(no subject)
Okay. I'm rather out of practice with this whole writing thing, so I figured I'd do an exercise just for fun. This has nothing to do with the real NaNo, am just doing this for fun.
Anyway, darkeyedwolf linked me to a plot bunny generator, so I figured I would try writing one for it. The plot bunny was:
He's a short-sighted drug-addicted waffle chef haunted by an iconic dead American confidante She's an orphaned junkie hooker who believes she is the reincarnation of an ancient Egyptian queen. They fight crime!
Monday morning. Rush hour on the freeway. And Mac had forgotten his glasses.
He dove in between cars, cutting so tightly that the boundary-layer air molecules protested. He could almost hear them holding up their little signs and chanting "Hell no, we will flow." Or maybe that was still the remnants of last night's trip. He should've known that shrooms and Chinese food would disagree with each other.
Duck and weave, fuck the sieve that was the LA freeway system. He barged in front of a boxy SUV, cutting off its tall, majestic path like the thought of Margaret Thatcher stifles an erection. A blaring horn greeted him. He didn't care, because he had his secret weapon. An Egg McMuffin.
Biting down hard, he swerved in front of a Porsche, which swerved in front of a Ferrari, which swerved in front of a Hummer, which didn't need to swerve because it went right over the sports car(s). Mac didn't care. Let the insurance companies sort it out.
It was almost his exit, which was rather unfortunate, as he was so far left that he made Michael Moore look dextrous. Luckily, Mac knew exactly what to do. "Hit the brakes, she'll fly right by" was his mantra, and he was pretty damned good with it. So he did. And the world flew by. Or at least, it flew.
Oh well. At least they landed after the exit, which cleared his road. Trying hard to avoid the occasional car part, Mac drove off the freeway and onto his next adventure. Local roads.
Unfortunately, space constraints prevent us from detailing the extent of Mac's local-roading adventure, and so we will now cut to the restaurant scene.
Mac was a chef. Not just any chef. He was the best short-sighted drug-addicted waffle chef haunted by an iconic dead American confidante that LA had to offer. He could cook up Belgian, Eggo, strawberry-topped, chocolate-chip, or any other sort of waffle that the mind could imagine. For a price, he could even lace it with a little something extra. The something-extra waffles were usually the most popular.
Today, he was working front counter. This did not mean that he didn't cook; it merely meant that he had to cook and work front counter at the same time. Oh, and maybe wait tables for a bit if the waitress found a truck driver she wanted to fuck.
So he got to see everyone that came into the story. Oops, I meant the restaurant, but I'm going to keep that in there.
In walked a beautiful, brilliant, buxom blonde. She was tiny yet well-proportioned. Curvacious, yet not floppy. Pretty but not sluttish.
Oh, who are we kidding? She was an out-and-out hoe.
"Hey stranger," she sauntered up to the bar, "do you come here often?"
At the moment, Mac though, I come here very often. A hot damn, it feels good. But he couldn't say this out load, so he settled for, "Ummm....."
She leaned forward and gave Mac a good view of her ample cleavage. "Come again?" she asked.
And Mac did.
"I work here," he managed to stammer between gasps. "I'm a chef. I make things for you to eat. Good things."
"Oh really?" the mysterious yet beautiful yet incredibly slutty stranger said. "There's something I would like to eat. Here, let me come behind the counter..."
And she did. And he did. Not necessarily in that order.
When they were finished, Mac popped up. "What's your name?" he finally got around to asking. "I have never had such hot premature ejaculation with a woman as with you."
The stranger looked at him coyly for a moment before deciding to answer. "Wolfie," she said at last.
"Hungry like a wolf, eh?" Mac said, and winked at her. This could be the start of a beautiful fuckbuddyship.
"No," she said, suddenly looking wistfully off into the distance. "It was the name my parents gave me. Before they...y'know..." Mac could almost see a tear glistening on her makeup-streaked face.
"I'm sorry about your loss," Mac said, suddenly compassionate. After all, girls like the sensitive guys. Or at least they put out for them. "It must be terrible to lose a parent."
"Oh, I didn't lose them," she said abruptly. "They got married. And then decided they loved each other more than me. Bastards. They're living in a gated community in Beverly Hills now."
Mac didn't know whether he wanted to laugh, cry, or fuck her brains out. Probably the latter. Or he could settle for all three. He laughed so hard he cried, and then grabbed her titties.
She shrank back instantly, like he had just turned into a monster. "Don't. Ever. Do. That," she gasped, slapping his hands away. She was breathing heavily now, and not just from the passion behind the counter.
"Hey, I'm sorry Wolfie, I thought that since we had just done...y'know...it was all fair game. If you don't want me to touch your boobs, that's cool with me."
"Please," she breathed. "Anywhere. Anywhere but there."
That being an invitation, he took her up on it, and they ravaged each other right on the restaurant floor.
Not long afterwards, they finished. "Where do you say we go now?" Mac asked, pulling Wolfie to her feet.
"I know! The children's daycare!" Wolfie replied, suddenly enthused with an energy that had heretofore been lacking. "We can sell drugs to them!"
"Dude. You're wicked. I think I love you already," Mac replied.
And Mac, not caring about his ordinary cheffing job, went off with his love into the noonday sun to sell drugs to children.
