Character Sketch
Pancakes and Ponzi Schemes Or a rather cowardly man tries to not meet the tooth fairy
Henry Nicolette was a man with a very important purpose in life. That purpose was, in fact, to not meet up with a 6 foot 7 Albanian man named Bekir who was rather prolific in the use of baseball bats and wrenches. His prior run-in with Bekir hadn’t left Henry wanting to have any more meet-ups with him. Bekir wasn’t necessarily a malicious man, well maybe he was, but he hadn’t gone after Nicolette for no reason.
It wasn’t fair that it would be so hard to make a dry cleaner financially beneficial, especially when the owner cheaps out on the actual cleaning part of the operation. Well then one thing lead to another, and suddenly your business is closed and a 6’ foot 7 Romanian man with a baseball bat and a pair of pliers is at your door because Henry was a little late on a payment to a loan shark. Okay maybe it was more like several payments, but he would have got him all the money eventually.
“Hi there. Were you done ordering?”
Nicolette whipped his head around, losing the staring contest he had been having with the other half of the booth he was sitting in. The waitress looked like a nice person. Or at least that was the only description that Henry could think of while he briefly looked at her.
“Black coffee, two pancakes, and one egg scrambled. Try and make it fast sweetheart.” If Henry had bothered to look at her again he would see her expression was anything but “nice”. Furthermore, if he had bothered to look at the health grade that this diner had gotten then he would have known that on their best day, they were rocking a solid C- grade. While the waitress went off to fetch Henry two pancakes, one egg scrambled, and a cup of black coffee that Henry was positive would be saliva free.
Geez, not very friendly service today, thought Henry. Somebody’s not getting a tip. Henry had not simply come to this less than desirable establishment to dine on the greatest food in existence, breakfast food. Now Henry would rather be at a fancy Italian restaurant because those places were usually for successful clientele only. He needed a way to get him some money, and he needed to get it now. He had ditched his old apartment and was currently paying off a guy to sleep in a storage unit. It wasn’t an ideal situation but Henry made the best of it. He had set up a safe house with his cousin, but the last time they had seen each other, had ended with them pointing knives at each other. But he would get the money, after all, he was Henry Nicolette, and he was a very important person. Now, where’s that freaking coffee?
Henry Nicolette was a man with a very important purpose in life. That purpose was, in fact, to not meet up with a 6 foot 7 Albanian man named Bekir who was rather prolific in the use of baseball bats and wrenches. His prior run-in with Bekir hadn’t left Henry wanting to have any more meet-ups with him. Bekir wasn’t necessarily a malicious man, well maybe he was, but he hadn’t gone after Nicolette for no reason.
It wasn’t fair that it would be so hard to make a dry cleaner financially beneficial, especially when the owner cheaps out on the actual cleaning part of the operation. Well then one thing lead to another, and suddenly your business is closed and a 6’ foot 7 Romanian man with a baseball bat and a pair of pliers is at your door because Henry was a little late on a payment to a loan shark. Okay maybe it was more like several payments, but he would have got him all the money eventually.
“Hi there. Were you done ordering?”
Nicolette whipped his head around, losing the staring contest he had been having with the other half of the booth he was sitting in. The waitress looked like a nice person. Or at least that was the only description that Henry could think of while he briefly looked at her.
“Black coffee, two pancakes, and one egg scrambled. Try and make it fast sweetheart.” If Henry had bothered to look at her again he would see her expression was anything but “nice”. Furthermore, if he had bothered to look at the health grade that this diner had gotten then he would have known that on their best day, they were rocking a solid C- grade. While the waitress went off to fetch Henry two pancakes, one egg scrambled, and a cup of black coffee that Henry was positive would be saliva free.
Geez, not very friendly service today, thought Henry. Somebody’s not getting a tip. Henry had not simply come to this less than desirable establishment to dine on the greatest food in existence, breakfast food. Now Henry would rather be at a fancy Italian restaurant because those places were usually for successful clientele only. He needed a way to get him some money, and he needed to get it now. He had ditched his old apartment and was currently paying off a guy to sleep in a storage unit. It wasn’t an ideal situation but Henry made the best of it. He had set up a safe house with his cousin, but the last time they had seen each other, had ended with them pointing knives at each other. But he would get the money, after all, he was Henry Nicolette, and he was a very important person. Now, where’s that freaking coffee?
