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Scrabble Fanfiction
It was a bright and temperate day inside the living room of Mr. and Mrs. Charleston. The tables were set: it was time to play some Scrabble.
Mr. Charleston randomly took his letters out of the bag: F-E-A-I-E-I-I.
"Dammit!" Mr. Charleston said. He hit the table with a closed fist and begun to grind his teeth.
Mrs. Charleston randomly took her letters out of the bag: G-O-B-M-T-I-A.
"Hmm." Mrs. Charleston hummed. She took off her glasses. It was time to play some Scrabble.
Mrs. Charleston went first. "TIMOB" she spelt on the board.
"That's not a word," said Mr. Charleston, his brow furrowed slightly. He grinded his teeth louder.
"Yes it is," said Mrs. Charleston.
"No it's not! Here, hand me the dictionary," Mr. Charleston demanded.
"We're playing No-Dictionary rules, remember?" Mrs. Charleston said softly.
"It's so not a word! Anyone will tell you that!" Mr. Charleston said, standing up. He stopped grinding his teeth because he was too busy yelling and asserting his position.
"Well, I say it is. How about rock-paper-scissors?" Mrs. Charleston asked.
"Ggggggggg fine." Mr. Charleston said. He sat down.
"Okay, here we go." Mrs. Charleston said. The two held out their closed fists.
"Rock... paper... scissors!" Mrs. Charleston said. Mr. Charleston kept his fist closed, representing the rock icon. Mrs. Charleston had her ring finger and thumb extended, her palm facing Mr. Charleston.
"What the hell is that?" Mr. Charleston asked, annoyed.
"It's a pseudoflip. I'm pseudoflipping you off. It beats everything," Mrs. Charleston said.
"That's retarded! It's called rock-paper-scissors, not rock-paper-scissors-pseudoflip!" Mr. Charleston yelled.
"It's in the rules! I didn't make it up. Go look at the rules." Mrs. Charleston said.
"Where are the rules?" Mr. Charleston asked.
"I dunno, online?" Mrs. Charleston suggested.
"What's an on-line? This is 1936 pre-WWII Germany!" Mr. Charleston said.
"Well I don't know! Do you have any ideas?" Mrs. Charleston said.
"Well, someone's got to have rules SOMEWHERE," Mr. Charleston said. "Pack your bags, we're going travelling."
"And just abandon the game?" Mrs. Charleston said. "Fine, fine, let's go."
Mr. and Mrs. Charleston gathered their clothes and some food and threw it into their car. They drove to Berlin and went to the National Hall of Rock-Paper-Scissors, except with that name in German. The building is pretty huge; three or four storeys tall and made of stone, with one of those storeys being just climbing up the stone steps and past four gargoyles to the entrance. They walked up to the entrance and knocked the doorknocker.
"Who goes there?" a deep voice asked from within.
"Uh, I'm uh Harvey Charleston, I'm here to.. ask something about the rules..." Mr. Charleston stuttered. The door opens and the two walk in. In front of them stood a very short man with a slightly hunched back, his eyes dark, silently expressing years of cynicism and despair.
"Excuse the formalities... they call me Pinkie." the man said. "What is it you seek?"
"Is there such a thing as the pseudoflip?" Mrs. Charleston asked.
"Yes," said Pinkie.
"Huh." Mr. Charleston said. "Well, I'll be." Pinkie turned to leave.
"Oh, and hey, do you know if 'Timob' is a word?" Mr. Charleston asks.
"What? No, that's stupid." Pinkie said. Mrs. Charleston chuckled, and Mr. Charleston begun to grind his teeth.
The End
It was a bright and temperate day inside the living room of Mr. and Mrs. Charleston. The tables were set: it was time to play some Scrabble.
Mr. Charleston randomly took his letters out of the bag: F-E-A-I-E-I-I.
"Dammit!" Mr. Charleston said. He hit the table with a closed fist and begun to grind his teeth.
Mrs. Charleston randomly took her letters out of the bag: G-O-B-M-T-I-A.
"Hmm." Mrs. Charleston hummed. She took off her glasses. It was time to play some Scrabble.
Mrs. Charleston went first. "TIMOB" she spelt on the board.
"That's not a word," said Mr. Charleston, his brow furrowed slightly. He grinded his teeth louder.
"Yes it is," said Mrs. Charleston.
"No it's not! Here, hand me the dictionary," Mr. Charleston demanded.
"We're playing No-Dictionary rules, remember?" Mrs. Charleston said softly.
"It's so not a word! Anyone will tell you that!" Mr. Charleston said, standing up. He stopped grinding his teeth because he was too busy yelling and asserting his position.
"Well, I say it is. How about rock-paper-scissors?" Mrs. Charleston asked.
"Ggggggggg fine." Mr. Charleston said. He sat down.
"Okay, here we go." Mrs. Charleston said. The two held out their closed fists.
"Rock... paper... scissors!" Mrs. Charleston said. Mr. Charleston kept his fist closed, representing the rock icon. Mrs. Charleston had her ring finger and thumb extended, her palm facing Mr. Charleston.
"What the hell is that?" Mr. Charleston asked, annoyed.
"It's a pseudoflip. I'm pseudoflipping you off. It beats everything," Mrs. Charleston said.
"That's retarded! It's called rock-paper-scissors, not rock-paper-scissors-pseudoflip!" Mr. Charleston yelled.
"It's in the rules! I didn't make it up. Go look at the rules." Mrs. Charleston said.
"Where are the rules?" Mr. Charleston asked.
"I dunno, online?" Mrs. Charleston suggested.
"What's an on-line? This is 1936 pre-WWII Germany!" Mr. Charleston said.
"Well I don't know! Do you have any ideas?" Mrs. Charleston said.
"Well, someone's got to have rules SOMEWHERE," Mr. Charleston said. "Pack your bags, we're going travelling."
"And just abandon the game?" Mrs. Charleston said. "Fine, fine, let's go."
Mr. and Mrs. Charleston gathered their clothes and some food and threw it into their car. They drove to Berlin and went to the National Hall of Rock-Paper-Scissors, except with that name in German. The building is pretty huge; three or four storeys tall and made of stone, with one of those storeys being just climbing up the stone steps and past four gargoyles to the entrance. They walked up to the entrance and knocked the doorknocker.
"Who goes there?" a deep voice asked from within.
"Uh, I'm uh Harvey Charleston, I'm here to.. ask something about the rules..." Mr. Charleston stuttered. The door opens and the two walk in. In front of them stood a very short man with a slightly hunched back, his eyes dark, silently expressing years of cynicism and despair.
"Excuse the formalities... they call me Pinkie." the man said. "What is it you seek?"
"Is there such a thing as the pseudoflip?" Mrs. Charleston asked.
"Yes," said Pinkie.
"Huh." Mr. Charleston said. "Well, I'll be." Pinkie turned to leave.
"Oh, and hey, do you know if 'Timob' is a word?" Mr. Charleston asks.
"What? No, that's stupid." Pinkie said. Mrs. Charleston chuckled, and Mr. Charleston begun to grind his teeth.
The End