The yacht trailed remains of debauchery--streamers, plastic wine glasses, polo shirts. A pair of sandals sat on the aft deck, one lying on its side. The anchor held the ship in place, but the debris was free to drift with the tide, which it did, a carnival line to the horizon. When the police boat arrived, the only sign of what might have happened was the trail of blood from the cabin to the bowsprit. The captain shook his head. "I wish these idiots would stop. The paperwork and hassle from the families is getting to be too much."
I mentioned this elsewhere, but this is great. It's hard to paint a story using only objects. I don't think I could have written this piece, and I wish I could have.
Loony Tunes - Take 1kid_cthulhuMarch 23 2009, 16:34:08 UTC
The patient in room 14-J is still muttering to himself, despite enough tranqs to drop a rhino.
“My name is Elmer J Fudd, millionaire. I own a mansion and a yacht”.
The county sherriff’s men picked him up on a dark country road. He was wearing gym socks, a pith helmet and nothing else. He was carrying a kid’s toy shotgun, the kind with a cork on a string in it. I didn’t even know they still made those.
I’ll tell you this for free. Wherever he was before, they’d been showing a hell of a Bugs Bunny film fest.
Loony Tunes - Take 2kid_cthulhuMarch 23 2009, 16:34:25 UTC
The patient in room 14-J is still muttering to himself, despite enough tranqs to drop a rhino.
“My name is Elmer J Fudd, millionaire. I own a mansion and a yacht”.
The irony is that he’s 6’3” of chiseled muscle. He could model for GQ. As far as we can tell, his name IS Elmer J Fudd, and his assets do include millions and a very large boat, all inherited from recently deceased parents.
The name was been bad enough. But that last bequest? Parents with a sense of humor like that are enough to drive anybody round the bend.
“Aaargh,” Slimy Tim growled. Prostrate before the undead pirate, Alexander DeVille, middle-aged and overweight heir to the largest oil fortune in the world, wet his pants.
"Thar be booty,” Tim spit. He kicked the heir in the ass. Alexander whimpered. Oozing fingers grasped his thinning hair, yanking him to his feet.
"Wha' sort o' vessel she be?”
Tim's rank odor forced the heir to turn away. Steeling himself on a breath of salty air, Alexander saw the closing ship. If only he had not taken the yacht out. If only.
Bold, black letters marked his demise or salvation: COAST GUARD.
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“My name is Elmer J Fudd, millionaire. I own a mansion and a yacht”.
The county sherriff’s men picked him up on a dark country road. He was wearing gym socks, a pith helmet and nothing else. He was carrying a kid’s toy shotgun, the kind with a cork on a string in it. I didn’t even know they still made those.
I’ll tell you this for free. Wherever he was before, they’d been showing a hell of a Bugs Bunny film fest.
Reply
“My name is Elmer J Fudd, millionaire. I own a mansion and a yacht”.
The irony is that he’s 6’3” of chiseled muscle. He could model for GQ. As far as we can tell, his name IS Elmer J Fudd, and his assets do include millions and a very large boat, all inherited from recently deceased parents.
The name was been bad enough. But that last bequest? Parents with a sense of humor like that are enough to drive anybody round the bend.
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
"Thar be booty,” Tim spit. He kicked the heir in the ass. Alexander whimpered. Oozing fingers grasped his thinning hair, yanking him to his feet.
"Wha' sort o' vessel she be?”
Tim's rank odor forced the heir to turn away. Steeling himself on a breath of salty air, Alexander saw the closing ship. If only he had not taken the yacht out. If only.
Bold, black letters marked his demise or salvation: COAST GUARD.
Reply
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