Poetry Portfolio
Throwing Out The Rhyme Scheme and Kicking Out The Thinkers
The poet wanted to cry,
He could barely even try,
And as his pencil dropped,
The poet's spirit hopped,
For now, it was time you see,
The poet was finally free,
No more needless rhyming,
It couldn’t have been better timing,
He could throw his writing in the muck,
Because quite frankly poetry, you suck.
This poem
The Ballad of Able Anderson
Able Anderson aced Art,
Brush battling white canvas to the death as Able aced,
Color fled from mind to brush to canvas,
Thunk! The crunching sound of the approaching mindless stabbed at Able.
The colorless cronies rushed Able,
Able set the colors free to look for another ace,
The canvas was drowned in white and brushes were cut down.
Able was just sad the wanted poster looked so boring,
This poem is vague which is quite ironic considering it’s about creativity.
Kavoosh!
Kavoosh!
It’s blue like the sun and yellow like the sea,
Both swimming through space & time respectively,
Turtle shell on its back, gills on its shell,
It snacks on stars and sips on planets,
Some say it’s evil, some say it’s god,
Some say it’s good, some say it’s the devil,
Little did they know it’s just having fun,
Kavoosh!
This poem runs on the side of silliness and spits in the face of reason. The two ‘Kavoosh!” lines are indicators of full circle ending.
Blackout Poem
My message of this poem was about how what is really important in life is friends and family. It uses the “The Weakest Link” line repeatedly in order
The poet wanted to cry,
He could barely even try,
And as his pencil dropped,
The poet's spirit hopped,
For now, it was time you see,
The poet was finally free,
No more needless rhyming,
It couldn’t have been better timing,
He could throw his writing in the muck,
Because quite frankly poetry, you suck.
This poem
The Ballad of Able Anderson
Able Anderson aced Art,
Brush battling white canvas to the death as Able aced,
Color fled from mind to brush to canvas,
Thunk! The crunching sound of the approaching mindless stabbed at Able.
The colorless cronies rushed Able,
Able set the colors free to look for another ace,
The canvas was drowned in white and brushes were cut down.
Able was just sad the wanted poster looked so boring,
This poem is vague which is quite ironic considering it’s about creativity.
Kavoosh!
Kavoosh!
It’s blue like the sun and yellow like the sea,
Both swimming through space & time respectively,
Turtle shell on its back, gills on its shell,
It snacks on stars and sips on planets,
Some say it’s evil, some say it’s god,
Some say it’s good, some say it’s the devil,
Little did they know it’s just having fun,
Kavoosh!
This poem runs on the side of silliness and spits in the face of reason. The two ‘Kavoosh!” lines are indicators of full circle ending.
Blackout Poem
My message of this poem was about how what is really important in life is friends and family. It uses the “The Weakest Link” line repeatedly in order
Setting Story
Mr. Schneider was running late. This was almost certainly never a good thing, but given recent events, it was most certainly not a good thing. Agent Cisco was sat in the corner of his underground fortress. Cisco sat at his desk in the bunker, the thick glass in front of him was broadcasting a dour sight. He had been browsing through a copy of “The Hunt for the Red October” when he looked up at the man in the glass. A man with graying temples and slight bags underneath his eyes looked back. Ding! Ding! The sea of buttons and screens at Cisco’s station flashed a familiar blue light. No activity again today? Who could have ever guessed that? Cisco thought before giving a pained smile. Cisco pushed with his tired body and launched his caffeinated chair across the floor.
Plopping out of his chair, Cisco grabbed his jacket and his gun from where they hung by the elevator. He pulled the lever and opened up his awaiting transportation. Ding! The elevator barely made a noise as the doors opened up for the drained Cisco. The bright lights of the just below surface level bunker slowly shut off as for yet another day of patience and hard work had gone to waste. The elevator doors shut and Cisco began to rise from the stagnant pit to the almost equally stagnant cabin.
I can’t be late. I can’t be late. 57859-AL. I can’t be late. Mr. Schneider continued to say those words to himself over and over again. He didn’t quite know why he kept saying that particular phrase, his tardiness today was as factual as it was unfortunate. Perhaps it was because Schneider couldn’t possibly bring himself to think of any other statement that could fix his careless mistake. He hadn’t meant to do it. Before everything had been going swimmingly for the lumbering cabin caretaker. He had gone to the normal drop site, picked up the special object that Agent Cisco had asked for, and had left right away.
