House of Cards (1014 hits)
Category: UberMadness!Rating: 0.44 on 76 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by UberMadness! (View user info) at 2006-10-10 04:30:18 EDT
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Entry 1
Okay, test test is it working yeah it's working okay good oh shit how do I get it to do a. Oh there it goes. I just say it and it puts a period on there. This shit's crazy and I'm not quite sure how to work it. Voice-activated software he called it, buddy of mine who graduated from Queens College. Computer science. That could have been me I guess. Anyway it'll have to do because there's no fucking way I can type with....well, we'll get to that won't we.Lou Pant. No, Lou Pan...fuck. Lou Pantangali. There, had to hunt and peck with my damn nose. That's me. Lou Pantangali. Best fucking button-man you've never heard of. I know I know you're thinking, "Who the fuck are you?" You haven't heard of me, I know, but you've seen my work. Maybe you remember Robert Genovese? Went in to the corner Bodega for a coffee, found later in the bathroom with two in the back of his head? Yeah, that was me. I don't have a lot of time, so I'll get right to it. I was a street kid. I was born in Little Italy, New York, 1946. We were just getting done with killin' krauts and a little bit before we started gearing up to kill gooks. I never understood why the old folks in the neighborhood looked down on me like they did. The entire fuckin' country was killing, why couldn't I?
It was nothing really at first - just a punk kid lookin' to make a few dollars running numbers for the Persico family. Carmine senior was running the show back then. His son would later . We were a working class family, had to put bread on the table. My mother told me to got to school, get an education from the Catholic church, but the way I figured it, church ain't never put no bread on the table or beer in the fridge, so I couldn't be bothered. Yeah, I know, there's a huge story, right? A big tragic tale about a kid that coulda done right and instead just got roped into the wrong path. I don't think so. I don't blame nobody for how I turned out. I just needed to get by, didn't' I? Had to eat, had bills to pay. You can wear your back out getting by. I know. My father did. Liquor deliveries, thirty years of it. Dragging one case after another up the shitty walkups in this city. I found out you can make a lot more money with the muscle in your trigger finger than the muscles in your back.
I was sixteen, been running numbers for Persico for a year, when it happened. A day after numbers were drawn I'd go around and either collect or pay out. That was when I went to Tony Cipprioti's. I never liked that fat fuck. He owned a cab stand on the corner, and he'd happily let his two German shepherds loose on your ass if you were hanging around in front of the shitty lot where his taxis were parked. I walk in, real smart mouth, real tough guy, tell him I'm collecting for Persico. He laughs in my face, tells me he don't care what the fuck Persico says. He says the game is rigged and he ain't paying for no rigged game, and if Persico doesn't fuckin' like it, too bad. Now, I ain't much for loyalty to the boss, especially when I knew he'd cut me loose the moment he thought I was getting paid too much, but this shit wasn't right. I called him a fat fuck, and told him that he was a worthless piece of shit, and if he didn't pay up I was going to see that it came out of his ass. He backhanded me across the mouth for that, knocked me flat on my ass. What happened next is what brought me to today. I grabbed one of the empty beer bottles off of that fat fuck's desk and broke it off on the edge. Before he could even flinch, I buried the fucking thing in his neck. He might have lived, I guess, but I was mad as fuck. I twisted the thing and broke it off in his neck. Carmine's son Junior Persico would later kill a man at seventeen and think it was a big fucking deal. I guess he never knew I beat him by a twelve months.
I went back to Persico and told him the story. I was pretty scared, I'll admit. If he didn't believe me, I was dead as fried chicken. Instead, he patted me on the shoulder, smiled at me, and told me that I had a lot of fucking balls. "Don't ever take no shit off nobody," he said, laughing. Then he reached into his pocket and counted out five hundred dollars. I'd never seen so much fucking money in my life outside of the bank. He handed it to me and said that's what he paid his button men. My family never went hungry again, I'll tell you that. Here we are, thirty-two hits later at the end of it all. At least we ate good, eh?
