# Meeting at Noon.. Color of Fiction story, ending  supplied by J Anfinson.. Language



## Plasticweld (Aug 23, 2014)

_*3800 words ---Language
 The end of the story is Written by J Anfinson who was the fire starter for the Color of Fiction Contest... The other entries can be viewed there.  This is disqualified for being too long, by me.  it is I hope for the enjoyment of those who chose to be used as Characters and those who know them. 
*_
I sat handcuffed to the table, in one of those rooms you see on TV cop shows, bare walls, cold floor, and the obligatory one way mirror.  Across from me, sat a middle aged cop in a cheap suit, doing his best to stare me down, I fidgeted on a hard chair.

“A lot of people have died, you have some explaining to do.”


“Where do you want me to start?”

 I was glad to talk, tell anyone about what had happened, how it all went so wrong. 

In a disgusted tone, the cop said, “How about the beginning.” 

“Well, we were all approached by a government agency that needed writers.” 

“And just who is we--?” The cop snarled.

“We are all members of an online writing forum.

“You don’t look like no writer!” 

“Thanks-- I replied, their all fucking crazy anyway.” I continued. 

“Anyway-- this guy contacted us, said they had a project, it was an extension of Mocking Bird.  With Obama’s in power they wanted to make good on his campaign promise of Hope and Change.  What most people don’t realize in order to change things you have to destroy what we already have. To accomplish this they need a reason to justify new laws and taxes, a distraction of sorts, a kind of Wag the Dog distraction, was what they were looking for."

“Hmm” was all the cop offered, after he thought for a moment? 

“Who the hell is (they,) and what is Mocking Bird?”

“Government guys, CIA would be my I guess.  Mocking Bird was a CIA program run in the 70s where they paid journalists and writers to plant propaganda and stories to justify policy or laws."

He looked at the one way mirror and shook his head in disbelief

“Why you guys?” he asked “A bunch of nobody writers that nobody has ever heard of."

“My guess is for that very reason-- nobody would miss us when we finished our job, I don’t know.—at first I would have said it was good luck, today it is a nightmare come to life.” This interested the cop.

I leaned back in my chair, trying to get comfortable, realizing it was supposed to be un-comfortable. My mind raced, how I could word this-- so it would make sense.  I wasn’t sure any of it made sense to me, it was all pretty fucked up. 

I did the best I could to keep it simple. 

“For them, the writers, it was the money, a chance to get paid for doing what they loved, maybe prestige as well.  For me it was all about the adventure and a chance to meet the people I thought I had come to know.” 

“What da mean thought you had come to know?” The cop loosened his tie, stretched his neck and settled in to hear the story. 

“They flew us all to Washington DC, put us up in one of those fancy hotels, picked us up at the airport, in limos, it was all pretty cool. We had one of those fancy conference rooms.  We all pretty much knew each other, we all had seen pictures of each other.  I was really not prepared for what I saw. While I thought I knew who these people where, I was not ready for what I found.  I pictured each of them being bigger, bolder, anything but what I saw.  In the end they would all grow into power hungry monsters, everybody, but Schrody.” 

The cop stopped me right there.  “Explain that last sentence, aren’t these supposed to be geeky writers, nerds or something like that?”

I took a drink of water, took a minute to think about. how to word this,-- so it came out right,-- so he would understand. 

“They are all smart, smarter than you and me.  If we were back in high school eating lunch, you and I would be eating at one table and them at the other, they could only dream of sitting at our table and we would never stoop to eating at theirs.” 

The cop nodded, “I get that, I didn’t eat with the geeks in high school, I ate with the football te--.”

I interrupted him. “The only difference, these geeks beat up the football team when it came down to the wire."


I could tell he wasn’t just going to accept that, geeks don’t beat up the football team. 

The cop asked, “So how did you end up in this group?” 

“Must have been a mistake, I’d call it a conundrum, not that I could spell that if I had to, but everyone else in that room could. They must have just mixed me up with someone else, we all go by screen names not our real names.”

