Happy birthday to me.
Posted On:12/15/2004 6:17pm
Style: Bocksing, ngBJJ
Weak. Now they seem like that jealous stalker ex.
Don Frye doesn't like Sun Chips.
Posted On:12/16/2004 1:56am
As part of my continuing effort to contribute to the community, I present to you an excerpt from the Annotated Elmore. It is cross referenced with the work of prominent furry self insertion fanfiction author David Gonterman (whose contributions are in italics), another master of the genre, who is also rumored to have added deadly anthropomorphic furry forms to Mr. Elmore's system of Self Protection. Also in this edition are entirely NEW illustrations, commisioned for the mysterious artist known only as "Google Image Search". This groundbreaking new edition will renew your love of the Raffle Suedpelt stories.
Raffle eyed his reflection critically, turning the little hand-mirror back and forth, trying in vain to get a look at the back of his own head.
"Are you quite through?" Kyla asked him, gesturing for him to return the mirror.
"I don't know," Raffle said thoughtfully. Maybe I should let it grow out."
"But you look so nice and butch with your hair short," Kyla teased. "Seriously, though. You look like a mercenary leader is supposed to look. That's the best way to attract clients. Give them what they think they're looking for. Now that I'm dressing you, you're getting the idea."
"Very funny," Raffle grinned at her. But he could admit she was right. On Kyla's suggestion he'd dumped his wardrobe full of fashionable silks and synthetic weaves, suits that would have just screamed "investment banker with a flair for adventure." She had him in silks, still, but they were all black, with lots of black leather and other macho gear rounding out his new image as Raffle Suedpelt, Mercenary Smuggler.
It had taken him a few weeks to get used to wearing his hardware out in the open, too; Raffle had always been comfortable with guns, and he had plenty of assets to protect, but investment bankers packed small and fashionable heat, like his old chrome-plated .38-caliber Carleton Arms Slimline. With Kyla's encouragement he'd taken to his new chopped slug-thrower readily enough, although its buckshot rounds still seemed terribly imprecise. Even that massive piece was smaller than the Meyers Blaster Kyla carried on her hip, a true hand-cannon of an energy weapon. She kept it strapped low on her thigh, in easy reach for a fast draw. And she kept pestering Raffle to carry his slug-gun "more relaxed."
After the nap,
he found Sally still has Nicole connected to his arm by a wire
housed under his wrist. Davey calls it his "Data Spear," because
it reminds him of Scorpion's projectile in 'Mortal Kombat.'
"Well, I don't know any martial arts yet, although I'll
probably pick one up while I'm here. Until then I have to stick
to these guns."
"Guns? You call them guns? Dave, you've joined the Freedom
Fighters, not the Ozark Malitia!"
"You look like you're uncomfortable," she would tell him.
"That's because I am," Raffle would complain.
"And nobody will hire a mercenary who doesn't look like he enjoys firing his piece," she would scold. "That piece is an extension of your manhood, Raffle, and don't you forget it.
Jobs go to the gal or the guy with the biggest balls. Sex is irrelevant; the buyer's got to think you're the toughest son of a bitch in the room – or you've at least got to make him think you can hire the toughest son of a bitch in the room."
Thanks to Kyla's coaching, Raffle looked the part today. He wore a black silk shirt with a silver bolo-slide shaped like an eagle in flight. His pants were rugged black military rip-stop, tucked into polished combat boots. The slug-thrower was snugged down on his leg as low as he could tolerate, and he wore a combat dagger in a sheath on his left hip. His leather overcoat – a worn old thing Kyla had given him until he had a chance to get out and buy a good one – was draped over the empty chair to his left.
Seated to his right at the little table, Kyla looked perfectly at ease. She was a good-looking woman, too, and no matter that she was thirty years Raffle's senior. Kyla had chocolate-brown skin and kept her black hair in a neatly-sculpted flattop crew-cut. Lean and muscular, she was shoe-horned into a pair of brown leather pants and sleeveless leather jerkin that showed off her biceps and the copper bracelets on her upper arms. She had a classic Nubian face and a long neck that always reminded Raffle of Cleopatra.