Little Italy isn't just a neighborhood, it's a giant Catholic church. If it's not Our Lady of the this, it's Our Saviour of the that. Ain't nobody in the neighborhood not connected to the church somehow. My father used to take me down to Our Lady of Lourdes on the Festival of San Gennaro, the patron saint of Naples. He says to me, "This is the saint that protects us away from our homeland." And he'd take a five dollar bill and write a prayer on a card they had there, and pin it to the statue's cloak or whatever. Now five dollars wasn't no little thing. My old man had to bust his ass to earn five dollars, but he tells me "It takes a big thing to get God to hear you sometimes." By the end of the week, there was so many fucking cards pinned to him, and so many dollars, you couldn't even see him. I used to call it the house of cards, cause the pray cards would flap off and fall down on the floor and soon everyone would be walking on them. Nobody ever stole a cent though, I know that. Everybody was real respectful of everyone's prayers.
So two days after I did the Genovese hit, I was flush from getting paid. I was going down to Ruby's to do put some dollars down on the Dodgers when I noticed the church. I don't know why, I went in, just to see maybe one of the padres was around, or one of the folks from the neighborhood. Just to say hello, show respect. San Gennaro was there, but he was a lot less decorated I guess. Less cards, less money. Tough to have faith, right? The fucking Russians were threatening us with the bomb and we were sending guys across the world to die fighting chinks and gooks. Tough to have faith. I thought then about my father, who had higher hopes for his kid than a hoodlum, a number runner, a killer for Carmine "the Snake" Persico. I thought about my mother, who could never bear to ask me what I was doing for money, because she was too damn smart to ask. I took one of the cards. You're supposed to write what your prayer is on the thing, but I couldn't think of anything. I just wrote one thing on it. SAVE ME. That's all I could think of, and isn't that what the church is all about? I thought about it for a long time. Then I took the thousand bucks that I'd been paid for the Genovese hit out. It was blood money, yeah, dirty money. But the church could make it clean again, right? They made a dirty person clean, they could clean dirty money. I pinned it up there and left.
Now I'm sitting here in this house. I can't go out, and I wouldn't if I could, because God's gone and done it. He's answered my prayer, I think. It hurts like a son of a bitch though, but I think it's a good kind of hurt, a hurt that's driving wrong and bad out of you. I can't eat too good either, and the carpet is pretty much ruined, but I don't really care too much. God took time out of his day to talk to me, I guess, and there's not a whole lot more honor you can get from that.
Stigmata, they call it. Bodily marks, sores, or sensations of pain in locations of the crucified Christ. That's what Father Gregor said on the phone. Usually it was one place, sometimes two, and really rarely three places. I was looking in the mirror while we spoke. I had couldn't hold the phone because of the holes in my fucking wrists, and I couldn't really stand too well, because of the holes in my feet. If that wasn't enough, blood soaked through my shirts from the left side of my ribcage, and my scalp was bleeding too. I asked him if that had ever happened. Father Gregor laughed and said that would be a miracle unheard of. I thanked him and hung up. I've been bleeding for five days and I'm still alive. I thought only women could do that.
The phone's been ringing. Alphonse, the Persico street boss, wanted me at a sit down. I can't go. I wont' go. God is telling me what's up. He's calling me back to him, because of what I did in the house of cards. I don't know why, all I can say is I'm so grateful I could cry. Frank Casso came by, wanting to know why I was disrespecting the boss. He was gaunt and coughing. Lung cancer. He'd smoked for nearly forty years. When I touched him, he froze at the sight of the blood on my hand. It soaked into his shirt, and he fell down on the ground, twitching and shit, like having a seizure. The paramedics came and got him. When I called the hospital later, they said he was fine, had just fainted. I asked about the cancer, and they told me I must have the wrong patient, Casso was damned healthy for sixty-one. I thanked her and hung up.
