Framed (727 hits)
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Submitted by UberMadness! (View user info) at 2006-10-24 10:40:23 EDT
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Entry 1
"You boys fancy a frame or two?"The line didn't vary much from week to week. Sometimes it was "...a frame or ten," and others it was "You guys..." But what followed the line was always the same.
One lane.
10 frames.
Two teams of four bowlers each.
It had become something of a tradition at Rollerbowl in the small town of New Harborbrook, Virginia. Leagues were every Wednesday and our little wager took place on Thursday, $100 a game.
It may sound like a lot for just one game played by me and my minimum-wage bums, but things tend to even out when you play a team of comparable skill, albeit incomparable wealth and power, week after week. Overall, my team was up by only $200 all-time.
"Get your scrawny ass balls over here," I commanded Dalton and his crew. "Kitchen almost had our cheese fries ready before you got here. What was it this time, a yak loose from the zoo?"
My teammates laughed along with me.
"Maybe it was one of them..." I looked back at my teammate Zeke, with his ball in one hand and the other twirling his ever-burgeoning mustache. "What did you call them orphaned babies, Zeke?"
"Now now," Zeke said staring over at the opposing team, straw in his moth, still framed in the doorway of the bowling alley. "Not in front of the ladies."
Dalton hopped down the steps towards the lanes, followed by his team. They each unzipped their bags, removed their balls, each finely polished, and placed them on the carousel as if the balls were their own offspring.
They each then returned to their seats and strapped on their shoes, ready and thus mirroring my team's appearance. Unlike the usual back-and-forth banter, Dalton's team was eerily quiet. And my team certainly wasn't one to let such a stillness go unpunished.
"Usually more raucous than a sewing circle, ain't ya?" asked Joe Jr., a farmer with a gut almost as big as his mouth. "How's come nothing been clucking out of your mouth since last week? Tired a' gettin' beat?"
"Just the opposite," Dalton said, finally, "we're mourning for your impending loss tonight."
"There they go," said Joe Sr., clapping his posterity on the back. "before you know it, maybe they'll figure out how to throw a ball or two down the lane."
The first four frames progressed as normal. Strikes, mostly, with most leftovers cleaned up promptly. Any failure to capture the spare was often devastating for the side, but not insurmountably so.
After four frames the teams were close as always, with my team having a slight advantage in the averages, 85 to 79.
In the fifth frame, Dalton removed his ball from the carousel and positioned himself. He hesitated for a moment to look back at the seven others, who were looking right back at him. He opened his mouth as if to speak but then flipped his left hand towards us and muttered something under his breath.
"What the hell was that Dalton? Praying to God won't help you now," I said.
"Ah, it was nothing," he said, and started to regain his composure to start his frame. Before he started his windup, I stood up behind the electronic scoring table.
"Hold up," I said. Addressing the rest of the men, I said, "It looks like Dalton's got something on his mind, don't it? And we wouldn't want to let such a momentous occasion go unheralded, would we?"
Each of the others shook their head begrudgingly or mockingly, with frowns and foreheads furrowed.
"Well if it's gonna be like that," Dalton said, "That's how it's gonna be."
The rest of the group shook their heads at the lame rejoinder.
Dalton walked back towards the rest of the competitors, set down his ball and plopped in an empty seat next to me. He had the same crazy look he always had. Dalton's gloved right hand combed the right side of Dalton's mane as he addressed me and my team.
"Ever get one of those feelings?"
"Dalton," Joe Jr. said, "you haven't gone gay on us now, have you?"
"Not one of those feelings, dumbass," Dalton retorted. "I mean one of those feelings where you know you're going to hit strike after strike after strike. As if God himself is rooting for you and will not allow you to miss."
My team, dumbfounded, obviously had no idea what Dalton was talking about. We were all amateur bowlers at best, each game being just that - a game.
"Gentlemen," Dalton said with that crazy gleam in his eye. "I'd like to propose a bet."
I inched forward on my hard plastic seat and goaded Dalton to tell me more.
"We'll keep on bowling," he said, "just like we always do. But as a side bet, I'll bet anyone that I won't make anything less than a strike for the rest of the game."
Now, Dalton had been doing better than average today. He had two strikes and two spares thus far, including a nasty 7-10 in the second frame.