[NPC], (Not Politically Correct); Wussies who get offended by
being in the same universe as white males need not apply.
It would appear that there were a faction of
Davey's ancestors that behaved much like Dr. Robotnik,
for they captured a certain sub-race of their own
species as slaves. Some of the descendants of these
slaves, although granted their freedom almost a century
ago, thought themselves fit to demand reparation for
their captors' sins on their children. One of those
Editor's commentary: Does this indicate a split between Mssrs. Gonterman and Elmore? At first glance it appears to be so, but Elmore's hatred of black males does not, in fact, prevent him from wishing to possess the symbolic black female as a trophy.
He'd seen a bust of the long-dead woman once in an old-Earth exhibit during his banking and museum-going days.
While the Meyers Blaster on her thigh was hard to miss, Raffle knew Kyla kept several knives hidden on her person. Two of these were in sheathes sewn into her supple suede boots, but the rest were a mystery. When Kyla got that angry look in her creme-colored eyes, a knife would just appear in her hand. He'd seen this more than once, and still couldn't figure out how she did it.
All things considered, the Rum and Ruin was a pleasant enough place to spend a sea-side afternoon. Most of the "dining" area was completely open, covered only by a worn wooden patio roof that extended to the small structure housing the minimal kitchen and the bar itself. From their table near the knee-high wall delineating the Rum and Ruin's property, Raffle could see the beach and hear the surf quietly lapping against driftwood-strewn sand. Every few minutes the roar of spacecraft leaving Eankar Skyport drowned out the ocean and the sporadic cries of the gulls. If not for that, Raffle could picture his old summer home on the Pacific. For the hundredth time he wondered – if only for a microsecond – if he'd done the right thing. But then he looked to Kyla, who never seemed to run out of confidence, and knew that he had.
There were a couple of dozen small circular tables – "stainless" steel jobs that were nonetheless showing corrosion from the salt air – in the dining area, and perhaps half that many customers scattered throughout the bar. A couple were power drinkers, but most looked like tourists or Skyport crew whiling away stop-overs or break time. Raffle stood, the loose wooden floor boards creaking under his boots, and put one leg up on the crumbling perimeter wall.
"It's nice here," Raffle said, turning to regard Kyla with a wistful stare.
"Don't get any ideas," she scolded. "We're here on business, even if we're not meeting a client."
"This is a hell of a place to conduct interviews," Raffle chuckled. "Eankar's one of the greatest nothing-spots in the galaxy. One land-mass on the whole planet and it's only twenty miles square. I swear this place is going to sink one day."
"Be grateful the planet's where it is," Kyla chuckled. "This is the only port for a hundred light years."
"That's the only reason this place still exists," Raffle wagged a finger at her. "Mind you, if the seas weren't mildly poisonous, some enterprising young fellow like myself would have developed this into prime beachfront real estate."
Editor's commentary: Another example of Elmorian innovation. He introduced not only the concepts of space mercenaries working out of galactic backwaters, but also that they should be wisecracking and cynical. This departs radically from previous space-ninja-mercenary literature, which was firmly in the grip of the "Earnest and trusting Merc" archetype.
"We wouldn't be in the ass-end of nowhere if you hadn't insisted on playing out your poker hunch."
"Are you sure our profit margin is wide enough to allow for another employee?" Raffle tried to change the subject.
"You're thinking like a banker again," Kyla chuckled, holding up her hand before he could protest, "and just now that's not a bad thing." She shook one slim brown finger at him. "Yes, my dear, we can afford it – but even if we couldn't, we probably should anyway. You yourself said we were short handed."
"Well, we've got you," Raffle began.
"Right, one shriveled old mercenary hag," Kyla cut in.
"Not an apt description, but yes, you've got the experience," Raffle said, feigning irritation. "Okay. Then there's me. Handsome, dashing, with plenty of start-up capital–"
"And green as a seasick Meyark," Kyla laughed at the old joke. The news outlets were still scratching their heads over that one, and word was the Meyarks were all but extinct now.