Now I'm waiting. I missed a sit down with the boss. I refused to come when he called. I know what that means. But I'm not scared at all. God reached out to me. I don't know why. Maybe it was for the same reason that he reaches out to anyone. Maybe all it really takes is just one moment of listening for Him, just one sincere instant when you say "Help me" and He'll be there. I don't know, but it doesn't bother me. I'm going to find out soon. I just called Father Gregor. He's on his way over,too. I'll be leaving this for him to find, so he can know that somebody in the house of cards found something real. Now it's just a question of who
There it is, knock at the door. Death or salvation on the other side.
Thank God. I'm ready.
- VS -
Entry 2
"Yeah, all her stuff's still inside; Dan says just go ahead.""Doesn't anybody want it?"
"Don't think there's anybody to want it. The boys had a look though and grabbed a few things; television and whatever, you know; but I don't think there's really much to want."
"So we're just supposed to tear it down as is?"
"Trash it all; take it to the dump."
"Jesus Christ, Ronnie."
Ronnie tossed him the keys, "you won't be needing these - it's open."
David Thompson stood a long time, squinting in the cool sun and screwing his face at the house before him. It was a sad sight, the tiny patch of suburbia, standing alone in a moonscape of mud and machinery.
"Dan Biggs."
"Dan, David. Look, we got a problem with the last house on the development property."
"Oh, and what's that?"
"It's still full of stuff! There's a car in the driveway."
"Yeah I know; we bought it from the bank like that. Is the car nice?"
"No."
"Shitty. Well, I told Ronnie to let the boys take whatever they wanted and you're welcome to do the same."
"Shameful if you ask me, Dan. Shouldn't we be letting the family clear it out or something?"
"No family to speak of. And for the record, I didn't ask you."
"Well I still think we should clean it out."
"Hey, if you wanna pay the monkeys twenty-five bucks an hour to clean out a house we're just gonna tear down anyway, you're more than welcome. Otherwise, prep it for demo and make it happen - I gotta run."
The front door opened with a nudge. Beyond its creaking swing were the boot prints and drag marks of the boys and their looting. David Thompson shook his head, and drawing in all that he could of the autumn air, stepped inside.
The ceilings were low and windows few. The entryway, barren and dark, coaxed him into the relative bright of the kitchen. Its most prominent feature, the fridge, stood dutifully, but with dignity faded. It was very old. And green. And empty, he discovered. Stuck to the door by magnets shaped like cocker spaniels were a calendar and picture of a dog, aged, and of similar breed, sitting on an impressively-purple couch. The calendar hung below, stuck defiantly on the month of April. David looked cautiously over his shoulder, and leaned forward to read the entries: April second, Dr. Kwong, three o'clock; April twentieth, Dr. Braid, nine o'clock; Dr. Stevenson, noon, April twenty-eighth.
Such hopeless dates, he lamented, and walked over to a tall set of cupboards. He felt compelled to look; someone should care, he reasoned; someone should care enough to know; and he opened a door slowly: nothing. Another: nothing. Potato leek soup, three cans. Nothing. Nothing. One bowl, plate, cup, mug, fork, spoon, knife; all laid out in a humble line. Nothing. Dented pot, warped frying pan. Nothing.
He sighed aloud, vision sweeping glibly through the kitchen, and stepped into the living room.
Through the doorway lay the impressively-purple couch. It was draped by a sheet. He stepped towards it and lifted the corner, discovering why it was covered so: arms and cushions so worn their stuffing burst past the final, steadfast threading. "Better than no sheet," he admitted, collapsing heavily upon it.
Ignoring his duty - immersed instead in his archaeological macabre - he looked about; at the faded walls, the faded furniture; the faded life. Chin resting in his palms and elbows on his thighs he absorbed the room; consumed it and its odd metallic interpretations of cats, dogs, a giraffe; its frugal watercolours of animals, forest streams, deciduous trees in fall; its tiny alabaster figurines of ballerinas and young boys fishing.
