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This is a story. Regulars know they don't contribute unless asked. Newbies - don't spam it up. Stories are fun. You may take the mick out of my puny skills, if you wish :-)
Cheers, Stryke.
**
RASTA SKANK AND THE TEMPLE OF CUBE
Nice Guy scribbled insanely on his papers, tomes of archaic text surrounded him. At last, the secret was there. It had been so obvious! It had been right in front of him the whole time. He wrapped up his secrets and began to scribble a name on them. He wasn’t safe. First his apprentice had gone missing.. The lad had such dreams. Then the letters had begun. He suddenly span around, as a shadow flitted across the edge of his vision. Someone… was in here. He hurriedly threw the book into the mail chute, smiling as it slid away and to safety. Then he pushed his flowing hair out of his eyes, and grabbed the Colt45 he had concealed in his desk. As he turned, he felt a motion behind him. Suddenly the gun was jerked out of his hand and he was thrust forward into a mound of books. He grunted in pain and a fist ground into his lower spine.
“ Where is it?” hissed a voice. Nice Guy gulped.
“ I’ll never tell you!”
“ So be it.”
Nice Guy turned, and saw the face of the man who had attacked him. His brow furrowed as he searched for understanding, then his vision faded…
**
Rasta sighed as he slumped into his desk. He was a computer programmer at Sony, and he hated his job. He feared to think what might happen if his boss discovered the stash of illegal Nintendo games he had hidden under the third floorboard of his home in the biggest town in the new county, New Sony. He groaned again as the mailman passed by and haphazardly threw his mail onto the desk. Rasta scrabbled over the usual game applications for addicted fans. The strange ones had taken to grinding up the Psone’s and injected into their blood. He threw them straight into the bin, then picked up a strange parcel. The address was scrawled on it, and Rasta turned it over to see where it came from. America. He gulped. That place had been desolated since the old Japan Wars. He remembered… No, the guy must be dead by now. Rasta wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and turned back to his computer, ready for the long day ahead. He threw the package over his head and into the bin.
**
Rasta threw his keys onto the table and slumped onto the sofa. It wasn’t there. He crashed onto the floor and opened his eyes, wildly. The place was a wreck. The Playstations he kept in plain view were on their side – he never played on them. The TV was smashed, and everything was ripped to pieces. He pulled a hand over his face, and dashed to the third floorboard. He wrenched it open. He sighed in relief. The SNES was still there, Clayfighter was undisturbed. He heaved back onto the floor, and glanced up at the wall. He gulped again.
WE KNOW YOU HAVE IT. GIVE IT TO US.
Then a symbol was scrawled onto the wall. Everyone knew that symbol. The Three Fingered Hand – the symbol of Sony’ secret police. Rasta knew who they were after. But he was… in America.
Ten seconds later Rasta’s car screeched out of the drive and towards his office.
**
He slammed open the front door, zipped his card into the lift socket, and raced up to his office. Something was very very wrong. His old tutor, Archimedes N. Guy had sent him that parcel, and had been an expert in Archaic Games. He had taught Rasta that once there was others apart from Sony. He had given Rasta his SNES, and taught him of the Holy Cube, an artefact imbued with the power to stop Sony’s world domination. He had believed the last surviving copy to be located in America, but that place has been destroyed in Sony’s first attack. Rasta stepped out the lift and ran to his desk, rummaging in the bin. He pulled out the parcel and ripped it open. A CD fell out, and a note.
To Rasta,
I was right. There was a console that came after the SNES! There was a dream that was Earth. You had only to whisper its name, and it would disappear. It’s name was Nintendo, Rasta – it is here in America. But I am in great peril, my pupil. You must carry on my dream. Contained in this CD is half the information you need. Find the rest where this leads to. I have a friend who will attempt to contact you. Beware, they are coming for you.
Archimedes Nice Guy.
Rasta gulped. He hadn’t gone on an adventure for years. He remembered the old days, when he had followed Archie on searches around the world, for traces of an age before Sony. He glanced at his computer. It was 21st April, 2002. He stuck the CD in and gaped, open-mouthed, as images flashed past his eyes. Spectacular images, games that only existed in the imagination. Then a map scrolled across the screen, blueprints, a name. No-one knew his real name of course, the man went only by a codename. Rasta remembered his first contact with the agent, the mysterious ‘Vottanator’ who no-one knew. This was who Archie chose for him to contact? The man who was infamous for his slaying of Votta, the extremist leader of the X-Party? Rasta sat back, and thought. America was a dangerous place. He touched a part of his desk and a drawer slid open. An old Colt45 sat there, with his hat and old clothes. Not the drivel Sony issued, but true clothes, harking back to better times. He looked out of the window, gritting his teeth. He couldn’t just leave.
