Ok besides maybe domestic terrorism against corps, but don't tell Jeff Bezos that.
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likes
6 yrs ago
@Blackmist16 There is nothing cooler than bouncing on a homies dick, fam!
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like
6 yrs ago
Tick tick tock, it's salvia o clock, slapping around Shkreli with my digital cock. 9/11 inside job, click click, spent three fucking hours bouncing on my BOYS DICK
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likes
7 yrs ago
No discord? But I had some really spicy opinions about the blacks!
@VilageidiotxTrees live longer with warm water. Mother was trying to get it warmer but fell asleep and let it boil which almost turn the pot into slag before I caught the smell of something going wrong downstairs.
The trees only going to be in the house for a month.
Also, do you have a water heater? Normally your sink should heat your water for you.
Your families weird. I mean, your mother apparently decided to not only boil some water to keep a tree that's going to exist for a month alive but also go into a position where she could easily fall asleep.
@Buddha The thing with that is this isn't an online relationship.
You need to stop worrying. The fact you're worried that she might cheat on you is an obsession with control, in general (not over her specifically, but just you feel you're losing control and because of this something bad may happen). You can't worry whether or not someone will do something they haven't done. If she's going to do it, she's going to do it, and that's that whether or not she does it near you or far from you. It may hurt, but pain comes and goes. Your life won't end and shouldn't end because of what some woman does. Furthermore, you shouldn't attach all your happiness to another. A relationship, in full, should be a bonus and not the prize. Otherwise, you'll find yourself obsessed with the acts of your significant other and push them away.
Writings a lot easier to me and less time consuming than other hobbies. With a game or piano, it's a time investment. With writing, I can literally write 1 sentence every hour on the hour and eventually come up with a single paragraph with less than 10 seconds dedicated to each sentence. Even when doing live collabing, you don't have to focus on it all the time. Writing is basically a building block hobby. You construct bits and pieces at a time, way easier to handle.
Zelzibel had, a week ago escaped from her vault. She had learned a few things. Primarily that selling drugs, now called "chems" was a lucrative business and was far better than sucking dicks, which was the second most profitable industry for a woman of little means in a post apocalyptic Nevada. She was now selling drugs inside some rundown building she didn't know the name of.
"So, you work for Redding, huh?" "...Uh-huh..."
Shit, who was Redding? Was he a man made of red? She had to play this cool, or the woman would suspect something was off. Zelzibel was already sweating.
"Uh, are you ok?"
Shit, she suspected everything! Zel had to deflect her suspicions.
"Everything is fine! I have never felt better. I'm not panicking, who's panicking?" Zel said, clearly panicking.
"I mean, that's cool."
"I know what he looks like!"
"Yeah?"
"Like a man, with a tallish short build and some color of hair." Zel frantically hands the woman the Jet she had in her hand.
"Uh, o-okay... Um, thanks for the drugs..."
The woman leaves, somewhat nonplussed. Zelzibel is breathing heavily, her eyes snapping left and right. She'd made it and no one suspected anything. She had to hide the fact she was from Vault 232, or else they'd take her back. She couldn't go back, she'd left Big Joe the Rapist there.
Only a moment had passed between the woman leaving and the door opening back up, the same woman backtracking into the motel room with a gun in her face, back still turned to Zel as if she'd walked straight into the barrel. She had. Redding was waiting outside the door for anyone coming out. He stood over the woman and took his eyes off of hers to look at the crazy-eyed harpie before him. Already, she'd set up a makeshift lab and his trademark blue jet inhalers and even his med-x and prescription pills were in the corner. He'd found the bastard- or bitch, in this case- that'd stolen his shit. "Get the fuck out of here."
The woman followed his clear instructions and scurried out of the room. His gun was still trained on the ratty woman. "How much are you selling it for?"
Zel stared at the barrel, "Ten dollars per hit!" She hold both hands in front of her face, like this would help.
"Dollars?" Redding's face was a portrait of confusion, his barrel falling a bit before he readjusted, "Well."
Why the fuck was she selling his drugs for dollars? Now he couldn't even steal his caps back because this useless fucking paper was what she was selling it for. Not even NCR tender, but pre-war bills. What the fuck was he going to do with all that now? Wipe his ass with them? In a way, he was flattered that his stuff was apparently good enough for these people to scrounge around looking for pre-war money to get their hit. "What's with the lab? You have my drugs, my fucking personal stash there, what do you need the lab for? You've been fucking with my jet?"
