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The Dying Man's Story
Posted By: SeverianofUrth<residentpark@aol.com>
Date: 3 May 2004, 11:20 PM

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      James Joplin, the last Civilian left on Laughlin.

The goddamn blobs are popping out everywhere. Through grates, through air vents, through recon-tubes, through shielding-generators. Eating people alive. They pile any corpse/near-corpse around the corners, until they start -get this- walking again. I. HATE. THESE. THINGS. They smell like shit too. But the worst of all, they eat people. Wait, I already said that.

And I'm the only person that's alive in this god-forsaken place. I, the ever-fucked James Joplin, the bane of jobs and the failure of Washington High, is the only person that's alive. Somehow, even though the militia was swallowed whole by these things, even though people more infinitely qualified to live died wholsale, I'm alive. So why am I not grateful? I just have a feeling that God is saving me for something infinitely worse.

I'm currently holed up inside the McDonald-Burger King, the international leader of carcinogen-infested burgers everywhere. I am currently trying desperately to load a scavenged rifle; but how am I supposed to do it? I'm pretty sure that I'm supposed to pull on this- oh shit. I no longer have the rifle.

So what should I start recording first? How these things started appearing in bedrooms, malls, ration-stations? How the military placed a quarantine over our little, fucked-up city, placing shield-domes so no one can get out? Then installing monitors everywhere as to watch what people did in cases like these? How they shot any who got out, how they did jack shit to help the innocent?
Honorable my ass.

As I sit here in this littledarkdankhole, I'm starting to think that the military did this on purpose. But then, I'm a paranoid fucktard, so I guess that doesn't count. And the quarantine was inevitable; from what I have seen of stimsims like Resident Evil, all such infected towns are quarantined. But I never imagined that I'll be trapped in one.

A step outside. I grab what I can (a rotting burger) and crouch, hoping that it's nothing. And like all such incidents, it turns out it is something. I hate God.

A small, eyeball-blob thing hops through the wrecked door. Then, a small troupe follows it. It looks almost like those flat-films of the mother duck crossing the road with a train of ducklings following; I feel like chuckling. And like screaming.

The green blobs seem to be searching for something, driven by instincts to find fodder, and I tighten my grip on the burger. It falls on the ground in small, green chunks; it reminds me of the picture I saw of a cigarette infested lung of the twentieth centuries. Barbarians. How they managed to smoke those cancer-sticks eludes my grasp; now we have cancer-free sticks.

The burger-chunks fall to the ground with small sloppy sounds, and the eyeball-troupe turn to me, their eyes fixed on me. I'm hoping that they have bad night vision; and my hopes are -again- turned down by some cosmic power.

The blobs are sailing through the air; I bat one aside, the other latches onto my leg, it's small incisors biting holes in my leg. The others start jumping also.

I jump to the side, grab a table-leg, and smash the one on my leg. I swing it horizontally, and connect one of the jumping eyeballs with a splosh. I have no idea what that means; but I think it conveys the meaning perfectly. Did I say that I failed High School? I did, if I haven't.

I smash one on the ground; two others grab onto my back, start chewing, and I run against a wall, again sploshing them.

It fucking hurts. The bite marks leave some green-pus; they itch, they hurt, they burn, it feels like a thousand shit-worms are crawling through my legs. My back is even worse; my spine is tingling.

I staggered out of the door, no longer caring about death. No, that's not right- I was too tired to think about it. I think I would have pissed my pants if I realized that I was walking out into the streets where thousands of the walking-green-blobs with tentacles roamed.

And I have to wonder again if help will come.

And it itches, tingles, feels like thousands of squiggling long things are shoving their way through those bites. I want to cry. But I can't, cause I'm a heartless bastard and also I'm too dehydrated. I haven't drunk in the last 24 hours. Water doesn't count.

I am at the door. And when I walk outside, those things will get me. And I think, it'll be just like a second life.
A little vicious, a little hungry for man-flesh, but who says they can't think, remember their past lives?

(This is confusing...)