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Topics - The RPS Guy

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1
Within the Barrier / Hallucinated Greenlight
« on: January 14, 2012, 04:51:27 AM »
?This is bad.?

?What??

?The Moon requires a parcel.?

?The Moon does??

?You don?t come back from that.?

?Moon?s Spawn??

?Anomander Rake.?

Ano ?mother****ing? Mander Rake. I mean come on, this is the Summer?s Eve of deliveries, and no one wants to go there. Some things just can?t be washed away, like memories for instance, or image burned retinas. Though I digress, the Rake is bad mojo. We are all going to die, Mac, Chewie, and I. No one comes back from a delivery to the Moon. One time this guy named Jumbo Steve, the very same Jumbo Steve that owned and operated Jumbo Steve?s Delivery, he got that yellow sticky to the sky in an attempted Moon delivery. Rumor has it he didn?t even make it to the doorbell. Well, RPS Enterprises wasn?t going down like that, oh no, not only were we going to deliver that parcel, we were going to live. After that we were going to capitalize on it.

I am getting ahead of myself however, let?s go back in time you and me, to the RPS War Room where history was made and legends were born.

The transcript reads:
Sometime around midnight in the
RPS War Room, it?s smoky and ten-
sions are high along with everyone
else in the room?

Mac: We could try the Puma Two-Step.
It is said that it works nineteen percent
of the time all the time.
Chris: Oh that?s brilliant, Mac.
Just out of curiosity, can you actually
play a bagpipe with your?
Mac: Alright! Alright?I was just
throwing something out there to see if
it stuck.
Chewie: Nous pourrions toujours
essayer la confiture acoustique?
Chris: Chewie, ya are a genius!
Mac: What did he say?

We setup at the edge of the bottom step of the Moon, The RPS Trio at home now crowded into the empty space that spanned Grandma?s Persian rug. Chewie was percussion and drove the machine; Mac was on the lefty bass, which left me with the guitar and vocals on this particular trip. We stood huddled as if there was a biting wind, the parcel sat quietly upon the top stair with a pen and clipboard beside it. Socks had already jumped up and pawed the doorbell; he tried to get away real fast but the porch was painted wood and he couldn?t get a grip and had wolf-slip-a-phobia. It was hilarious. He got away before the door opened. If nothing else, at least we got as far as ringing the doorbell before we were too stupid to run away. Socks, is, was, and always will be the brains behind the operation.

Then he appeared, Anomander Rake, the guy is like seven feet tall with a sword six and half feet long that when you look at it, you see the darkness of your future. He is badass. Also has a habit of spreading his arms out to the side as he speaks. ?Look at me, look at me, driving and I won?t stop. Damn! It feels good to be alive and on top.? This was about the time his eyes flashed some ominous hue that spoke of famine and worlds-end, later Chewie would admit to pissing himself upon seeing it. ?My reach is global, my tower secure. My cause is noble, my power is pure!? Now he was holding up a fist, looking evil, like he was about to drop the hammer. ?I can??

So we cut him off and began to play.

?The thing that I tell ya now?
?It may not go over well
?And it may not be photo-op?
?In the way I spell it out...
?But you won?t hear from the messenger
?Don?t wanna know 'bout something that you don't understand,
?Ya got no fear of the underdog?
?That?s why ya will not survive...


Acoustic Jam.
Confiture Acoustique. Dead Air.

Many years have passed and no one has seen them since?

2
WestEnd / Confusion's Prince
« on: May 24, 2007, 01:32:59 PM »
The old bear of a truck slipped easily beneath the harvest moon, reflecting the high profile shine, brown with a green outline, rolling down the kingsway. Chris drove and the Caddy rode shotgun and slept. Chewie was kicked back in the middle jump seat and Socks, the beagle, the legend, sat on his haunches at the intern?s feet and leaned with the curves of the roadway. The radio played a mellow tune and those awake sang along?  Karma police, arrest this man, he talks in maths?he buzzes like a fridge, he?s like a detuned radio.  They could just as easily be lords on the kingsroad, surrounded by forest and caught up in steel? For a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself?

Ser Christopher of The Mark rode atop an old bear of a warhorse; his heavy brown cloak surfaced barely a ripple even against a strong wind, the length of it falling well below the horse?s hindquarters. He was clad in full plate mail the color of moss that reflected the sun and painted his face, pouring more color into the emerald of his eyes until they burned like pools of green fire. His hair was a crows black, long and straight, spilling well past the shoulders from a visor less helm. Wiry and athletic, he lost none of his swiftness even beneath the weight of armor, wearing it with the ease of a second skin. On his back, beneath the heaviness of the cloak, the hilt of Confusion?s Prince peeked over his shoulder. Its handle was wrapped in black leather, the pommel a carving of a skull with roses for hair, and the guard that of two souls in communion extending out and staring back at each other from a distance. The blade itself dipped in the same color of moss so that it might bleed into the armor and hold its edge eternal.