The cop looked down at his note pad, I could tell he wanted to change the direction of the conversation. I could see he was underlining and then circling Mocking Bird.

“So tell me about Mocking Bird and how it started?”

 I was late to our first meeting, my flight was delayed, I showed up as the two CIA type guys opened the meeting, they explained to us the goal of the project.  We were supposed to come up with stories and research papers about Global Warming.  People already believe that, without any real evidence. There is already a whole following who believe in the junk science and support it. Our job was to plant the information and the technical data, that supported Global Warming.  We were to plant it on the internet and in written publications, flood the media with dis-information.  The end goal was to empower the EPA."

The cop interrupted me. 

“I read about Global Warming in the paper just about every day, I am sure there is some truth to it.  You’re telling me it was you guys?”

My contempt for his ignorance was not subtle. 

“Look—your horoscope is in the paper every day too… You believe that?”

I could tell I had zinged him with that, so continued.

“You heard about the EPA being given control over carbon emissions right, well you exhale carbon monoxide, they have control over things like Cows farting… It’s in the news… You do follow the news don’t you?”

“It was all these guys, this group of writers. They planted the news, faked the scientific reports did it all.  Hell, even the “green companies” jumped on the band wagon and supported their findings, it lined their pockets.  The EPA can ruin a company or industry over night with one new law. 

 You remember Obama’s State of the Union address.  'I might not have the Congress or the Senate but I have a pen and a phone.'  He used Executive Powers to just write new laws, based on the fake news and scientific findings done by the writing group, it was called The Voodoo Project.”

The cop banged his fist on the table.

Just what does this have to do, with a warehouse full of dead bodies?  One of them is missing a head?”

I bit my lip, cleared my throat. 
“I don’t know who is dead, all of them, or just some of them? I only know that things all fell apart in the last few months of the project.”

The cop was getting impatience.

“Tell me who was in this group and what they did do?” He shifted his note pad and waited for me to start talking. 

“Bill, or W,Goepner, he is one of the few people who used their real name in the group, everyone else still goes by their screen name.  He is in his mid-fifties and we hit it off right away, we are both into racing. He was the brains behind how the project should be tailored. Bill knew that for us to pull this off we had to convince Liberals, that scientific data we were producing, hit home and would motivate them. 

 He summed it up I guess, when he told us that Liberals where like chicken little.  The sky was always falling and that the government was able to fix everything.   He seemed to be able to tune into their mentality of despair and negativity.  He made sure each of the articles and papers we produced would be effective.  

Bazz Cargo, he wanted to save the world and get rich in the process, I secretly nicknamed him Al Gore.  I think of all of the writers he was motivated by money the most, or was at least changed by it.”

The cop stopped me. 

“What da mean he was changed by it?” 
“When we were approached, they wanted to put us on salary, I had the idea that we would do it as contract work, they supply the goals we supply the results. I put in a bid for just under 800 million, this was to be used for salaries and bribes to get the all of our findings published.  I gave each of the members a salary of a little over a million a year.  At first they were ecstatic, when they found out the government took almost half of it back ,in taxes, they were happy, but not as.  For all of them this was the first time they had any real money.

 Bazz started right out, fancy clothes, Rolex, Mercedes.  You could tell he was just a simple guy who went way over the top.  He dressed more like Pimp than a guy with money, I guess you can’t buy good taste.  I think Shrody pulled him aside one day and let him know that wide collars and print shirts went out in the 70s, it didn’t do much good.  It may be that  the English don’t have any real sense, or what is poor taste when it comes to clothes.  I was always surprised that they added an Brit to the group, but it turned out that he was in tune with what the BBC was doing and how to insert our propaganda into their programing. 

The cop smiled at this, for the first time he showed some emotion besides disgust. 

“So what about the others?” 