"Yes, well," Raffle waved his hand, "that will change. Now, then... We've got two pilots who are also mechanics, and we've got a very skilled circuit-twister." [/quote]
But first, Davey had to link up with Nicole to get a
shopping list for the Minoc Grove errand run. It includes two
pictures of critters that needed to be picked up. "THE CAT IS
MELANIE, A MARTIAL ARTIST AND A PREVIOUS FREEDOM FIGHTER. SHE IS
ANTOINE'S GIRLFRIEND, AND HE WENT ON AHEAD TO MINOC GROVE EARLIER
TO MEET HER. THE CHAMELEON IS CLEO. SHE'S MELANIE'S YOUNG WARD.
TAILS KNOWS HER WELL, THEY USED TO DATE."
Editor's note: Section snipped because it is incredibly boring. No particle cannons!
"No, but as long as we keep an eye on the doorway, I don't think we'll have too much trouble," Raffle concluded.
Ramar appeared then, a pair of smoked lenses covering her milk-white eyes from the bright Eankar sun. She'd just re-dyed her hair a bright fire-engine red, and she wore the new-smelling leather jacket she'd purchased in the Skyport's duty-free shop. Under that she wore paramilitary coveralls and low-topped hiking boots, her pockets bulging with electronic gadgets and the lights on her forearm computer blinking fitfully. She pushed open the synthetic-wood panels blocking the entrance, which were little more than free-swinging shutters designed to look like old-style saloon doors.
The duo was joined by a pink girl hedgehog. Tails introduces her as
Amy Rose. "You must be Davey Crockett the guy King Acorn sent here to
deliver a message to Princess Sally and looks like Ro-Butt-Nik's found the
fountain of youth and return to give us all h-e-double-hockey-sticks." "I
sense a trend here."
Behind her stood a man with a buzz cut of black hair and a carefully trimmed mustache. He was at least a head taller than Ramar and surveyed the Rum and Ruin from behind mirrored sunglasses. The glasses didn't hide the thin white scar traveling from his chin to his right cheekbone. Raffle realized suddenly that he was checking out the bar for possible threats, his gloved fingers curled around the grips of the submachinegun slung over his right shoulder.
He's using Ramar as a shield in case we're not on the level, Raffle noted, pleased that Kyla's tutoring was proving its worth. Is he too good at this? Would he be too jumpy to work with us?
"Uh maybe I shouldn't tell you about the rumor that
you're a psycho because you like to shoot holes into Swatbots and watch
them bleed 10W40 all over?" Davey jokingly mocked menace: "Looks like a
certain blue hedgehog's gonna lose some of his rings a punch at a time."
"I'd pay good money to see you try it." "Yeah Davey, Sonic's not the
leader of the Freedom Fighters for nothing."
Their prospective employee was barrel-chested and had the sort of strong-jawed, hook-nosed face Raffle would expect in a trigger-man. He was dressed in jet-black military surplus fatigues and wore a battle vest bulging with pockets. A large combat dagger was sheathed on his left hip, and a very worn brown leather gun belt held a big pistol strapped low on his thigh.
Just like Kyla told me to do, Raffle almost chuckled.
Ramar sat down across from Raffle at the rust-pitted table and gestured for her guest to do likewise. He didn't seem particularly pleased, but he took his hand off the sub-gun and took the stool next to her.
"Raffle Suedpelt, Kyla Terrin, this is Kalin Shadeuz," Ramar introduced.
"A pleasure," Raffle smiled, offering his hand. Kalin hesitated for a moment and then took it, his grip firm but not hostile.
"Ramar tells us you were posted on the Galaxy 'Net," Kyla said.
"The only way to find work, without an agency to rep me," Kalin answered flatly, inscrutable behind his mirrored lenses. "You'll find me logged on the mercenary boards for the last four months. I have an 'A' rating."
"That's excellent," Raffle nodded, looking at Kyla.
"And I've checked that," Ramar nodded to Raffle. "But your logs go back precisely four months, and that's it. Have you got references for before that?"
"No," Kalin said.
"Er...well..." Raffle stammered. "You see, Mr. Shadeuz, we need an experienced fighter. Your rating is good, but with only four months to go on... It would help us if you could substantiate your employment history."
"I'm afraid I can't."
