Creative Writing

So I was in jail for 6 months and met a writer in there. We played a game. Each of us choose 5 character type, events, and personalities. Then number them 1-10. Go up to a random person and get them to pick a number randomly 3 times and whatever three are chosen we would write short stories involving them. For example, the one I will post first is 'Mobster, Meteor Shower, Necrophiliac.' If this generates interest I will type the other ones out and post them here.

Jimmy Satriani sat in his unassuming silver Mercedes Benz at a parking meter on the busy, colorful street that was South Beach Parkway in Miami, Florida. Gargantuan hotels and high rise apartments reached far into the sky, overlooking the clear blue ocean, making the plethora of rich young business men and women appears as ants contrary to their giant, inflated egos. Of the buldings that were not residneces or playgrounds to the rich were the stores that catered to their ostentatious choice in designer clothes and luxurious accessories. Neatly manicured grass was the foundation for the swaying palm trees- nearly all of them uniform in height and in the length of the palm leaves. Cyclists, skateboarders, a family here or there, and young proffesionals on lunch break made up the blending contrast of people bustling along the wide sidewalk that ran parallel to the beach across from the hotels. The attitudes were an even mixture of busy and nonchalant, making for an overall regular day at South Beach. Jimmy lit his 3rd cigarette as he eyed a beautiful young woman who appeared to be on her way back to another stressful day of corporate work. Strawberry blonde hair flowed sensually down to her voluptuous and perky breasts leading to a set of hips that would have Jessica Rabbit riddled with envy. Her long legs were partially covered by a tasteful black skirt with a diagonal cut in the right leg, revealing a peek of her bare thigh which was obviously maintained by regular trips to the gym while still promising a soft touch- the muscles toned and in place but not hard or overly profound. She wore black, strapped open-toe heels that gave her an elegant stride. Her petite toes were painted periwinkle blue, matching her fingernails and accentuating her deep blue eyes that would steal even the holiest of preacher's gaze. Jimmy had found his new target. He followed her to her office and went across the street to a small cafe' to wait out her work day.

The title is 'Shooting Stars' by the way

The cafe' was one of those mom-and-pop restaurants that was kept alive by the business of elderly people and longtime customers. It just wasn't trendy enough for the young professionals and it didn't exactly catch the eye of the tourists or the "party" type. The tile was a checkered black and white pattern leading to a semi-open kitchen and a deli countertop. the red booths appeared to be faux-leather and were quite worn from many years of offering relief from tiring days and the comforts of a hot meal. The vibe was genuinely retro as was the moderately dim lighting. Jimmy walked up to the countertop and rang the dinnerbell. "May I help you?" asked a middle aged waitress with a sincere smile as she entered the kitchen. "Table for one, facing that building. Coffe. Black. Keep it coming." Jimmy spoke flatly. The waitress sat him where he could see the business woman's office building and went quickly to fetch his coffee. It was now in the hands of time.

About an hour and a half had gone by. It was now 4:15 p.m. and Jimmy was wired from the coffee and anxious to follow what would hopefully- no, what would be his next victim. His cellphone began to ring. It was one of his underlings with a problem. There was always a fucking problem. "What is it?" answered Jimmy coldly. The man on the phone, Frank Luciano, needed help with what was supposed to be a routine hit. Jimmy quickly became aggravated and hung up the phone after telling him to fuck off and to get it done. There were more important things going on at the moment for the mobster. After the brief phone call and what seemed like the hundredth cup of coffee, Jimmy saw the woman leaving the office building across the street. He got up with extreme urgency as he called for the waitress, waving a $50 bill in his hand. "Keep the change" said Jimmy as he swung open the door and kept a close eye on the woman until she got to her car and wrote down her license plate just in case she lost him in traffic. She was driving a black Aston Martin. She had more money than Jimmy had originally thought.. He made sure to keep a distance of 2 or 3 cars back at all times as he eaved through traffic. The movement was slow and the heat was unbearable, only adding the aggravation of the drivers. Horns honked and tempers flared as everyone rushed to get home. All in all it was a typical afternoon on the highway in Maimi. The woman pulled down a tree-lined, ocean front street reserved for the wealthy inhabitants of the city and offering seclusion from noise and neighbors, absolutley perfect for the situation at hand. Jimmy took note of her house and looped back around to park at the end of the street. He was practically fainting from the excitement, rubbing his hands together with an evil smile as he walked up the hill and around the curve of the long, cobbled driveway. At the head of the driveway was the Aston Martin and no other cars. The garage was open and again- no other cars. Jimmy wasn't a religious man but given the situation he began to ponder of a kind and loving god. No close neighbors, no witnesses, no husband, and, if her body had been any indication, no kids.