“Kilroy, needed the money too, but he had other motives as well; his girlfriend or wife to be or the one who nags him--  according him it depends on the day of the week.  He loved to rub her nose in the fact that he had made it big time.  He was getting paid to write, she may have been a better writer; but he was making the money now.
  We used to kid him when turned his work in, we asked if she had proof read it or not?  I think the real reason he had been picked was for his degree in Geosciences and that he could write with some imagination.”

No Cat, I know the least about him, he hangs pretty tight with Bishop.  He is another one of those “Everything ends in Aliens” type of guys.  Kind of an obsessive personality with a background in anthropology.  He was responsible for coming up with ways to manipulate liberals he and Bill worked pretty close together. 

TS Bowman, was just a good old country boy who could write.  When we first started getting big checks he went out and bought a newer pickup truck, not new--just newer.  I was never sure what kept him going, minus the new teeth and a 10 year old truck you would never know he was worth millions.”

The cop looked up from his note pad.

“Kind of an odd collection of guys” 

“Oh it gets worse! the two guys that brought the group down, Los Pancrease and Bishop; were either both bat fuck crazy, or brilliant, I still have not figured out which yet. They worked as a team, the Panc had a Masters in Bioengineering and could talk the lingo.  He was our front man so to say. He had a porn star mustache and a certain swagger that made him a natural.  Bishop was our IT guy, without him none of this would be possible. He hacked into more places and inserted our material, created false e-mails, verifications, placed false data, you name it. His finger prints were everywhere when it came to planting dis-information.
  They were an odd pair, Bishops was into space stuff, couldn’t talk about anything without him somehow turning the conversation around to aliens.  Like most IT guys we kept him in the back where he was pretty much ignored. The Panc wanted to raise goats in Connecticut, he spent a lot of his money on fancy cars ,when the checks started coming in.  If he didn’t say “Toodles!” every time he said good bye he could have almost pulled off the whole James Bond persona. 

The cop looked up and stopped me. 

I thought there was a girl in the group?

“Yeah, Schrody, she brought us together and then tore us apart. In the beginning she had the idea of doing most of our communications by computer or by text, even though we were all in the same room. Our first meeting didn’t go well, all these guys could type a mile a minute, yet they had a hard time speaking in a group.  She was smart enough to know that all of us proof read what we type by reading it out loud.  We all typed and put our feeling into words on the screen, most of us read back what we wrote, the rest of the room could hear and see what we were saying, kind of broke the ice so to say.”

The Cop pushed back his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. 

“And where do you fit into the scheme of things.


I was the money guy, I made sure that when we planted dis-information using real people, that they were paid for the work we did, but I signed their name to.  Being a businessman first and only a hack writer I knew what drives people, money and recognition.  Bishop would go into a news organization or research facility and create false emails to generate communications between the scientists and the publishers of research, each thought the other was legit. The scientists got a check for work they did not do and then got recognized for it, they never objected.  often got a check from us and then again from someone else, it also generated a lot of grant money.  In the years that we did this, not once did someone question where the money came from or that they got paid for it, sometimes twice. 

The cop found this amusing. 

“You’re telling me you mailed checks to scientists for work they did not do, gave them credit for stuff they didn’t do and nobody said anything?”

“Like I said, money and recognition.”

“So how long as this been going on?” The cop asked. 

“A little over 5 years, right after Obama took office.”

“So how does this give me three dead bodies, one missing a head?” 

“Well like I said, it went well for years, we were all making great money--these guys looked at themselves as Super Heroes.  They all knew there was some scientific information to support Global Warming, they thought they we just helping the process along, ya know--speeding it up.  They kidded each other all the time about being Super Heroes, that’s partly why we always used our screen names; they all envisioned themselves going down in history for saving the planet by what we were doing.  

***

I remember the first time we met as a group to come up with a strategy, we were alone for the first time, no CIA guys.  I get this message from Bishop, He sent me this note. ‘Who died and made you boss?  I fired right back ‘In prison Patrick, you would be my bitch!’  He jumped right up, in his squeaky little voice he said ‘You will call me Bishop!’  I sat their kind of amazed, the bitch thing didn’t bother him, it was using his real name.  This opened up a whole can of worms, everyone there with the exception of Bill and I were into Super Heroes and I was told right away, Super Heroes never use real names.