Zel said in a shrill shriek, flailing her hands about, "I was making Angel Dust and LSD! I only mixed a tiny bit of methamphetamine into the jet! Nothing illegal, I think!" She was pretty sure that wasn't illegal. It was the apocalypse, what was illegal anymore? That's why she knew killing those Vault 232 guards by stomping their brains out was justifiable, the law or non-law as it were was on her side.
"What the fuck is angel dust?" Redding asked. "What does it do? Are you just making shit up?"
"It makes you feel like God, or it numbs your brain so the voices stop telling you to do things. Or it starts the voices." she brightened up, lowering her hands, "You should try some, ten dollars!" then she thought about how she really wanted some angel dust right now. Then she could chase it down with some jet.
Redding lowered his .38 a hair, glancing over the woman's shoulder and wondering how it was to feel like God. But voices, no. He shook his head, "Keep that shit, that's mine over there!" He thrust a finger towards the opiates and opioids in the corner. "I'll stick with feeling great for a few hours without having voices in my head. But you know how to make that stuff?" He asked, now sparing a thought to employing this woman instead of ventilating her skull.
"Yeah, but I've been having trouble taking it because everyone keeps buying out my supply. I think it's a conspiracy! Maybe I should stab my next customer so they'll stop spying on me." she said, out loud, when she intended to just think it. She corrected herself, "I mean, ironically!" she smiled, eyes wide.
"Listen. I have a proposition for you. You put that shit that makes you feel like God into my jet, but only a little. Just cut it a bit, right?" He tilted his head forward, his eyebrows raising, "You keep most of that angel dust you make, but we start selling for caps. You know, real money. In essence," He raised the gun back up across the hair's breadth it traveled away from the woman's face, "I'm saying that you say yes to working for me and I won't paint the wall behind you with your regrets."
"Do I have to suck all the dick as a part of this deal?" Zel asked, squinting. She secretly suspected that caps and dicks might be the two leading currencies in America. They're both as absurd. Then she thought better of her response, because he had a gun, "I mean, yes, I enjoy not being shot! It's one of my top ten ways to live, not being shot. Not being shot is great."
"I don't think a lot of people would pay to stick their dick in crazy. Just stick to making drugs for me, and only me, and we'll enjoy a happy coexistence. I don't want to have this conversation again." He pointed with his chin to the rucksack full of opiates, "Toss me that. You can have this room and I'll be out of your hair, at least until I need more drugs. What's your name?"
Zel twitched a bit at him asking her name. Names have power. She thinks. Wait, no, that's what that book said. The Sword of Gordidran or whatever she read when she was twelve. She had to remember, fiction isn't reality. That's what they'd told her when they locked her in the funny room. She didn't think it was funny.
"Zelzibel." she says, cringing. "My mom called me that because she forgot how to pronounce Jezibel I think. Or she was high. Or dad beat her until she changed the first syllables of the name. I don't know actually." Redding was going to kill her. She deserved it. She only hoped he let her get high as balls before he did it, because she was hankering for some psycho right now.
Redding sat there, a little exasperated and a little bit caught in remembering his own shitty childhood. He shook his head, he wasn't about to have a heart-to-heart with the woman in front of him, probably she didn't even know how to have one of those. Best to keep her just making drugs on her lonesome. He caught the tossed rucksack and turned to leave before he stopped, turning back to Zel. "I can understand stealing my drugs, sure. But why did you piss in my whiskey?"
"What whiskey?" she asked. She didn't remember. Then she had a sudden burst of memory, "Oh wait, right! Because I already shit in the pillow case!"
"I didn't find any..." Then he looked in the corner and saw a pillow case, "Okay. Well, I want a bottle of whiskey, bought by you, and brought to me. It's to solidify our budding friendship and secure our little business deal."
With that, he tucked his revolver back in his pants and left, somewhat shaken by the things he'd seen in there. It wasn't often you met someone like that. With his luck, she'd somehow fuck up that whiskey run he'd sent her on, or slip something into it. He'd have to watch her, he knew.
Appearance: Her hair is a black frayed mess of wild mane and her skin is extremely pale for a wastelander. She has wide, twitchy grey eyes. She wears what looks what used to be some kind of cream dress with flowery designs, but now the skirt is ratty and torn and the color is now brown from the various kinds of filth she's encountered. She has ropes wrapped around the skirt near her waist to her knees, keeping the skirt tight round her legs. There's a leather jacket over the top part, which is black with brown spots.