Purple drapes hung from flowered, golden rods. Pillows with shining tassels accented the corners of the covered couch. Everything seemed to be embroidered or embellished by the garish, tandem effort: the deep purple, fashionable not even in its days before fading and succumbing to the dust, matched in a marriage intolerable, with a cheap, igneous gold.
There had been care attended to this room, and that made it all the more pitiful. David could feel the loneliness, the empty pockets, the dated taste; that had come here to meet with desperation, and decorate in plastic accessories and sad-tacky hues.
Fake plants. Empty vases. This was someone's life.
This was where someone sat to eat potato leek soup in front of a television that got eleven channels and a rotary phone that never rang.
He rose slowly and walked up the sagging stairs; the expedition, however depressing, felt compelled to push on. He ignored the recyclable drywall; the re-usable framing; the supporting walls; and found his vision to be focused instead, on the sad, worn carpet of the hallway. It lay like trodden grass from the stairwell to the bathroom, and the only bedroom beyond.
He followed the carpet, seeking the end, and most personal of all.
The bedroom was small and tightly-furnished. There was barely room to walk around the open side of the bed, even pushed against the wall as it was. In one corner stood a tall dresser, curling varnish congregating in only the least important of places. Sitting in the corner nearest the door was a small vanity, with an enormous frameless mirror that leaned against the wall and was supported by nothing more than the bare table top.
The room stunk horribly; but hiding high on the air, somewhere long ago, was the faint odour of a woman's perfume.
He collapsed backwards onto the bed, disconsolate, and allowed the lifeless mattress to envelope him.
"This lonely woman; has a lifetime to build and accumulate and carve out her place on this earth, and this is it: a dead dog, an empty house, and potato leek soup. Her life's work really, and here I am to kick it all down."
How close am I to this fate, he wondered; thirty-seven and without children; working this hollow job and fumbling my way through the ranks of women with kids in college.
"Such is life," he sighed, finally admitting to wasting enough time and sorrow.
He was propping himself up, determined to leave, when the sound of a wet fart filled the room.
Startled, he sat silently, and then slid off the end of the bed. "Hello?" he ventured into the empty bedroom.
No answer.
He stood a mosquito's year before his initial fright subsided, and gave way to curiosity. It couldn't have been anything too vicious, he reasoned, and there seemed but one logical source; so he stepped confidently, but with caution appropriate, towards the small slatted door of the closet, slightly ajar.
From some distance he probed the gap with his finger and slid it open violently, jumping backwards at the same time.
There was nothing inside.
He exhaled deeply, relieved, before noticing the mirror, toppling immensely from the shock of his spirited leap. It fell slowly, and shattered into its skeletal remains, revealing behind it, the figure of an elderly woman, huddled, and on her haunches.
He stood back, eyes wide and staring, at the wrinkled form before him.
Nothing of her front was exposed; only short, frizzy hair, the back of her frail arms, and the knobs of her spine, which ran down her like the buttons of an overcoat. Pools of urine and loose stool stained the carpet beneath her, and she shook irregularly.
"Hello," he dared.
She did not respond, but broke into a quiet sobbing, pausing only to gasp.
"Hello Miss, are you okay?"
She turned towards him, opening like a rotting daisy on time-lapse film.
Speaking slowly, through lips cracked and dry, she said: "I am Elisabeth Forbischer. This is my home, and this is where I wish to die." She lifted her head and offered him her eyes - the skin beneath them like burnt cauliflower. "Please leave me be," she said feebly, barely able to hold his gaze.
"I certainly can't leave you here," he said, not knowing what to do. "We're about to tear this place down." He stepped awkwardly towards the closet. "Let me get you some clothes, and we'll get you out of here, okay?"
Strength unexplainable filled her voice: "No!" And she shook wildly, bunching herself up and turning back to the wall. "This is where I wish to stay." She wheezed wetly, and a trickle of urine escaped her.