 Except for that one minor blow out we worked for years together without a problem, we met a handful of times during the year, mostly for socialization, our work could be done mostly online our meetings were for talking strategy and moral support.  There wasn’t anyone who we could talk to about our work and this gave us a chance to get together.  Most of them lost friends in the process of getting rich, they had the cover story that they were successful writers, most of the world doesn't read, so this was surprisingly easy to pull off.  TS and I were the only ones who did not have to go through this.  Taxes and class envy turned all of these guys into pretty conservative people and most of them needed new friends to go with the change in their ideology.

***

I was getting tired, the hard chair, stale air, the cops cheap after shave where wearing on me.  Staring into the one way mirror, while I told my story, was kind of un-settling. I wondered who was back there, and what if any sense did this make to them.  I know they get information by letting you talk, one part of me wanted to say nothing, the other to get this out in the open.  I thought I would get a break maybe something to eat, but no. 

“So tell me, what broke the group up?” he asked

We met two months ago, Bazz had found out that our information was being used as a reference in a lot of other writings.  We expected this to some degree, but expected peer review to weed some of it out.  Bishop, I am not sure how found out we were not the only group out there funded by the CIA.  The only good news I got out of it was that we buried them when it came to the amount of material we put out there; my competitive nature saw it as, us being better than them.  The reality of was, the whole thing had been a hoax from the beginning, there was no Global Warming, we were not heroes but tools of the Obama administration to gain more power and control over big business through regulation. 

This split our group into two factions, Schrody got right up and said ‘Writer's _integrity _is what you set it to be; mine includes not writing crap for money, only to be ashamed later. I do think everyone has a different definition.  Giving up your integrity means giving up everything you believe for something else which will maybe bring current satisfaction, but not in the long terms. My point is, stay true to yourself, and don't let money blindfold you if it's earned in a "shameful" way. Of course, everyone is free to do what they want. Talking about personal integrity, I wouldn't do something I'm against for because it's my job, I’m done with this.’ 

Bishop and Kilroy thought this was all bullshit and wanted to keep working and making money, the Panc went off the deep end, there was no way he was going to give up his James Bond lifestyle because of a simple thing like ethics.

  No Cat went where ever Bishop went, I guess aliens are the ties that bind. The four of them figured that if they could fool the world with Global Warming they were smart enough to rule it… maybe they were. 

Bill went crazy, I don’t know if the pressure was getting to him or if it was something else. 
Bazz didn’t care. He said ‘this isn’t all I can do, I am starting another business, fuck this.’  

TS didn’t care one way or the other, he had his old pickup and his teeth, my guess, he had just about everything he’d ever been paid over the years, buried in the back yard. 

Schrody and I wanted out, and thought about writing a book about this, and going to the press. 

The cop stopped writing and looked up, “Why didn’t you go to the press?” 

“Well the Panc was the front man and the face of Global Warming, he been on all of the talk shows, in the papers, cover of Time Magazine, he would be pretty hard to discredit.  Bishop still had access to all of the news outlets and could probably shut us down, and no one would know any different.  I wasn’t sure that we could ever get our message out there.  There is a whole segment of society that wants to believe in Global Warming no matter what the evidence suggests.”

The cop stopped me, “You really believe that” 

“Well ya, you told me yourself that you believed in it, why would you stop now?”

“So what did you do next, how did you end this?” He asked. 

“We all went our separate ways, Bill off to crazy land.  TS back to whatever jerk water town he came from.  Bazz went back to England, Schrody back to Croatia. Bishop, Killroy, No Cat, went to hole up at the Panc’s goat farm in Connecticut and plan a new way to take over the world." 

"What did you do?" the cop asked.

