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Dangeresque 4: Part 6The Office was abandoned for most of the afternoon, until a lethargic jumbling of keys signaled one of its regulars had returned. Dangeresque Too listlessly pushed the door open, shaking his still wet boots a bit before throwing his thoroughly soaked newspaper in the waste bin with a squishy plop.
Another rumble briefly brought his gaze up to the window and he glared at the pane getting assaulted by thick, heavy raindrops.
Sighing, he fished for his cellphone once he had determined the office was empty. A bit slowly, he texted a simple message.
Back @ Office. Didn't find nything. Where r u?
To be honest, he was half-glad Dangeresque wasn't around to rub this in his face. He was really hoping to get their Perducci investigation a step further along, but all he got was the mayor's wife blubbering all over him for two hours. He wouldn't have been half as wet without that mess, surely.
Still he glanced around again, worried. He said the personal business wouldn't take long, ri
Dangeresque 4: Part 7Jonathan Gabriel
" really? I mean, seriously? Does no one on this fucking set know how to fake-punch?
"Well, sure, it was funny the first time, but Christ, Strong Bad was barely able to remember what he was supposed to be DOING after the beatdown in the script. Then he started giggling about 'Rhino Feeder' or something, and we had to stop shooting for the day.
"I guess it's karmic justice. Directors being evil and all that. Or was that producers? I forgot.
"I just hope to God Homestar doesn't clean MY clock with this upcoming scene either. [flipping through the script] ...shit. [gets up, hollers offscreen] Does he NEED the crowbar? I mean REALLY need it?! Come ooooon~!"
Dangeresque Too spread the schematics of the Brainblow Penitentiary building across the desk, with rough notes and arrows scrawled in red pen. He reviewed his plan, rubbing his face in an exhausted fluster.
"Break into the north wing by way of the roof... crawl through the venti
Blue Eyes in FlamesWhen the prince sees the flower bloom from the palm of her hand, he orders her arrest.
She is only seven years old.
He takes the flower from her and keeps it, even though he knows he shouldn't. He puts it a vase, or, rather, his servant does that for him. The flower doesn't ever die, even years later.
It's dawn of a December morning, and he's cold. But still, he stands next to his father dutifully and looks at the little girl with blue eyes that are now black from seven nights sleeping on a cold, dungeon floor behind bars. They cut off her dark brown hair during that time. She's tied to the pyre, and there are seven guards around her, holding sharper swords than normal, not that she could get away. There's one man dressed in black holding an unlit torch, with a mask over his face to prevent his death. His father raises his arm, and the torch is lit.
She locks her gaze to his, and he blinks at her. It's like she expects him to prevent it. He couldn't, though, he can't. She scares him, w
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