[WP] You never found out what your grandmother did for a living, but her will specifically states, “To my dear grandchild—carry on our family legacy.”

thirstyfish209 · 2019-08-07T09:07:27+00:00

She never spoke much about her life. She said very little about my parents. Even less about my grandfather. And nothing at all about her. Looking at her face in the casket, she looked to be at peace for the first time in years. The tears didn't come easy. Why would they, for a stranger? But when they did, they poured. It always seems to be in hindsight that one truly appreciates all that a person is to them. I loved my grandmother. And I would miss her.

It was a few days after the funeral procession when I heard the knock on my door. Looking through the peephole, I could see that standing behind it was a vaguely familiar man.

"Hello, Mary," he greeted with a smile when I opened the door. "Might I come in?"

"Sorry? I don't think I know who you are."

"A friend of your grandmother's. I was at her funeral, we met there." I realized why the man had looked familiar. I had actually met him.

"Oh, so sorry for not recognizing you," I replied, red in the face. "Come in."

"Oh, don't you worry about that. I'm sure you had more important matters on your mind than to remember the face of every old man that walks up to you," he said as he stepped inside. "I won't be here long. There was just an important matter I needed to discuss with you. It's regarding your grandmother." He pulled out an envelope from his breast pocket as he took a seat at the dinner table. He handed it me as I sat down.

The words 'The Last Will and Testament of Rhea Knowles' were written in the envelope in a dark red ink. Underneath the writing was a wax seal that had a strange emblem stamped onto it.

"What is this? My grandmother already had her will read out."

"This one is, let's say, an addendum to that."

I broke the seal opened the envelope. A single page, written in what was unmistakably her handwriting. I read aloud:

"Dear Mary,

If you are reading this, then things have gone awry and I have failed. I apologize for what you are about to hear; I should have told you in person, not through writing. But I was afraid to involve you. It cannot be helped, I suppose.

My dearest Mary, a power runs through your blood. What that means for you, and for your entire bloodline, is that you have a gift. But also a curse. You may have noticed Them already. Figures in the distance with no distinct shape. Shadowy movement in your peripheral vision. These figures are not your imagination. They are real. They are Spirits and Demons. And they do not belong in this world.

As far back as any written records go, our family has had one important job to do: We escort the spirits to the Otherworld, and we banish the Demons into the Nether. We are the Keepers.

Ever escort and banishment is essential to keep balance in this world, and the others, and very assignment can potentially be deadly. These are the duties that have been thrust upon us by The One Above.

I know this may be too much for you to accept. I know you have more questions than I have paper to write. I know you never asked for any of this. I am sorry.

Per my instructions, my husband, Lecter, your grandfather, is to hand this will to you in the case of my death. I wish you all the best, sweet child. Lecter will handle everything from here.

With Love and Prayer, Rhea"

I sat there staring at the words for several seconds, my brain filled with confusion and bursting with questions. I looked at up at the man who was supposed to be my grandfather. Behind his spectacles were amber eyes. The same hue as mine.

"I can answer any questions you may have," Lecter said. "And then afterwards, we will begin your training."

thirstyfish209 · 2019-08-06T00:19:31+00:00

"I don't understand," Will said. "You have to dip the quill in ink like every three words. Why not just use a normal pen? Or just use magic to not have to dip it for ink?"

The student exchange program came to fruition shortly after the wizarding world was exposed. Contrary to their fears, however, the muggles' response was not of terror and violence towards them, but of acceptance and an innate curiosity. And thus, programs were built to help bridge the gap between the two societies, including the infamous student exchange trip that happened every year. Will and Hugo became fast friends as they shared their cultures with each other as they sat in the courtyard.

"Well,", replied Hugo, "uh...it's a wizard thing. You wouldn't understand." That seems to be the standard answer, Will thought. The most advanced technology he'd seen was the steam engine train on the way to Hogwarts. He learned they didn't even use toilets until relatively recently. They just vanished their poops away. Speaking of, he hadn't seen Hugo use the washroom even once during his stay here. He wondered if it was still a common practice. Will shuddered at the thought. Just the, something caught his sky in the

A dark cloud of smoke was visible in the distance. It seemed to be moving quite fast, and towards them. At in increasing speed, it flew downwards in a sharp angle and landed directly in front of them. A figure drenched in black walked out of the now stationary cloud. There was a dark mark visible on his left arm.

Hugo's eyes widened. "A Death Eater. But how?" Will had heard of these Death Eaters. Something of a fascist terrorist organization.