Pity and disgust swept over him. But more potent than hate, is love; especially amongst acquaintances so intimate. "We have to get you out of here, Mrs. Forbischer," he said tenderly, and stepped towards her, crunching over the broken glass to touch gingerly at the back of her arm.
She shrunk further at the contact, collapsing onto her buttocks. She spoke with quiet defiance: "Leave me. Just leave me. Please just leave me." Her volume grew, and with the effort, came the contents of her bowels, spidering outwards beneath her weight.
"Let me get you some clothes," he pleaded, "and we'll get you to a doctor."
"There's nothing they can do," she said bleakly, face buried between her knobby knees, "and there's nowhere I want to go," she added. "I am dying. Dead, even. But I know no one, and have nothing but what is around me. I don't want to die in the hospital; I will be alone. Alone in death. And is there anything worse than being alone in death?"
She sobbed once more.
David frowned, and felt all at once sad and hopeful. "I would visit you," he offered sincerely. "I really would."
She laughed; a shallow, wet laugh. "You are a nice man," she said, pausing to make room for a cough. "You mean well; but you are a stranger, and my house is an old friend, like Margaret or Charlie," she said, rocking now. The wet floor sponged around her. "Or maybe even like a child," she thought aloud, staring straight ahead.
David waited, not wanting to cut her off. But she remained silent.
"Mrs. Forbischer, you need to come with me," he said with little conviction. He knew it, and tried once again, thinking about his job, and jail. He couldn't let her stay. "You can't honestly expect me to leave you in here, knowing what is going to happen?"
She looked up at him. "I don't expect you to," she said, "but I hope you can." And her eyes went red and cloudy.
"You're putting it to the wrecking ball, my friend. You're destroying it, with everything I know inside. You're tearing down what has taken me seventy-seven years to build. I know it's sold. I know the papers say it's yours, but that certainly doesn't make it any less mine; and with it all, I will be torn down too; one way or another." She paused meaningfully. "Believe me - it will be far less painful for me in here. Far less painful," she repeated. And then: "Please, I beg you: just let me be."
He thought a while, staying on his feet; then sat back on the corner of the bed. She said nothing. He said less. He ran dirty fingers through dirty hair. They sat in the din of progress and destruction. "Alright," David said, coming to the inevitable decision. "Alright."
"Thank you," she said without lifting her head. "Thank you so much."
"God will forgive you," he heard as he walked slowly down the stairs. He grimaced at the words.
"Ronnie!"
Ronnie came lumbering over from beside the excavator.
"Good to go?" he asked, somehow out of breath.
"Yeah," David said, "but there's an old woman inside and she wants us to tear it down with her still in there."
"So, what should we do?"
"I think we should call the police, don't you?"
Police at the workplace was nothing new really; but an event worthy of attention nonetheless. After seeing David speak to them without anger or finger-pointing, most all of the boys returned to work. Not a shovel moved though, as the two officers carried that little old lady, writhing like an inch-worm mid-coitus, back to their car.
"What a crazy bitch!" Ronnie said to David after they had passed.
David said nothing.
"Did you see her, all covered in shit!?" he exclaimed.
David said nothing.
"You were fucking serious!"
He remained silent, and the great pneumatic arm of the excavator dropped into the sagging roof. It pulled away, as it longed to do, and half the house lay in ruin.
The boys cheered; David Thompson looked away; and a few miles down the road, Elisabeth Forbischer shut her eyes, never to be opened again.