Race: Human
Strengths: She's a quick thinker and often thinks ahead of problems. She's very good at solving problems in an unpredictable manner, confounding her enemies. She has skill with creating chems and small mechanical devices. She, in a manner disturbingly similar to serial killers, has a knack for getting into buildings and tricking people into thinking she's someone else.
Weaknesses: She's insane. Due to her lineage being entirely people with mental or physical disorders, she is a arguably high functioning psychopath and schizophrenic, along with some obsessive tendecies.
She has no sense of social propriety and often says or does the wrong thing. She's also prone to violence and a chem user of her own supply.
Personality: A frantic and quick witted woman known for her fast mood swings. She will pursue her desires despite all reason. She can be very helpful when the mood strikes, then later do something just to spite you. She runs off pure feeling and emotion and often disregards straightforward solutions to problems. This is at odds with her general knowledge of science and chemistry. She would seem to be the kind of person that would have no place in civilized society, but fits in perfectly to a post apocalyptic bandit camp or something. Though most bandits would consider her behavior too extreme. She's known to be very exciteable.
Skills/Attributes: Chem making. She's crazy with a knife and is pretty good at improving melee weaponry. Sneaky. Able to create small snappy devices like chemical injectors or radio jammers. Can break her own bones and remove herself from a straightjacket or constraint. Has a very twitchy trigger finger, meaning she can shoot fast but she doesn't have any idea of how to deal with recoil.
Back-story: She was a part of Vault 232, where the experiment involved filling a vault almost exclusively with mental asylum patients and criminals with psychopathic or sociopathic tendencies. The only retraining factor was a often hidden group of Overseers and guards who would only act to prevent the inhabitants from murdering eachother. Zelzibel was in a particularly awful lineage that consisted of schizophrenics, psychopaths, two serial rapists, and at least one elected U.S official. The Overseers and Guards were of a lineage of autistic savants. By her generation, they were nearly machine like in their logical faculties.
Her mother, when Zelzibel was about eight, was disected by her father who was convinced he could achieve immortality by devouring her heart. He told Zel if she ever told the Overseers he'd stick her like a stuffed pig. Then he taught Zel how to stick men like stuffeds pigs and as a reward he beat her. She was locked into a closet for looking at him funny one day. She eventually got tired of being locked in the closet and when she was freed she slit his throat with his own shaving razor.
The Overseers did not believe the shaving razor story, but considering the other vile attrocities that were often committed and her fathers rampant abuse, only stuck her into one of the padded rooms for three months until she agreed to not kill anyone ever again. This did not work out.
As the years went by she became obsessed with chemistry books and later learned how to make chems from another vault dweller who had a family history leading all the way back to a convicted drug lord. This lead to working with injectors. Unfortunately, one of her favorite chems was basically her version of psycho and one fateful and bloody night she was brought out to the surface like a dog to be shot.
This, of course, was where it went bad.
It's a cold summer night. It's always a cold summer night post-nuclear war California. You get used to it. Zelzibel has never gotten used to it. Zelzibel is in a skintight blue suit that says "232" in bright neon lettering. Her arms are constrained by blue and yellow guilded arm restraints. She is followed by three men. One man has a shotgun. Another man has a small black device with a wobbly black antenna at the top. There's a big, red, flashing button. If he presses this button, her head will explode.
Zelzibel doesn't want this to happen. Which is why she is compliant. She's always compliant when her head is about to explode. Even when it's not and she is being constantly reassured it isn't. But she knows her head is going to explode and she knew who was going to do it. Not the man behind her with the bomb collar detonation device, that's just a guy with a bomb collar. No, her head was going to be exploded by a psychic radeon alien named Big Joe.
Big Joe was a serial rapist, conman, and friendly neighborhood maintenance inspector. These were all split personalities. Zel liked one of three of these. It was the conman. But he wasn't the problem. Is was the friendly, sweater wearing, smiling, clean coifed friendly neighborhood maintenance inspector. She knew he didn't actually wear a sweater, everyone wore the same vault suits with the straps just in case the Overseers and guards needed to stop an orgy riot. But he looked like he would wear a sweater.
This aspect of Big Joe, she deeply suspected, was psychically trying to explode her mind. She would wake up in a cold sweat. Sometimes, she would wake up beating some mans head against a urinal stall. She'd stop, horrified, then stab him in the kidneys so there were no witnesses. She knew this wasn't her fault. It was Big Joes, she could hear him at the back of her mind at all times.