Ramar looked at Raffle, who looked at Kyla. Raffle looked back at Ramar and nodded before continuing. "Very well... I think we'll need to discuss this for a bit, Mr. Shadeuz."
Kalin nodded, stood, and turned on his heel to leave.
"You idiot," Kyla whispered. "You don't shake hands like this is a business meeting. You've got to project a certain posture, damn it, you know, all tough and aloof–"
Kalin had to have heard that, for as Raffle watched, the mercenary started to smile. He had reached the entrance to the Rum and Ruin when a woman with shoulder-length red hair, dressed in a crimson jumpsuit and carrying a tool belt, brushed past him.
Alta Irrstadt must have felt the fabric of her coveralls scuff the taller man. She looked up as she went past, saw her own face in the pair of distorted reflections in Kalin's sunglasses. He slowed as if he would say something–
Another man in a pastel suit was running to catch up with her. He reached into his jacket–
Kalin reached out to Alta. Alta turned to shrug him off, but Kalin grabbed her and threw himself over her body.
"DOWN!" he roared, ripping his sidearm from its holster and rolling to keep himself between Alta and the newcomer.
"Draw down!" Kyla shouted. Her hand went for her Meyers Blaster–
The man in pastel leveled the laser pistol he'd been hiding in his coat and fired it three times into Kalin's back.
Kyla's blaster chugged flame, incinerating the gunman.
Laser bolts erupted from around the Rum and Ruin, men dressed in business suits firing indiscriminately into the tables. Several of the customers were burned down.
"Cover, cover!" Kyla shouted. She flipped the table and pulled Raffle down behind it. Next to her on the floor, Ramar was firing the old Beretta she carried, doing her best to keep the shooters at bay.
It didn't look good. One group of attackers was closing from the East, and Ramar was firing into them to keep them back. Over the lip of the scorched table, Raffle could see another group closing from the West. And from the commotion outside, there were at least a few more gunmen rushing the main entrance.
"HEDGEHOG AND SQUIRREL--PRIORITY ONE"
Several Swat-Bots entered the scene.
"Wanna bet?" Davey said as he grabbed Sally and booked out of the
corridor while Sonic dived into the Swats.
"Quick, Davey, in here," Sally said, pointing to a storage room. Davey
went in and locked the door behind him.
Sally looked around and found some computer chips that she came to
Robotoplis for. ("Robotoplis?" Davey cried as he found out where he was.
"Sire, your aim on your void sucks!") Davey found a jetpack to strap to his
belt and a shotgun.
"It's got to be a Zender kill team," Raffle cursed under his breath.
"But of course they're not worth worrying about," Kyla said, firing her blaster over the edge of the table.
"Complain, complain, complain," Raffle groused.
Then he heard that blood-curdling yell.
Screaming something incoherent, Kalin Shadeuz was up, his submachinegun stuttering explosive projectiles. He emptied the weapon into the hitmen closest to Raffle's table, dropping all three of them. Ramar reached over the wall and pumped several parabellums into each corpse, making sure.
Screaming something incoherent, Kalin Shadeuz was up, his submachinegun stuttering explosive projectiles.
The attackers moving in from the West were circling the Rum and Ruin's perimeter, angling for a better shot. Kalin charged past Raffle and the others and leapt their upturned table, coming down hard on his combat boots, changing magazines practically in the air. The sub-gun chattered again, and this time Kalin was running for the West wall, following his bullets toward the Zenders. [/quote]
"Kill that bastard!" Raffle heard one of them shout. Kalin's sub-gun emptied itself, and there were screams.
"Behind us!" Ramar warned. Kyla and Raffle turned their fire to the East wall, where another trio of gunmen had appeared. A laser beam seared through the perimeter wall and almost took Raffle's head off. Kyla grinned at him.
"No risk, no profit," she shouted.
A dozen thunderclaps cracked the ozone-thick air, the very distinctive sound of Kalin's over-powered handgun. Raffle risked a glance in the mercenary's direction and saw him headed back toward the main entrance, back where he'd left Alta stunned on the floor. The Zenders out front were rushing the doorway, and the one in the lead saw Alta there, prone and helpless.
"No!" Raffle shouted. He dashed out from the dubious cover of the table, but he knew he couldn't reach her in time.