Entry 1:
apollo88
AsshOly
BadAssJulie
Bellebrown
Bigmike
bob
coley
Davros
domenad
drgoatcabin
DuiTicket
EchoBoxing
extacy_red
GodChicken
Hirilnara
intellismartness
Jack_McCallum
jgreening
JonnyX
kimmy02721
Method
polyamorousaj
redskieslookfake
Shaun_Rocks
sicosemen
Soley_Trinity
sparkle_pink
The_taste_of_Monkeys
WingedFoote
26 eligible votes (29 total) *
Entry 2:
Ally788
august_sobriquet
Axolotl
BLITZKREIG_BOB
Bubba2341
CaptainThorns
charminglybeef
Circe
Confuzitron
Coyote
Crystle
darko
DrogoRoch
FunnyAsCancer
ghola
goferforhire
gravitas
helbling
HotWillie
Impassive-Digressive
Jack_Burton
JMG114
joedaddy
JoeyG
justagirl27
kaos-king
kinney69
kybernetikum
loki
LT
Magicaddict
MandaPanda
Orgasmatron
peckerhead
rad1101
Sacrilicious
scourge
simple_catalyst
St_Jimmy
Stagger_Lee
stevie_says
supadupapupa
38 eligible votes (42 total) *
* Eligible votes are those made by users who had either (A) posted 3+ messages OR (B) written 100+ [lowered from 750+] reviews as of the beginning of the UberMadness! competition.
User Reviews
Submitted by domenad (user info) at 2006-10-14 14:43:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Well done beef. I seriously underestimated you. Maybe a rematch. Good luck bro!
Submitted by charminglybeef (user info) at 2006-10-13 22:07:18 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Good match Domenad.
You're a very talented fellow, and I'm pretty sure that most days would see you the victor.
Best of luck in the future rounds.
Submitted by jgreening (user info) at 2006-10-13 11:23:31 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by august_sobriquet (user info) at 2006-10-13 10:34:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Bellebrown (user info) at 2006-10-13 04:57:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by supadupapupa (user info) at 2006-10-13 01:50:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I think this one was of the better matchups, still there both not my kind of story. I preferred the more morbid description in #2.
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-10-12 21:48:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This match and the reviews are living proof that most Uber asswipes can't cut the mustard as critics. BWAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA!!!!
*BLOW ME*
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-10-12 21:42:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by peckerhead (user info) at 2006-10-12 17:38:57 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Both were painfully well written; Entry 2 only because I can relate more with this story. Good luck to the winner.
Submitted by Coyote (user info) at 2006-10-12 14:56:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by GodChicken (user info) at 2006-10-12 14:30:17 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by polyamorousaj (user info) at 2006-10-12 14:05:08 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by kinney69 (user info) at 2006-10-12 13:17:31 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2006-10-12 13:09:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
Really tough call here.
I think in the end I could relate, on a more general level, with #2. #1 was well written, and I like the idea of redemption coming in an unlikely form, but I just fell into #2 a bit more. The empty house and the main character's decision. Good things, both.
Submitted by Ally788 (user info) at 2006-10-12 12:59:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by helbling (user info) at 2006-10-12 12:44:44 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2006-10-12 12:07:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by HotWillie (user info) at 2006-10-10 23:55:08 (#)
Ranking: 0
Advice for the both of you:
Make your story interesting at the very beginning, and then try and keep it that way.
#1 was annoying as hell from the get go and I did not finish it.
#2 started with boring dialogue with no context. I did not finish it, either.
If my vote counted I would've read them completely, so I don't feel bad.
Round two so far has produced only one decent matchup, to my knowledge. The Summer one.
I hope they get better.
Most of the them really suck.
--
Everything you ever wanted to know about HotWillie
User id: 27532
Registered on or around: 2006-06-22 21:31:03
# Messages posted: 0
# Reviews written: 237
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Average rating of all messages: 0.00
Submitted by Shaun_Rocks (user info) at 2006-10-12 11:38:12 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Hirilnara (user info) at 2006-10-12 10:25:58 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
No Comment
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-10-12 07:58:53 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I really liked 2, but 1 was good as well. A hard matchup.
