Working story. Yay!

[kittywinkins]

OMGASHZ! Like, Stormeh lives! WOW!
Yeah. AND she's actually gotten a chance to write on her story!

Her it is, including the unfinished chapter. Please give me constructive criticism(Yeaaagh. I can't spell tonight. Sue me.)
Oh, and I haven't checked any of the spelling or grammar yet, so there'll prolly be a LOTTA mistakes. Sowwy!

Mr. Murphey's Guards Dogs(Working title): A Prologue

In the early hours of 3:30 in the morning, the scientist David Rhutabega made a great discovery.
“Eureka!” He cried, leaping from his crickety desk chair and dancing about the room snapping his fingers. The cat, sleeping on a pile of discarded clothes in a corner, started and sat up, watching her master’s antics with mild interest and slight reproach.”Eurika!” Mr. Rhutabega cried again, grinning idiotically at the cat.
“Germicide! I’ve got it! My invention! I have it finished!” He told the cat, nearly trembling with excitment.
A rough hand banged on his door.
“Mistah Rootagaga? You akay din dere?” His landlady, a sturdy woman with curled grey hair and thick dark skin called in terrible English.
David Rhutabega smiled. Half his teeth were crooked and yellow.
“Just fine, Ms. Frattenwizer.” He called back . “I just made a very interesting discovery.”
“Well, if yer sure yer akay...” the woman mumbled. Mr. Rhutabega waited until he heard her shuffling footsteps retreating down the hall, and then a door bang shut.
Then he swept his invention off of the table and into a black briefcase, which he set carefully on his nightstand.
With a sigh, he lay back on his bed and closed his eyes. Tomorrow he would take the object in the black bag to his friend Mr. Murphey, and, with any luck, by hte end of hte week he would be out of this earwig infested dump, and sailing somewhere in the Bahamas, with two or three pretty young Jamacan girls on each arm.
He smirked at the thought. And fell asleep.

[kittywinkins]

