A Call to e.m.c

[Vaporwave]

Speak up, reveal thy works!

We've been aware that he writes fics or at least smutty paragraphs involving webdip members, he publicly mentioned a scene about Flavius or Foxy as flavor for a game.

Nothing should be done in secret, come forward with your pairings!

e.m.c if you have coupled many webdip members with each other, I'm wondering which player did you choose for me?

[Foxcastle]

Why does it have to be Flavius or Foxy?

After all, Foxcastle is only my second favorite f-word.

[Claesar]

Frivolous?

[e.m.c^42]

Oh no.

[Foxcastle]

Frivolous?

6th.

[damian]

Are you sure you didn’t mean 69th foxcastle

[Foxcastle]

Are you sure you didn’t mean 69th foxcastle

No, that would displace "fantastic" from it's proper position

[e.m.c^42]

How are there 33 guests?

[Foxcastle]

How are there 33 guests?

I guess word got out that I put on a good show...

[e.m.c^42]

lol
and Vapor, why not Vecna

[e.m.c^42]

Don't have anything on fox or flav, pretty sure it was Claesar and Ike, from brain's minigame when we were scum together? (or are you referring to something else lmao)

[e.m.c^42]

@Percy, I have some for evidene for your mockumentary, a la zultar and his 32 alts

[Fluminator]

I got inspired and quickly typed something up. (note this is absolutely 100% me and I didn't steal this from someone else who was named Tom Bombadil or damian or maybe a couple others)

T’was a dark and stormy night in the Webdip mansion. The recent refugees gazed in wonder at the new world they had just been thrown into, the massive hallways, giant portraits, and beautiful chandeliers beyond anything the eleven could’ve imagined in the poor households of their childhoods. The wind howled dangerously, causing the window panes to shake and rattle eerily as the nine people wondered if they would ever leave this place.

To durga, it felt like a bad dream, but this was nothing new to her. Ever since the nukes started flying her life had been a continuous nightmare, one that seemed unreal but from which she could never wake. She found herself wondering how different her life could have been if Trump had never declared the war - maybe she would still be in Hawaii right now; maybe she would still have a family…

“It is quite cold” whispered captainmeme in his low, handsome, British voice as he went to see if the place had functioning electricity and perhaps even a source of heat. His lukewarm UK blood could not handle the harsh Saskatoon weather. How they had ended up in Saskatoon was still a mystery, but it seemed to be safe for now. Trump probably did not want to bomb this hell hole anyway.

“Here, follow me. There was a chimney on the roof over the west section, so doubtless there’s a fireplace there.”

The voice was Damian’s. Durga wondered to herself how he could be so cool and collected in the face of everything that had happened, but then, he had lived in Siberia for years. The apocalypse was not much of a change for him. He started walking toward the west staircase, and the rest of the group was quick to follow suit; the promise of a fireplace after so long in the cold was not something anyone wanted to pass up.

Tom Bombadil brought up the rear of the group as they navigated the dark corridors of the mansion. The floorboards groaned under their steps, the mansion had to be hundreds of years old. He was content to follow and blend in as the ruthlessness of this new world was a sharp departure from the comforts of the corner office he was accustomed to. In fact, had the rag-tag group of survivors not chanced upon him several weeks ago, there was no chance he would have made it. He owed them more than they realized. He chuckled to himself, thinking of all the neckties he had collected that served no purpose anymore. This was a chance at a new life. A chance to leave behind his demons.

"Look!" captainmeme said, his voice snapping Tom Bombadil out of his daze, "There is light coming from that room."

A tall lanky figure by the name of Fluminator looked at the light and could feel the warmth emanating from the room. He didn’t like the warmth one bit. He ran ahead of the group and stood in front of the doorway. “Guys! This is all too convenient. This is most definitely a trap. Why is there an unoccupied mansion here anyway? Why is there a warm and welcoming light here? We’re all being lead to our doom. Let’s head back out!”

He outstretched his arms to block anyone from getting through. He realized it probably wasn’t going to change anything, but if the lambs were heading for the slaughter, he figured he would at least attempt to stop them so it wouldn’t be on his conscience if they all died. He hoped he’d have some credibility with the group considering he predicted the apocalypse would eventually happen 22 years ago and was finally right.

HellenicRiot was still grinning ear to ear. He'd been grinning ever since civilization had crumbled. "Thank you Trump" he thought to himself. "All along I knew you were our best bet to starting over. Now society can progress the correct way.” At long last he could start the communist society of his dreams. He was having struggles getting some members in the group to go along with it. The one white guy especially annoyed him.

With Flum blocking the door, HR looked at the group. "My comrades!" he started and then suddenly stopped so he could smile at the usage of the word, "This mansion belongs to the proletariat. We must wrestle control from the owners and distribute the food and supplies here to the masses!"