Submitted by Soley_Trinity (user info) at 2006-10-12 04:42:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by WingedFoote (user info) at 2006-10-12 02:00:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
the first story had so much potential, and I loved everything about it, loved it, except it seemed pretty disjointed. though that may have been the idea, POV and all that, I still found it confusing; maybe it needed one more proofread? the second was certainly, um, different...
Submitted by AsshOly (user info) at 2006-10-12 01:09:41 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I really just liked the format of the first one. At first it was annoying but then it grew on me. Story was decent.
Submitted by bob (user info) at 2006-10-12 00:30:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Confuzitron (user info) at 2006-10-11 23:29:12 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Circe (user info) at 2006-10-11 22:28:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Crystle (user info) at 2006-10-11 21:58:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
both of these were good - it's hard to choose
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2006-10-11 21:11:14 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by drgoatcabin (user info) at 2006-10-11 17:48:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
the highest five of all
Submitted by kimmy02721 (user info) at 2006-10-11 16:55:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by darko (user info) at 2006-10-11 16:39:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I liked two better (or am I just voting against your filename being ripped off of google?)
Submitted by extacy_red (user info) at 2006-10-11 15:20:53 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by loki (user info) at 2006-10-11 14:15:58 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
oh god now I'm depressed
Submitted by St_Jimmy (user info) at 2006-10-11 12:04:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
#1 was good, but #2 was amazing.
Author 2, " One bowl, plate, cup, mug, fork, spoon, knife; all laid out in a humble line." is one of the best descriptive lines I've ever read. Freakin' awesome!
Submitted by gravitas (user info) at 2006-10-11 09:13:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by kybernetikum (user info) at 2006-10-11 08:01:31 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by intellismartness (user info) at 2006-10-11 07:49:38 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
So the stories start getting depressing.
Dunno why, but i preferred number one.
Submitted by DrogoRoch (user info) at 2006-10-11 03:36:22 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
The toughest choice I have had to make so far, as both were very well written.
#2 Gets it by the description of the house. I have been in houses like that and it really did take me back.
Submitted by justagirl27 (user info) at 2006-10-11 01:05:07 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
sad :(
Submitted by HotWillie (user info) at 2006-10-10 23:55:08 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Advice for the both of you:
Make your story interesting at the very beginning, and then try and keep it that way.
#1 was annoying as hell from the get go and I did not finish it.
#2 started with boring dialogue with no context. I did not finish it, either.
If my vote counted I would've read them completely, so I don't feel bad.
Round two so far has produced only one decent matchup, to my knowledge. The Summer one.
I hope they get better.
Most of the them really suck.
Submitted by coley (user info) at 2006-10-10 23:10:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Both of these were really good, but I liked entry 1 better.
Entry 2 was good but I there were a few things that didn't flow as well.
Like I said, both really good. :)
Submitted by DuiTicket (user info) at 2006-10-10 22:25:21 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by simple_catalyst (user info) at 2006-10-10 22:02:47 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by sparkle_pink (user info) at 2006-10-10 21:57:57 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Loved both of these. Went with the entry that at least made reference to the title.
Submitted by joedaddy (user info) at 2006-10-10 21:17:47 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Jack_Burton (user info) at 2006-10-10 19:51:53 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by BadAssJulie (user info) at 2006-10-10 19:17:42 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Had a picture
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-10-10 19:02:38 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Festa de San Gennaro
Submitted by goferforhire (user info) at 2006-10-10 18:57:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by sicosemen (user info) at 2006-10-10 14:15:58 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Blech.
Submitted by EchoBoxing (user info) at 2006-10-10 13:59:36 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
author 1, did you say 'comma' after okay or did the software just know? and you didn't figure it out until the end of the sentence? please.
Submitted by stevie_says (user info) at 2006-10-10 12:48:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2006-10-10 12:47:42 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Toughest call of this round.
Lots of weak entries this time around, and here we have two solid tales.
Hard choice.
#1 was free of any errors or glitches, and a nice twist on the usual mafia shit, and that is one genre I am tiring of quickly.