So she knew when she enacted her plan to poison sector 37 of the vaults water purification system with pure radiation, that she would likely get caught. She knew the Overseers felt bad executing vault citizens with bomb collars. It was a waste of bomb collars and they didn't send anyone out of the vault to get supplies. This is because they were all insane and you don't get insane people to find more bomb collars. They come back with mini nukes or having formed a small Ochlocracy (a mob based government). Then, they demanded to all have pet rabbits, but you can't have pet rabbits, what are these people, crazy? Then you have a sudden realization, they are. Point is, it's pointless alright? You can't have the unreasonable reasonably acquire reasonably acquirable devices without having good reason and unless a reason is found, it's unreasonable to reasonably ask any Vault Overseer. So there.
So she knew one of the guards would remove the collar, probably strap it to his hip or his own neck maybe. The second part was the ideal situation. The first is what actually occured, the belt dangling off the portly mans belt. Zel had prepared for this by constructing a specially made harmonica that could, when blown, emit various radio frequencies. She had practiced by attaching the harmonica to a terminal and seeing the frequency range she was blowing on. When she was satisfied, she'd swallowed the harmonica seconds before she dumped a cylindrical tube of radioactive isotope into the drinking supply that connected specifically to Big Joes section of the vault.
This killed more than just Big Joe. It didn't even work on Big Joe completely, the only part of his personality that wasn't ghoulified was the serial rapist and he's still alive. Zel considers this a win.
A guard raises his shotgun. Zel has already, wretching and hacking, produced a small harmonica in a pile of vomit. She slips it into her mouth with her tongue, the tip coiling around it like a snake. It tastes like dirt. She sucks some of the dirt out of the whistle, then blows. At first nothing happens. Then the bomb collar detonates from the fat mans hips, sending shrieking pieces of jagged metal into the air, nearly giving Zelzibel an anal lobotomy. Her heads half on the floor, her ass is in the air. She got it half right. She flips around, her arms are still restrained but she's used to it by now. The fat mans torso has been shredded and she sees the spaghetti string of his flesh noodling out. Perfect. Less than perfect, one of the guards is still moving. The other isn't moving, but struggling to get off his feet. He looks wounded bad.
Zel has two options. She knows she can either sprint away, hoping that in this long trek of desert she might lose the man before he realizes that shotguns still operational. Or she can go over there and convince him, with reason, to let her go. She decides on the second option.
She straightens all the way to her feet and begins sprinting towards the man. She doesn't scream, so the man is somewhat surprised when he sees a long black haired woman with wild eyes sprinting at him. He now realizes what's going on. He gets ready for a headbutt, throwing his hands to the top of his head so that he can block a blunt blow. Then he feels a pressure on his arm, then a sharp pain. The bitch is biting him! He grabs at the crazy cunts hair, but as he does this she's tearing her head away, letting the hair follicles rip right off. He stares aghast at his hand full of hair for just a second, quickly deciding to punch her. She goes to the fall and drops onto her back, then kicks him right in the dick. This hurts, and he crumples down. Zel kicks him again on the fall, this time in the face, and quickly rises to her feet. She then kicks his head, knocking him over. Then, she starts stands over him and starts stomping. She doesn't stop until her legs are tired and bloody.
The other man, nearly unconscious now from pain, rolls his head dully. Zel is trying to pop her own arm bones to free herself from the vault straight jacket. He groans. His eyes close. When they open again, there's a shotgun barrel in his face. He hears a click.
BOOM.
Clothing: One cream colored dress, now brown and ratty, with little flowery details held against her waist and legs with a series of old belts and hide. Some flat shoes. Weapons: One shiv and 10mm submachine gun, 4 pipebombs (that, when triggered, release molten hot thermite) Ammo: 40 10mm rounds Chems: Four Psycho inhalers and some sort of needle that's an injected form of psycho
Appearance: Her hair is a black frayed mess of wild mane and her skin is extremely pale for a wastelander. She has wide, twitchy grey eyes. She wears what looks what used to be some kind of cream dress with flowery designs, but now the skirt is ratty and torn and the color is now brown from the various kinds of filth she's encountered. She has ropes wrapped around the skirt near her waist to her knees, keeping the skirt tight round her legs. There's a leather jacket over the top part, which is black with brown spots.
