Cover art from my ultra-friend Alex. She loves smelling things too! She often tells me how much better her sense of smell is than mine, I am inclined to agree. I am a blind painter, daubing stars onto canvas.
“Homicidal (1961): This film contained a “Fright break” with a 45 second timer overlaid over the film’s climax as the heroine approached a house harboring a sadistic killer. A voiceover advised the audience of the time remaining in which they could leave the theatre and receive a full refund if they were too frightened to see the remainder of the film. To ensure the more wily patrons did not simply stay for a second showing and leave during the finale Castle had different color tickets printed for each show.[p 18–9] In a trailer for the film, Castle explained the use of the Coward’s Certificate and admonished the viewer to not reveal the ending of the film to friends, “or they will kill you. If they don’t, I will.” About 1% of patrons still demanded refunds, and in response:
A friend, Jack, got arrested and this is another friend, Evan, asking the cops about it.
IF WE HAD AN ANSWER WE’D HAVE AN ANSWER
But we don’t want to say the words “Because we’re sadistic fascists” because that just sounds wrong hah
Me: You’re just saying that because you don’t know how great an idea it is.
Friend: What idea?
Me: Ugh..getting in some kind of vehicle and going to some place and hopping off the edge of a cliff…within reason…
Me: *after pause* …is that cool?
Me: Like wheelies with a chariot…
Me: Do you know how hard it is to do wheelies with a chariot?
Friend: I imagine it’s pretty hard.
Recently someone found my site with the search string “how to target yourself with staff in brogue”, which reminded me how Brogue is still so new and undocumented that even my site, which is hardly concerned with roguelikes on the whole, can show up on the first page of results. There is no wiki, no guide, no body of knowledge beyond the scattering of posts on the miniscule, unsearchable(!) forum. This, for a game that will murder you at the slightest mistake!
So here’s a tiny Brogue guide.
say what you will about that dang Doomthresher Dark-Device of Soul Engorgement, but at least it’s consistent! I like a candidate who knows its values and sticks to ‘em. It may be a little crazy *makes placatory gesture to guffaws from audience* but maybe crazy is just what we need to jump-start this economy??
get mad rep for ur work by gettin beautifgul girl to rock that body on ur promo art…get tits n azz up in that shit lol…get her to shit on ur art to increase its value…to disembowel herself and smear her perfect female viscera all over ur swag…lol…ensnare her soul and thread it through the psychic interstices in your art…lol…
Sunlight broke the sound from the silver branches.
I had that aimless feeling again, like if I could be a part of something surpassingly beautiful, in some way, any way at all, I would redeem the dearth of days I had dreamt away. Any way at all? If I could not attain beauty, I would worship it. Failing worship, I would destroy it. This is the three-part mode that governs all humankind. And so my memories proceeded along this mode.
The pale broken throats of vestal virgins, glimpsed by lunglight. By witnessing this cruel ritual, a very public, ancient one, did I become culpable?
Nostrils of Flesh and Clay is finished. Become the scent detective with the beautiful, powerful nose, smell everything, grasp the nature of all things through their odor, in a world alien to our own, with colors dripping from your nostrils, you flex cartilage and palpitate the nature of things, drawing their essence through your nose of power…
The pillars of that hall pulsated veinously, their skin a purple sheath of varicose coruscation. I did not get any of that light on my skin nor look too long toward the tall shadows that presided at the far end of the hall, which were oppressively, hugely still and silent.
I was lead to the antechamber, buzzing antechamber, fountains of sweet honey-water, thick and golden, matted with dead bees and stringy stamen from the gumtrees hanging overhead through the gaps in the ceiling. The man told me proudly, “The architect who built this place said that there is no greater ceiling than the sky.” He obviously thought this a sign of great spirituality; I thought it one of parsimony. But there is nothing like nature to impress people who have never endured a winter without warmth, or a storm without shelter.
He left me there in that sickening smell of honey.
And outside the walls, branches of silver sung the coming dawn, a horrible screeching sound, rising keenly, amplified by each fork of each branch and bolstered by its brethren, from which people buried their heads between their arms to wait out the deafening hour until the sun hit the silver and stilled them instantly, like a hand darting to mute a cymbal. But who would cut those branches, branches that had grown since before the first stone was laid in this morose valley, branches that had witnessed the drawing of five clients and seen as many thousands more rejected.
I don’t like to brag, but some call me the crystal maven. The mention of my name can open doors for you, not just in terms of career, but in terms of runic doors emblazoned with striking sigils.
Yes, I’ve forgotten more about crystals than you know. *smokes crystal corncob pipe on crystal porch; is content*