Mr. Murphey's Guards Dogs: Chapter One: The Invention

The man sitting behind the desk was middle-aged and balding. He wore a smart black business suit and his watery blue eyes scanned the paper he held in his hands. There was a knock on his office door and a blonde secretary's heard poked in.
“Mr. Murphey? a man to see you” she told him. He waved a hand towards her, his eyes never leaving the paper he was reading.
“Show him in, Rhonda.” He said in a bored baritone. Rhonda opened the door for a man about the same age as Mr. Murphey. He too wore a business suit, but his was navy. His brown hair was cut short and carefully oiled to cover the random bald patches. In his hand was a black leather briefcase.
“Hello, David” Mr. Murphey said, finally putting down his paper and looked up at the man. “Sit.. sit..” he motioned to the wooden office chair that stood in front of his desk.
“Carl” David Rhutabaga said, taking the seat. “How’s life now that you’re in with the Big boys?” he asked.
“Better then to be expected” Carl Murphey yawned, leaning back in his chair. “What have you got in there?” he asked, nodding to the briefcase that stood beside Rutabaga's chair. David stood, picking it up and placing it on the desk, he said
“My friend, this is the answer to all our problems.” He opened the case and took out what appeared to be a six-inch model of the Eiffel tower, which Mr. Rhutabega set carefully on the desk. Mr. Murphey leaned in close and studied it for a few minutes before leaning back in his chair again.
“It’s a model of the Eiffel Tower.” He snorted. “What’s so great about that?” “it is not just a model, my friend” Rutabaga told him patiently. “It is a disinigrater.”
“It disinigrates?”
“of course it does! why would it be called a disinigrater if it didn’t disintegrate?!” Rutabaga snorted. Murphey shrugged.
“Your guess is as good as mine.” His eyes narrowed a fraction. “But why bring this to me? and how do I know it works?” Rutabaga shifted uneasily in his chair.
“Well Carl, that’s the reason I came. It doesn’t work properly. Here.. let me show you. Do you have a pen?” Murphey took a black pen with the words Mr. Carl Murphey printed in gold lettering on it from a desk drawer and placed it on the desktop. Rutabaga picked up the disinigrater and pointed it at the pen. He pushed a small black button at the base of the tower that Murphey hadn’t noticed before and half of the pen melted away.
Mr. Murphey blinked, knuckled his eyes, and stared hard.
“My eyes must be playing tricks on me... it’s half-gone!” He muttered. Mr. Rhutabega smiled knowingly.
“Oh, it isn’t your eyes, Carl. Half of the pen disintigrated. However, it still doesn’t work properly, and I’ve discovered that I need one more ingredient to make it disintegrate things completely.” Murphey leaned forward in his chair, completely enthralled.
“And what is that, friend David?” he asked casually. “The blood of a young male or female of this species.” Rutabaga replied just as casually. Murphey’s eyes widened. “
Why on earth do you need human blood?” he demanded. Mr. Rhutabega leaned forward with a tiny smile.
“You see, Carl, this machine sucks all the liquid out of an object, leaving the rest of it to collapse into a pile of dust. I assume your secretary dusts regularly?” Mr. Murphey nodded.
“Why yes, every day, in fact.” He replied. “But what has that to do with anything?”
Mr. Rhutabega reached out a long, skinny finger and whiped the spot where the other half of the pen had once been. Lifting the finger, he indicated the grey dust resting on it.
“See? That is what is left of your pen.” Whiping his finger on his pants, he continued.
“However, the disintigrator needs liquid to run on. Sort of like a blood hound needs a scent of the person it’s tracking. Problem is, water doesn’t work. Nor does coffee, acid, or soft drinks.” He was interrupted by a snort from across the desk.
“You put soda in it?” Mr. Murphey asked, trying hard not to laugh. Mr. Rhutabega looked rather affronted.
“Why, yes, I did. When one is an inventor one must be imaginative, my dear Carl.” He said, then continued as before, on his explanation.
“The only thing that works, I’ve found, is blood. Human blood.” He paused to look over at Murphey.
“This thing is running on my own blood right now.” He continued. “I went to have donate some blood to the Red Cross, only to switch the bag with coloured water while the nurse wasn’t looking.” He added, by way of an explination.
“However, my blood’s not good enough.” He continued. Murphey raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, that’s right. It’s not. You know I’ve got cancer, because of that, am under kemotherapy, Carl, my blood’s diseased, and it doesn’t have enough of the proper nutritions or salt to run the machine.”
”So.. what, you want some of mine?” Mr. Murphey asked incredulously.
“Oh, no! No! Your blood is old, and diseases have leaked into it. No, I need younger, fresher blood.” He paused, scratching his ear thoughtfully.
“A baby would be perfect, or some sort of young child, but people notice if babies or young children go missing, and search for them. What I need.. are two young teenagers, preferably male and female, that won’t be missed.”
“Yes, and let me guess, you want me to find you two suc teenagers?” Mr. Murphey sighed. Mr. Rhutabega nodded eagerly, glad that his friend had caught on so quickly.
Mr. Murphey considered it. He scratched his chin, ran a hand through his hair, and shuffled the papers on his desk. Eventually, he glanced back at Mr. Rhutabega, and said grudgingly,
“All right, David. I’ll do it. But on one condition!”
”Anything you want, Carl! Anything!” Mr. Rhutabega said eagerly. Mr. Murphey nodded and said,
“On the condition that you allow me use of your little machine after you’ve tweaked it a bit. You see, the police are after me again, so I’d like to give them a little suprise. A mystery enough to distract them long enough for me to get my stories straight. So. How about it?”
Mr. Rhutabega considered it. It was a good offer. He would get his two teenagers, and Murphey would get his five minutes use of the machine.
“Deal.” He said finally. Mr. Murphey nodded, buisness-like and stood, holding his hand out to Mr. Rhutabega.
“Very well, David. I’ll send Tyx out to find them first thing tomorrow.” Mr. Rhutabega also rose hastily, and grasped the hand of the leader of the largest, most dangerous gang in Chicago.
They stared into each others eyes for a moment, Rhutabega, with his babyish blue-eyed gaze, and Murphey, with his ice-cold muddy brown glare.
Then, Mr. Murphey smiled.
It sent shudders down Mr. Rhutabega’s back.

[kittywinkins]

Mr. Murphey's Guards Dogs: Chapter Two: Andrew

If one ever wanted trouble, all they ever had to do was go find Andrew Walterspew, who was always up to his neck in it.
At the moment, Andrew was sprawled on his back, staring up at the cracked and waterstained ceiling of his bedroom, waiting for his alarm to go off.
Andrew was not terribly bad-looking; his dark brown hair was cut ragged and shaggy, and his grey-green eyes peered out through the mop, giving him a distinct English sheepdog look.
He was tall, with longer limbs than he knew what to do with, and a fair dusting of pale freckles over his nose and cheeks.
As he was just wondering whether or not he should just get up, whether the alarm had gone off or not, it did.
Automatically, his hand shot out, slamming into the snooze button.
Andrew sat up, pushing hair out of his face, and glanced around his room in the semi-darkness.
The room was small, white, and cluttered. One could hardly move inside it without accidentally knocking over a stack of homework, or tripping over a pile of dirty clothes.
Andrew was already dressed, so he stood up and walked straight out of the door, and down the rickety old steps, taking care to skip the two missing boards.
He entered the kitchen, which was in almost equal disrepair; the walls had once been painting perriwinkle blue, but were now a dirty, grayish-yellow color.
A round table covered with coffee mug circles was crammed into a corner beside the mildew-inhabited sink.
At this table, sat Andrew’s father, Patrick Walterspew, a thin, tall, middle-aged man with thick glasses, a comb-over, and a twenty-year-old suit, reading a newspaper.
“Morning, Dad.” Andrew mumbled, opening the refridgerator. His father didn’t even look up.
“Mmm... Good morning, Alex..” He muttered.
“Andrew.” His son corrected.
“Oh, yes, of course. Sorry, Alfred...” His father said, still not looking up from his paper.

(That is not the end of the chapter. THat is where I stopped writing this afternoon.)

[smiley.]

THIS is why you haven't replied to Gmail?

You suck, Stormy.
You have a good reason for not replying.
I hate you (:

[smiley.]

HOWEVER.
You're sentences are too short.
On occasion, just stop to describe things!

[ask]

For some reasons I don't like a book to be filled with description. I prefer more to be left to the imagination. xD
The amount of detail Stormy put in was just perfect for me. I can see it in a book.
Remember Stormy, send the first copy to me for FREE. D:<
Because dollars are expensive. D:

[kittywinkins]

XD
Okay, Frosty. I will.

And thanks, Smiley, but, in a way, I intentionally left the sentences short, with brief descriptions.

I could've given you all long, beauitul, sweeping descriptions of Mr. Murphey's office, of the characters, of Andrew's house, but I didn't.
Why not?
Long descriptions should be left for fantasy and more beautiful books and stories, that's why.
I want this to be an action/suspence-likey book, so if I started adding long, beautiful descriptions, I'd loose my readers.

[smiley.]

No, I don't mean surroundings.
I meant describe stuff like the disinigrater...thing
I luff the story though. In Theatre arts today we meditated, and I got an idea for a short story. I was so pissed, I was like: d**nIT, give me something creative like Stormy's
I feel so left out with you two now, you two always talk and I'm just like...out of the inner circle ):

[kittywinkins]

That WAS the surroundings.

Oh, and the disintigrator, as I said clearly, is about six inches long, and looks like a model of the eiffel tower.
We all know what that looks like, right, so....

What more do we need to describe?
Just wondering, not tryin' to be snippy.

Well, Smiley....
First, you'll have to get Skype,
Then you'll have to stay up until four in the morning chatting with meh and Darky on Skype and mentally willing Furryosty to get on.
And when he finally does, you do the capitals with lotta squees and yays, and tackle 'im.

Because he's cool.
And deserves to be tackled. B)

[smiley.]

I miss DewClan.
And I prolly can't get skype, I don't have sound or videos on my computer :/
effin piece of crap.

and god d**nit, quit criticizing me! i wouldn't say anything bad about your effin story if you would quit showing off in front o' me ):
rawrr

[| | Fudgey | |]

Holy crap that story is good!
Wow, wow and wow again.
It's amazing Stormy!
*cute eyes*
Please send the first copy to me too, even though I live in England.
*remembers email*
Ah - when you're 107 years old you forget about this modern technology.
xxxxD

[/size]

[ask]

You don't need a microphone for Skype.
Sure you can't call people, but you can still chat with it.
My mics busted, but I still get on Skype.
I find it more reliable then MSN, because even when you sign off people can give you messages and when you're online you can view them. But because of this, I get some major lag when it comes to messages, sometimes not getting messages until TEN hours later. >_< Lulz at Maxis xD

Wait, you don't have sound on your computer?
Why not?
Erm.. Get some headphones? One of my friends picked up a good pair at about 6-7 dollars in Best Buy or something -shrug-
Or is the sound card in itself busted?
If that's the problem, there's no solution other than buying a new sound card. D;
Now.. I need to find a way to get together 800 ringgit..
-sets up a fund-
'Help get Frosty a new graphics card so he throughoutly enjoy Spore!'
-waits for funds to pile in-
-22 months later-
-fund still empty-
._.
xDDD

[| | Fudgey | |]

What is Skype?
*feels dim*

[/size]

[ask]

Well you're dim. But that's why we have Timmmmaaaaaaay!

Timmmmaaaaaaay!: Welll.. Skyyyypeeeeee! is a voicechat thing.. and stuff. and stuff... and yeah... JUST GO TO THE d**n SITE SO I CAN EAT MY SAMMICH IN PEACE! >:U

[kittywinkins]

Smiley: I'm just honestly wondering what you mean.
You need to seriously chill out, girly.

Fudgey: thank you and I will.

Frosty: GET ON SKYPE, FURRYOSTY! THE STORMY DEMANDS MORTAL TIME SACRIFICE!!!!