Ghug groaned at the sound of HR's rambling about the revolution. He wasn't even sure if there was any food, let alone have any desire to distribute it. Worse yet, there was absolutely no weed left on the cold, desolate planet. “Move, Flum.” Ghug said as he moved towards the fireplace

The group soon turned around as they heard the door to the basement creak open. They raised their eyebrows as a raggedy man with no sense of fashion wearing safety goggles came stumbling out of the door. The man was Dr. Vashy, though he was not an actual doctor. In fact he had to leave his PhD program due to the calamity and destruction brought about by the battle of Soviet Massachusetts in the aftermath of President Trump accidentally confusing the “big red button” with a room service button. After that he was invited as a guest to stay at the house a month ago by the original owners and simply never left after they died in the nuclear fallout.

“What are all you people doing here?” asked Dr. Vashy, confounded by the new people in his mansion. While numerous people tried to give him an answer, Dr. Vashy simply ignored them, as he usually did with people, as his attention was drawn to the door with a bright yellow light emanating from it. “That’s new,” he said, pointing towards the door, “Anyway, quiet down, you’ll disturb my experiments.” he finished as he went back into the basement. Dr. Vashy was never specific on what his experiments were and it was likely the only experiments conducted were the ones to hide his insecurities, despite Dr. Vashy’s assurances that he was, in fact, not insecure. The group shook their heads in unison, as it was the only appropriate response to what just happened.

“So back to the door,” said Tom, ignoring what had just happened.

“What is he doing? He came in here with us” Yoyoyozo rolled his eyes at the interaction he just had with Vashy and wondered why he had to be stuck with these people out of everyone on the planet. “How did he even set that up so quickly? And why doesn't he listen to anything we say?” the frustration was building quickly.

Peterwiggen was also trailing at the back of the group near Tom. He had no idea why he was still with these people. He didn’t like any of them, and was looking to ditch first chance he could get. His eyes trailed around looking at the mansion. Vashy seemed to have run off into one of the rooms and pretended to live there. Poor guy, he was finally breaking.

As Peter was looking around he mused on who would be the next person to lose their mind. Could it be Flum? He never really did completely have his mind in the first place, so he probably wasn’t going to lose it. He looked at the Bo_sox, “Hmm, he’s looking a little worse for wear, I need to keep an eye on him.”

Peter’s eyes trailed towards the door with light coming through it, and noticed a suit of armour down the hall. It was made of pure titanium. There was a label that was mostly scratched out, but the name ‘Chesterton’ could be made out on it. He made sure to remember that name just in case it would give clues into the nature of the mansion.

At this point Ghug stumbled to the door and swung it wide open to reveal the room inside. There were multiple shelves filled with books, a fireplace that was not quite dusted in a while but seemed relatively functionable with wood beside it, and quite a few couches and chairs that looked surprisingly comfortable. The ambiance of the room was quite welcoming, and it made the whole affair seem a lot better than it truly was.

“Hey, I actually think there’s heating in this place. I’ll go turn it on before I kill myself” Durga muttered as she left the hallway to go investigate the mansion further. The rest of them went inside what appeared to be a cozy living room in order to see if there was anything worth noting.

As they were scavenging the room, they heard a radio start playing, causing the group to jump in surprise. It started off as a screeching sound before a voice was heard.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Silence, please! I bring an update on the war. It seems as though the radiation has caused extreme brain damage to many citizens in Eurasia and North America, and a strange type of mutant creatures are now roaming the earth. I repeat, there are mutants roaming the earth!” Suddenly a scream could be heard from the radio with shouts of ‘How’d that get in’ and ‘It looks terrifying’. After grunts, groans, and screaming was heard for a few minutes, the radio went silent.

A pounding was heard on the door outside. The lights in the room shut off. Ghug didn’t care. He found a strange looking substance in one of the drawers. The zombies weren’t making it to Saskatoon anyway.

“Everyone stop!” Damian yelled in caution as he picked up a book in order to throw it at whatever tried to come in. Ginger continued to look through the drawers although annoyed about the lack of light impeding his ability to do so effectively.

“Guys! Sorry, can someone help me with this heat bullshit. I think I blew the fuse or whatever” it was Durga, sounding annoyed of things not going her way. Damian sighed and put the book back where it belonged.

The door finally opened. Inside was a guy covered in snow. “You look snowy!” said captainmeme. Medusa yelled out, “let’s name him that!”

Tom looked upon this new person Snowy, clothes ragged, dirt smeared across his unshaven face, and wondered what hellish journey he had endured to make it so this point. Tom shuddered, vivid memories flooding his mind. Memories of things he wasn't proud of. Things he'd like to forget. He hoped Snowy's journey had been easier, but he knew that was a fool's thought.