"How much?" I snarled, hoping to drive Dalton to make a larger bet than he wanted on account of his ego. There was no way this scrawny kid from Scranton was going to bowl a 260. The best he had ever shot was a 210 and that was an amazing combination of Mountain Dew, chili and a hamburger with expired meat from the kitchen.
Dalton scratched the inside of his ear with his left hand and rubbed the success on his fingers for a few seconds before he spoke.
"I was thinking somewhere in the neighborhood of a grand," he said calmly, standing and taking his place in front of the foul line.
The rest of the group was deathly silent, but I knew how Dalton worked.
"How about four grand," I quipped, eyes locked with Dalton in ambiguity over whether the whole thing was a joke or not. "Each." I broke the stare down and looked at the rest of my team for assurance of their intent. Each of them reluctantly nodded their head once.
Without saying a word, Dalton turned to the lane, took four steps and bowled a perfect strike. With the same disposition he took to the lane, Dalton smugly sat down beside me and looked straight ahead, waiting for his next opportunity.
So the cocky bastard got one? He still had eight to go.
Down went the pins. Frame after frame, Dalton continued his calm demeanor as he stood, thrice penetrated his partner with his fingers and used her to knock down 10 puny pins so far away.
Two...three frames in a row. When Dalton got the Turkey we started to worry.
"Say Dalton," Zeke said without any of his regular gusto and in the shakiest voice I've ever heard from the towering giant, "you know we were just joking about that bet, right?"
Dalton sharply turned in his chair to face Zeke.
"Betting is all we do here, friends." The last word chilled each and every one of us. $100 was a lot of money for a game, but none of us had the scratch to pull together even close to $4,000. Hell, I barely had $5 in my pocket. And that had to last me another week and a half.
Without the dispute solved, Dalton kept bowling strikes. Each of my teammates praying that he would miss just one pin. All we required was slightly less than perfection and Dalton defied us at every swing.
As the tenth frame rolled around, Dalton finally addressed us.
"So will it be cash or check, gentlemen?"
One strike.
"Dalton," I said. "You know none of us have that kind of money. You can have your regular team winnings for the game, of course, but couldn't we just forget the side bet?"
The ball returned to the carousel.
"No dice," Dalton said, swinging his arm in a perfect arc, bringing the ball down parallel to the slick wood of the alley and watching it glide in between the one and three pin for yet another perfect roll.
"We made a gentleman's agreement," Dalton said as he waited the return of the final ball. "I expect you each to pay up." His gaze surveyed each of us, shaking, as we had been since around the seventh frame. Our games had suffered. I was only bowling a 160, much lower than my 190 average. Zeke had only snagged 7 pins in the last four frames combined. "Or else."
As the familiar pre-plop of the ball return echoed our dooms, I closed my eyes and clasped my hands together, unable to watch the final blow.
Squeak.
I heard Dalton's soles against the bowling alley's scarred floor, readying himself for the conclusion of the game.
Then, with four rapid squeaks and a clunk, the action was completed. Now only one sound remained, one sound to seal the fates of our person and our wallets. Would we be...
Crash.
The unmistakable sound of ten helpless pins, standing prostrate for so long, smashed, plastered, demolished and hurled around by their overweight and propellant aggressor. The sound of a strike had never before resonated inside me so deeply.
As I dared open my eyes, I saw the mechanical pin collector shoving ten pins back to the rear of the alley, to mingle in interconnecting tubes and mechanisms I knew close to nothing about. And on the giant computer screen above us, flashing in bright neon green letters was Dalton's name above a much larger "X," signifying what we all had feared.
As the X stopped flashing, Dalton's final score was displayed at the end of his row. 260. It was the best any of us had ever bowled in our lives.
Under that sign proclaiming his next-to-godlike status, Dalton wore the smuggest smile I have ever seen with his arms crossed. The smile beamed out from our lane to all others in the alley. The constant rattle of balls hitting the floor and pins clattering ceased, if only for a moment.
"Look, Dalton, we're going to have to work something out here, obviously. We're just as poor as you are," I said, motioning to my companions. Joe Jr. just got back to work after his back injury, Joe Sr. is broke after supporting his son for so long, Zeke is still on Welfare and I'm up to my neck in child payments. Isn't the satisfaction of bowling that game and becoming a legend enough for you?"
Dalton scoffed at the idea, uncrossing his arms and sat down next to me.
"Legends die when the men who know of their greatness die. You're going to get that money to me one way or another," he said. "Or else."
What had started out as another friendly, weekly game had turned into a threatening debacle.
Dalton made a notion to the rest of his team, still dumbfounded at the good fortune that they were not on the losing and debt-ridden side that day.
"What the hell are we going to do," asked Joe Jr. once the other team had left the alley.
"We've got to talk Dalton out of it," I said. "But I sure as hell don't know how. If I were him, I'd sure as hell want the $16,000."
--
Days went by. I meant to call Dalton, but it's very hard to motivate one's self into calling a man who has you in the palm of his hand. Attempting to scurry out from under that hand is hard enough when the hand doesn't know what you're doing but when you ask the hand to move it's damn near impossible.
So it turned out that I had not called Dalton by Thursday, when we have our weekly game.
At our specified time, 7:30, neither Dalton nor his team showed up. So my team split into two groups of two and we played anyway.
The next day, I decided to call Dalton.
"Hey man," I said into the receiver, "how's it going?"
"Not too well," Dalton said. "I've been waiting for my money but not a one of you has paid. When am I getting my money?"
"Yeah...that's what I was calling about. Listen, I'll get right to the point. I don't think we should be paying you that money, Dalton."
"Oh, you don't? And why not?"
"Because we don't really have that kind of money," I said shaking, my confidence escaping with every sound I uttered.
"If you didn't have the money, why did you make the bet?"
"Well...uh...I don't know. Can't you j..."
"Maybe because you were so sure you were going to win," Dalton cut me off. "Maybe because you didn't think your old pal Dalton would actually do it and then you'd be rolling in the dough. Does that sound about right, friend?"
It did.
"No, Dalton, that's not how it is. Look, I was just trying to bluff you into..."
"Into backing out of the bet, I know. I know how you work, Chris. Fact is, the bet was made and you need to pay up by the end of the month. Tell the rest of your lowlife dicks that you call a team, too. Tell 'em to get me my money or I'll be sending my boys after you."
Click.
--
The next Thursday, none of us expected Dalton or his team to show up, but all four of my team did, if nothing else than for the routine. But for the first time in six years, none of us even pretended like we were going to bowl. We were too worked up about what to do with Dalton.
Our options became increasingly limited when we realized we wouldn't be able to raise the funds by the end of the month, a scant five days away. We decided to pool what money we had and send it to Dalton in hopes that it would be enough. And even though the $1200 we sent him was nowhere near the amount he was hoping for, at least it would be something.
Dalton responded by using the $1200 to hire two hitmen to beat Joe Sr. to within an inch of his life at his home. Next to his unconscious body lay a note that read:
"You have one more week. I expect the full amount by then or my boys will have to put in quite a few volunteer hours. Your friend, Dalton."
--
Instead of bowling the second day after the beating, the team decided to go visit Joe Sr. in the hospital and figure out a plan.
Joes Jr. and Sr. were mostly occupied with each other, so that left me and Zeke to work out the details.
"Well we know we won't have the money," I said. "But Dalton will know that as well. He's just giving us another week to make us sweat."
"So what are our other options," Zeke asked, knowing full well what the answer was.
"We've got to kill him," I said.
--
"Hey Dalton," I cheerily said into the telephone.
"You got my money," Dalton asked right off the back.
"I sure do," I lied, "had to take out a loan from Fulton Savings and Loan but you'll get your damn money. Listen, though, this stuff can be put behind us. Why don't you come back to the lanes on Thursday? It'd be a shame to let all this money stuff get in between us and the game, y'know?"
It was a long shot. There was no reason for Dalton to come back. The $16,000 had soured things in between my team and his, barring any future good-natured competition. The only thing that would bring him back was more money.
"That loan that I got," I said, "it was for $20,000." I awaited Dalton's response but heard not a peep.
"How about we make this week's game a little more interesting. $4,000 for the winner. Just you and me. Let me recoup some of my losses fair and square."
"Ah. So you're up for a frame or ten, eh?" He started to laugh. "Now we're talking," Dalton said. "I'll see you on Thursday, Chris."
--
As Dalton's 1967 Chevy Nova Super Sport rolled into the parking lot, we were ready for him. It was stupid of him to come and even more stupid to come alone.
With Joe Sr. still in the hospital, it was only myself, Joe Jr. and Zeke walking up to Dalton, with shoes, balls and a pistol in Zeke's bag.
"Good day for a game, isn't it?" I asked as we grabbed Dalton by the arms and dragged him behind the bowling alley.
He struggled and screamed the entire way to the back, but with a run-down swimming pool on one side and a vacant lot on the other, Dalton didn't stand much of a chance. We dragged him behind the alley and Zeke unceremoniously paid off our debt to Dalton with the squeeze of a trigger.
"Oh my God," Joe Jr. gasped, over and over again. "Oh my God, what the hell are we doing? Oh Jesus....we just killed a man. How? What are we going to do?"
Joe Jr., not present for much of our hospital discussion, was not in for the resolution phase.
"Joe," I said, "we're going to do what we always do on Thursdays. We're going to bowl."
He looked relieved, if only for a second as I continued.
"But the one with the lowest score today is going to be responsible for it all. He'll dispose of the body, the gun, everything. And if need be, he'll be the fall man. It's only fair, Joe. We shouldn't all have to go to jail."
Joe gulped. I watched his Adam's apple bob up and down, as if it were attempting to escape Joe's body, wanting nothing to do with our plot.
The first few frames of the game were intense, with nobody feeling particularly inclined to dispose of a dead body. Joe Jr. jumped out to a surprising early lead that he would not relinquish. That left just me and Zeke, battling for the corpse that we had put in a plastic bag next to the dumpster for the duration of the game. Nobody ever went back there, save for the end of the night when the alley's kitchen threw away the day's unwanted scraps. And the smell wouldn't be a problem for the length of our game.
The sweat dripping off my palms in the fifth frame caused me to heave a gutter ball to the right side but I luckily saved the inning with a spare on my next throw. Zeke was continuously messing up his footing but still managed a three pin lead on me going into the tenth and final frame. Joe Jr., of course, was still solidly in first.
As I dried my hands on the drier at the carousel, I could feel the heat of Zeke's nerves boring into my back. As soon as I removed my hand from the hot stream of air, new droplets of sweat formed before I could even stick my fingers in their proper holes. I took my place in front of the foul line, swung my arm back and forth and relinquished the ball to the lane.
Strike.
Good. At least I could put some pressure on Zeke. The boy usually cracks like a farm-fresh egg in these kinds of situations, but then again, his freedom isn't usually on the line.
I stepped up to bowl my second ball, swung back and forth, feeling my thumb stick a little in my ball. My attempt to free myself spurred the ball to the left, causing me to knock over only six of the pins. I cleaned up the next four on my last bowl, earning myself a 183. I wondered if and doubted it would hold up.
After my final score came up on the board, I sat down across from Zeke, staring him down, using the only weapons I had left. The bowling ball was no longer an option for me - I had to use fear and intimidation.
"You know, Zeke," I said, "you'll probably get life for this."
Zeke broke my gaze and grabbed his ball. With no hesitation he flung the ball towards the pins, somehow earning a strike. The giant neon X on the monitor overhead confirmed it. Zeke dare not come back to where I was sitting, so I knew I would have to get to him before his ball returned.
"Do you know what they're going to do to you in prison?" I asked. "I sure as hell don't because I've never gone and don't plan on going. But make sure you tell me what they do. If you make it a week or so, maybe I'll come visit."
Zeke's ball returned and with the same nonchalant throw, Zeke hurled his ball down the lane, knocking over only two pins.
Zeke needed to hit five of the pins to tie. Six to win.
"Zeeeeeeke," I chanted his name in my most masculine voice. "You gonna' be my prison bitch, y'hear? Ohhhh I can feel that tasty ass right now on my big fat cock."
I proceeded to hump the air, closing my eyes and humping air.
Before I could open my eyes, I heard a crash. The other eight pins standing between Zeke and freedom had been knocked down, and Zeke stood next to me with not the smile that I expected but a frown for the loss of a friend. As Zeke hugged me, Joe Jr. joined in.
Dalton now belonged to me.
--
I half expected to see police lights by the time we left the alley, but Dalton was still hanging out by the dumpsters right where we left him. I pulled my 1973 Ford F-100 behind the alley, loaded Dalton into the back, covered him with a tarp and shut the gate.
I drove west until sunrise. It was the longest drive of my life. I had driven around with illegal items before, but never something that could condemn the rest of my life. The only thing I could think of on my way there was getting there. Once I got to a suitable location, all I could think was to bury the body as fast as possible.
And now that the body is 4 feet below the soil, I've been working on what I'll say to the cops when they find the body and link me to it.
I've been thinking that nothing could be more appropriate than "I was framed, officer."
- VS -
Entry 2
The cockroach was still struggling to escape from the pool of water that has accumulated on the floor. I had roused him from somewhere when I pulled the cot away from the wall and wounded him with a well timed throw of my shoe. It was almost hypnotic watching the crippled body trying to drag itself out of the expanding puddle. Just when it appeared that he might make it, another rivulet of liquid added itself to the pool enlarging it in size and sweeping him back into the middle.It had been raining almost non stop for two weeks. The walls seemed to absorb the moisture only to push it out of one of the hundreds of cracks at the base. They radiated a coldness that crept through your body every time you brushed against them. I was one of the "lucky" ones. I had managed to be granted a corner unit, where two of the walls were solid. This gave me a degree of privacy greater than most of the residents. It also meant that I only had one neighbour and he was being quiet for a change.
I knew the risks, but still I took my chances. I don't really hold out much hope of someone coming to get me, but sometimes the simple things, like the roach's battle for survival can inspire you.
~~~
The second to last thing you want to hear in a court in Thailand is "Drug Trafficking", because you know that the next thing you hear will be either "Life" or "Death". Not that they amount to anything different, it is just that one is quicker than the other. I got the first option for five kilos of heroin so pure that it would make the, so called good, stuff you buy on the streets seem like the scrapings off your cooking spoon.
You might have read about me in the papers, but whether you did or didn't, you would have read about a similar story.
Life. In an eight by eight cage. One hour a day outside, if you got lucky, food that you can't eat, water that you can't drink. Some people would call it a slow death. Here they call it the "Bangkok Hilton". It is strange that something that started out as a TV show could have so much influence, but all the non-Thai people here use the name. I get to speak to some of them when I get my outdoor time, but most of them end up getting sent home. They have rich families, or friendly politicians backing their causes. Extradition and a few years in a prison back in England or Australia or wherever, then they are quietly released back into the arms of their family. Not for me. My folks are dead and I have no idea who my MP is.
The one thing I know is that I shouldn't be here.
~~~
I was in Thailand long before it became a popular place to be. I started off as an office hand in the British Embassy and I learned everything I needed to know within six months. The attitudes of the cops to indiscretions, the places to go without getting killed, the places to eat without the risk of dysentery and, most importantly, the people who needed to be paid off if you ever wanted to achieve anything in this shit hole of a country.
Six years down the line, I had bought myself a small place in one of the villages outside Bangkok and given myself an excuse to visit as often as I wanted. By then it had become a popular tourist place, especially among the "Gap year" kids, who loved the cheap booze and drugs, not to mention the women.
I came home after my contract ended, with a couple of pounds of quality "white" and a ten year retirement plan in mind.
~~~
I started off small, all my finances would allow, muling the shit myself. I did everything you can imagine, the cosmetic packages, the fake bottomed suitcase and even the packed rubbers carried internally. I quit that one when I saw some kid, couldn't have been more than about seventeen, OD right in front of me in the check in queue. I had three condoms packed swimming around in my stomach at the time.
Eventually I moved onto a better system, hiring people to do the actual carrying, but that in itself caused problems. This kind of business attracts a dishonest type of person anyway and when you throw some serious class A's into the equation, you double your risks. My packages were coming back light, but I couldn't complain. Even after expenses I was making a tidy profit and there was very little risk for me.
~~~
If you were to look me up in the "Companies Register" you would see me as an "Import/Export" specialist. By the time I appeared in it, I was only exporting cash and importing powdered dreams.
One of my Thai contacts came up with a method of turning the smack into a paste which could be cast in moulds, then coated with a thin layer of plaster, fired and painted. The fashion for all things eastern made me a legitimate businessman. I would order a dozen cases of "statues" and maybe two-thirds would be genuine. The others were pure profit. I was even making a reasonable return on the cheap ornaments.
