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I don't know if the story is stolen or not, but as a writer, I can safely say it's beautifully written. I hope it goes on.
KEEP WRITING PLEASE!
I mean thats so funny! just keep going!
The Lack of content here, Is suprising.
At 8/25/07 03:32 PM, Seatbeltnazi wrote: This was copied and pasted form here...
its invalid r-tards
HEY, GUESS WHAT! MOAR!
A few minutes later my vision is fixed and I get up. My head fuck pains. My back is OK though. I'm just glad they didn't kick me in the stomach. One-way trip back to Stalingrad that would've been.
My wallet is lying about ten metres away. My cards are strewn in the trees and shrubs around it. The fifty bucks worth of notes that were in there is gone. Luckily, my car keys and my phone were in my other pocket, which was pushed against the ground and covered when I fell. I call my mate.
He gets there in five minutes and helps me back to the car. I ask him if I can drive. Guess.
He takes me to the police station and I give a statement. I decline the offer of medical help. fuck God, be a little more cunning would you.
It is night. I am in bed. My bed. It is the night after VH day, and I continue to survive.
"I'm coming for you God."
I look out the window. Dark clouds diffuse the moonlight. A lone star shines in solitary defiance.
Thursday 12th - VH Day +2
I wake up. It is mid-morning. Today marks the second day of my flight from medical Stalingrad. Including today, this leaves 3 days until Saturday - the day God's war-machine shifts into overdrive and Blitzkrieg's my sorry ass. I cannot repel this offensive. This had been made clear. I have a ChromeBogan inflicted bruise on my back to prove it. If I am to have any hope of defeating God, I must strike on the 13th; before the curtain rises. There will be no encore. No repeat performance if I fail. I have showered profusely. Rheem has shown me the way. The fallen have given me the will. Everything hinges on tomorrow's action.
Christmas comes early kids. Crank the fucking milk and cookies. We've got a war to win.
But first, I must navigate the labyrinth of God's bureaucratic bitch. The ultimate institution for crippling men's minds through unnecessary documentation, duplication, and red tape.
Welcome to University. Prepare to be cluster-fuck'ed.
I dress myself. It takes me ten minutes. My mid-section, upper-back, and head are having a house party at my expense. Attrition is taking it's toll. I must make it through today unharmed. My capacity for injury has been reached, and then some.
I board a bus. An hour later, I board a second bus. A ten minute walk after that, and I am standing outside the student office at university. It is lunch time. The short walk has nearly killed me. My mid-section is paining something fierce. I am glad the queue is short. I am desperate to get home.
"Next," says the man.
I am disturbed. The guy serving me has bags the size of grapes under his eyes. They seem unstable. They quiver with his speech. I pray they do not explode.
"Hi, I spent a week in hospital and missed some tutorials. I want to apply for special consideration."
I am smiling. I am perky. I am the girl scout on your front porch offering cookies for money. I am your biscuit prostitute. I hope our transaction is savoury.
Bagman does not smile back. God has forewarned the University of my coming. They have prepared themselves well.
"Go make photocopies."
This seems unneccesary. I ask him why. In retrospect, I should've told him the vineyard on his face was ready for harvest. A lot of future pain could have been avoided. I may even have scored some wine.
"You need to make a photocopy for each course."
Ok. Fair enough. I'll pay that. I ask him if he wants all of the photocopies.
"You take them to each faculty in person, and bring one to me."
The faculties are located huge distances apart, but I will respect procedure. An incident is the last thing I need.
I walk to the library. It's a huge effort to walk without grimacing. My kidneys are divebombing off the roof into the pool that is my bowel. Everything is getting wet. Everything is getting sore.
I photocopy the medical document I need four times. The cost is $1.20 per sheet. I make the trek back to the student office. I wait in the queue. Once again, I confront Bagman.
I hand him the photocopies. He takes the original, and leaves the photocopies on the counter. I tell him I'll go hand the copies into the relevant faculty offices.
Bagman plays his hand.
"First year subjects don't accept special consideration for missed tutorials. You just get counted as not having attended."
He smiles. Deadset smirks. He is overflowing with self-importance.
I ask him why he had me make photocopies. I want to know why I just spent twenty minutes tearing the shit out of my insides to waste my money
"Not my problem," he says.
Absolute fuck. I decide I need to break even with Bagman. Two seconds of silence passes. I speak.
"Are they seedless."
Bagman is confused.
"What?" he says.
"Red wine or white."
"What? What are you talking about?"
"Vintage? I'm thinking vintage."
"What is it?"
I make a V with my right hand and hold it in front of my face. I smile.
Flip goes the Bagman.