"For a short time I thought it was all over. 
Then it started, we got these dolls in the mail, made to look just like us, each had a piece of tape over the mouth.  Each came with a little note that said ‘If you talk, you die’ it was signed Los Pancreas. 
These freaked Schrody out, she could not sleep or eat.  She told me she was going to contact this private dick named J Anfinson,  I tried to talk her out of it. 

I got pissed, I can’t imagine them threating Schrody.  I decided to have it out with these skinny little geeks and called The Panc on the phone, the conversation went like this.

‘Hey Panc this is Plastic, don’t you think this has gone far enough?’

‘You will call me Los Pancreas’ 

‘Ok, Los Pancreas don’t you think this has gone far enough?’ 
I could hear him breathing hard over the phone, I think he is allergic to goats, he waited--

‘Plastic, tell everyone to meet at the warehouse at noon.’  The phone went dead." 

The cop asked, “You make the meeting?”

“Ahh, No.” 

“The reason I ask, we have surveillance video of you crawling under livestock truck, one from Hillside Goat Farm in Connecticut, the very same truck that was crashed into the warehouse. 

“I don’t know nothin about any truck.  And don’t I have the right to remain silent?”

_*What's the Plot Again? (695 words- Language Warning)*__*                            Whew! It was tough as hell to figure out how to include everyone. Hope you all like it. - J.
 *********_

 I hadn’t had a call for weeks when someone knocked at my office door. I’d barely managed to say, “Come in” before a woman burst in. She had a pineapple balanced on her head, I’m not sure why.

“You’ve got to help me!”

I missed what she said next because I was distracted. I was hungry and she smelled like bananas.

“Tell me again, I missed that.”

She howled in frustration and pulled a miniature doll out of her purse.

“Voodoo,” I sighed. “Where did it come from?”

 “It was on my doorstep this morning.”

I’d heard about the killings on the news. Someone was leaving dolls where the victims would find them. They had twenty-four hours to live, unless the person who made it was killed first.

“I’ll see what I can find out, Miss.” I led her to the door but when I opened it someone else was standing there.

 It was T.S.Bowman. “I’ve got a message for you.”

That baby face of his had never failed to put me in a good mood— until then.

“It’s from Los Pancreas. He said to meet him at his warehouse at noon.”

Fuck. I’d run into that guy before. Maybe he wanted to be friends now. Sometimes I’m optimistic.

 As soon as I stepped onto the street a logging truck came barreling around a corner, and I threw myself back at the curb to keep from getting nailed. I recognized the driver, Plasticweld, behind the windshield. He flipped me the bird and drove on. How did he ever get his license, anyway?

 Passing the park, my friend Bill sat on a bench, screaming at his laptop. “No! There’s fucking typo’s in my LM entry again!”

I kept walking. I hate seeing a grown man cry.

 At the town square, a mob had formed. Bazz Cargo was making a killing, as usual.

“Torches! Forkporks! Get your pitchforks! We’ve got porkforks, too! Only 49.95!”

Finally I arrived at the warehouse. It was dark inside until suddenly someone hit the lights.

 From behind a stack of crates, out walked Los Pancreas in a ten gallon hat. He sported a mustache that hung to his waist. Two other men walked out of the shadows. I recognized them as Bishop and Kilroy. Bishop spoke first.

“I’m the commander of the Sci-Fi Army. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile.”

Kilroy’s cell phone rang. He flipped it open. “Yeah? What? Are you fucking kidding me? Listen, honey, I’m kinda in the middle of—“ He rolled his eyes. “Okay, okay. I’ll be right there.” He clicked his phone shut.

“Los Pancreas! That was my girlfriend. She wants me home for dinner.”

 “What? Doesn’t she know we’re trying to take over the world?”

 “Sorry, I’m more scared of her than you.” With that he ran out the bay doors.

 Bishop grunted in disgust. “What a pansy.”

 “So anyways,” Los Pancreas said, stroking his mustache. “After I’m through with these…” He held up a voodoo doll. “Me and Bishop are going to rule the world with our Sci-Fi Army. That Croatian girl ruined my plans by going to you, so unfortunately I have to kill you now.”