Katherine Shaw, the young business woman in question, sat in front of her televison set watching the nightly news with a half empty glass of buttery chardonnay and her feet propped up on the glass table in front of the curved, white leather couch. The living room was decorated with a minimaistic design, with modern contemporary furniture and framed paintings on the walls. The carpet was a bright white like the couch, matching the curtains and the expensive drapes. If it weren't for the colorful, abstract paintings on the wall the place would like like an insane asylum but the paintings offered pleasant contrast to the white walls and added a sleek and stylish aesthetic making the room look hip, modern, and owned by someone with money. It was the essence of Miami living. The chime of the doorbell got Katherine to reluctantly rise to her feet with a sigh of agitation as she walked. She opened the door for what appeared to be a delivery guy holding styrofoam containers of food in a plastic bag. Jimmy's usually styled hair had fallen into a greasy mixture of sweat and dried hair gel. His underarms were dripping with sweat and his tie was loosened. He looked at Katherine with the carnal desire of a famished deviant as he spoke. "Did you order food from Lorenzo's, ma'am? This is 1124 Cay Biscane, isn't it?"
"Uh, no it's not. That's next door." There was a tremble in her voice. It was apparent that something was off. Her stomach twisted into knots of anxiety. She frantically tried to shut the door in the same instant Jimmy lunged forward with his shoulder. His head and shoulders were all that kept the door propped open as he fought to gain entry to the house. "Here's Jimmy!" he yelled in a mocking fashion, imitating Jack Nickleson, a twisted homage to a classic film. Katherine shrieked in horror as he burst through the door, knocking her to the ground. Katherine kicked and squealed as her attacker stood over her, paying her blood curdling screams no mind.

In the plastic bag were 3 mock styrofoam containers that held two ropes in the first two and a roll of duct tape in the other. Jimmy held down the woman with his right arm and his body weight as he dug out the ropes and duct tape. The fighting woman, 5' 9" and a taut yet weak upper body was no match for the half muscle, half stocky 6' 04" mobster that was Jimmy Satriani. He had the stength and the experience to overpower people, especially women. He pulled out a pistol and put it to her head. In reality the gun was just for show. If Jimmy was going to hurt her then he would have used a knife or simply strangle her; he just wasn't the "gun type." They were too impersonal for him. With a knife you get to watch the twinkle leave the person's eyes as they beg for mercy. You get to experience their final moments and savor the act of watching their hopes, dreams, and sorrows disappear into the nothingness that was death. The woman now lied on the floor naked, her hands and feet bound behind her back and the duct tape over her mouth. Her crying and screaming only excited Jimmy further as he picked her up and carried her to the couch. She struggled as much as the ropes would allow as she was laid down on the couch, all to no avail. Jimmy unbottoned his pants and taunted her as he stood with his midsection in her face. Katherine prayed to every god she could think of as he moved down towards her vagina in hopes that he would spare her- he didn't. He forced himself into her as he put his big hands around her neck to choke her. She fought and kicked with all of her might as the life slowly left her eyes. Jimmy enjoyed the prolonged pain and suffering he put his victims through and even more so took pleasure in fucking their cold, lifeless bodies. You can feel the heat leave a person's body when you kill them while inside of them. This is the sensation Jimmy lived for ever since his first victim at age 17. Katherine made an attempt to grab her phone on the couch in hopes that she would lucky dial 9-1-1. She was instead pushing the buttons on the remote for the television, now roaring with volume because of the buttons she had mashed. "Breaking news!" exclaimed the anchorman with grave urgency in his voice as he was packing up his things, going on to say "a meteor shower is headed for Earth. All cities in Florida and most cities in Georgia should prepare for catastrophe. This is not a drill and this is not a joke. I repeat, this is not a drill. Godspeed." JImmy turned around to look at the television, in awe from what he had just heard. Katherine shimmied her right foot up and out of the rope and kicked him hard in the groin. Jimmy doubled over in pain, the so swift and the pain so intense he threw up instanty and fell to his knees. Katherine freed her other foot and managed to slip out her hands as she jumped off of the couch. Without skipping a beat she raised her left foot high and stomped on his head, kicking him in the face with her right foot. Jimmy went unconscious as blood spewed from his nose and mouth, the furious woman still kicking and stomping him with all of her might.

Satisfied with revenge, Katherine sat on the couch and tried to calm herself. She didn't know if her attacker was dead or not but hadn't the heart to continue now that her rage was subdued. Her feet and legs were spattered red with blood, as was the couch and carpet. Her breathing remained erratic, escalating once more as her attention shifted to the television. There was still a fucking meteor shower headed for Earth. This was not her day. Katherine ran to the front door and opened it- chaos. She could hear the street at the end of the driveway. Horns, screaming, crying, and the thick air of impending doom coordinated an aggresive assault on her senses. She hastily threw together an outfit- a red skirt with a brown top. She mismatched intentionally. She washed away what was left of her makeup and pulled her hair way up, making her face tight and less appealing. Beauty onl served to hinder women in these situations. Katherine expected riots, looting, rape, and murder in the streets, the final two an ungodly coincidence considering the ordeal she had just went through. Katherine slid into the front seat of her black Aston Martin, silently cursing herself for such a gaudy choice in vehicle, wishing she had chosen something less eye-catching and more practical. She started the car and headed for the grocery store to buy supplies.
Traffic was horrendous. Both people and cars filled the streets in wild disorganization. Car accidents were rampant. Katherine passed an SUV that had hit a telephone pole, the driver slumped over in the front seat as a child wailed in the back. There was no time to stop. People made frantic attempts to stop cars as the vehicles would unapologetically swerve either out of the way or simply accelerate into them so as to move the groups away. It was a free-for-all. Crowds of people began to fill street corners, people rioting and looting stores. Katherine was forced out of her car by an angry and dangerous looking group of about a dozen men. They eyed her with the same look the lunatic in her home did only hours ago. An olive skinned man who looked to be in his late 30s grabbed her arm, groping her breasts as he pulled her out of the car. He was rugged and unshaven with a big stomach but muscular arms. He had no problem overpowering the frail woman. A gunshot burst through the air as Katherine's shirt was pulled over her head. "Get the fuck away from her," said a man in a long sleeve shirt and slacks, pointing the gun at the woman's attackers. They backed off slowly with their hands in the air as Katherine fumbled to put her shirt back on. She ran to the man who had saved her and hugged him tight, thanking him. As they brpke hold from their embrace the man looked at her inquisitively as he went on to say "Katherine Shaw? Executive Director of Sales? MMRP Enterprises, right?" he asked the questions excitedly, momentarily forgetting the inevitable catastrophe.

The two of them had had a momoent together months ago at a seminar they were running that was interrupted by a work emergency on Katherine's end. "Oh my god, Jake! We were giving that conference back in May. You were the director of overseas HR. I remember you were touching my thigh as I tried to speak and I kept getting flustered." As Katherine spoke, surges of comfort washed over her followed by hungry attraction. Jake was 6'05", had neatly combed dark brown hair, and green eyes that were currently melting Katherine into sweet, thick honey. Maybe it was because he saved her life, or their little moment they shared those months ago, or it could just be circumstansial and the fact that he was oh-so-handsome. Either way, Katherine didn't care.
In the same moment that Katherine and Jake were catching up and exchanging lustful glances, roars from the sky cracked down in earth shattering waves. Brilliant streaks of red, orange, and yellow painted the sky as the metoers broke through the stratosphere. The sirens of police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances rang through the streets, the different volumes and pitches singing their unharmonious song of doom and despair. Fire hydrants knocked loose by frantic drivers spewed streams of pressured water in all directions and up into the air. Desperate cries of frightened people caused chain reactions, everyone equally sharing feelings of increasing agony and terror. Windows were shattered and stores were ransacked of all things valuable. Shards of glass littered the sidewalks and abandoned cars claimed the streets. It was a scene of absolute destitution. Jake pulled her into him, their bodies connecting and sharing warmth. He kissed her passionately and sloppily as the comets drew ever nearer, fondling each other's genitals in the middle of the street. Jake slipped his hand down her skirt, rubbing her tender core. Her pink walls parted and grew wet with desire, inviting him to slip inside of her. He slid his index and middle finger into her as she wrapped her legs around his chest. Katherine's moans stole his attention, causing him as well to forget their inevitable deaths. She panted in wondrous pleasure as he moved her to the ground. Jake slipped off his pants and ripped off Katherine's shirt, reluctantly removing his fingers from her as he did so. She craved him to enter her once more, for this would be her final lover and he had saved her. She wrapped her arms around the nape of his neck as he slid himself gently into her with ease, her soft, pink lips dripping wet, spreading readily and begging him to fully have her. He thrust deep with her, rocking back and forth as the commotion grew louder, the comets drew nearer and as all of it seemed less and less concering. The world no longer existed outside of the two lovers. Jake rubbed the rigid little bud nestled at the crux of her delicate petals. The final act sent shattering waves of rapture throughout Katherine, tumbling head over heels into an abyss of ecstasy with only Jake's lips to dull her broken cries and his arms to break her fall. Her moans and enjoyment brought Jake to his climax, roaring in masculine triumph and carnal satisfaction, filling her with his seed as he stared deep into her eyes. He kissed her as he finished. "Jake, I'm scared. I don't wanna die," bawled Katherine as she came back from her orgasm, the words struggling to come out through the sobs. Jake maintained his composure for the unconsolable woman who had just snatched his heart. "think of them as shooting starts, my dear. Think of them as shooting starts," he said as he looked up at the sky as an indication for her to the same, continuing with "Make a wish; I know I have." He closed his eyes and kissed her once more as the asteroids found the surface of the Earth, their hearts beating as one. Sometimes the cosmos really do make dreams come true.

I'm interested (didn't read it yet) but if you post more then please use more paragraph spaces.

Did you read it yet?

That is the way I had it written. It works on paper but it is formatted weird because of the character amount in each post

Depends on what America achieves in their plans for world dominance. You keep it clean and tidy but after a while you get lazy and make a mess everywhere. Backups are good. Some people remember it only when HDD crashes. A man of European ancestry puts a paper on a car - it's floaty and I see myself as 16 in a hallway in love with a girl like Allison Reynolds. Teenage rebellion is a myth pushed on parents starting in the 50's, and it's a self-fulfilling prophecy because it preaches that they should never have a strong hand in raising their children. A lot of kids are just doing this kind of thing because they simply don't know any better, not because they're rebelling against their parents. Raise your children with a proper set of morals for them to understand the world with and they won't have to flounder without guidance in their teenage years making a fool of themselves. I might go scouring for free furniture, fix it up and try and flip it on ebay. Dive in and bring back what you find. Reading in bed right before you are about to sleep is also good for remembering (10-20 minutes of reading), but only on Holla Forums? You must take out the funny bone without touching the sides. The male body is more than willing to sacrifice itself for the slightest chance of impregnating some female. It's like these faggots who simply won't understand the legal implications of 19th Amendment prohibition, and want to undermine it's disenfranchised constitionality! The fact the transgendered people that get sex changes exist should imply that bodies do imply gender. Yes, if you get up off your ass, eat more fibre and don't spend 30 minutes on the toilet to take a 30 second dump. I can improve anything about myself that it's changeable, but I cannot change those around me for those that I can't. To impregnate her with my seed, so that my genes will live on after I die - sort of like nature's way of reincarnation. Just don't get too emotional about it, neither don't get too excited or too furious. The logical thing to do would be to give back the medal. So, if you want to be to be truly fulfilled during the short time you exist in this universe, I would recommend you seek to know yourself and who you are, and resolve to undertake a personal journey to that end. And may you find enlightenment along the way.

I could see how it works with the flow, the way the websites set up kind of demands modifications.

Anyways I enjoyed it.

You make prison seem like a fun vacation, OP? Like you guys were inside there constructing plasma fusion reactors or some shit.

Im gonna type the first one I wrote now.

Not a fun vacation at all. There were some cool and brilliant people in there though. I had some fun. It made me learn to make the most of any situation for sure.

About halfway done with the first one I did. 'Ex-President, War, Sexual identity crisis.'

This one is called 'Presidential Predator'

A washed up, drunken Barack Obama stumbled into his secluded Conneticut home with all the grace of an injured
animal. All that was missing were the primal cries of pain- those were intrnal and ever occuring. The fingers of the dim
lamplight danced in flickering fashion across the room, finally meeting his face. Time had not been kind to him. His eyes
sported heavy bags under them coupled with crust in the corners from not even having the decency to wipe them clean in the
morning. Morning was a loose term, as it meant 4:00 p.m. for Barack. He took another swig of the dark brown whiskey, not
bothering for a glass as he begrudgingly made his waytoward the outdated kitchen. It had been days and he had to at least
eat something. Seven years had passed since his presidency and all that was left was his now decrepid home and his monthly pension. Michelle had left him to wallow in his drunken state after allegations of pedophilia came to light. He had been
molesting young girls, including Sasha and Mileah, since they were eight. Nothing could be proven in a court of law but
nearly the entire nation was unanimous in their decision of finding him guily, sending him into personal exile. Barack
convinced himself he had done nothing wrong. HIs mind was warped with denial and his thoughts towards the western world
and humanity were of an extreme bitterness. He sat in a reclining chair with the television on for background noise. His
chair was littered with stains from spilled food that had sat until moisture was a distant afterthought. The television
screen was cracked from the upper left corner all the way to the bottom right, the crack spidering and spreading over time
due to practiced indifference. The dark, depressing living room reeked of a man who had given up- not only given up, but
embraced it.

A news story caught his eye about a sexual abuse case within the Catholic church. "Fucking swine!" he spat the
words in staccato fashion before forcing down another swig of whiskey, the cheap alcohol going down like lighter fluid. He
cursed the media for painting an evil picture of him as well as other sexual predators. "Those little whores practically
begged for it" he yelled abruptly as the bottle left his mouth. A mixture of slobber and whiskey dripped sloppily from
his chin down to his already stained shirt. "They enjoyed it" he told himself, trying in vain to convince an absent third
party. "If they didn't my daughters would have confessed to the truth." He reached for his crack pipe, his hands shaking
and his fingernails being chewed down to almost nothing. He was falling deeper and deeper in the rabbit hole by the day.
Paranoid thoughts raced through his mind along with delusions of grandure. "The time is NOW!" he yelled through an exhale
of smoke.

Barack's days, well his nights rather, were equally divided into drinking and smoking crack, watching child
pornography, and most importantly, planning what he called 'The Final Retribution.' His schemes were put down on paper
during nights of erratic and often violent behavor during drunken escapades. A space where a large atlas had been on the
wall was replaced by meticulously placed poster boards held up on the wall with red thumb tacks. Blue ink pen was used to
outline his plan. Scratches, arrows, and boxes of text filled the white poster board. The whole plan was an organized mess
that only Barack himself could understand. He was plotting a way to blow up the Lincoln Memorial during a large political
rally in a way that would frame Israel for the bombing. Having an extensive amount of knowledge on their tactics in
warfare and warfare was as far as he had planned. He hoped the event would spark a world war, bringing the United States
to it's knees. The red tacks, white poster boards, and blue ink were just to add insult to injury, a twisted symbol of
sarcastic patriotism and nihilistic humor that had been developed through years of solitude and practiced cynicism. He was
going to begin his assault on America in two days time. The world was going to pay for the things they had done.

[36 hours later] The alarm clock went off at 3:43 p.m. in the same instant Barack's hand shot towrds the button to shut it off as if he were angrily swatting at a swift and pesky fly. He did not even shift his eyes from his work as he shut off the alarm, having anticipated the moment for hours as sleep escaped him and he became hyper aware and hyper
paranoid. His work was careful but the bombs he was producing were sketchy to say the least. The stereotypical pipe bomb
was the explosive of choice, outfitted with screws, metal shavings, long 4 inch nails and a quarter brick of c-4 in each
one. The bombs were gently placed into a shoebox-sized wooden box complete with an electronic trigger to be set off with
the push of a button by Barack. I'll spare the reader the cliche'd description of the colored wires. He muttered unintelligible sayings under his breath as he loaded the bombs one by one into the trunk of his paint chipped and dented
black BMW. It was a 2016 model, the last vehicle he had owned since his presidency. The car would have been totaled had it
not been armored and reinforced. After so many drunken nights on the road Barack was lucky to be alive; not if you asked
him. He inhaled another hit of crack deep into his leathered lungs as he swung himself into the fron seat with his bottle
of whiskey in hand.

Barack's driving was aggressive in respects to speed and lane changing but overall the frequent hits of the potent cocaine kept him alert and his spatial awareness tight. It was around the time of Thanksgiving so the roads were congested
at times. Minivans driven by the males of the family with soccer moms in the passenger seats and kids in the backseats
were all over the road, both in that they accounted fir what looked to be twenty percent of the vehicles on the road and
that they were navigated in a way that could only be described as greatly unpredictable. A brown sedan with a set of young
girls in the backseat caught his eye and reminded him of his cause. He stepped on the gas and pressed onward with
increasing speed.
Barack arrived at a trucker bar at the side of the interstate on the outskirts of Washington, D.C. Decrepid as his appearance was, he still needed to alter his face in order to risk not being recognized by one of the sheep in the crowd. He took a long drag of cocaine before stepping out of the beaten BMW. A hooded jacket hid his face in the meantime as he
made his way into the bar and straight to the bathroom. The putrid stench of human waste and body odor punched him in the
face as the bathroom door swung open. The mirrors were cracked and several were greasy with what appeared to be human
handprints. Most likely they were from a desperate prostitute being bent over the sink trying to make ends meet with her
escalating drug habit and her one bedroom she shared with a friend- probably a name like Cinnamon or something, another
drug-ridden whore who was friendly with the truckers. The truck drivers had what they wanted and the whores had what the
truck drivers wanted. Cupid would be proud.

There was a sink in the far corner that had a broken faucet. The off-kilter drip was maddening to any sane person
but it brought a level of comfort to Barack. The stalls were filled with obsceneities carved into them along with crude
drawings of genetalia. A person could be heard snorting drugs in the second stall. Barack paid him no mind. In fact it
made him feel safe. The whole scene reminded him of home. He stepped into the last handicapped stall the one-star bathroom
had to offer and pulled out his makeup kit. A three month online course in cosmetology was to thank for his limited
knowledge on facial modification but he made do. He had grown a beard and put on an expensive wig in an afro-type cut, a
style that should have stayed behind in the 70s along with shag carpet. His face was darkened with concealer and his eye
color was altered by contacts. He looked out of place but he did not look like Barack Obama.
A few hours had went by ince he had entered the bathroom and morning was creeping up on him. It was almost time for
the Final retribution- only hours away. A wide grin spread across his face, screaming of his smug arrogance and child-like
joy. It was a feeling rivaled only by a young kid waiting on his parents to rise from slumber on an early Christmas
morning. The word "eager" simply does not do it justice. The seatbelt swung over his shoulder as he took his spot in the
black leather seat of the vehicle. He could not afford to be careless now. He had awaited this day far too long. The
dented BMW sputtered it's way into D.C. as the sight of the city's tourists all but made Barack vomit; Not because they
were happy, not because they didn't share his views, but because they were naive- blissfully unaware of the rampant
westernized brainwashing. He made his way past dozens of government buildings and fancy hotels, having been the host of
many-a-swanky party in nearly each one. Painful memories of the party attendants came in droves. The guests' behaviors
warranted a new level for the word 'pretentious.' Artificial behavior was the party's normal as the air smelled of
rehearsed culture and class along with platic elegance. Barack had always seen right through all of those mindless animals
as he watched them pretending to enjoy the caviar whilst eyeing the french fries. He punched the steering wheel angrily to
fight off the rage inducing memories. His car swerved and he had to correct it.

Barack was slipping further and further from the alcohol, drugs and the lack of sleep. The fundamentals of the
situation wer something he understood but he was beginning to lack a grasp on the actual gravity of the situation and of
what he was about to do. It did not matter either way because he was parking the battered black sedan, not bothering to
put coins in the parking meter. If everything went according to plan he would not live to see the ticket. His demeanor was
troubling and his movements were twitchy, attracting the eyes if a young woman and her fiance'. As Barack loaded the bombs
into the navy blue duffel bag, the couple watched him from afar and studied his awkward gait and attempted to place what
it was about the man that was so off…there it was! The man was wearing a wig. It had been knocked loose in his fit of
rage at the wheel of the car. Upon noticing that the wig was askew, all of the other physical alterations were
accentuated. His arms were lighter than his face and his eyes just didn't match either of the complexions.
The young man phone the police with a description as Barack zipped his duffel bag and started towards the memorial.
A large crowd had gathered at the Lincoln Memorial but it was still moderate in comparison to the anticipated turnout. he
sat at each corner of the foundation as he pretnded to leaf through a newspaper. With subtelty a bomb was placed at each
spot he sat until they were all in place, a final bomb underneath the tree nearest to the wide set of stairs that led to
the grand statue that was Abraham Lincoln. Federal and state officials could be seen bustling at the top of the stairs
along with the overworked and underpaid camera crew. Everything had to be just right for the cameras or by God they would
hear about it later. The speech and podium were made certain to be accounted for by each official, all of them knowing
their jobs were on the line if even the most minute mistake was to be made.

The crowd consisted of all walks of life. Liberals and conservatives, young and old, made up different groups of
people within the growing crowd. A patrol officer stole Barack's gaze as he was making his way back to the front of the
fountain. The officer looked far too interested for Barack to remain at ease. He quickened his pace just before the
officer yelled "hey, you, freeze! On the fucking ground!" with his weapon drawn. Barack hastily reached into his jacket
pocket for the detonator as he ran towards the bomb he had placed under the tree. It was closer than the one at the end of
the fountain and he did not want to detonate the bombs without being at a fatal proximity. He knew he would not make it
out of this alive, but he was going to go on his own terms. The capitalist bastards would hang him if he were caught. He
ran with the frantic speed of a hungry lion in pursuit of a gazelle, knocking over women and children in a blatant
disregard for humanity. After all, that was kind of the point in his plan so it was quite fitting

After about thirty yards of Barack's entirely ungraceful sprint he reached a point where the blast was most likely
to be fatal. He lunged forward, all limbs in the air as he tried to close the final gap between himself and the bomb. He
pressed the detonator with his right thumb in the same instant the bombs went off, only two of the five he placed
detonating, not to mention his plan to start a world war went out the window when he forgot to fabricate Hebrew
instructions on the bombs during his state of heavy intoxication. Alcohol and crack are a motherfucker. The blasts were
supposed to completely incinerate him but alas the police officer had not allowed him to get close enough to the
explosive. The two blasts that did go off were catastrophic in respects to the crowd but miniscule in comparison to if the
bombs had went off at the right time. Twenty six people were killed instantly and hundreds were injured. Blood curdling
screams echoed one another as Mother's shielded their children and husband's shielded their wives. Severed limbs, brain
matter, and scattered insides of what tragically used to be a human were seein in all directions from the tree. Chaos
erupted further and further as did the smoke from the explosion. Seconds lasted a lifetime as crowdgoers desperately
searched for missing loved ones. Sobs of horror and heartbreak flew through the hazy, thick clouds of smoke, dust, and
debris as people found memebers of their family dead or severly disfigured. Barack had been hit by the blast and sent
flying through the air and onto his back. The wig was knocked completely loose and his makeup had washed almost completely
away. Despite the years of againg and being in heavy isolation, the ex-president was still easily recognizable. A twisted
smirk of satisfaction spread across his face as blood dripped from the corners of his mouth. "God bless the fucking USA,"
he muttered in one final act of morbid sarcasm. The reaper of souls swept in and stole the twinkle from his eyes as his
mouth fell further open. Barack Obama was dead, his final retribution very much alive.

Sdneped no tahw Acirema seveihca ni rieht snalp rof dlrow ecnanimod. Uoy peek ti naelc dna ydit tub retfa a elihw uoy teg yzal dna ekam a ssem erehwyreve. Spukcab era doog. Emos elpoep rebmemer ti ylno nehw DDH sehsarc. A nam fo Naeporue yrtsecna stup a repap no a rac - ti's ytaolf dna I ees flesym sa 61 ni a yawllah ni evol htiw a lrig ekil Nosilla Sdlonyer. Eganeet noilleber si a htym dehsup no stnerap gnitrats ni eht 05's, dna ti's a fles-gnillifluf ycehporp esuaceb ti sehcaerp taht yeht dluohs reven evah a gnorts dnah ni gnisiar rieht nerdlihc. A tol fo sdik era tsuj gniod siht dnik fo gniht esuaceb yeht ylpmis nod't wonk yna retteb, ton esuaceb yeht'er gnilleber tsniaga rieht stnerap. Esiar ruoy nerdlihc htiw a reporp tes fo slarom rof meht ot dnatsrednu eht dlrow htiw dna yeht now't evah ot rednuolf tuohtiw ecnadiug ni rieht eganeet sraey gnikam a loof fo sevlesmeht. I thgim og gniruocs rof eerf erutinruf, xif ti pu dna yrt dna pilf ti no yabe. Evid ni dna gnirb kcab tahw uoy dnif. Gnidaer ni deb thgir erofeb uoy era tuoba ot peels si osla doog rof gnirebmemer (01-02 setunim fo gnidaer). Uoy tsum ekat tuo eht ynnuf enob tuohtiw gnihcuot eht sedis. Eht elam ydob si erom naht gnilliw ot ecifircas flesti rof eht tsethgils ecnahc fo gnitangerpmi emos elamef. Ti's ekil eseht stoggaf ohw ylpmis now't dnatsrednu eht lagel snoitacilpmi fo ht91 Tnemdnema noitibihorp, dna tnaw ot enimrednu ti's desihcnarfnesid ytilanoititsnoc! Eht tcaf eht derednegsnart elpoep taht teg xes segnahc tsixe dluohs ylpmi taht seidob od ylpmi redneg. Sey, fi uoy teg pu ffo ruoy ssa, tae erom erbif dna nod't dneps 03 setunim no eht teliot ot ekat a 03 dnoces pmud. I nac evorpmi gnihtyna tuoba flesym taht ti's elbaegnahc, tub I tonnac egnahc esoht dnuora em rof esoht taht I nac't. Ot etangerpmi reh htiw ym dees, os taht ym seneg lliw evil no retfa I eid - tros fo ekil erutan's yaw fo noitanracnier. Tsuj nod't teg oot lanoitome tuoba ti, rehtien nod't teg oot deticxe ro oot suoiruf. Eht lacigol gniht ot od dluow eb ot evig kcab eht ladem. Os, fi uoy tnaw ot eb ot eb ylurt dellifluf gnirud eht trohs emit uoy tsixe ni siht esrevinu, I dluow dnemmocer uoy kees ot wonk flesruoy dna ohw uoy era, dna evloser ot ekatrednu a lanosrep yenruoj ot taht dne. Dna yam uoy dnif tnemnethgilne gnola eht yaw.