#2 was an incredible diversion from the usual UM post, and if it weren't for a few less fluid bits it would get my vote.
In the end it comes down to what lines grabbed me, and that means #1 wins my vote, for lines like this...
"...1946. We were just getting done with killin' krauts and a little bit before we started gearing up to kill gooks. I never understood why the old folks in the neighborhood looked down on me like they did. The entire fuckin' country was killing, why couldn't I?"
Sorry #2, I enjoyed your tale a lot!
Submitted by kaos-king (user info) at 2006-10-10 12:38:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I really didn't care for either of these...
#1 - I found this difficult to read. Then there's the fact that I despise mobster tales.
#2 - You enjoy the semicolon a bit too much, but the story was a great deal better.
Submitted by scourge (user info) at 2006-10-10 11:44:48 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
both were okay.
Submitted by BLITZKREIG_BOB (user info) at 2006-10-10 11:40:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
The whole shit part was unnecessary.
Submitted by charminglybeef (user info) at 2006-10-10 11:23:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
They were both rather cliched, wouldn't you say?
Submitted by Bigmike (user info) at 2006-10-10 10:36:52 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Number two:
Was there a sale on punctuation at the dollar store? I liked your story tremendously but dear lord, the punctuation made it hard to read.
Number one:
Nice story, nice idea, easy to read for the most part, but the ending seemed to lack something. I don't know what, but I enjoyed your story very much.
I guess the quality of the writing decides this one for me.
Submitted by FunnyAsCancer (user info) at 2006-10-10 10:27:28 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nothing_in_the_Dark_%28The_Twilight_Zone%29
Submitted by FunnyAsCancer (user info) at 2006-10-10 10:23:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
#1 - It was good, just not good enough. I think it's because the whole "criminal redeemed" thing is kinda cliche. Kinda. Just not fresh, really.
Also, although it didn't make a huge deal here, think about formatting from now on. Paragraphs of 6 lines look ok on Uber, but if that were printed, each of those paragraphs would be a page long.
#2 - Yours was written better, but I couldn't help thinking of that old Twilight Zone episode where the lady won't leave her house because of Mr. Death, and then eventually she has to leave because her building has been condemned. It was verrrrry similar.
Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2006-10-10 10:05:57 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2006-10-10 10:01:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
#2 wins on account of the phrase "writhing like an inch-worm mid-coitus."
Submitted by JMG114 (user info) at 2006-10-10 09:56:34 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
Entry one seemed rather passive in its telling. It could've been edited to read a lot tighter.
Entry two told an interesting and refreshing story. I liked it.
Submitted by The_taste_of_Monkeys (user info) at 2006-10-10 09:46:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
SUPER HYPER MEGA MEH!
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2006-10-10 09:14:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Davros (user info) at 2006-10-10 09:01:48 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I don't normally go for religious themes, but Entry 1 was really good. The "voice" of your charechter seemed right. I think this is my favourite piece so far.
Entry 2 was decent, but I had to vote for entry 1.
-Dave
Submitted by Method (user info) at 2006-10-10 08:50:17 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by rad1101 (user info) at 2006-10-10 08:36:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by MandaPanda (user info) at 2006-10-10 06:17:44 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by redskieslookfake (user info) at 2006-10-10 06:12:23 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
And I know the paragraphs are too big - I don't care.
Submitted by JoeyG (user info) at 2006-10-10 05:41:07 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-10-10 05:15:18 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Magicaddict (user info) at 2006-10-10 05:09:18 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
#1 was a good idea, and would have won a lot of the matchups in this round. #2 was slightly better written, however. Unfortunate they these were up against each other.
Submitted by domenad (user info) at 2006-10-10 04:59:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by LT (user info) at 2006-10-10 04:49:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
Both good stories, entry 2 was written better is all.
Submitted by Impassive-Digressive (user info) at 2006-10-10 04:35:21 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment