Viewing Thread:
"SSC28 - The broken shins of a man plagued by smallpox."

“Aight, yo?” said Dennis. “Sup, bro?” his homey Alvin Taylor responded.
“You what mate?” Dennis quickly replied, with a large degree of shock, and, indeed, anger in his voice. “You frontin’ on me, g dawg?”

Alvin turned back to face Dennis, his neck whipping round like that of a small child who had just been dropped from a great height. He protested; “Yo! Man! I ain’t done nuffin on yo’, bro!”

“Indeed! Sorry old chap, you know how I like to wind you up!”.
“Indeed”, replied Alvin cautiously, unsure of the intentions of his old ally Dennis. They had served in the army together, but Dennis had never seemed the same since they were reintroduced to each other a few months ago by Christopher Judge, their sergeant. Taking a sip of his cappuccino, Dennis began an interior monologue.

Wild days, those had been. I never liked Alvin, really. Those small eyes, those bushy eyebrows, that wide, succulent nose. They all bore the mark of a man who deserved only the company of lesser individuals. Not I. Not I. Why then did I befriend him? The sergeant knew the score. He saw the type of man Alvin was. Not one of us, no, certainly not. That left him alone, segregated from the rest. It was my task to incorporate him into the squad, try to make him feel wanted. He wasn’t, of course, but we didn’t want him to commit suicide, did we? Well, not all of us, anyway.

Why am I still acquainted with him? I had avoided contact when we were discharged, ‘forgetting’ to leave my address or phone number with him. Yet here again I find myself basking under the light of his well-meaning, but essentially idiotic ramblings. Why has Christopher done this? Is he out to get me? I can think of only one reason why…

Alvin interrupted Dennis’s blossoming train of thought; “…mate? You’re staring into space again”.

“Sorry, my mind was wandering. I hope you’re not offended.”
I hope he is offended. Why won’t he just leave me alone?

“Don’t worry about it, pal.”
Dennis could feel the rage boiling. He again resorted to soliloquy, because revealing his innermost thoughts about Alvin to Alvin himself would have been strange, to say the least.

…pal? I’m not his pal. I’m the sucker who had to keep the guys off him.
Judge has had it in for me all this time. The whole damn time. I wasn’t protecting Alvin at all, they were just trying to punish me. Idiots. How could I let myself be duped so easily? The General had tried to warn me. He told me not to build fake relationships – in the army they get you killed. There was no real bond, no real trust; not on my part anyway.

I need to go
I need to leave
Old acquaintances
Bring nought but woe
Woe, woe, woe…

Dennis got up from his chair, stumbling across the room on his crippled legs.
“I have to be somewhere”, his pathetic excuse for leaving.

This was it for Dennis. He was going to disappear.
Everyone he knew would be forgotten.

Forever.

To summarise his feelings at this particular moment, Dennis again composed an interior monologue within his mind, this time quite poetically.

Lo, all I feel is woe
These endless old allies reintroduced
Are in reality my foes.

Silently snakes sense my fear
I express that through sibilance
Lest no-one will hear.

They don’t know me
But think they do,
Just because they were there when I lost my knees.

I lost my favouritest metal slammer back in the day. :( But I stole a lot of my friends. :)

not their slammers, you understand

And Memo, even though you do these stories just as a joke, they're actually really good. Which enrages me. :(

So I can get on the back of the book when it's released though, I'll say it's Quincy on acid. It's Quincy on acid!

Tazzos were utter woe. Metal Slammers destroyed the pogs, but yer, we ended up playing for slammers instead of pogs, because that was a lot more hardcore. Plus people only played with crapball fake pogs that you didn't want. I remember the breaking a whole pile of skinnies with a big spiky metal slammer once. Those were the days.

As much as I'd like to join in a discussion about pogs (and it's oh, so true about Tazos and crisp grease) I'll comment on the story.

I liked the use of the internal monologue, but not the unnecessary stating of. I enjoyed the piece though - even though you ended with a poem.

I had about 5 metal ones which rocked, but usually weren't allowed.

However - best days of my life - for about 2 weeks, me and Jason played only with metals at break time, with them as the actual pogs as well. It took that long before someone won them all (i.e. me)

I also remember humming Camptown Ladies constantly while playing.
Make of that what you will.

And then those plastic Tazzo things came along, which were just rubbish and covered in crisp grease.

I still have my vast collection somewhere. I kept my World Tour Pogs in pristine condition. I had this amazing yellow slammer that smelled like coconut. It won everything.

I miss pogs. Officially the best playground game, like, ever.
:' (

It reminded me of Alf. Remember Alf? He's Back. In Pog form.

Alvin and the Chipmunks was quality.

I think me picturing Alvin as Alvin from Alvin and the Chipmunks may have changed how I read that.

Oh, there was a film.
Oh, he did a rap.
Oh, it was the best thing ever.

Well ... besides The Rap of Sloan anyway.

10/10

I suspected as much.

You have succeeded!