He continued to trudge through the stone-like snow, although the piercing winds were howling after him. As they fruitlessly tried to cut him down, Mr. Schneider simply kept going, he had to get it back. The metallic briefcase handcuffed to his hand continued to catch Mr. Schneider’s eyes though. No you idiot, this is for Agent Cisco. You’re a glorified groundskeeper who can’t even make a delivery-57859-AL!-in time. Snapping out of what he was pretty sure was just that little voice in his head, Mr. Schneider kicked it into a higher gear, and despite the rifle on his back, pistol at his side, pounds of snow gear on his body, and the ever-important briefcase in his hand, he continued to hustle towards the cabin. As he ran the gnarly winds kept howling after him, perhaps taunting him with the code phrase that rested on his consciousness, but for some reason, he just couldn’t seem to retain.
The poor cabin keeper had never even seen it coming. He had gotten so close to the safety of the anomaly. And there it was according to his people’s readings. Buried beneath what I the outside might look like a generic cabin. Faded brown with inches of snowfall on top. One door and one window stared directly at anybody approaching the area. That and multiple security cameras. Despite being in the middle of nowhere, it didn’t scream secret facility to the smoking man who had just shot and killed the husk formally known as Mr. Schneider.
“57859-AL. They even let you remember that tidbit groundskeeper?” The corpse gave no response. “Well no matter,” the killer replied, “I guess it’s not really that important.” He slipped on the headphones to the Walkman around his waist. He hated to work in silence. Taking a drag of his cigarette he took in the smell of accomplishment that he loved so much. He pulled the ax off of his pack and went to work on the handcuffed briefcase as the soothing sounds of Queen’s Brighton Rock soundtracked his work. After he was done, had a pilot gone over they might not have noticed the cabin, but they would certainly notice the red snow.
Agent Cisco was as cool as a cucumber on most days. If you weren’t then the weight of what hypothetically lay in the bunker would eat you alive. Despite this uniform personality trait of Cisco’s, it was quite hard to keep cool when the first thing he saw after he exited the top of the bunker and was greeted with the sight of a man who was certainly not Mr. Schneider. Beneath the what looked to be fleece cap, and the headphone around his head, Cisco could see the bottom of what looked to be strands of crimson red hair. He smelled like death.
The two men locked eyes from across the room. The only thing separating them was the mattress in which the recently deceased Mr. Schneider would lay while he waited for that subconscious voice to yell at him about getting back to work. The basement area was a weird mash of nailed in wood and burned in metal.
“Could use a bit more decorating in here. Maybe some floral wallpaper, or a picture of a boat or something,” the red-headed gunslinger noted. The two men shared one last less than exuberant look.
Bam! Bam! Bam! The basement filled with the smell of gunsmoke. For the man who was still standing after the encounter, it smelled like accomplishment.
To be continued….
Plopping out of his chair, Cisco grabbed his jacket and his gun from where they hung by the elevator. He pulled the lever and opened up his awaiting transportation. Ding! The elevator barely made a noise as the doors opened up for the drained Cisco. The bright lights of the just below surface level bunker slowly shut off as for yet another day of patience and hard work had gone to waste. The elevator doors shut and Cisco began to rise from the stagnant pit to the almost equally stagnant cabin.
I can’t be late. I can’t be late. 57859-AL. I can’t be late. Mr. Schneider continued to say those words to himself over and over again. He didn’t quite know why he kept saying that particular phrase, his tardiness today was as factual as it was unfortunate. Perhaps it was because Schneider couldn’t possibly bring himself to think of any other statement that could fix his careless mistake. He hadn’t meant to do it. Before everything had been going swimmingly for the lumbering cabin caretaker. He had gone to the normal drop site, picked up the special object that Agent Cisco had asked for, and had left right away.