An airhorn blasted outside. It grew closer and closer.

“What in the…”

A truck came crashing through the wall, smashing into Bishop and dragging him across the concrete floor in a gory stain, where the truck crumpled into a support beam and a load of cantaloupes in the back came spilling out, burying Los Pancreas up to his neck. No Cat No Cradle had been ejected through the windshield and was laid out on the concrete.

“Someone cut the brake lines,” he gasped, before the life faded from his eyes.

 To my right was a busted crate full of weed wackers. I grabbed one and walked over to Los Pancreas.

“Wait! What are you do—“

 “Fore!” His head bounced off the truck, spraying blood over the hood before rolling out the bay door and into the street, where a stray dog came along and carried it away.

 After that, the killings stopped. And me? Well, it turns out chicks dig this story at the bar.

 *******

 Collected Permissions:








 Originally Posted by *Plasticweld* 

 
 I have no problem being a character. I was hoping this would be the topic, I am really looking forward to this...









 Originally Posted by *Schrody* 

 
 Me too. I don't mind being a character either 
	

	
	
		
		

		
		
	


	












 Originally Posted by *T.S.Bowman* 

 
 I have no problem being used as a character either.










 Originally Posted by *thepancreas11* 

 
 I must request that if I make an appearance, you must use my alter ego...los pancreas. And I should be a movie villain...with a killer mustache...and a nice hat. I love hats. Oh, and if you must, you can definitely give me an epic end...I'd prefer something with a weed-whacker or a cantaloupe if you can work that in. Not that it'll be difficult. I can kill a man three different ways with a melon.









 Originally Posted by *kilroy214* 

 
 Writers have my permission to use me as a character if they so choose. I promise it will not reflect in my judging.









 Originally Posted by *Bishop* 

 
 If it was not made clear before--you're more than welcome to use/abuse Bishop as seen fit in your stories!









 Originally Posted by *No Cat No Cradle* 

 
 Feel free to use me as a character. Always happy to contribute, haha.









 Originally Posted by *bazz cargo* 

 
 You seem to have plenty of victims, but if you wish to use my name in vain you have my permission.









 Originally Posted by *W.Goepner* 

 
 Remember My name is Bill, you may use me as you see fit. Just do not try to guess my nickname.









 Originally Posted by *J Anfinson* 

 
 I have no problem being a character either. And if there's no firestarter I'll volunteer.


​Last edited by J Anfinson; August 16th, 2014 at 11:37 AM.                                                                 *Reason:* Title change 

​


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## EmmaSohan (Aug 23, 2014)

Nice! Thanks! I loved the moment when I realized you were going to end with the original story.


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## Plasticweld (Sep 7, 2014)

Thanks for reading Emma.


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## bazz cargo (Sep 20, 2014)

Hi Placky,
Wow!!!!

All you need to do is switch to flashback and write it in a grittier style and you have a novel here.



> I sat handcuffed to the table, in one of those rooms you  see on TV cop shows, bare walls, cold floor, and the obligatory one way  mirror.  Across from me, sat a middle aged cop in a cheap suit, doing  his best to stare me down, I fidgeted on a hard chair.
> 
> “A lot of people have died, you have some explaining to do.”
> 
> ...


Flashback from here.

I really really really enjoyed this, it was worth waiting until I had the time to read it properly.
Thanks
Bazz


> ( Bazz didn’t care. He said ‘this isn’t all I can do, I am starting another business, fuck this.’)


Oh yeah!


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## Plasticweld (Sep 22, 2014)

Andy, thanks for the kind words, you are the only member who was used as a character, to comment on the story.

I thought maybe I was too tough on them or they did not understand the satire. 

The story is very close to factual.  Project Mocking Bird was real, and run by the CIA in the late 60s, it had a budget back then of 9 million.  The purpose of the group was disinformation.   I also figured that salaries that I paid everyone were in line with the budget if I had been asked to do it today.  How each of the members responded to the windfall of money was based on the stories and posts here on the site made by each of the members.  