The Zender smiled and aimed his laser pistol at Alta–
The Zender smiled and aimed his laser pistol at Alta
Kalin threw himself through the air and belly-flopped onto a table, the table collapsing and carrying him further forward–
The Zender's head snapped back, a gaping hole between his eyes. The deafening blast of Kalin's handgun echoed through the bar.
The other Zenders had their guns up and were firing. Kalin rolled across the floor, his shoulder absorbing the impact of his fall, red and green light searing the floor near his face and hands. Still rolling, he crashed into the gunmen, knocking them to the floor and just missing Alta in the process. As the Zenders struggled to reach their feet, Kalin's combat dagger cleared its scabbard, and he stabbed one of the Zenders through the neck. The other one squealed like a frightened pig just before Kalin thrust the blade through his eye and into his brain.
Editors note: This a rare photograph of Mr. Elmore as he was writing this exact paragraph! Since Mr. Elmore prefers to keep a low profile, this is reproduced here with his permission.
Kalin stood up, popped the magazine from his pistol, catching it as it fell. He dropped it in a pocket of his combat vest, shoved a loaded replacement into his handgun, and turned to survey the bar.
"I think–" Raffle began, standing behind his much-abused table.
"Look out!" Ramar shouted.
Editor's commentary: These frequent starts and stops are what give Mr. Elmore his unique style. Certainly, Mr. Elmore was the first succesful action/suspense author to introduce the radical concept of "**** just popping out of nowhere".
Outside the Rum and Ruin, one of the wounded gunmen had reached their air-car and retrieved a shoulder-fired particle-beam cannon.
His face bloody, his aim faltering, the Zender lined up on the main entrance and squeezed the oversized trigger.
Kalin threw himself on top of Alta again, covering her with his body. The white-hot particle beam surged through the saloon doors, turning them to dust, and blew a hole through the back of the bar and on through the kitchen.* [/quote]
"Don't worry Sal, it took me six months to get used to power rings.
You've only been jucin' for two whole weeks . . . Get ready . . . "
Sonic's voice was drowned by the glow going nova. It brightly illuminated
Davey's current target before he got into point-blank range. "Mecha Sonic
looks exactly like Sonic would look roboticized," Davey thought, and then he
pulled the trigger. Mecha Sonic was thrown back into the dark hallway
almost as fast as he came in.
A pair of deep-fryers exploded, splattering the place with burning grease and fragments of metal.
Editor's commentary: Mr. Elmore told me that writing this scene, where fried food is wasted, was "The most gut-wrenching thing I ever put down on paper".
Kalin rolled off a struggling, protesting Alta. Still dazed, she was about to punch him when she realized he was on fire.
The back of Kalin's fatigues were burning, the white flames – signature of a particle beam reaction – climbing up his shoulders and threatening to ignite his scalp. He ran before anyone could stop him, charging through the doorway and stumbling through the Zender corpses littering the floor.
"Go get him!" Kyla ordered. Raffle and Ramar ran after him, Kyla close behind.
The Zender with the particle beam cannon was struggling to line up another shot. Still on fire, Kalin put a quartet of .50-caliber bullets through his face.
The Zender collapsed, dead four times over. A half-second later, Raffle and Ramar tackled Kalin and began rolling him through the sand and road grit. Kalin growled something ominous but let them do it, finally swatting them off when the flames were out.
Editor's commentary: Mr. Elmore is a master of fantasy and suspension of disbelief. After reading this passage, I almost believed that tackling my opponent and taking him to the ground was a viable option! Yet the man himself is very much grounded in our more mundane, sharks and lava filled reality.
He sat up and sighed, his pistol smoking in his fist, the remains of his combat fatigues smoking on his back.
Kyla and Alta came up behind them, Alta looking a little shaky but otherwise unharmed.
"You're hired," Raffle said.
I hope you've enoyed this journey. Until next time, the POWER IS YOURS*!
*and by power, I mean the power to write godawful self-insert scifi then pay for it to be published by a seedy vanity publisher
Last edited by Hedgehogey; 12/16/2004 2:08am at .