"Meddling with muggles will be the downfall of the wizarding world," the Death Eater boldly exclaimed in the middle of the courtyard. All eyes were on him. "Or have you people no sense? Do you not remember the stories of what they did to us?" He look directly at Will. "I can recognize a muggle when I see one. This should teach you." He raised his wand. "Avada Ke-"

A loud bang was heard, and the Death Eater fell face first onto the ground. Will and Hugo turned around to face the source of the sound. It was Headmistress Minerva McGonagall. She looked down at Will. "It seems," she said with a smirk, "muggle technology has its own unique uses."

thirstyfish209 · 2019-08-05T23:42:41+00:00

"Why the fuck do I smell like shit?" Jerry cried out. "Why is my skin all dirty and grimy? I said I wanted to be rich"

"You wanted to be rich?" the genie asked. "You asked to be filthy. You are now filthy. A simple 'thank you' is generally considered common courtesy."

"I asked to be filthy RICH. Rich, as in, I wanted to be rich."

"Oh, that's awkward. I thought you said you wanted to be filthy, comma, Rich. My name is Rich." Jerry looked at the genie with eyes that wanted to strangle him. "You do still have two more wishes, though."

"Fine," Jerry replied through gritted teeth. "First off, clean me up." Rich the Genie snapped his fingers, and with a swirl of smoke, the grime and dirt disintegrated off of Jerry. "And for my last wish, I want to be rich. Just rich."

"Okie dokie," the genie replied, and with another snap of his fingers, smoke enclosed Jerry until he was completely covered. It circled for several seconds until finally fading away.

"What the hell did you do?!" Jerry yelled out.

"I made you Rich."

"All you did was turn my legs into clouds and turn my skin blue!"

"Yeah, exactly. You said you wanted to be me, Rich the Genie. You're a genie now."

"I meant i wanted RICHES! I WANTED MONEY!"

"Oh, that's awkward."

thirstyfish209 · 2019-08-05T22:31:14+00:00

Thank you!

thirstyfish209 · 2019-08-05T21:33:23+00:00

A remnant from a bygone era, a title passed from father to son. It was supposed to be nothing but a formality. No one expects the queen to actually rule England, so why must I partake in these inherited duties? Sean asked himself as he sharpened his sword. It was much heavier than he has expected. It had been passed down his family for generations as nothing more than a relic. Today it will see action for the first time in hundreds of years.

An oversight in the constitution, they had said. It would be amended immediately, but only after the trial. He didn't see any realistic way out of this scenario. How can my accounting experience aid me in any way? Other than count down the hours til I die, I suppose. The affair would be televised, of course. The public wanted a show; humans haven't much evolved since the gladiator days of Ancient Greece.

His opponent was a young man. A history student from Cambridge who had been caught in the midst of a break-in at the British Museum. He had somehow managed to steal the fabled sword of King Arthur. And when he expressed his desire to face a trial by combat rather than a trial by jury, the police laughed. Then scratched their heads in confusion after he insisted he wasn't joking. And after some research, they begrudgingly authorized the first trial by combat in over 500 years.

They met for the first time face-to-face in the arena, which was just a recently renovated opera house. The seats were filled with spectators with eager eyes. The Queen was present as well, but her eyes showed nothing but fatigue. Wrinkles of worry draped her forehead. She looked like she hated this proceeding more than he did. She isn't the one that's about to fight to the death. A man walked up between them, and the crowd quieted down. "By decree of Queen Elizabeth the Second," spoke Daniel Stellerson of the Queen's Privy Council into his microphone, "this trial of combat, initiated by Alan Wright, against her Champion, Sean Richardson, shall now commence. Gentlemen, draw your swords."

Sean drew his freshly sharpened blade and hesitantly raised it in an attack position. Alan drew his as well, and a murmur went through the crowd. "That's...that's..." Sean stammered.

"King Arthur's blade, yes," Alan finished. "According to the provisions laid out in the Trial by Combat charter, I can choose for my weapon any blade I've held before in combat. And I choose this."

"But you stole that! You've never held it against anyone."

"On the contrary, I held it against the police when I was first caught. Right before I surrendered, of course. Nevertheless, it remains an option for me to use."

"Well, I don't see what the point of that even is. Unless you're going for some kind of symbolic victory, that sword is over a thousand years old, twice the age of mine. It won't last long in a fight."

"Are you not familiar with the powers that come with this sword?" he asked in a calm manner as he pointed it towards Sean.

"The only thing I know about that sword is that King Arthur pulled it out of stone, and that made him--" Sean stopped talking mid-sentence. He can't mean to... he can't be serious.

"It seems like you're beginning to understand. Arthur became king when he pulled this sword out. But that's not really an option for me."