Thanks for having a great sense of humor and playing along.  For me to do your character justice, I read all the stories you posted plus a large percentage of your 5,000 plus posts... I do feel like I know you and I this makes your comments even more dear to me...Bob

PS for me to do this as a novel... story line very plausible... I would have to have the permission of the people I used in the story, given the response I doubt that is likely


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## bazz cargo (Sep 22, 2014)

> *OP Plasticweld*. PS for me to do this as a novel... story line very plausible... I would  have to have the permission of the people I used in the story, given the  response I doubt that is likely


1st/ Are you mad? Reading that much of my drivel would make me disown myself.
2nd/ The story itself is strong enough to cope with changing the names, possibly for comedic effect you could use fictional and real characters from deepest darkest history. 

Unfortunately I'm too far away to twist your arm.
Have a think
Today I wish to be
Zog The Mighty


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## Nippon Devil (Oct 1, 2014)

Ahhh, competitive writing. I compare it to competitive sweater knitting, or competitive snowball making. That is to say I find it hard to take seriously. Sure, it requires a skill, and anything that involves skill will naturally be adapted into a sport of some kind. However, I find competitions can wound the spirit if your ego isn't ready. I find it more stimulating to conquer myself over others. 

Unless they told you themselves that your story sucked, i wouldn't be too hard on yourself. 3.8K words is quite long compared to most of the stories I've read, and I'm sure some of them get asked to read so many other stories that they may just not have time to read this one. Look at my story. That was only 2K words and you were the only one to comment. If I felt that everyone who didn't comment hated my stories I would probably leave the forum or get out of writing. A shame you were disqualified due to length. Did you go over by many words, and did you know the word limit?



Regarding your story, the writing itself is mostly crystal clear. There are a few misplaced quotations:

“Thanks-- I replied, their all fucking crazy anyway.” I continued. 

...I think you ment it to be like this?

“Thanks--" I replied. "Their all fucking crazy anyway.” I continued. 

Also, be mindful of the difference in they're and their. their shows ownership, while they're is used to show a relationship, and is actually just "they" and "are" put together. 

"Their hamsters!": Something is being said about someone's hamsters.

"They're hamsters!": Something is a hamster

But other than that, it read really well.

The story itself was funny in spots. I did catch myself smiling a few times, which doesn't happen often. However, the last half had some spots where the story dragged. You had me engaged when you were describing everyone, but when it came time for "you" to tell the cop what was going on, I think you skimmed a bit too much. You covered too many topics with not enough details. Maybe you could have left off some of the less important stuff to give yourself more time to detail the parts where "plasticweld" was really involved.

A decent read. Don't be so hard on yourself.


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## Plasticweld (Oct 1, 2014)

Nippon D.  Thanks for the observation, the encouragement and the help. 

I knew the story would be way over, but it was fun to write something about people that I knew, or had gotten to know.  As I told Bazz that for each of the characters here on that were listed I read all of their posts and stories so that I could add little details that they would recognize.  It was a good chance to learn about the people here and also do some research for a plausible story line. 


I am convinced that their is a wealth of characters here on the forum, and that the interaction between so many different people, of different back rounds and places is a worth story in its' self. 

It could have been much longer and I had tried to edit down and probably cut out things that should have been left in to make it flow better and offer a better picture.  You are correct that the word count probably scared away a lot of readers. 

I enjoyed your piece and realize how much time and thought went into it.  I come here to read and find out about people and like you are not turned off by large word counts. 


Thanks for reading and sharing really appreciate it..Bob


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## Bishop (Oct 2, 2014)

Plasticweld said:


> Bishops was into space stuff, couldn’t talk about anything without him somehow turning the conversation around to aliens. Like most IT guys we kept him in the back where he was pretty much ignored.




...I'm fairly certain this is how my wife describes me when she meets people.

Awesome read, Plastic  I'll be honest, I read it for the entertainment value rather than critiquing, but I had a very good time doing so.


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