He continued to trudge through the stone-like snow, although the piercing winds were howling after him. As they fruitlessly tried to cut him down, Mr. Schneider simply kept going, he had to get it back. The metallic briefcase handcuffed to his hand continued to catch Mr. Schneider’s eyes though. No you idiot, this is for Agent Cisco. You’re a glorified groundskeeper who can’t even make a delivery-57859-AL!-in time. Snapping out of what he was pretty sure was just that little voice in his head, Mr. Schneider kicked it into a higher gear, and despite the rifle on his back, pistol at his side, pounds of snow gear on his body, and the ever-important briefcase in his hand, he continued to hustle towards the cabin. As he ran the gnarly winds kept howling after him, perhaps taunting him with the code phrase that rested on his consciousness, but for some reason, he just couldn’t seem to retain.
The poor cabin keeper had never even seen it coming. He had gotten so close to the safety of the anomaly. And there it was according to his people’s readings. Buried beneath what I the outside might look like a generic cabin. Faded brown with inches of snowfall on top. One door and one window stared directly at anybody approaching the area. That and multiple security cameras. Despite being in the middle of nowhere, it didn’t scream secret facility to the smoking man who had just shot and killed the husk formally known as Mr. Schneider.
“57859-AL. They even let you remember that tidbit groundskeeper?” The corpse gave no response. “Well no matter,” the killer replied, “I guess it’s not really that important.” He slipped on the headphones to the Walkman around his waist. He hated to work in silence. Taking a drag of his cigarette he took in the smell of accomplishment that he loved so much. He pulled the ax off of his pack and went to work on the handcuffed briefcase as the soothing sounds of Queen’s Brighton Rock soundtracked his work. After he was done, had a pilot gone over they might not have noticed the cabin, but they would certainly notice the red snow.
Agent Cisco was as cool as a cucumber on most days. If you weren’t then the weight of what hypothetically lay in the bunker would eat you alive. Despite this uniform personality trait of Cisco’s, it was quite hard to keep cool when the first thing he saw after he exited the top of the bunker and was greeted with the sight of a man who was certainly not Mr. Schneider. Beneath the what looked to be fleece cap, and the headphone around his head, Cisco could see the bottom of what looked to be strands of crimson red hair. He smelled like death.
The two men locked eyes from across the room. The only thing separating them was the mattress in which the recently deceased Mr. Schneider would lay while he waited for that subconscious voice to yell at him about getting back to work. The basement area was a weird mash of nailed in wood and burned in metal.
“Could use a bit more decorating in here. Maybe some floral wallpaper, or a picture of a boat or something,” the red-headed gunslinger noted. The two men shared one last less than exuberant look.
Bam! Bam! Bam! The basement filled with the smell of gunsmoke. For the man who was still standing after the encounter, it smelled like accomplishment.
To be continued….
Challenge Story - In Media Res
“You can’t run forever Julias!,” the demon known as Bartholomew “Bart the Breaker” Lewiston hollered. His heavy Minnesotan accent echoed throughout the large hallways of Harrowfell Manor. Julias Harrison Chezoten was a sight for sore eyes. His once fine suit was torn off and shredded, and the white button-up shirt underneath it was covered in the blood that was oozing out of his now very crooked nose. Bart was getting closer and closer still and Julias knew that he wouldn’t be able to find the exit in this enemy territory. Knowing he didn’t have much of a choice, Julias made a sprint out of the corner and that’s when Bart sprinted a little faster.
“See you around Julias!” Wrapping his tree trunk hands around Julias Bart the Breaker took aim and launched Julias through the stair railing.
“Ahhhhh!”
The pitch black limousine was pulling into the long, winding driveway of the Trevison manor. The limo was driven by a portly balding man who wore the traditional chafer hat and what some would consider a “slimming suit” to hide both of these facts. Julias Harrison Chezoten was an interesting man, to say the least. He had lived a rather eclectic life that had tipped in and out on various sides of legality all while working with various crime families.. Today he had been summoned to meet with Bart the Breaker and to say Julias was nervous was the understatement of the century. He hoped that he would get the relaxed Bart who’s kill count was only slightly smaller than the muscle-bound, freak Bart. The one thing he respected about Bart was that he didn’t have a holier-than-thou attitude. Unfortunately for men who angered Bart, kissing his butt was not an option.
“So how is Mr. Lewiston compared to othe people who you have worked for,” probed Julias. ]
“I wouldn’t say he’s the worst but he’s certainly not the best,” the perpetually bored Driver said. Before Julias could try and get more information out of the driver the vehicle came to a stop. With a gulp, Julias got out and decided to seek out Bart. After a long walk through empty hallways and creaky stairs, Julias finally found “The Breaker”.