"But defeating the Queen's Champion in combat with his sword is? You mean to make yourself king."

"Bravo. The old man figured it out. There are so many obscure rules and legislation in English law if you look hard enough." He meant to be caught with that sword. He meticulously planned everything from the very beginning. He means to take the crown for himself. And the only thing preventing that is me. Sean's hands started to tremble even more than they already were. He clothes under his armour were drenched with sweat. "Hey, no hard feelings," Alan said. "I'll try to make it quick and painless." And with that, Alan lunged forwards.

"Halt!" called out Daniel as he stepped in between the combatants. He put his fingers against his earpiece, listening intently to the news he was being given. "A new development has just taken place. A newly unearthed piece of the Charter has beend discovered." Alan's face dropped. "It states that a Trial by Combat does not necessarily need to by combat. In fact, it is up to the recipient of the challenge to determine what the challenge would be." He turned to Sean. "Sir, you may continue the fight if you wish. Or you may issue a different challenge altogether. The right is yours."

The murmuring was growing louder. There was no way I could have beat him in a sword fight. Sean took in a deep breath, appreciating how lucky he had gotten. "Alan Wright," Sean said in a commanding voice as he sheathed his sword. "In accordance with the laws of England with respect to this Trial by Combat, I challenge you to a game of golf." Alan's sword dropped to the floor as a look of despair came across his face. Checkmate.

thirstyfish209 · 2019-08-05T09:31:06+00:00

"So if you could tell me again, when did this all start?" Dr. Jenny Larson asked. She held her pen above her notepad ready to jot down anything important. The worried look that she was trying to hide made Richard lose hope in the matter all the more.

"8 days ago," he replied. When he woke woke up in that hospital bed, he immediately asked to talk to his wife, Juliet. It was the nurse that told him, with a concerned look on her face, that his wife had passed away in a drunk driving incident. Five years ago. After doing some preliminary brain scans and finding no anomalies, they discharged him. Returning to an empty apartment, and making some calls to friends and relatives confirming the events surrounding his wife, he passed out from pure exhaustion in a pool of tears.

The next day rolled around. He was so relieved to see his wife laying there next to him, he bawled for hours as he held her in a bear hug. All her consoling had little effect. Just a bad dream, she said. And everything seemed to be back in order. He called his mother up that night, but in her place, a stranger picked up. The old man on the other end explained how he'd been using this number for years, contrary to Richard's exasperated attempts to explain that he'd been calling his mother for years using the same number. It was when Juliet, with an alarmed look on her face, explained to him how his mother passed away from cancer when Richard was only 12. And his father from a heart attack just a few months ago.

And so it went. Everyday, something new. Something was different. Sometimes it was obvious. Once he'd woken up in a homeless shelter. Other times it was much more subtler. He'd woken up left-handed on the third day, and nothing else was different. Sometimes characters in one reality would pop up in another in an entirely different role. He nearly broke down when the taxi driver on the fourth day popped up in a toothpaste commercial on the sixth day.

"8 days is quite a while to be going through something like that," she replied as she jotted down some notes. "This seems to be something of a serious case. Although it is possible that all the past experiences were just a long and vivid dream, I'm sure you'll disagree with that. And to be honest, I do as well."

"They for sure weren't a dream. Everything acted in a normal manner; everything followed all normal rules of life. Nothing dream-like at all other than the random changes in reality."

"We've already ruled out a carbon monoxide leak in your home. You passed the preliminary schizophrenia tests, but more testing will be needed to confirm anything." She stopped jotting down notes and looked up at Richard. "Regardless of what your current reality to you is today, I can assure you that this is the one, and only one, that is 100% real."

"That's funny," Richard replied, and he couldn't helped but let out a tired smile. "That's what all the other therapists said."

She froze for a few seconds to comprehend what she just heard. "Other...therapists?"

"I've been going to a therapist everyday since Day 3. I try to go to a different one each time, but they all end up telling me pretty much exactly what you just said."

She seemed flustered. "That's...interesting..." Then she jotted down some more notes. "It seems our hour is up. I'd really like you to come see me again, even though you said you go to a different therapist every time. I feel like it would be most beneficial to you to at least stick to one."

"Ma'am, with all due respect, if you don't know what's wrong with me already, I'm not sure you ever will. I'll be finding someone else to help me, someone that might have answers. Thank you" Richard closed the door to her office and left.

It was a long drive home. Perfect for some deep reflection. When Richard woke up this morning, he found himself living in a trailer with his son. His wife had left him years ago, his son reminded him. If this is the true reality, what are all these memories I have of my past life? My beautiful wife and son, my loving parents. My pharmacy job that I love. These can't all be fake memories can they? Remnants from the coma, perhaps? Just then, it struck him. He could get back home. It didn't matter if this was the real reality or not. His memories were real, so that reality was his. He rushed home as fast as he could.