Durga approached Snowy, "We've only just arrived but so far the mansion seems safe. We've been traveling together for quite some time. Lost a few along the way..." she paused, reminiscing momentarily. "It couldn't have been easy making it out there on your own. You're welcome to join us." She began introducing the rest of the gang.

"What's his problem?" Snowy asked, motioning towards Dr. Vashy, who was muttering nonsense to himself in a corner of the room.

Durga opened her mouth like she was going to say something, but instead just shrugged.

"You know what," said Snowy, his eyes surveying the faces in the room, "I'll take my chances out there." He turned, and left through the door he entered. Just like that he was gone.

Tom could understand why. Trust was hard to come by these days, and he had trepidations as well when he crossed paths with this crowd. If he wasn't in such a bind, he didn't know if he would have joined them, but fate forced his hand and boy was he grateful. He wished Snowy well but forced his mind not to dwell on it. There were more immediate concerns to attend to.

Like whatever the hell “Dr.” Vashy was doing.

The electricity started running again and there was almost a feeling of comfort and safety amongst all the loneliness and despair that plagued the earth.

End Chapter 1

[e.m.c^42]

Chapter 2, chapter 2!

or doth the remaining masterpiece be lost to the eddies of time...

[Percy Williams]

@Percy, I have some for evidene for your mockumentary, a la zultar and his 32 alts

[Click-Click]
Duly Noted, thank you for your contribution.

[Tom Bombadil]

I haven’t written flavor for mafia in a bit. Maybe I’ll channel that for an exclusive web dip themed short story. Stay tuned

[PRINCE WILLIAM]

Nicely done, Fluminator. I enjoyed it chapter one.

[Tom Bombadil]

Its coming along nicely. I think you guys will like it. Maybe there will even be future chapters. One step at a time though.

[Tom Bombadil]

Tales of New Congo


1. A Fixer Makes His Mark


He exhaled slowly, allowing the smoke to billow around him before slowly escaping out the cracked driver side window into the night air. He put out his cigarette in a cupholder ashtray – repulsed by the thought of tossing the butt out into the street. This crime-ridden, lowlife-infested city stained itself quite well without his help. He stretched his legs forward, careful to avoid the pedals of his black luxury sedan. He checked his watch – 10:50pm. He had been sitting there for hours. He wasn’t bored however – he was anxious. In his apartment he was just an average man, but here, when he worked, he was the absolute best there was, and he knew it. JMO pulled out another cigarette and lit it – there were only two left.

After taking a long drag, JMO retrieved the envelope pressed against his chest from the inside pocket of his sport coat and unfolded the letter from within:

Take care of this for me. Firm, but not too messy. Foxy’s Strip Club at 11pm.
-Z

He looked at the picture again, even though he had already seared the target’s features into his memory. He was glad it wasn’t a kid this time. He took no pleasure in doing what needed to be done with the kids, but he always got the job done. Without pride in your work, there was nothing. And JMO took extraordinary pride in his work.

He looked up and saw the door to the Foxy’s open, and his target and two other men stepped out. They loitered for a bit in front of the joint, but eventually a rideshare came and picked up the two others. His target began walking. JMO smiled as he opened the door and stepped out into the night. JMO was meticulous – he knew the route that his target would take. It was the same route he always took, and the same route JMO had taken just 24 hours earlier. Preparation was part of work. And JMO took great pride in his work. His smile widened.

JMO lowered his head as he walked through the narrow street. He moved silently, his small frame floating along the cement pavement, weaving between the drunks and deviants meandering aimlessly through the walkway. The street was crowded, typical for this seedy part of town, but not so much as to make it difficult to maneuver. His target was about fifty paces ahead of him now, the ample foot traffic creating ideal cover for JMO to follow unnoticed. He had been following him for most of the day now, waiting for the ideal time to make his move.

“Pardon me,” he said as he gently pushed his way past a point of congestion in the corridor. He looked up to see a woman scowling at him, but she said nothing as he moved past. He was in one of the poorest districts of New Congo, and the citizens here didn’t have the energy to waste on pleasantries. He picked up his pace, his light footsteps still silent as he moved along the storefronts, the gap closing quickly between him and his target.

The man turned down an alleyway, just as he had in each previous walk home from Foxy’s. “So far so good,” JMO thought. He raised his head and took a quick glance in either direction, saw nothing out of the ordinary, and turned quickly into the alleyway as well. Now he was only ten paces behind his target, and the alleyway was virtually empty. A man sat against a wall mumbling to himself one hundred yards ahead and the only other movement was a few rats scurrying between dumpsters behind the rear of the stores.

