sugarvalves [1963573] —
Original article
On the 19th of July I commenced my day as I would any other, with a bottle of Tequila, two Xanax chasers and a box of extra strong mints - just in case mother pops round. After breakfast I began to trawl through the forums and city stats for interesting morsels of news that might make for a compelling read in next week's paper, when something rather odd happened.
Something that had never happened before to me in Torn or elsewhere in the world of journalism.
Persecution - for now I art a victim.
Eleven bounties within the space of 3 minutes 48 seconds, and all from a mysterious stranger named Collete. As a feeble reporter with the physique of a severely malnourished infant I found myself hospitalised almost immediately as random goons gleefully accepted the contracts placed upon my head, yet I knew not why I had been targeted.
Over the next few days each of these bounties were dutifully collected by the bloodthirsty citizens of Torn, and frankly I'd be disappointed if they hadn't, but I couldn't help wonder what I'd done to attract such a calculated barrage of paid-for attacks. One bounty is to be expected in a place like this, two or three constitute an indication of affection - but eleven?
In an attempt to ascertain the motives of my assailant-by-proxy I made an inquiry towards Collete, a surprisingly polite piece of correspondence on my part considering the vicious injuries inflicted upon my person. But having pointed out that my status as a member of Torn's staff should prevent such repeated aggression; Collete's reply was as lengthy as it was witty.
"u ain't staff lmfao"
One can instantly discern from the double space between staff and lmfao that this message was sent in a hurry. Obviously Collete has a busy and fulfilling life to attend to, and so as not to impinge on her duties I simply responded with a curt note of my own. Since beginning my employ at the Torn City Times I have felt safe in my duties thanks the protection afforded to me by Torn's constitution. The laws in place to protect staff members from recrimination creates a necessary barrier between our delicate selves and the populace, allowing others to build and maintain your world, and enabling me to continue reporting on the city's events without fear of manipulation through violent acts.
So far the response to my efforts has been overwhelmingly positive, with gifts ranging from a solitary dollar and a big screen TV to a lovely donation of now-necessary medical supplies from I-Am-Biker-Babe, along with many heart-warming and encouraging messages which I have now printed out and stuck to my wall, along with the aforementioned solitary dollar.
But this cluster of bounties was the first time I have encountered negativity, and I knew not why. Had I mentioned Collete's faction in a derogatory way? Have I unwittingly praised her most loathed nemesis? Did I spit at her mother in the street? I enquired further, only to receive a most cutting and insightful remark regarding the composition of my editorial copy.
"your articles are just dribble".
Further efforts to correspond proved fruitless, as my erstwhile tormentor fled the scene behind the safety of a block. Yet unperturbed by her reluctance, I nevertheless conducted an interview with Collete, and in absentia her responses were provided by a set of discount men's hosiery stuffed with mince - a suitable replacement I think you'll agree.
TCT: "Ms Collete, may I call you Ms?"
Collete: "..."
TCT: "Very well. Ms Collete, what was your motive for invoking this assault? Was it my journalistic style? Do I use too many big words?"
Collete:"..."
TCT: "I see, well perhaps you should stop putting crayons up your nose. I'd love to pop round and help you learn the English language sometime. In fact it would be my honest pleasure. "
Collete: "..."
TCT: "No, certainly not with a horse."
Collete: "..."
TCT: "I'm not sure they make eggplants that big, but let's move on. I'd love to know why you didn't simply attack me yourself. Would it not have been more satisfying to beat me to death with your own gnarled hands?"
Collete: "..."
TCT: "Collete, be straight with me. Did you commit this act for the sole purpose of gaining fame in the paper?"
Collete: "..."
TCT: "I understand. It's a tough world we live in. It must be tough having to consume the waste products behind a GUM clinic just to survive, but we've all got our problems."
Collete: "..."
TCT: "Yes, I can taste it at the back of my throat. So after being exposed for attempting to suppress the local press do you now fear repercussions from your fellow citizens?"
Collete: "..."
TCT: "I suppose you do have quite delicate shins yes."
Collete: "..."
TCT: "How did you get a gun in here?"
Collete: "..."
TCT: "That's disgusting."
Collete: "..."
TCT: "My son? What do you mean you've...oh you heartless swine....I'll kill you!"
It was at that point I lunged at my mince and polyester effigy and within ten minutes I'd beaten it to a pulp - an act which is no mean feat given the finely divided composition of ground beef.
But then I caught myself in the mirror - a broken man completely naked and slathered in raw met, with a body like a pre-pubescent otter, like a neglected albino house-elf, like Steve Buscemi after six years of captivity, and I wondered what had become of me. Yes, Torn is a place for adults, and childish behaviour surely can't be tolerated, but shouldn't I know better than to lower myself to this level? What will my paymasters think of me? Have I abused my position in writing this bile-sodden diatribe, or does my article offer a necessary insight into the unseen world of Torn City?
I pondered whether the threat of Federal Jail might avail me of the new-found malice I felt towards this person. I wondered if others would be so foolish as to think to ape her exploits in the pursuit of avarice or infamy. I even contemplated whether I should change my name each week to avoid reprisals. ToughGuySteve1010, SuperPowerKing1999 - yeah, that'd do the trick.