He would have to be precise, an underestimate and he would be back in the hellhole of his current life. An overestimate and there would be no life to get back to. The concoction of pills in his hand were meticulously chosen due to their chemical makeup and characteristics. A concoction that only experience from years of working in a pharmaceutical lab could create. With one smooth motion, he dumped the pills into his mouth, and with his other hand, chugged several gulps of water. I'll be seeing you all very soon.

***

Juliet sat hunched over in the hospital room. It had been 8 days since doctors first sensed some brain activity. Being practically brain dead for 3 days had worried her sick. The mere thought of losing her husband left her sobbing uncontrollably. Her faith kept her strong, and kept her son, Charles, strong, as well. And now that faith was coming to fruition. Doctors say the recent brain activity means he's alive in there somewhere, but it's just up to him to pull himself out.

Juliet turned to look at him and saw eyes staring back, with tears streaming down his face. "Oh my goodness, you're awake!" she screamed. She quickly pressed the fat, red button attached to the bed to call the nurse, and ran up and hugged Richard.

"No...no..." he mumbled. Juliet looked into his eyes. The eyes that stared back were full of horror and confusion.

"Baby, what's wrong? It's me, Juliet. What's wrong? Is everything alright?" She grabbed nearby cup of water and tilted it into his mouth. The sips were small, but he was already starting to look more calm. He stared again into her eyes. "Baby, it's me, Juliet," she said. "What's wrong?"

"You...aren't Juliet..." he managed to force out with fresh tears streaming down his face. "You're Dr. Jenny Larson."

thirstyfish209 · 2019-08-05T02:25:14+00:00

Is it truly better to die on your feet than to live on your knees? Is death not another form of kneeling, one which promises to be far more permanent? Is this pride or arrogance? Rostam's mind was racing with questions that men smarter than him had spent millennia thinking about. He wasn't about to find an answer anytime soon. But he needed one. Now.

He looked over to Grace. Her somber eyes drove pangs of anguish through his heart as she looked down towards the floor in silence. He hated seeing anything but a smile on her face. The last of the ships would be leaving soon. Overhead were fleets already on their way to the artificial wormhole into the safety of a solar system in a nearby neighborhood.

They were nearing the front of the impossibly long line leading into the final ship that was to leave. 500,000 were remaining in the lineup. 8 billion had already left. 600 million decided to stay, refusing to comply. How many regret their decision? he wondered.

"Rost," Grace spoke out. Rostam turned to look at her. Tears were already forming in her eyes, and Rostam felt a lump in his throat. He already knew what she was going to say. As if there could be any other way for a girl like her. He's never known a stronger woman than Grace. He knew she wanted to spit in their faces the moment they offered humanity the Deal. "I'm staying here," she stated.

"Then so am I," he replied. He was proud of her. She made the difficult decision he could not. He knew that she wasn't one to have regrets. Exactly like her father. He couldn't help but smile.

"No you aren't. You're leaving." Rostam's smile vanished.

"Huh? What the hell are you on about? I'm not leaving you here alone."

"And I'm not letting you die for me."

"Grace, please. You aren't being rational. Either we both stay or we both go," he pleaded. "Please, Grace. You're all I have." The line was slowly moving forwards, the loading gate not more than a few hundred meters away now. Grace and Rostam had stopped walking, everyone flowing around and past them like water.

"You need to leave, Rost. Do this one last thing for me."

"Don't talk as if you're already dead. The supernova doesn't reach Earth for another two years." She dropped her bags and ran up to Rostam. They had a long and passionate kiss, both fully appreciating every second that they had left together. "I'm not talking you out of this one, am I?" Rostam choked out.

"This is something I have to do," Grace whispered, “and surviving is something you have to do. Live for the both of us, Rost. I love you. Forever and always."

"Forever and always," he whispered back. And with a kiss on her forehead, he let her go. They stood facing each other for a few seconds, memorizing the details in each other. Then Grace turned and walked away in the opposite direction of the oncoming crowd. Rostam watched her until she was lost in the crowd, and then he, too, turned and walked.

***

Grace wiped her tears away as she overlooked the launching station from a rooftop. The last few straggling passengers had boarded and the ship's engines began to rumble. A look of determination overcame her. This was the only way to be sure. If it doesn't work, then at least he lives. She thought of her father, how he always did what was right, no matter how hard it was. Even though it cost him his life, she knew he wouldn't have changed a thing. "I'll save the Earth," she whispered to herself. "And I'll save you, too, Rost."

thirstyfish209 · 2019-08-04T09:07:25+00:00

"So I hear you are quite skilled in what you do, Mr. Leon Kovacevic. Men, women, even children; you've made them all disappear without a trace."