“No better time than now,” JMO thought, as he silently approached the man from behind. In one fluid motion, he grabbed the back of his target’s collar with his left hand, while simultaneously pushing open a door to his right. He pulled down hard with his left arm, sending the man falling backwards, his target’s hands flailing wildly. Before the man had even hit the ground, JMO had dragged him through the door and inside the poorly lit room. In mere seconds, the two of them had disappeared from the alleyway.

JMO gazed upon the room, a pistol suddenly in his hand aimed at his target still on the floor, and soon realized there were two faces staring back at him. It looked like a hardware store. The store wasn’t empty. This was unexpected, but nothing that he couldn’t handle. The faces staring back at him were dirty and gaunt, eyes oddly expressionless considering the sudden intrusion. JMO reached into his pants pocket slowly – the men were visible defensive now, a product of this hellhole city. JMO pulled his hand slowly from his pocket and showed them his wallet. Opening the wallet, he slowly took out ten one hundred-dollar bills, not counting aloud, but slowly enough that they could count, and placed them on a countertop next to him.

“I hear Darg’s Deli makes a great cheesesteak. Why don’t you two go enjoy a nice dinner on me tonight?”

The two men nodded, snatched the bills, and left out the back door without saying another word. JMO knew they would not be trouble. Contempt for the authorities was strong in New Congo, and the ability to feed the family (or their bad habits) trumped any moral dilemma they may have had with JMO brandishing a pistol at a stranger in their store.

JMO turned his attention back to the man he was holding a gun to. He was still on his back and had yet to move from where she had dragged him in. JMO locked eyes with his prisoner and was surprised to find that there was no fear in his eyes, nor anger. It was arrogance that met his gaze.

“Sit up,” JMO said, “Do you know who I am?”

“Someone who is making a big mistake,” the man responded. Strike one.

“Try again,” replied JMO. “There are rules in New Congo. Mayor Zultar owns this city, and when you don’t play by the rules, you answer to me. You knew the rules and you disobeyed them. Admit this, and we can come to a resolution here.”

The man smirked and spat on the ground at JMO’s feet. “I didn’t break any rules. I won that card game fair and honest – you just confuse skill with cheating.” Strike two.

“You need to choose your next words wisely. My patience is growing thin. I know you cheated at the card game. I have evidence. I suggest we come to a mutual understanding here, but I can’t do that if you keep up this charade.”

“Screw you. You’re not in charge here.” Strike three.

“That’s where you are wrong friend.” JMO’s voice rose, “Mayor Zultar owns this city, but I RUN it. And if you don’t know that, you don’t know shit about New Congo. Now sit down in that chair and put your hands on the table.”

The man did as told. JMO walked slowly, gun still in his hand, perusing the wares of the store. An ironic store for him to end up in, he thought, considering what was about to happen. He continued walking, passing small trays of screws and nails – racks of different colored duct tape capping the end of an aisle. JMO noticed that his victim’s eyes were following his movements. Good, he thought. He pointed to a shelf stocked with various hammers.

“Do you know what these are?” JMO said, gesturing toward the shelf.

“Obviously. Those are hammers,” the man replied.

“No. No, no, no,” JMO said shaking his head. “These are toys.”

JMO reached into his jacket again and pulled out a hammer like the man had never seen. It was roughly 18 inches long, a worn rubber grip wrapping around the handle. That was where the similarities ended between this hammer and the “toys” displayed in the hardware store. Built into the handle were 4 brass rings that fit JMO’s fingers perfectly. That was for when he needed to show restraint. The claw end of the hammer had been filed into two sharp points. That was for when he needed to be persuasive.

A smile briefly betrayed JMO’s cold expression as he finally saw fear in this cheat’s eyes. It was not professional to show his enjoyment, so he quickly composed himself. He strode forward to the table and chair where his victim was seated and allowed the weight of his hammer to fall firmly down on the table. The man stared at him, resolute. In one swift motion, JMO brought the hammer up and forward, and backhanded the man across the face. Several brass rings from the handle of the hammer connected with the man’s jaw, jarring teeth and leaving him crumpled, blood trickling down his chin.

“You still sticking to your story?”

“Allright…allright..I..I..I admit it. I cheated ok. It’s just a dumb card game. I’ll pay back the money I took. Just put that thing down.”

JMO raised the hammer again and swung it directly at the man’s face. This time however, he stopped inches from the man’s temple. The man’s eyes were closed, blood drying on his chin, sweat dripping down his face. JMO tapped the man lightly on the head with his hammer.

“Get out of my fucking city.” He said.

And with that, he turned and walked out the same door he entered. He made his way back to his car and climbed in the driver’s seat. He lit his final cigarette and took a handkerchief out of his glove compartment. He wiped the blood off his hammer, the instrument of his trade. What a thing of beauty, he thought. Every tool has it's purpose. He smiled again, and hit the gas.

THE END

[Durga]

Tom, that was absolutely beautiful. Bravo.