohawk. Arms like pythons.

Grabs a bottle. SMASH! Jagged edges, slashing.

“Down boy!”

He jabs. I pop his elbow. The bottle jams his neck, fountaining blood. He’s down, down.

“Whatda we do now?” you ask.

“I was never here.”

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BRUTE BOSS | Pork Chop by RPstaff on DeviantArt.com

War brought hunger. Brannon abandoned the battlefield, walking north through wilderness, eating roots, mushrooms, his boots.

A clearing. Brannon saw smoke, smelled pork.

A cottage. He knocked. A grandfather answered. “Skin and bones you are.”

“Had none to eat.”

“Come. Sit. I’ve plenty, raising hogs for soldiers.”

“How’d you feed hogs during famine?”

Smiling, he brought sizzling chops to the table. “The lord provides.”

Brannon gorged. His belly ached. He farted. “Too much too quickly.”

Grandfather pointed. “Outhouse’s out back.”

Brannon strained over the stinking hole. Grunts echoed below. Tusks rose between Brannon’s legs.

Grandfather heard screams. “The lord provides.”

office worker by ded-kat on DeviantArt.com

“Smertz!”

Oliver Smertz finished sharpening his pencil, then turned casually. Five temps in monogrammed Polos blocked the door. Wendell from H.R. stepped forward, pointing. “That’s my pencil!”

Oliver sighed. “Your point?”

Sneering, Wendell flicked the tip off Oliver’s pencil. “My point.”

Oliver turned away, placing his pencil back in the sharpener. Grinding and woody incense followed.

Grabbing Oliver’s collar, Wendell snarled, “Defying me is pointless!”

Oliver spun, shoving the No. 2 up Wendell’s nostril. Wendell screamed. Blood spurted as the graphite penetrated deeper. Temps scattered. Wendell collapsed, shuddering on the linoleum.

Oliver plucked a pencil from Wendell’s pocket protector. “Point taken.”

 

Laughter, the best medicine by VaggelisFragiadakis on DeviantArt.com

The doorbell rang. Betsy shuffled to the door. As she opened it, rank smoke billowed inward. On her doorstep, a paper bag burned.

“Oh dear.” She stomped on it. The bag burst, smearing her Dr. Scholl’s in dog poo.

Laughter erupted from behind some bushes.

“Dadgum neighborhood boys,” said Betsy, wiping her shoes with a tea towel.

The next day, the doorbell rang. Betsy shuffled to the door and opened it. An open pit had replaced the doormat. She peered down the hole. Two boys wailed as spikes penetrated their intestines.

“Respect your elders, scoundrels!” said Betsy, closing the trapdoor.

Bombay Beach Trailer by perry on DeviantArt.com

Bombay Beach Trailer by perry on DeviantArt.com

The old couch had never felt so comfortable. Lazing for hours, Judge Judy on, sipping PBRs. The noon sun shone through the window. He hummed happily. The trailer hummed back, then whirred, then rumbled.

“The fuck!?”

He shot up, scattering empties.

The aluminum walls folded like origami

He grabbed a cold one and raced for the screen door.

The floor pitched. His knees gave. The carpet split.

A funnel opened in the slanting floor.

The couch slid downward. He leapt on it. The floor gave way.

“Well, shit.” He cracked his beer and chugged as the earth’s maw swallowed him.

Supermarket Sunset by FramedByNature on DeviantArt.com

“Get in,” said Jeff, rocking the shopping cart.

Quentin gulped. “That’s steep.”

Downhill, Martin shouted, “Yo, chicken shit!” He removed his shirt, waggling it matador-style.

Quentin growled, “Douchebag.”

“C’mon pussy!” called Martin.

Huffing, Quentin climbed in the cart.

Jeff handed him two screwdrivers. “Your horns.” Then he kicked the cart.

Quentin lurched. The cart careered downhill.

Martin swept his cape.

The cart juddered. Screaming, Quentin clenched the screwdrivers.

The cart hit a pothole. Quentin flew.

Martin’s cackles stopped with an “Oof!”

Quentin rolled off Martin, who gurgled, a screwdriver piercing his heart.

Quentin whispered, “Don’t die.”

Obliviously, Jeff shouted, “Olé!”

 

 

Paizo monster – Mosquito Monster by DevBurmak on DevinatArt.com

The government’s solution to the mosquito pandemic buzzed in Dr. Meyer’s lab.

“Genetic manipulations, controlled releases, the parasites will soon be extinct,” said General Shaw, leading an assembly into the lab. “Right, doctor?”

Through his hazmat suit, Dr. Meyer said, “This plague will soon end.”

“When shall we release them?”

“Now.” Meyer pressed a remote. Dark swarms flew from trap doors. Huge, aggressive, bloodthirsty, they attacked the visitors. “You ask me to orchestrate their genocide?” shouted Meyer amidst screams. “This species predates the dinosaurs. The hubris!”

He stepped over desiccated corpses, opened a window, releasing the swarm. “Eliminate the parasites!”

Tanuki by jokneeappleseed on DeviantArt.com

The bandit Ishikawa wanders to a steep cliff, a prosperous village the other side. He steps onto a rope bridge hovering above the misty abyss.

Halfway across, Tanuki appears, scratching his big tummy and sipping sake.

Ishikawa draws a dagger.

“The village has nothing worth stealing,” says Tanuki, “except this bridge.” He tips his straw hat to the ropes. “They wove this bridge from gold fibers.”

“Trickster!” shouts Ishikawa. “That can’t be.”

Tanuki belches. “See for yourself.”

Ishikawa glances down. The ropes glisten gold.

“The bridge is yours,” says Tanuki.

Leering, Ishikawa’s dagger hacks at the rope, his bandit fortune.

A twang. The rope snaps. The bridge tips, hurling Ishikawa into the abyss.

Tanuki yawns. “Gotta fix the bridge again.”

 

Note: The Despot realizes this story has 120 words, not 100 words. The Despot makes the rules in this realm. The Despot will allow this small infraction, but only this once, for the sake of this story alone.

Fishing Swiftly by SpooningFairy on DeviantArt.com

Pondside, Mitsuo gripped his bamboo pole. Not a bite.

A soft tread from behind. Ronin bandit!

“Nothing here to steal,” said Mitsuo, not turning. “Haven’t even caught dinner.”

The footsteps neared. Mitsuo sighed. “Please. You’ll disturb the fish.”

The rasp of steel on scabbard.

Mitsuo rolled, a blade clipping his earlobe. Mitsuo spun the fishing pole, parrying another slash. The pole snapped. Mitsuo jabbed upward with the bamboo. The bandit grabbed his throat, croaking. Blood gushed from his windpipe. He splashed backward into the river.

Mitsuo watched bloody ripples rock the reeds. At this rate he’d never catch a fish.

Red Mantis Leader by nJoo on DeviantArt.com

Osculating an octogriff’s pedipalps. Bucket list, check!

However, its butyraceous secretions mimicked pheromones of its prime predator, a hermaphroditic mantoid. After ingesting the octogriff (and my chelipeds), the mantoid mounted me. Its mandibles nibbled my neck, stimulating my coiled embolus, which I thrust in its bursa. We copulated violently until my apical sclerite broke off – ensuring I’d be its sole mate!

It spun me, its claspers roughly gripping my uropods, and penetrated my cloaca with spined hemipenes, depositing millions of fertilized eggs in my abdomen.

Now parasitoid embryos gnaw my swollen insides for breakfast.

Practice safe mating. Cloak your embolus.