As the business grew, so did the expenses. I had always used the knowledge I had gained to ensure that the right people were taken care of, the right palms were greased. I knew every customs officer in the airport, the names of the Chief of Polices kids, everything. It all ran like clockwork.
~~~
You hear plenty of stories of people getting busted at the airport trying to smuggle drugs, but I can tell you that it isn't one percent of what goes on.
Since Thailand has become a popular destination, the government has to be seen to be doing something about the drug situation and a good bust every so often makes the effort look good. But for every kid who gets busted there are ten that don't. For every ten that get through there is one guy like me, moving larger amounts on a regular basis that never gets touched. It is all down to the preparation.
~~~
I have tried to figure out what could have gone wrong hundreds of times and the only thing I can see is that it was a set-up. The problem is, when a business becomes successful you make enemies. It is inevitable that you upset people along the line. You also have to involve more and more people along the way and that increases the risk.
~~~
It was like any other shipment. I had gone to the cargo terminal to ensure my shipment passed smoothly onto the flight. Once I had seen to that, I made my way to check in for my flight back home.
I spotted all the likely candidates in the airport. The gullible ones who will agree to carry something for a stranger, the nervous kids, who could be carrying an ounce of hash or a kilo of heroin and the guys who looked just like me, business men heading home.
I had just handed over my reservation when I realised something was wrong. It was almost like I could feel the atmosphere closing in on me.
I was surrounded in seconds and dragged away to a holding cell. They questioned me for hours, without getting anything of use to them, before I was taken to the City jail.
The strange thing about Thai justice, given how corrupt everything else is in this country is that it is swift and uncompromising.
I was arrested, imprisoned and charged in a matter of weeks. Sentenced to Life not long after and I have been here ever since.
~~~
I keep thinking about things that I could have done wrong, but I can't come up with anything. I know the pay offs were made to all the right people and I know that everything went according to plan during my stay. My mind still comes back to a set-up.
In truth there are so many people it could have been. A rival importer, an old supplier or even an ex mule, it doesn't bear dwelling on too much. All I know is that I am here for life, or at least until the people in power are replaced with someone who owes me.
Until that happens, I will just be like a cockroach to them.
For me I will be like the cockroach in my cell, fighting to survive, despite all the odds, dreaming of freedom, of home, but most of all, of revenge.
Entry 1:
Bubba2341
CaptainThorns
darko
Dirtbird
EchoBoxing
ghola
gravitas
Hirilnara
HotWillie
Impassive-Digressive
intellismartness
Jack_McCallum
JMG114
JoeyG
JonnyX
MadameDestrukt
Magicaddict
NerfHerder
nrduncan
Orgasmatron
Pentameter
rad1101
redskieslookfake
Shaun_Rocks
sparkle_pink
Stagger_Lee
stevie_says
supadupapupa
Susie_Derkins
The_Yellow_Dart
UnderOathMeal
29 eligible votes (31 total) *
Entry 2:
apollo88
august_sobriquet
BadAssJulie
Ballare
Bigmike
coley
Crystle
Davros
DrogoRoch
HadToBeDone
indoninja
lechuza
MandaPanda
sicosemen
SPECIALk
14 eligible votes (15 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 rad1101 (user info) at 2006-10-27 06:09:10 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by redskieslookfake (user info) at 2006-10-27 05:28:43 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I bet there are a load of puns below this.
Submitted by Bigmike (user info) at 2006-10-26 23:19:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by gravitas (user info) at 2006-10-26 22:23:04 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by darko (user info) at 2006-10-26 21:36:36 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Ballare (user info) at 2006-10-26 21:14:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-10-26 21:06:36 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Pentameter (user info) at 2006-10-26 14:37:43 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Even though entry 1 was a ridiculously long story about bowling, I have to give you credit for doing something really creative with the title.
Submitted by SPECIALk (user info) at 2006-10-26 13:50:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
1 original use of the title, but your story just seemed to drag on and on..
2 predictable but well-written
Submitted by lechuza (user info) at 2006-10-26 13:24:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
No Comment
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2006-10-26 11:27:13 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I CANNOT fucking believe I'm going to do this, but I'm voting for thr bowling story. Yes, it had glitches galore, but jesus christ, it's a bowling story! That tooks balls, and as I said, even though there were a lot of goofs, I think the author could do fun stuff if he tightened up his writing. He or she has the potential to write some decent dialogue.