I start walking away. The queue behind me is laughing. Bagman stands up and presses his face against the plastic divider screen. He starts yelling. Loudly. His eye-bags are fluttering. I can't laugh. It hurts to laugh. But I am happy. It is time to go home.
It is late afternoon and the sun is ready to set when I catch my first bus. I then wait in line for my second bus, which arrives ten minutes late. I am first in line. Yay for me.
I pay for my ticket and choose the seat behind the driver, on the right hand side of the bus. I do not want to stumble around trying to get off and risk injuring myself. God will not score his prey that easily.
The bus fills up. A man comes and sits next to me. He has a monobrow and more chins than fingers though, so I need not... not... respect him? I flashback to the nurse and doctor I met in hospital. Bizarre bastard offspring? You decide. I begin to wonder if his eyebrow could act as a sunvisor. I drop this line of thought immediately.
The doors close and our bus driver - a pleasant Oriental man - begins to move off. That's when I notice it.
That's when I notice another bus coming in particularly close on my side. It has no blinker on. I think nothing of it.
Welcome to the public transport system - God's elite cadre of assassins.
Our bus driver slams on the brakes and shouts out. The other bus, as we are moving to leave, cuts us off and heads into the bus shelter lane. The front-left of the other bus slams into the front-right of our bus. The side-view mirror is sheered right off. The impact is halfway between the drivers seat and my seat. The glass window to my right shatters inwards. The bus lurches and bumps the bus shelter itself, snapping off a part of its perspex roof. I am already buckled over from the sudden braking when the bus hits. I am pushed sideways into the enormous parachute of a man next to me. My bag; resting on my lap before the crash, is first pushed hard into my abdomen, and then flung into the aisle. The other bus continues on for another thirty metres before stopping. Ous bus driver is swearing. He gets up and asks if we are all OK. Everyone nods. People are excited moreso than angry. Bus crashes are the new black.
We all exit the bus. I feel fine. I don't feel any pain at all. I walk away from the crowd of bus goers. The city sidewalk is incredibly busy. It is filled with people. Another bus rolls up. The people from my bus begin to line up. I wait until the last one has boarded before I approach. A man from the bus company stops me at the entrance. He is not pleased.
I love bus service. Probably more than this man loves drowning kittens. I fumble around in my pocket for the ticket. Two seconds pass. Five, ten seconds pass.
I've lost my ticket.
m not too worried at this point. Surely, this man is not stupid enough to deny me entry. I explain that I was on the bus that just crashed. I describe the driver. I tell him the passengers on the bus could vouch for me too. I was truly surprised by his response.
"Either pay for a ticket, or walk."
Inside my head, a thousand tiny fans are disposing of a thousand tiny shits. I cannot believe what has just been said to me. Do they want me to pay for the fuck window that broke as well? I struggle to quell my rage, but I am not waiting an hour for another bus. I am going home. If that means paying for another ticket, then so be it.
I open my wallet. I know I have $5.60 in here somewhere.
Instead, I find 80 cents. Courtesy of the fuck vineyard.
I begin to argue with the man. I point up at the windows and tell him to ask someone on the bus to vouch for me. But he is having none of it. He waves to the bus driver, and the bus drives away.
I check my wallet for my keycard. Instead I find a note. It's from my sister.
"Needed card to go to DFO. Pay you back. xoxo."
I assess the situation. Now I understand the Wermacht's position. God's red army has blown apart my only method of transportation. I have .8 of a whole dollar in which to finance my retreat back to friendly territory.
I am so royally fuck'ed. Again.
I make a call. The familiar voice of my friend comes across the reciever. I explain to him what has happened.
"You are a walking inconvenience. Ok, I'm coming."
I love my friends. An hour later and we are driving in the direction of my house. Suddenly, my abdomen begins to pain. This isn't my normal movement pain. This pain feels warm, burning and sharp. I disregard it. My friend asks for his phone, and I turn on the car ceiling light to rifle through the glove box.
"Dude, I think you're bleeding."
I look down at my shirt. Red spots are forming where two of my incisions were made. I tell him it's not bleeding much.
"Maybe you should get it checked out."
I am telling him I'm fine when I feel my abdominals tighten and go hard. The pain doesn't increase, but my whole mid-section becomes rigid. I can feel the blood seeping out onto my skin.
"I'm taking you to hospital bud."
I don't argue with him a second time. I have no choice. God has forced my hand. I am going back.
Back to medical Stalingrad.
It is night. I am looking out the window. The same window. A crueler twist of fate I could not have envisioned, but it has happened. I am in the same room.
Tonight is the eve of Friday 13th - the day of my offensive.
God is playing hardball. He is winning.
And things have never looked bleaker
it's what you deserve, if not a spot in my sig!
you are my favorite story-teller on newgrounds. and to the ass-raper who ruined the end, Fuck off! I didn't read it, so it's all good.
At 9/8/07 10:39 PM, Gein wrote:At 9/8/07 10:37 PM, IOUPAIN wrote: god alone couldnt do this....i suspect wonder woman has something to do with itGOD IS WONDERWOMAN
not uh tupac is god
FINISH IT!!! PLEASE!!! i must read the ending! really the best thing i have ever read! i mean it has the fact that god hates you, shit hitting fans, and irony :P
you HAVE to write a book or something! i mean weather or not this happened to you it still seems to be real! just seems to be too good of a story to have happened in real life... but you must finish it!!! i mst know the out come of this epic story!!! funny, suspenseful, action, a bus crash, soup, and the damn fact that no matter what you do, god has some way to counter it! i have read perfection!!!
This vid will make you want to kill yourself...
26 People have spam'd me from my sig alone! 2 Reasonable ones :D
At 9/8/07 10:44 PM, MrMetal wrote:bows downit's what you deserve, if not a spot in my sig!
you are my favorite story-teller on newgrounds. and to the ass-raper who ruined the end, Fuck off! I didn't read it, so it's all good.
No, you sir, and all the fans, I should be the one bowing down to you.
Friday 13th - VH Day +3
Room 67, Medical Stalingrad. 0200 hours.
I have not slept since my arrival. The lights are out. A nurse patrols the hallways. The sound of her footsteps is distinct. She is the night shift. She works alone.
The situation is dire, but I am optimistic. God has failed yet again, and I have made progress on two fronts.
First, my bone marrow finally woke the fuck up and made some platelets so I didn't bleed to death. Good game bone marrow. Second, the main forces of the hospital are unaware of my re-incarceration. The only staff to have seen me is the receptionist, and the night shift nurse. They smiled when they talked. No offers of penicillin were made. This can mean only one thing.
They have no idea who I am.
My friend is coming to see me in the morning. He will bring supplies. I will need them. I do not know what will happen when psycho nurse sees me. Her shift starts at 8am. The doctor will not come until tonight. By then, it may be too late. Every organ wants inside the bomb shelter that is my ribcage. My brain is trying to abseil down my spinal cord to dig a foxhole in my lung. My displaced kidney is trying to donkey-punch my bowel. I do not blame them. For only one thing is certain.
Shit's going to hit the fan. Again.
I wake up. It is morning. I am hungry. I am edgy. It is past eight o'clock. My friend is late. Despite this, I have hope. Hope for success.
Medical Stalingrad knows not of hope.
I hear her voice before I see her face. Her greeting is the usual - served cold with a hint of Fuck You.
"Wake up, breakf-"
Psycho nurse is a few feet inside the room when our eyes meet. She is carrying a broom and a jelly cup. Probably the same broom she uses to clean her jelly cup cave. Silence passes between us. It is Chernobyl waiting to happen. The USSR about to collapse. I am prepared to say whatever is necessary to keep her calm. I cannot; will not; give her a reason to go apeshit. I cannot afford another setback on the day of my offensive.
For the record, I so very much wanted this to end well.
So very, very much.
My friend walks through the door and throws a McDonald's bag on my bed.
"I didn't get you much. By the way you bled on my passenger seat. Who the fuck do you think you are?"
I look at my friend. Psycho nurse looks at my friend. My friend looks at me. I look at psycho nurse. My friend looks at psycho nurse. Psycho nurse looks at me.
Apocashit, initiate. All fans; GO for spin.
"And why didn't you tell me about the staff parking pay-box. You put two bucks in and you park for as long as you want without paying extra. Your ex's mom told me. She's pretty hot you know."
I look at my friend. I plead with my eyes for him to be quiet. I switch into overdrive. Damage control is in effect. I am still calm. The fans are still spinning. And while the fans are still spinning, there is still hope.
"You going to eat it or what?"
It is now that psycho nurse plays her hand. She points at my friend. The fans are struggling to cope. They sense the shit about to come. I am desperate to defuse the situation. I consider over-over drive for a third time. My displaced kidney has no exit strategy. My brain is in my lung. My lung. There is nothing I can do.
The following statement - reproduced word for word; profanity included - marks the moment in time the fans stopped spinning.
"You; get out. You're in my fuck hospital and you do what I say. This is plain madness."
I look at my friend. I know what is coming. From beyond the grave, Miss Portman bows her head. I will need her strength.
My friend tilts his head towards psycho nurse. His voice is bellowing. It echoes out into the hallway. If God didn't know I was here before, he does now.
Psycho nurse is taken aback. Fleeting silence fills the room.
"THIS. IS. SPARTAAA!"