This morning I got up and checked the Second Life Universe forums, and there was a spam message. These forums are heavily-trafficked and are a prime target for spam bots, and the mods are really good about nuking these things quickly, but sometimes I see them before they disappear. And in the manner of these things, I found the spam-generated message quite fascinating:
The genre has your time past languished, and no superheroes operate our Hollywood gods, however presently within the primary of a current breed of biblical epics, a prophet is reworked as a superhero, associate antediluvian dark knight. With Noah, Darren Aronofsky (The fighter, Black Swan) directs his 1st blockbuster spectacle, a $130-million gamble that shows off his cosmic predilection with an influence for comedy, associated fulfills associate ambition that began with AN end literary composition he wrote regarding Noah’s Ark as a 13-year-old child in borough.Aronofsky has pumped-up the recent Testament’s slim narrative of the recent man and therefore the ocean with a heavy-metal load of sci-fi fantasy, associated solid AN apocalyptic story that owes the utmost amount to Waterworld and therefore the Lord of the Rings on Genesis. though Aronofsky preserves the core of the Genesis story.
I especially liked "no superheroes operate our Hollywood gods" and the phrase "antediluvian dark knight" which would make good titles for Grandpa Anarchy stories probably (shorten the first to"Our Hollywood Gods" maybe). Anyway I was inspired by this message, and by the end of the workday I'd finished a new story, Blah Blah Blah. Here's the first part of the story:
A display mannequin in blue coveralls ran down the street. It yelled, "Demand furniture! They know I am a no-nonsense industrialist who has dedicated my life to finding all-natural treatments for devastating!" Then it lifted a parked car and tossed it onto the sidewalk.
People screamed. Two more of the creatures appeared, also dressed in blue coveralls, like crash test dummies come to life. One yelled, "Your roses! Realize that rain water contertops to make certain!" It smashed a shop window.
"Lawn Mower Style Line Trimmer!" the third exclaimed. It ripped up a street sign. "At the insights you gain about those weird, bizarre symbols in your dreams!"
A rusting 1958 AMC Ambassador station wagon barreled around the street. It plowed into one of the dummies, who bounced off the hood. "Just look at everything that I am going!" it yelled as it flew through the air. It hit the pavement head-first and collapsed, unmoving.
Two people emerged from the car. One was a young woman in an orange form-fitting cat outfit, complete with ears and tail. The other was an old man in a rumpled gray suit and fedora. A silver anarchy symbol was stitched over the left breast.
"Spambots!" Grandpa Anarchy growled. "I hate those things! Always spouting unintelligible gibberish. Just ignore what they say and take them down -- got it, Blah Blah Ginger?"
The girl stared at him blankly. "I'm sorry? Did you say something?"
"Exactly!" said Grandpa. "Let's do this!"
The two remaining bots ran towards them. One brandished a sign post. "The genre has your time past languished," it yelled, swinging the makeshift club. Grandpa ducked. "No superheroes operate our Hollywood gods! However presently within the primary of a current breed of biblical epics, a prophet is reworked as a superhero...."
Grandpa's fist connected with the bot's chin. Its head spun about. "Associate antediluvian dark knight! With Noah!" it shouted. Grandpa grasped the head and twisted further. It separated from the body with a shower of sparks.
"That's two, Ginger!" he yelled.
"What?" his sidekick asked. She was locked in combat with the other bot. Grandpa grasped its head and twisted it off.
Another bot appeared at the end of the street. It saw them. "But even so," it called out, "writing frequent love letters with words!"
Grandpa lifted the street sign and charged, impaling the bot. It grasped the aluminum shaft. "This might be the message of Nymphomaniac , if so there's one," it said, and died in a shower of sparks.
Grandpa grimaced. "We need to find who's responsible for these bots," he said. "And I think I know exactly who it is. Let's go, Blah Blah Ginger."
"What?" she asked.
"Blah Blah Ginger" was the title of another story idea (no idea, just the title really) that I created last Saturday, after my friend Gene used the phrase several times. It's a reference to the Far Side cartoon about what cats year when you speak to them (actually I just Googled it -- Ginger is the dog, she hears her own name. Fluffy the cat doesn't hear anything. But I'm not sure I want to change my story at this point). I had no idea what to do with the idea at the time, but Blah Blah Ginger makes a great sidekick, and suggested a really good ending for the story too.
My goal for the day was to complete two stories so I could get caught up on my output -- but the second story still hasn't fully come together. The idea behind the working title of Captured was a play on "the villain allows himself to get captured so he can sow dissent among the heroes -- it was his plan all along!" which is very popular with villains these days, they're all doing it (see: Avengers, The Dark Knight, Skyfall, Star Trek). I decided I wanted a god-level villain or adversary, and further decided that I wanted a trickster god. After due consideration I picked Reynard the fox. I also have my sidekick for this story: The Grindstone Cowboy. But the story itself hasn't really jelled yet, I've got a lot of dialog but nothing really happening and no idea of what the ending should be or where I'm going with the idea.
Still, I got 1,100 words written on it. I've got most of the characters and setup, and I'm sure my brain will supply the correct flow of events and the ending at some point. I just need to sleep on it. In the meantime I renamed it Trick of the Trade.
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