Instead I did nothing, aside from sink another tequila, clean the mince from my rug, and devour one more box of extra strong mints.
After all, mother will be here soon.
Something that had never happened before to me in Torn or elsewhere in the world of journalism.
Persecution - for now I art a victim.
Eleven bounties within the space of 3 minutes 48 seconds, and all from a mysterious stranger named Collete. As a feeble reporter with the physique of a severely malnourished infant I found myself hospitalised almost immediately as random goons gleefully accepted the contracts placed upon my head, yet I knew not why I had been targeted.
Over the next few days each of these bounties were dutifully collected by the bloodthirsty citizens of Torn, and frankly I'd be disappointed if they hadn't, but I couldn't help wonder what I'd done to attract such a calculated barrage of paid-for attacks. One bounty is to be expected in a place like this, two or three constitute an indication of affection - but eleven?
In an attempt to ascertain the motives of my assailant-by-proxy I made an inquiry towards Collete, a surprisingly polite piece of correspondence on my part considering the vicious injuries inflicted upon my person. But having pointed out that my status as a member of Torn's staff should prevent such repeated aggression; Collete's reply was as lengthy as it was witty.
"u ain't staff lmfao"
One can instantly discern from the double space between staff and lmfao that this message was sent in a hurry. Obviously Collete has a busy and fulfilling life to attend to, and so as not to impinge on her duties I simply responded with a curt note of my own. Since beginning my employ at the Torn City Times I have felt safe in my duties thanks the protection afforded to me by Torn's constitution. The laws in place to protect staff members from recrimination creates a necessary barrier between our delicate selves and the populace, allowing others to build and maintain your world, and enabling me to continue reporting on the city's events without fear of manipulation through violent acts.
So far the response to my efforts has been overwhelmingly positive, with gifts ranging from a solitary dollar and a big screen TV to a lovely donation of now-necessary medical supplies from I-Am-Biker-Babe, along with many heart-warming and encouraging messages which I have now printed out and stuck to my wall, along with the aforementioned solitary dollar.
But this cluster of bounties was the first time I have encountered negativity, and I knew not why. Had I mentioned Collete's faction in a derogatory way? Have I unwittingly praised her most loathed nemesis? Did I spit at her mother in the street? I enquired further, only to receive a most cutting and insightful remark regarding the composition of my editorial copy.
"your articles are just dribble".
Further efforts to correspond proved fruitless, as my erstwhile tormentor fled the scene behind the safety of a block. Yet unperturbed by her reluctance, I nevertheless conducted an interview with Collete, and in absentia her responses were provided by a set of discount men's hosiery stuffed with mince - a suitable replacement I think you'll agree.
TCT: "Ms Collete, may I call you Ms?"
Collete: "..."
TCT: "Very well. Ms Collete, what was your motive for invoking this assault? Was it my journalistic style? Do I use too many big words?"
Collete:"..."
TCT: "I see, well perhaps you should stop putting crayons up your nose. I'd love to pop round and help you learn the English language sometime. In fact it would be my honest pleasure. "
Collete: "..."
TCT: "No, certainly not with a horse."
Collete: "..."
TCT: "I'm not sure they make eggplants that big, but let's move on. I'd love to know why you didn't simply attack me yourself. Would it not have been more satisfying to beat me to death with your own gnarled hands?"
Collete: "..."
TCT: "Collete, be straight with me. Did you commit this act for the sole purpose of gaining fame in the paper?"
Collete: "..."
TCT: "I understand. It's a tough world we live in. It must be tough having to consume the waste products behind a GUM clinic just to survive, but we've all got our problems."
Collete: "..."
TCT: "Yes, I can taste it at the back of my throat. So after being exposed for attempting to suppress the local press do you now fear repercussions from your fellow citizens?"
Collete: "..."
TCT: "I suppose you do have quite delicate shins yes."
Collete: "..."
TCT: "How did you get a gun in here?"
Collete: "..."
TCT: "That's disgusting."
Collete: "..."
TCT: "My son? What do you mean you've...oh you heartless swine....I'll kill you!"
It was at that point I lunged at my mince and polyester effigy and within ten minutes I'd beaten it to a pulp - an act which is no mean feat given the finely divided composition of ground beef.
But then I caught myself in the mirror - a broken man completely naked and slathered in raw met, with a body like a pre-pubescent otter, like a neglected albino house-elf, like Steve Buscemi after six years of captivity, and I wondered what had become of me. Yes, Torn is a place for adults, and childish behaviour surely can't be tolerated, but shouldn't I know better than to lower myself to this level? What will my paymasters think of me? Have I abused my position in writing this bile-sodden diatribe, or does my article offer a necessary insight into the unseen world of Torn City?
I pondered whether the threat of Federal Jail might avail me of the new-found malice I felt towards this person. I wondered if others would be so foolish as to think to ape her exploits in the pursuit of avarice or infamy. I even contemplated whether I should change my name each week to avoid reprisals. ToughGuySteve1010, SuperPowerKing1999 - yeah, that'd do the trick.
Instead I did nothing, aside from sink another tequila, clean the mince from my rug, and devour one more box of extra strong mints.
After all, mother will be here soon.
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