mayfield_rpg | freestyle rap-off: first verse

|action|

[Dave wakes from what feels like a particularly refreshing nap, the first one he's had in days... which surprises him, because they're usually filled with horrible monsters his sister would describe as eldrish? eelrelish? Some obscure five-dollar word she's always using in her conversations with him. Whatever the case, it's the first indication that he's not where he's supposed to be, which was on a meteor rocketting through the Furthest Ring at nearly the speed of light. The second is the fact that he's actually on a bed, and a comfy one at that, not a pile of disturbingly decapitated plush dragons. Instinctivelly, he reaches out for his shades... but they're nowhere to be found. That's the last straw, he thinks to himself; paradox space has fucked with me for the last time. He hops out of bed and throws open the curtains, flooding the unfamiliar room with light. Pictures of individuals he's never met line the walls, their poses indicating that they've known each other for quite some time.

Maybe one of his friends is around somewhere, one of the smarter ones that seem to be blessed with knowledge a cool kid like him is insultingly denied almost all the time. He makes his way down the hallway - how does he know his way around the house already? - and finds the phone. Somehow he knows what to do; he guesses it could be some more time shenanigans (isn't it always), but in the back of his mind he's pretty sure it's something worse.]

|phone|

Uh, hey. Rose, you out there? John? Jade? Karkat? Terezi? Hell, I'll even take the murder troll and the glowy one whose name I can't remember right now, no offense. Um, what the hell happened? Is this the new session already? It doesn't feel like it. Plus I can't find my circus pjs; don't get me wrong, they were goofy as shit, but I'm starting to miss them. It's like they were my captor and I've got Stockholm Syndrome for them: "Oh man I should make fun of you because you look like shitty cosplay but for some reason I want you all over my body like two people getting their grinds on". Except not that graphic 'cuz doing it with clothes is probably illegal here.

Anyway get back to me. Later.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Another somewhat familiar voice. It feels like it's been so long, but... could it...]

...this sounds like Bro. If it is, then a. what the hell, and b. what the hell. Also c. the circus pjs were the shit. Sorta. At least they were the best of the ones I'd seen so far. If a guy had to be forced to wear a ridiculous getup to signfy how many levels he gained in a game, let's just say there were way worse goofy outfits to choose from.

Not dead right now, like I even know the reason, and you're damn straight there could be. Give it time, you'll probably get 'em back.

Yeah, this place is all about the mysteries. Scooby and the gang are gonna have a hard time shifting through their weed-induced haze to get to the bottom of this one.

My pjs can wait, though; feelin' naked without my shades, so I want to get those first. Do you know what I have to do to find them?

Hop down to a store and get a new pair, little man. Yours are long gone right about now. Might turn up in the mail after the next big shit-goes-down festival draws to a close.

Yeah, that thing you just said makes total sense. Indulge me and give me some more deets, though, 'cuz the last few days for me have been nothing BUT shit-goes-down festivals. I feel I've been experienced enough in them to be the majordomo of the next dark carnival, Bro.

Whatever it is, I hope it happens soon; those Stiller specs were just starting to age into a heretofore unknown stratum of irony. Hell, even you'd've been proud of the complexity behind my appreciation of them.

We are in the Bermuda Triangle of dropped shits, located in scenic fifties Americana. Socks vanish from the dryer, turn into shits, and then they turn up here. Nothin' that you actually own sticks around and death pretty much rains down from the sky on the regular. [ A straightforward explanation, entirely. ] Play your cards right and you can get back your ironic non potentially eye-gouging Stiller shades in the mail someday for surviving apocalypse mach two. Start too much shit and you get your ass brainwashed into the perfect little Beaver to leave it to.

Oh hell that's the last thing I'd need here. I can already tell this place is ready to drop some overexaggerated anti-Communist propaganda like manna from heaven. Gotta sleep safe and sound knowin' the Ruskies are at bay, placating them with Ping Pong and walls that cut across entire continents.

Those bitches will descend on this little town in a heartbeat without our supreme overlords to assist us. Stay away from the milk, that's apparently the number one infiltration effort.

[ 8I ] What lame-ass family did you wind up with this time.

Haven't met 'em yet. There's some older dude and a girl maybe my age? They don't look like aspiring rap ninjas, though, so the title of most absurd relative with crazy martial arts-slash-hip hop skills remains yours. Here's your trophy; it comes with a lifetime supply of who gives a shit.

I'll keep it where I used to keep my fuck donations. [ Who wants a guardian that guarantees acceptance, safety and food in traditional ways when they can have roof-ninja camaraderie. ]

Awesome. Invest it wisely and you'll be on your way to being the Donald Trump of ironic neglect; just let me know when you're going to start hosting reality shows with has-been actors and singers so I can start taping them for posterity. [Nothing says brotherly love like a fridge filled with nothing but disturbingly-nosed smuppets and shitty swords]

So when are we gonna meet up and shoot the shit? That is, assuming our schedules aren't so full-up with dealing with a murderous little town that we can actually take time out to fire upon unsuspecting pieces of poop.

freestyle rap-off: first verse

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