"The only important elements in any society
are the artistic and the criminal,
because they alone, by questioning the society's values,
can force it to change."-Samuel R. Delany
RENDERING GELATINOUS WINDMILL OF DICKS
THIS IS GOING TO BE THE BEST NON-EUCLIDIAN SPLATTERJOUST EVER
It seems that the only people who support anarchy are faggots, who want their pathetic immoral lifestyle accepted by the mainstream society. It wont be so they try to create their own.-Oldman34, friend to all children
Competition Team Tag...yes?
Posted On:12/16/2004 3:08pm
Style: FMA, DBMA, MMA
There are no words to adequately sum up my feelings after reading that.
Kuha'o - Kela - Koa
Fear and bullets.
Posted On:12/16/2004 3:21pm
THat's what I get for reading that after lunch.
And lo, Kano looked down upon the field and saw the multitudes. Amongst them were the disciples of Uesheba who were greatly vexed at his sayings. And Kano spake: "Do not be concerned with the mote in thy neighbor's eye, when verily thou hast a massive stick in thine ass".
--Scrolls of Bujutsu: Chapter 5 vs 10-14.
Neutral, or nearly so
Posted On:12/16/2004 3:22pm
What is wrong with people?
Hopefully he or his (supposed) wife is infertile.
Posted On:12/16/2004 5:09pm
Phil Elmore - Always Prepared
Founder/GrandSensei of Joint British / Papua New Guinean Non-contact Lawn Bowls Jiu Jitsu Committee
Posted On:12/16/2004 9:59pm
Phil bends over and rips his pants!
Joined: 24 Mar 2004
Location: New York
PostPosted: Fri Dec 17, 2004 12:01 am Post subject: Damn these pants! Reply with quote
Okay, not once but twice in the last two weeks I have managed to experience a "pantal rupture" -- ripping out an inseam in my pants while engaged in strenuous activity. I train in my street clothes when I train in Silat, for example, because I like to know what it's like to fight wearing what I'd be wearing on an average day. (I managed to rip my inseam while dropping into a low stance as part of a takedown.) Not long ago, I ruptured a pair of Dockers Mobile Pant(s) just climbing around under my desk mounting a pair of Maglite brackets.
I wear my pants fairly loosely (but not too loosely) and I'm not in an danger of busting out of my waistband -- so this is obviously a failure of the material and the construction (or design thereof). I've never had this problem in jeans; it is only the casual pants I wear in working environments that suffer this problem.
So: What do you folks wear for pants? Anyone here buy any of those specialty "tactical" pants on the market, or maybe those black-belt-style reinforced karate jeans? What's your solution?
- ©Phil Elmore
Publisher, The Martialist™
When the talking apes from the future
land on the beach, slay them.
Back to top
View user's profile Send private message Visit poster's website
Spanky's Forum Bitch
Joined: 07 Dec 2004
PostPosted: Fri Dec 17, 2004 12:41 am Post subject: Reply with quote Edit/Delete this post
This thread is nothing without pics, Phil.
Back to top
View user's profile Send private message
Joined: 24 Mar 2004
Location: New York
PostPosted: Fri Dec 17, 2004 12:49 am Post subject: Reply with quote
The very idea disgusts even me. Nobody needs to see that.
- ©Phil Elmore
Imports from Japan, Shipping Worldwide! Art Junkie, Scramble, BJJ Spirits, Reversal...
Posted On:12/16/2004 10:30pm
Style: Fish Oil
Originally Posted by supercrap
I wear my pants fairly loosely (but not too loosely)
Woo! What a save! Not TOO loosely.
Damn kids and their "hip-hop" music!
BJJ Black Belt
Posted On:12/17/2004 1:00am
Style: Rex Kwon Do
On another note, has anyone here subscribed to the Martialist? The freeby articles are so shallow I wouldn't expect much of the pay content. Just curious...
lord of the glen
Posted On:12/17/2004 1:36am
Style: Kung Fu
I think we need an official avatar:
CLICK THE ADDS ROMO!
This chapter will also show clips from a high-speed video in which Master Bristol conceals a Swiss Army Knife inside his buttocks. -from "The Magicians Code" by Hans Bristol
Articles and Reviews
Tools and Info