The Caddy McDoodles was to his right, slumped in the saddle, eyes closed, and snoring. It was a gift the man had to sleep anywhere and he surely used it whenever he could. It made no matter whether it was on a horse or a rocky ground in the dead of winter, he slept easily when and where others could not; made even easier now after the long days of traveling the kingsroad beneath the plate that weighs heavy on an ageing man and cooks him beneath an unforgiving sun. Once he was known throughout the realm as The Caddy, gallant and beholden. Now old, the hair no more than a few wisp of retreating white that lingered near the temples and envied the fullness of the beard that covered his chubby face.  Old and in the way is how he refers to himself now, his friends still call him The Caddy.  

Chewie, squire of The Mark, rode a few paces behind on a light mount and wore a cheery grin. He always had the look of knowing a secret, a funny secret that no one else did. It had gotten him some beatings in his young life, the smile, but still he wore it. On his saddle was tied the lead rope of a pack mule that clopped along behind, it was weighed down with their belongings including the one parcel still left to deliver.

?Where is the dog star? Where is the moon?? Chewie was looking up at the sky when he sang the question of the sky itself.

?It is day still Chewie. Barely past noon now, can you not see the sun?? Chris brought a gloved hand up to shadow his gaze from the light then wiped at the sweat on his brow. ?Or Feel it??

?Forgive any confusion my lord, I was just singing out loud the song I heard back at the Dragon.  Lost Sailor the man called it? did you not hear it?? The squire loved music and would have been a bard had he not been highborn; had his lord father allowed it.

?On my way out, yes. A good tune from what I heard of it.? Socks announced his arrival from playing in the woods with a bark and fell into a trot next to the old bear who regarded him with a horse?s glance and a whinny. Chris leaned over in the saddle with a smile for his returning friend then eased the gaze back to the squire. ?What happened while I was up in the room? Or were you too busy with wine and music to take notice??

?No my lord, I did not partake in the wine and I only listened to the music while I watched.?
?And??
?Just like you said my lord, a man went up to the room you had entered and stood there at the door as if he was trying to listen from the hallway.?
?You are sure it was the doorway of the room I entered. Room nineteen??
?Positive my lord, room nineteen. Then he left shortly before you came out, he must have heard you coming? Who is he??
?He is the one that wants we have and follows us now.?

?Paradise waits!? The Caddy leapt from his sleep with a shout and spurred his horse to a gallop even before he was fully awake and knew where he was or where he was going, charging right into the teeth of the forest where he was immediately swallowed up.  Silence followed.

?s***e.? Chris reigned up his horse and stared at the tree line where The Caddy disappeared into wood. ?The old man is getting worse at waking from his dreams.?

Chewie turned in his saddle to untie the pack mule?s lead rope. ?I will get him this time my lord. ?

?No. I will get him. Stay here and watch the horses.? Ser Christopher of The Mark climbed from the horse and handed Chewie the reigns. ?Do not worry of the one that follows, he is weary yet and will not take this chance.? That said he stepped off the road and disappeared into the woods with Socks tagging along at his heels.

3
Dragon's Tales / M.O.Y.A.
« on: August 08, 2006, 04:50:30 AM »
Chris jumped from the porch right in step with the walk, the green outline calling out traces that form ghosts and live off street lamps.  Boot strings, frayed and peeking from designed confines, bounce about in chaos with the occasional calming of sole.  The brim of the hat was seeker of no eyes, pulled down to shadow, the gaze kept constant companion with chaos below.  Head down, ?Supplication? in the earphone.  

A line of trees, the sugar magnolia, indications of the street bearing name and the corner taken to the receding sidewalk bearing the fruit of it?s name.  There set a figure at the base, shadowed in the heavy leaf and with weapon.  Bad intentions catch the glimmer of green ghosts and the slow fade of street lamp host with the sparkle of a toothy nail hammered into the big board.  An intimate conversation as far as defining, in detail, the breakdown of a beat down is in request! Post-haste.

Commentary:  <voiced by Hall of Fame-er-er John Madden>  Head down.  Boom! Watch how Chris takes that first step around then corner and Boom! See how his eyes never looked up as he turned the corner?  What you want to do, how you really want to approach this situation is Boom!  When you turn that corner Boom! Step. Boom! Eyes up. Boom! That way you can keep your head on a swivel.  Speed Kills!

There was a flicker of silver, stainless steel touched with the dying light, all of which beholden to the act.  The cut, the thin line beyond which you really can?t fake, slice the heel, the Achilles, and neutralize the speed.  Systematic and unfeeling, it was business.  The swing was professional too.  A two-by-four, the big board, cracks three ribs easy and shatters one as the nail on the business end hits true.  

Chris just crumbled, a rag doll dropped, breaking the fall with his head.  The left lung had exploded and life flashed to angels dancing on a pin.  Now also with a severe concussion and awake, staring up at the assailant who is bending over and staring back.  Chris had but moments to live and he tried to live those last few moments well.

?Why would ya do that?  I mean who slices someone?s tendon and then hits them with a two-by-four?  Seriously, who does that?  Ya have killed me and I will never see twenty-one.  Ya suck.  Go away so I can die now.?

?No one is going to die, Chris.?

?I?m dying right now.?

?Trust me Chris.  Just look over there to your left and smile because you are on I Just Went Medieval on your Ass!!!!?

"Now way! Seriously?  I love that show."

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