Race: Human
Strengths: She's a quick thinker and often thinks ahead of problems. She's very good at solving problems in an unpredictable manner, confounding her enemies. She has skill with creating chems and small mechanical devices. She, in a manner disturbingly similar to serial killers, has a knack for getting into buildings and tricking people into thinking she's someone else.
Weaknesses: She's insane. Due to her lineage being entirely people with mental or physical disorders, she is a arguably high functioning psychopath and schizophrenic, along with some obsessive tendecies.
She has no sense of social propriety and often says or does the wrong thing. She's also prone to violence and a chem user of her own supply.
Personality: A frantic and quick witted woman known for her fast mood swings. She will pursue her desires despite all reason. She can be very helpful when the mood strikes, then later do something just to spite you. She runs off pure feeling and emotion and often disregards straightforward solutions to problems. This is at odds with her general knowledge of science and chemistry. She would seem to be the kind of person that would have no place in civilized society, but fits in perfectly to a post apocalyptic bandit camp or something. Though most bandits would consider her behavior too extreme. She's known to be very exciteable.
Skills/Attributes: Chem making. She's crazy with a knife and is pretty good at improving melee weaponry. Sneaky. Able to create small snappy devices like chemical injectors or radio jammers. Can break her own bones and remove herself from a straightjacket or constraint. Has a very twitchy trigger finger, meaning she can shoot fast but she doesn't have any idea of how to deal with recoil.
Back-story: She was a part of Vault 232, where the experiment involved filling a vault almost exclusively with mental asylum patients and criminals with psychopathic or sociopathic tendencies. The only retraining factor was a often hidden group of Overseers and guards who would only act to prevent the inhabitants from murdering eachother. Zelzibel was in a particularly awful lineage that consisted of schizophrenics, psychopaths, two serial rapists, and at least one elected U.S official. The Overseers and Guards were of a lineage of autistic savants. By her generation, they were nearly machine like in their logical faculties.
Her mother, when Zelzibel was about eight, was disected by her father who was convinced he could achieve immortality by devouring her heart. He told Zel if she ever told the Overseers he'd stick her like a stuffed pig. Then he taught Zel how to stick men like stuffeds pigs and as a reward he beat her. She was locked into a closet for looking at him funny one day. She eventually got tired of being locked in the closet and when she was freed she slit his throat with his own shaving razor.
The Overseers did not believe the shaving razor story, but considering the other vile attrocities that were often committed and her fathers rampant abuse, only stuck her into one of the padded rooms for three months until she agreed to not kill anyone ever again. This did not work out.
As the years went by she became obsessed with chemistry books and later learned how to make chems from another vault dweller who had a family history leading all the way back to a convicted drug lord. This lead to working with injectors. Unfortunately, one of her favorite chems was basically her version of psycho and one fateful and bloody night she was brought out to the surface like a dog to be shot.
This, of course, was where it went bad.
It's a cold summer night. It's always a cold summer night post-nuclear war California. You get used to it. Zelzibel has never gotten used to it. Zelzibel is in a skintight blue suit that says "232" in bright neon lettering. Her arms are constrained by blue and yellow guilded arm restraints. She is followed by three men. One man has a shotgun. Another man has a small black device with a wobbly black antenna at the top. There's a big, red, flashing button. If he presses this button, her head will explode.
Zelzibel doesn't want this to happen. Which is why she is compliant. She's always compliant when her head is about to explode. Even when it's not and she is being constantly reassured it isn't. But she knows her head is going to explode and she knew who was going to do it. Not the man behind her with the bomb collar detonation device, that's just a guy with a bomb collar. No, her head was going to be exploded by a psychic radeon alien named Big Joe.
Big Joe was a serial rapist, conman, and friendly neighborhood maintenance inspector. These were all split personalities. Zel liked one of three of these. It was the conman. But he wasn't the problem. Is was the friendly, sweater wearing, smiling, clean coifed friendly neighborhood maintenance inspector. She knew he didn't actually wear a sweater, everyone wore the same vault suits with the straps just in case the Overseers and guards needed to stop an orgy riot. But he looked like he would wear a sweater.
This aspect of Big Joe, she deeply suspected, was psychically trying to explode her mind. She would wake up in a cold sweat. Sometimes, she would wake up beating some mans head against a urinal stall. She'd stop, horrified, then stab him in the kidneys so there were no witnesses. She knew this wasn't her fault. It was Big Joes, she could hear him at the back of her mind at all times.