A tip for Author #1. If you are writing about average, blue-collar guys, THROW AWAY YOUR THESAURUS! Big fancy words and men living paycheck to paycheck do not mix. Other than that, keep writing.
Author #2, this was a decent tale, but there was nothing really new, not twist, no hook, which made it kind of dry. Sorry.
Submitted by august_sobriquet (user info) at 2006-10-26 10:18:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Davros (user info) at 2006-10-26 09:45:08 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by intellismartness (user info) at 2006-10-26 05:46:21 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Most even matchup this round.
Slightly more creativity with number one, so going to that.
Submitted by supadupapupa (user info) at 2006-10-26 04:33:25 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Big Lebowski gets it, cool play on words if not obvious
Submitted by coley (user info) at 2006-10-26 03:58:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by sparkle_pink (user info) at 2006-10-26 02:37:33 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Difficult choice. I have no real and true reason for voting for 1 over 2. Just 'cause.
Submitted by MadameDestrukt (user info) at 2006-10-25 17:36:06 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
No Comment
Submitted by Dirtbird (user info) at 2006-10-25 16:40:22 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by nrduncan (user info) at 2006-10-25 16:27:25 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by The_Yellow_Dart (user info) at 2006-10-25 13:04:04 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Second one wasn't bad... first was just better.
Submitted by Magicaddict (user info) at 2006-10-25 12:12:35 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Really good matchup. #1 kept me going longer than I thought and didn't lose my interest, wheras #2 began to half way through before picking it up again. That's the only thing to split them.
Submitted by DrogoRoch (user info) at 2006-10-25 05:55:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
I enjoyed both. #2 just grabbed me a bit more than #1
Submitted by stevie_says (user info) at 2006-10-24 23:50:05 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-10-24 21:20:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
#1, you magnificent bastard, well in.
#2, not bad at all.
Submitted by Impassive-Digressive (user info) at 2006-10-24 21:19:46 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
As bad as the pun at the end was, I enjoyed Entry 1 just a smidgin more than Entry 2.
Submitted by Hirilnara (user info) at 2006-10-24 18:42:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by BadAssJulie (user info) at 2006-10-24 17:31:13 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Don't care
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2006-10-24 16:38:44 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
THE WHOLE TITLE CONCEPT IS WHAT RUINS UBERMADNESS
AND THE CRAP WRITERS THAT ENTER.
Submitted by HotWillie (user info) at 2006-10-24 16:28:52 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2006-10-24 16:14:04 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Again, both good entries.
Number one was more entertaining.
Submitted by JMG114 (user info) at 2006-10-24 16:12:43 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
"VEE VANT ZEH MONEY LEBOWSKI! OR ZEH GIRL DIES!"
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2006-10-24 16:02:31 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
After reading #1 I wanted a white russian.
This story really brings the room together.
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-10-24 15:47:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
framed/bowling framed/accused...how cute.
Submitted by Crystle (user info) at 2006-10-24 15:30:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by indoninja (user info) at 2006-10-24 14:39:09 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by EchoBoxing (user info) at 2006-10-24 13:47:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
i think one was about bowling. that's all i could manage.
Submitted by JoeyG (user info) at 2006-10-24 13:28:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
#1, you really went to town.... it did it for me, but no disrespect to #2.
These were both good.
Submitted by MandaPanda (user info) at 2006-10-24 12:48:18 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Shaun_Rocks (user info) at 2006-10-24 12:27:04 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I was skeptical about the way 1 started, but ended up enjoying it. Even if it was a bit formulaic
Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2006-10-24 12:24:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
the first entry felt more like a "story"
Submitted by HadToBeDone (user info) at 2006-10-24 11:55:23 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Susie_Derkins (user info) at 2006-10-24 11:53:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by NerfHerder (user info) at 2006-10-24 11:22:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by sicosemen (user info) at 2006-10-24 11:17:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I apologize and I know this contest is supposed to be serious, but entry 1 just dragged on far too long. I did read it, but the object is to keep the attention of the reader and this isn't a novel writing contest.
Submitted by UnderOathMeal (user info) at 2006-10-24 10:47:01 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment