j_wilkin
This one would be serialized.
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The Marvelous Adventures of Professor P. H. Pitcairn, p. 1
Professor P. H. Pitcairn took the telescope down from his eye, revealing the monocle underneath. “Oh ho ho!” he said cheerily to his young negro companion. “Their balloon should be no match for us!”
The Professor and his valet stood on the deck of his dirigible, eying their next target, a small balloon set aloft with a cargo of unsuspecting sightseers. As Pitcairn observed the balloon, noting its weak points and light armament, Fetch, his slave, readied the cannons. “Load them with grapeshot, my obedient inferior!”
They approached on the tourists nearly-unnoticed, just another airship in the sky, and as they grew closer, they were greeted with cheers and waves from the other balloon. “The mood on the other ship seems most jovial, Fetch. Well well, we must change that! Fire in the hole!”
Pitcairn’s negro servant covered his ears and lit the short matches, and the cannons rocked backwards with the booming sound of flying grapeshot. Cheers turned to screams, excitement turned to horror, the balloon turned to tatters. For five minutes, Pitcairn watched with a smug smile as Fetch reduced their festive balloon into a series of festive streamers, drifting to the ground as cheerily as the passengers, who plummeted.
“Oh ho ho!” said Pitcairn with a chuckle. “Most splendid, my good, if primal, friend! Now it is time for a celebratory orgy with my hookers. Watch the skies, Fetch, watch the skies!” Pitcairn left Fetch on the deck and disappeared inside the cabin.
In the cabin, he had thirteen hookers tied to the walls in various states of malnutrition, because that was how he liked them.
“Let me down!” cried one of them pleadingly.
“Oh, well, I would have done that immediately if you had but asked! Why didn’t you say so earlier? I am a right good gentleman!” Professor Pitcairn reached for a lever by his side and pulled it. A hole opened up in the floor under the hooker. “I’ll let you down, I will, what what!” he said, chuckling amicably. He strode over to the hooker and released her bonds, and, despite her struggling, forced her out the hole in the bottom of the dirigible. As her scream faded into the distance, only his good-natured laughter could be heard.
“Jolly good!” said the Professor, as he closed the hatch again, and started to remove his pants.
He was interrupted by the door to the outside opening, and in stepped Fetch. “Massa,” he said, his brows hunching low over his eyes, “I be thinkin’ it’s time I had some o’ these hookers fo’ myself.”
Pitcairn calculatingly refastened his belt buckle. “And why is that, old sport?”
“I’s worth three-fifths of you, right? And I always do all the work. So I wants three-fifths o’ these hookers fo’ myself.”
Pitcairn laughed at the negro’s lackluster mathematical abilities. “You mean three eighths,” he corrected.
“What,” asked his valet, easily-confused by the algebra.
“Three eighths,” Pitcairn responded. “If I am worth five and you worth three, we total to a denominator of eight, and you get three eighths.”
“Oh,” said Fetch, not understanding. He paused. “I’ll take three of them, then.”
“No, no, no,” said Pitcairn, reminded of why darkies weren’t allowed in his school. “There are twelve. Three eighths of twelve isn’t three.” Upon seeing the negro’s look of childlike incomprehension, Pitcairn lost his patience. “You know what,” he said, “you’re not allowed to have any anyway, so I see very little point in giving you them, my helpful but too-bold subordinate.” He pulled another lever.
When Pitcairn was done, the ground below his dirigible was littered with the bodies of festive partygoers, hookers, and black people, and in the air was the sound of cheery laughter.
Tanzmetall
I really like the juxtaposition of horribleness and the jolly British aristocrat in the last one, but Jesus fucking Christ, stop killing black people. I honestly don’t care if you do it one in every five posts or so, because then we can attribute it to edginess, but it happens in every. single. one. I’m starting to wonder if you are even capable of writing posts that don’t involve killing black people.
Please give us a little more variety, these are all basically the same. I like them to some extent but they cannot be the only note you hit.
nom de pomme
i agree. next time you want to write “black”, “negro”, or “urban” instead try “Danish”, “Scandinavian”, or “North European”
Burpen
Two posts later and you’re still giving us racist material after we’ve asked for something else…
I suspect that you, sir, are trolling.
j_wilkin
Oh, woah, hey, sorry. Honestly, I didn’t think anyone here was black. It’s just a joke, anyway.
I guess I just think that stuff is funny. I’ll write one soon that’s different.
When will you let me know? Also, who makes these decisions? I’ve gotten kind of mixed reactions. Is it Grabass_Champion? I’m pretty sure he’s in some kind of position of authority. Is that right?
Anyway, I’ll write something new. Maybe the problem is, I’m just submitting stuff I already wrote.
j_wilkin
Sometimes I Pick at my Face
Do you ever do that?
Some days it’s just unbearable. I find myself thinking, “This part of my face is one that I would rather not have on my face.” And away it must go. Scratch scratch scratch. Then there are flakes of skin and face under my fingernails, and they smell bad, and my face hurts from scratching. If there is no one around sometimes I will eat them. They taste like face. Num num num.
When I wear dark shirts you can tell I’ve been doing it. I have to flick the flakes off or they’ll know. That’s why I always wear a white jacket, so as to throw people off the scent. My mom will ask, “How was your day, James?” and I’ll respond by growling incoherently and throwing dishware so she does not see how red and hurt my face is from picking at it. Then I’ll be sent to my room to think about what I’ve done. Of course, she doesn’t know that what I’ve done, is pick at my face—and now she’s sent me to think about it. So I’ll think about it. And my face will start to itch again. And slowly… slowly… my hands will make their way to my face.
I’d had enough of writing like that. Really, if you can’t tell from reading it, it gets very tiresome after a while. (Understatement? Ya think?) It was now time for the punchline. In the administrative forum, I asked my writers to take a side.