So she knew when she enacted her plan to poison sector 37 of the vaults water purification system with pure radiation, that she would likely get caught. She knew the Overseers felt bad executing vault citizens with bomb collars. It was a waste of bomb collars and they didn't send anyone out of the vault to get supplies. This is because they were all insane and you don't get insane people to find more bomb collars. They come back with mini nukes or having formed a small Ochlocracy (a mob based government). Then, they demanded to all have pet rabbits, but you can't have pet rabbits, what are these people, crazy? Then you have a sudden realization, they are. Point is, it's pointless alright? You can't have the unreasonable reasonably acquire reasonably acquirable devices without having good reason and unless a reason is found, it's unreasonable to reasonably ask any Vault Overseer. So there.
So she knew one of the guards would remove the collar, probably strap it to his hip or his own neck maybe. The second part was the ideal situation. The first is what actually occured, the belt dangling off the portly mans belt. Zel had prepared for this by constructing a specially made harmonica that could, when blown, emit various radio frequencies. She had practiced by attaching the harmonica to a terminal and seeing the frequency range she was blowing on. When she was satisfied, she'd swallowed the harmonica seconds before she dumped a cylindrical tube of radioactive isotope into the drinking supply that connected specifically to Big Joes section of the vault.
This killed more than just Big Joe. It didn't even work on Big Joe completely, the only part of his personality that wasn't ghoulified was the serial rapist and he's still alive. Zel considers this a win.
A guard raises his shotgun. Zel has already, wretching and hacking, produced a small harmonica in a pile of vomit. She slips it into her mouth with her tongue, the tip coiling around it like a snake. It tastes like dirt. She sucks some of the dirt out of the whistle, then blows. At first nothing happens. Then the bomb collar detonates from the fat mans hips, sending shrieking pieces of jagged metal into the air, nearly giving Zelzibel an anal lobotomy. Her heads half on the floor, her ass is in the air. She got it half right. She flips around, her arms are still restrained but she's used to it by now. The fat mans torso has been shredded and she sees the spaghetti string of his flesh noodling out. Perfect. Less than perfect, one of the guards is still moving. The other isn't moving, but struggling to get off his feet. He looks wounded bad.
Zel has two options. She knows she can either sprint away, hoping that in this long trek of desert she might lose the man before he realizes that shotguns still operational. Or she can go over there and convince him, with reason, to let her go. She decides on the second option.
She straightens all the way to her feet and begins sprinting towards the man. She doesn't scream, so the man is somewhat surprised when he sees a long black haired woman with wild eyes sprinting at him. He now realizes what's going on. He gets ready for a headbutt, throwing his hands to the top of his head so that he can block a blunt blow. Then he feels a pressure on his arm, then a sharp pain. The bitch is biting him! He grabs at the crazy cunts hair, but as he does this she's tearing her head away, letting the hair follicles rip right off. He stares aghast at his hand full of hair for just a second, quickly deciding to punch her. She goes to the fall and drops onto her back, then kicks him right in the dick. This hurts, and he crumples down. Zel kicks him again on the fall, this time in the face, and quickly rises to her feet. She then kicks his head, knocking him over. Then, she starts stands over him and starts stomping. She doesn't stop until her legs are tired and bloody.
The other man, nearly unconscious now from pain, rolls his head dully. Zel is trying to pop her own arm bones to free herself from the vault straight jacket. He groans. His eyes close. When they open again, there's a shotgun barrel in his face. He hears a click.
BOOM.
Clothing: One cream colored dress, now brown and ratty, with little flowery details held against her waist and legs with a series of old belts and hide. Some flat shoes. Weapons: One shiv and 10mm submachine gun, 4 pipebombs (that, when triggered, release molten hot thermite) Ammo: 40 10mm rounds Chems: Four Psycho inhalers and some sort of needle that's an injected form of psycho
Criticizing another person for their style is a crap thing to do.
gutenberg.org/files/37134/37134-h/3713.. This is generally a good guidebook. There are some concrete rules that will determine whether or not your writing "reads" well and some of them by not following you won't make any sense (namely, concrete vs abstract definitions, you don't want readers to have to riddle out what your sentence meant when describing something). This is in the same way that while you could draw a human being in any way possible, it's not truly any way possible because then you'd just have a blob or someone who does not appear to be human.
I love the "15. Express co-ordinate ideas in similar form." part.