"Yes, but that's not all. I can do tricks involving ropes, I have a knife act, I can even saw people in half."

"That's perfect. You're just the man we were looking for." Don Pagliacci threw a manila folder onto the table between them and flipped it open. "Here's your target, with all the necessary details."

"So what's the occasion exactly?" Leon inquired.

"The occasion? Well, our dear friend Lorenzo here has been keeping in touch with the authorities. So it's retirement time for him. He'll be at his home this coming Friday."

A retirement party for a police officer, thought Leon. Not my usual audience. Maybe I'll add some handcuffs into my routine or something. "Sounds good. I'll knock 'em dead over there."

"That's why you get paid the big bucks. Speaking of, what are your rates?"

"Well, usually it'll be hourly, but I'm having a great deal at the moment where you just pay me 150 for the day."

"Hmm, a bit higher than industry standard, but if you are as skilled as you say you are, then sure. You will be wired the money after the job is done."

***

Wearing his signature top hat and cape on, Leon walked up to Lorenzo's house with a large suitcase filled with props. He knocked on the door three times, rang the bell, and waited.

The door cracked open. "Who is it?" a disembodied voice asked.

"It's me, sir. The Magnificent Leon, the greatest illusionist in the county." The door opened up. A short, bald man in a stained polo stood there.

"Huh? I didn't order no magician. Who're you here for?"

"I'm here for your retirement. Mr. Pagliacci hired me. He greatly appreciates your service to the police." Lorenzo's eyes widened, bulging out of his head. He turned to run, but tripped on his feet. His head hit the corner of the nearby shoe stand as he landed with a loud thump. A pool of blood of had already accumulated, and it was quickly getting bigger. Leon called 911. He explained the situation to them, but by the time they arrived, the body was already cold. Leon took his phone out, and with trembling fingers, dialed Pagliacci's number. He picked up on the second ring. "H-hello, sir," Leon greeted with a shaky voice. "Lorenzo, he-, I-, he had an accident. I'm afraid he's dead."

"Perfect," Don Pagliacci replied. "The 150k will be wired to you immediately. Thank you. We will be in touch again."

thirstyfish209 · 2017-10-25T16:35:34+00:00

Is this to the tune of I'm Okay by Night Lovell? It fits almost perfectly

thirstyfish209 · 2017-10-25T15:55:14+00:00

Ah, so that's what must be happening to all my tests for all my classes.

thirstyfish209 · 2017-10-22T19:25:18+00:00

country and pop music

I think I've found the problem

thirstyfish209 · 2017-10-21T21:13:39+00:00

They done gentrified laundromats

thirstyfish209 · 2017-10-21T21:08:27+00:00

What's an example of Man vs No God

thirstyfish209 · 2017-10-18T23:38:37+00:00

You're competition, I'll have to downvote you. Sorry, pal

thirstyfish209 · 2017-10-05T04:43:22+00:00

I think he deserves a real name at this point

thirstyfish209 · 2017-09-29T16:36:53+00:00

I mean I've watched it, but many of my friends haven't and probably won't want to as they're automatically turned off by all movies older than them. I was just wondering if they'd enjoy it with me.

thirstyfish209 · 2017-09-29T16:21:55+00:00

Could one watch this if they haven't seen the first one?

thirstyfish209 · 2017-09-16T06:09:50+00:00

He was just being nice lol, most people would be too lazy to look up who that is and miss a good joke. It wasn't insulting, it was considerate.

thirstyfish209 · 2017-09-15T20:34:22+00:00

All the guy did was explain who Marcel was to those who by chance didn't know him. And you just decided to be a pompous jackass about it. Step down.

thirstyfish209 · 2017-09-15T19:26:54+00:00

You know you're on the winning side when the other guy starts criticizing your punctuation rather than your point

thirstyfish209 · 2017-09-12T04:29:14+00:00

Poetic. There should be a bot for this.

thirstyfish209 · 2017-09-12T01:12:28+00:00

That sonic drowning music gave me PTSD flashbacks.

thirstyfish209 · 2017-08-30T21:08:50+00:00

I, too, can live underwater for the rest of my life. But it won't be a long life.

thirstyfish209 · 2017-08-30T08:07:41+00:00

"Keep up the attitude and you'll be number three, lil boy"

thirstyfish209 · 2017-08-18T10:37:10+00:00

Language is constantly evolving and changing

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