Five minutes later the drawer was empty. Rasta holstered the Colt45, and pulled the brim of his hat at a sideways angle. He grinned at himself in the reflection. Then a shot shattered the window. He rolled away, under a desk. Three dark figures slipped silently out of the lift and began advancing across the room. Rasta slipped his gun from its holster and levelled it at one figure. He would have to be quick. He shot, sending the guy reeling backwards into another, then he ran and dived through the shattered window, a computer wire tied around his waist. He fell lightly to the ground as the wire tightened, and dived behind a bush as two bullets shattered the flagstone he had been hiding on. Rasta looked smugly at the CD, and made off through the bushes. Rasta had to find Vottanator, or else, all was lost.
**
A figure looked downwards, from the broken window.
“ Do you wish to pursue, sir?”
He held up a hand, slowly.
“ Did you get a trace on the CD?”
“ No sir. But we have the identity of his contact. The name is Vottanator.”
“ Make it so.”
“ Yes, Agent Turbo.”
Turbo turned from the window, the Three Fingered Hand embossed on his shirt.
“ He will try to find the Cube. This shall not be allowed. I shall not allow it.”
He nodded to his other two agents.
“ Strength and Sony.”
“ Strength and Sony” they replied, as was the custom.
Turbo walked away, eyes hard.
**
to be continued...
Cheers, Stryke.
**
RASTA SKANK AND THE TEMPLE OF CUBE
Nice Guy scribbled insanely on his papers, tomes of archaic text surrounded him. At last, the secret was there. It had been so obvious! It had been right in front of him the whole time. He wrapped up his secrets and began to scribble a name on them. He wasn’t safe. First his apprentice had gone missing.. The lad had such dreams. Then the letters had begun. He suddenly span around, as a shadow flitted across the edge of his vision. Someone… was in here. He hurriedly threw the book into the mail chute, smiling as it slid away and to safety. Then he pushed his flowing hair out of his eyes, and grabbed the Colt45 he had concealed in his desk. As he turned, he felt a motion behind him. Suddenly the gun was jerked out of his hand and he was thrust forward into a mound of books. He grunted in pain and a fist ground into his lower spine.
“ Where is it?” hissed a voice. Nice Guy gulped.
“ I’ll never tell you!”
“ So be it.”
Nice Guy turned, and saw the face of the man who had attacked him. His brow furrowed as he searched for understanding, then his vision faded…
**
Rasta sighed as he slumped into his desk. He was a computer programmer at Sony, and he hated his job. He feared to think what might happen if his boss discovered the stash of illegal Nintendo games he had hidden under the third floorboard of his home in the biggest town in the new county, New Sony. He groaned again as the mailman passed by and haphazardly threw his mail onto the desk. Rasta scrabbled over the usual game applications for addicted fans. The strange ones had taken to grinding up the Psone’s and injected into their blood. He threw them straight into the bin, then picked up a strange parcel. The address was scrawled on it, and Rasta turned it over to see where it came from. America. He gulped. That place had been desolated since the old Japan Wars. He remembered… No, the guy must be dead by now. Rasta wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and turned back to his computer, ready for the long day ahead. He threw the package over his head and into the bin.
**
Rasta threw his keys onto the table and slumped onto the sofa. It wasn’t there. He crashed onto the floor and opened his eyes, wildly. The place was a wreck. The Playstations he kept in plain view were on their side – he never played on them. The TV was smashed, and everything was ripped to pieces. He pulled a hand over his face, and dashed to the third floorboard. He wrenched it open. He sighed in relief. The SNES was still there, Clayfighter was undisturbed. He heaved back onto the floor, and glanced up at the wall. He gulped again.
WE KNOW YOU HAVE IT. GIVE IT TO US.
Then a symbol was scrawled onto the wall. Everyone knew that symbol. The Three Fingered Hand – the symbol of Sony’ secret police. Rasta knew who they were after. But he was… in America.
Ten seconds later Rasta’s car screeched out of the drive and towards his office.
**
He slammed open the front door, zipped his card into the lift socket, and raced up to his office. Something was very very wrong. His old tutor, Archimedes N. Guy had sent him that parcel, and had been an expert in Archaic Games. He had taught Rasta that once there was others apart from Sony. He had given Rasta his SNES, and taught him of the Holy Cube, an artefact imbued with the power to stop Sony’s world domination. He had believed the last surviving copy to be located in America, but that place has been destroyed in Sony’s first attack. Rasta stepped out the lift and ran to his desk, rummaging in the bin. He pulled out the parcel and ripped it open. A CD fell out, and a note.
To Rasta,
I was right. There was a console that came after the SNES! There was a dream that was Earth. You had only to whisper its name, and it would disappear. It’s name was Nintendo, Rasta – it is here in America. But I am in great peril, my pupil. You must carry on my dream. Contained in this CD is half the information you need. Find the rest where this leads to. I have a friend who will attempt to contact you. Beware, they are coming for you.