But the details of that will have to wait until a later date.
Anyway, darkeyedwolf linked me to a plot bunny generator, so I figured I would try writing one for it. The plot bunny was:
He's a short-sighted drug-addicted waffle chef haunted by an iconic dead American confidante She's an orphaned junkie hooker who believes she is the reincarnation of an ancient Egyptian queen. They fight crime!
Monday morning. Rush hour on the freeway. And Mac had forgotten his glasses.
He dove in between cars, cutting so tightly that the boundary-layer air molecules protested. He could almost hear them holding up their little signs and chanting "Hell no, we will flow." Or maybe that was still the remnants of last night's trip. He should've known that shrooms and Chinese food would disagree with each other.
Duck and weave, fuck the sieve that was the LA freeway system. He barged in front of a boxy SUV, cutting off its tall, majestic path like the thought of Margaret Thatcher stifles an erection. A blaring horn greeted him. He didn't care, because he had his secret weapon. An Egg McMuffin.
Biting down hard, he swerved in front of a Porsche, which swerved in front of a Ferrari, which swerved in front of a Hummer, which didn't need to swerve because it went right over the sports car(s). Mac didn't care. Let the insurance companies sort it out.
It was almost his exit, which was rather unfortunate, as he was so far left that he made Michael Moore look dextrous. Luckily, Mac knew exactly what to do. "Hit the brakes, she'll fly right by" was his mantra, and he was pretty damned good with it. So he did. And the world flew by. Or at least, it flew.
Oh well. At least they landed after the exit, which cleared his road. Trying hard to avoid the occasional car part, Mac drove off the freeway and onto his next adventure. Local roads.
Unfortunately, space constraints prevent us from detailing the extent of Mac's local-roading adventure, and so we will now cut to the restaurant scene.
Mac was a chef. Not just any chef. He was the best short-sighted drug-addicted waffle chef haunted by an iconic dead American confidante that LA had to offer. He could cook up Belgian, Eggo, strawberry-topped, chocolate-chip, or any other sort of waffle that the mind could imagine. For a price, he could even lace it with a little something extra. The something-extra waffles were usually the most popular.
Today, he was working front counter. This did not mean that he didn't cook; it merely meant that he had to cook and work front counter at the same time. Oh, and maybe wait tables for a bit if the waitress found a truck driver she wanted to fuck.
So he got to see everyone that came into the story. Oops, I meant the restaurant, but I'm going to keep that in there.
In walked a beautiful, brilliant, buxom blonde. She was tiny yet well-proportioned. Curvacious, yet not floppy. Pretty but not sluttish.
Oh, who are we kidding? She was an out-and-out hoe.
"Hey stranger," she sauntered up to the bar, "do you come here often?"
At the moment, Mac though, I come here very often. A hot damn, it feels good. But he couldn't say this out load, so he settled for, "Ummm....."
She leaned forward and gave Mac a good view of her ample cleavage. "Come again?" she asked.
And Mac did.
"I work here," he managed to stammer between gasps. "I'm a chef. I make things for you to eat. Good things."
"Oh really?" the mysterious yet beautiful yet incredibly slutty stranger said. "There's something I would like to eat. Here, let me come behind the counter..."
And she did. And he did. Not necessarily in that order.
When they were finished, Mac popped up. "What's your name?" he finally got around to asking. "I have never had such hot premature ejaculation with a woman as with you."
The stranger looked at him coyly for a moment before deciding to answer. "Wolfie," she said at last.
"Hungry like a wolf, eh?" Mac said, and winked at her. This could be the start of a beautiful fuckbuddyship.
"No," she said, suddenly looking wistfully off into the distance. "It was the name my parents gave me. Before they...y'know..." Mac could almost see a tear glistening on her makeup-streaked face.
"I'm sorry about your loss," Mac said, suddenly compassionate. After all, girls like the sensitive guys. Or at least they put out for them. "It must be terrible to lose a parent."
"Oh, I didn't lose them," she said abruptly. "They got married. And then decided they loved each other more than me. Bastards. They're living in a gated community in Beverly Hills now."
Mac didn't know whether he wanted to laugh, cry, or fuck her brains out. Probably the latter. Or he could settle for all three. He laughed so hard he cried, and then grabbed her titties.
She shrank back instantly, like he had just turned into a monster. "Don't. Ever. Do. That," she gasped, slapping his hands away. She was breathing heavily now, and not just from the passion behind the counter.
"Hey, I'm sorry Wolfie, I thought that since we had just done...y'know...it was all fair game. If you don't want me to touch your boobs, that's cool with me."
"Please," she breathed. "Anywhere. Anywhere but there."
That being an invitation, he took her up on it, and they ravaged each other right on the restaurant floor.
Not long afterwards, they finished. "Where do you say we go now?" Mac asked, pulling Wolfie to her feet.
"I know! The children's daycare!" Wolfie replied, suddenly enthused with an energy that had heretofore been lacking. "We can sell drugs to them!"
"Dude. You're wicked. I think I love you already," Mac replied.
And Mac, not caring about his ordinary cheffing job, went off with his love into the noonday sun to sell drugs to children.
But the details of that will have to wait until a later date.