Bart was sunken into the grand old chair that matched the ancient aesthetic of the manor. The monster was, to say the least, a complete and utter scumbag. He quickly stuffed his face with a sandwich, and cookies, and milk, and apple slices.
“Howdy Julias. I hope you don’t mind if I eat a little bit before I tell you why you/tr here?” Julias knew that there wasn’t any point in arguing. With a final gulp, Bart looked into Julias’s eyes and straight into his soul.
“Unfortunately the Manitellis are going to have to let you go, Julius,” Bart bellowed out before launching himself out of the chair and launching the table over.
“Have you lost your mind?! What the heck are you doing Bart?!” Bart wouldn’t listen though and realizing his survival odds were low, Julias turned and bolted.
Crack! Julias crashed through the table and broke his fall by putting himself through unimaginable pain. His ribs felt like they had been broken into little pieces by a jackhammer and his kneecaps were already bruising after only 3 seconds. His vision was blurry but he could just make out Bart.
“Hey Julias, are you dead yet?”, the sadistic Harold shouted down. His monstrosity of a body made the massive section of broken railing look pretty small in comparison. The darkness of the manor made for a horrifying experience, especially after you have had your body wrecked.
“Why am I dragging your death out Julias? Because quite frankly I really like killing idiots like you.” The man-beast began to charge down the stairs towards the prone Julias. With his last breath, Julias prepared for the end; with his last breath, Julias squeezed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to watch; with his last breath, Julias breathed in.
“See you around Julias!” Wrapping his tree trunk hands around Julias Bart the Breaker took aim and launched Julias through the stair railing.
“Ahhhhh!”
The pitch black limousine was pulling into the long, winding driveway of the Trevison manor. The limo was driven by a portly balding man who wore the traditional chafer hat and what some would consider a “slimming suit” to hide both of these facts. Julias Harrison Chezoten was an interesting man, to say the least. He had lived a rather eclectic life that had tipped in and out on various sides of legality all while working with various crime families.. Today he had been summoned to meet with Bart the Breaker and to say Julias was nervous was the understatement of the century. He hoped that he would get the relaxed Bart who’s kill count was only slightly smaller than the muscle-bound, freak Bart. The one thing he respected about Bart was that he didn’t have a holier-than-thou attitude. Unfortunately for men who angered Bart, kissing his butt was not an option.
“So how is Mr. Lewiston compared to othe people who you have worked for,” probed Julias. ]
“I wouldn’t say he’s the worst but he’s certainly not the best,” the perpetually bored Driver said. Before Julias could try and get more information out of the driver the vehicle came to a stop. With a gulp, Julias got out and decided to seek out Bart. After a long walk through empty hallways and creaky stairs, Julias finally found “The Breaker”.
Bart was sunken into the grand old chair that matched the ancient aesthetic of the manor. The monster was, to say the least, a complete and utter scumbag. He quickly stuffed his face with a sandwich, and cookies, and milk, and apple slices.
“Howdy Julias. I hope you don’t mind if I eat a little bit before I tell you why you/tr here?” Julias knew that there wasn’t any point in arguing. With a final gulp, Bart looked into Julias’s eyes and straight into his soul.
“Unfortunately the Manitellis are going to have to let you go, Julius,” Bart bellowed out before launching himself out of the chair and launching the table over.
“Have you lost your mind?! What the heck are you doing Bart?!” Bart wouldn’t listen though and realizing his survival odds were low, Julias turned and bolted.
Crack! Julias crashed through the table and broke his fall by putting himself through unimaginable pain. His ribs felt like they had been broken into little pieces by a jackhammer and his kneecaps were already bruising after only 3 seconds. His vision was blurry but he could just make out Bart.
“Hey Julias, are you dead yet?”, the sadistic Harold shouted down. His monstrosity of a body made the massive section of broken railing look pretty small in comparison. The darkness of the manor made for a horrifying experience, especially after you have had your body wrecked.
“Why am I dragging your death out Julias? Because quite frankly I really like killing idiots like you.” The man-beast began to charge down the stairs towards the prone Julias. With his last breath, Julias prepared for the end; with his last breath, Julias squeezed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to watch; with his last breath, Julias breathed in.