Archimedes Nice Guy.
Rasta gulped. He hadn’t gone on an adventure for years. He remembered the old days, when he had followed Archie on searches around the world, for traces of an age before Sony. He glanced at his computer. It was 21st April, 2002. He stuck the CD in and gaped, open-mouthed, as images flashed past his eyes. Spectacular images, games that only existed in the imagination. Then a map scrolled across the screen, blueprints, a name. No-one knew his real name of course, the man went only by a codename. Rasta remembered his first contact with the agent, the mysterious ‘Vottanator’ who no-one knew. This was who Archie chose for him to contact? The man who was infamous for his slaying of Votta, the extremist leader of the X-Party? Rasta sat back, and thought. America was a dangerous place. He touched a part of his desk and a drawer slid open. An old Colt45 sat there, with his hat and old clothes. Not the drivel Sony issued, but true clothes, harking back to better times. He looked out of the window, gritting his teeth. He couldn’t just leave.
Five minutes later the drawer was empty. Rasta holstered the Colt45, and pulled the brim of his hat at a sideways angle. He grinned at himself in the reflection. Then a shot shattered the window. He rolled away, under a desk. Three dark figures slipped silently out of the lift and began advancing across the room. Rasta slipped his gun from its holster and levelled it at one figure. He would have to be quick. He shot, sending the guy reeling backwards into another, then he ran and dived through the shattered window, a computer wire tied around his waist. He fell lightly to the ground as the wire tightened, and dived behind a bush as two bullets shattered the flagstone he had been hiding on. Rasta looked smugly at the CD, and made off through the bushes. Rasta had to find Vottanator, or else, all was lost.
**
A figure looked downwards, from the broken window.
“ Do you wish to pursue, sir?”
He held up a hand, slowly.
“ Did you get a trace on the CD?”
“ No sir. But we have the identity of his contact. The name is Vottanator.”
“ Make it so.”
“ Yes, Agent Turbo.”
Turbo turned from the window, the Three Fingered Hand embossed on his shirt.
“ He will try to find the Cube. This shall not be allowed. I shall not allow it.”
He nodded to his other two agents.
“ Strength and Sony.”
“ Strength and Sony” they replied, as was the custom.
Turbo walked away, eyes hard.
**
to be continued...
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Hehe, well done on the win Stryke, that was a top story!!
Now to read the rest...
Now to read the rest...
And Ross forv the first time ever - I am beating you! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA e.t.c.
You did indeed feature Rasta - and you shall return, in Rasta Skank and the Last Dreamcast (Working title) ;-)
Well done :P :P :P :P
Heheheheh, nice one Gaz, and I featured :-D
Damn! He won! :-D
Oh well, guess I better congratulate you.....and get on with the FAD and GAD attempts. :-D
Of course since you don't like games, perhaps I could try win FAD and swap. What do ya say? :-D
WOW!! 3 :-Ds in one short post. Wait, that's 4 :-Ds....5...
Oh well, guess I better congratulate you.....and get on with the FAD and GAD attempts. :-D
Of course since you don't like games, perhaps I could try win FAD and swap. What do ya say? :-D
WOW!! 3 :-Ds in one short post. Wait, that's 4 :-Ds....5...
Gangsta Hamsta wrote:
> Stryke wrote:
the scum that make it to regulardom shall be persecuted for EVER,
> until they die of Stryke Syndrome.
Ahhh..that explains your treatment of
> Dognuts then!
And Wierd Wonder, Neo-Genetic, FinalFantasyFanatic, Sideshow Buzz...
> Stryke wrote:
the scum that make it to regulardom shall be persecuted for EVER,
> until they die of Stryke Syndrome.
Ahhh..that explains your treatment of
> Dognuts then!
And Wierd Wonder, Neo-Genetic, FinalFantasyFanatic, Sideshow Buzz...
Stryke wrote:
the scum that make it to regulardom shall be persecuted for EVER, until they die of Stryke Syndrome.
Ahhh..that explains your treatment of Dognuts then!
the scum that make it to regulardom shall be persecuted for EVER, until they die of Stryke Syndrome.
Ahhh..that explains your treatment of Dognuts then!
And I say to YOU, my policy on newbies shall not change! The bad shall be rooted out! The good shall be praised! And the scum that make it to regulardom shall be presecuted for EVER, until they die of Stryke Syndrome.
Stryke wrote:
Why, thank y...
> No, I shall not be decent to the newbie scum. ;-)
LOL :D - i can imagine whats going on in your head:
"must....not....be....nice......to.....inferior
....newbie....scum.....*GASP*"
Why, thank y...
> No, I shall not be decent to the newbie scum. ;-)
LOL :D - i can imagine whats going on in your head:
"must....not....be....nice......to.....inferior
....newbie....scum.....*GASP*"
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