More language,(this should go without saying, given that this has Sal in it) and length –
Donut: That’s the way she likes it.
Shut up. This’ll be longer than the previous ones by request(so maybe I do negotiate with terrorists). Quiturbitchin’.
Shemo: I resent that.
To ‘ell with both of you; let’s get this show on the road.
Sabine: Touchy touchy.
Oh sure, your characters want to talk to me now that I’m writing about the other three.
Sky: Well now we have a reason to read this since you weren’t going to include us otherwise.
I’m just going to ignore the implications of that, fix the fourth wall firmly back in place and write. You’re not getting the last word.
Sabine: Sure we’re not.
“Ahem, you bloody git.” The Scot stated loudly to his apparent favorite person, himself. “That’s Mr. Salem Norongachi to you. I’ll have none of this familiar shit from you. You never call, you never write. Don’t go all ‘Sal’ on me; bollocks to that.”
At this point in his soliloquy to the sky, for he was alone on a hilltop overlooking little more than pastures and farmland, Mr. Salem Norongachi suddenly found himself doubting the security of his armor. He examined the display built into the wrist of his suit, checking for any readings that would signal the swift and harsh retribution of a scorned narrator. He wasn’t entirely certain the bounty hunter armor would protect him from the twisted imagining of a certain eccentric writer. There were few things he feared, but he could think of a couple things that did the trick – running out of alcohol or being the victim of a rough ranga rape comparable only to the conception of Ronald McDonald.
“Don’t mind me, I’ll just be here going about my role in the story and respecting that feckin’ fourth wall like a good Sal.” Fortune smiled upon the man in that moment, for the randy grizzly bear prowling nearby narrowly missed catching his scent due to the freakish shift in the direction of the wind. Whether by divine intervention or mercy of an unseen omnipresent force, the drunkard extraordinaire was spared one hell of an overly familiar encounter.
“I’ll have any readers know that tales of my drunkenness are greatly exaggerated. Contrary to dicktactular belief, I can function just fine without alcohol. Also, if you be female, I’ll be more than happy to check your functions. Call me, just don’t tell the missus.”
A more novice storyteller might take the breathy mutterings as a challenge to his authority and retaliate in the form of sweet electric vengeance plummeting from the newly formed storm clouds. Or he might even sink so low as to trade insults with the man who could’ve passed as a one-eyed scruffy nerf herder in a galaxy far far away. Not our narrator, however, he’s a professional. Also, he’s humble. And single, ladies.
“If you’re going to kill me, just do it already. I’d rather be locked in a room with Gingerclap than suffer through this abomination of a story. Am I going to stand on this hill all damn day looking at turkeys or is this trainwreck going somewhere other than down the shitter?” Sal spoke with the utmost love and affection, even if he didn’t know it. The respect and kinship was just hiding under the veil of agitation and boredom. Hiding very well, but hiding nonetheless.
“As much as I’m enjoying the attention, dear sir, are you by any chance aware that you’ve already given me more screen time at this point than the combined entire cast of the last post. Clearly the spotlight follows greatness.” Sal knew he was bluffing, as did the narrator from behind the shattered remnants of his precious fourth wall, but they each also knew that no one cared enough to run a word count to dispute the claim.
One of them had more pressing matters to attend to, like the pressure of a booted foot colliding with their back.
Sal had been so distracted by his taunting that he had failed to notice the security team creeping up the hill behind him. The impact of the brutal kick sent him reeling off the overlook and crashing painfully into the electric fence below. Every fiber of his being thrashed and convulsed as the current wound through him and the suit, shorting out various components and wrecking havoc on man and machine. His last thought before consciousness was ripped from him was one born of seething anger and extreme pain.
‘Fucking arsehole, that was a bloody cheap shot.’
Okay, so I lied about this one being longer and about it incorporating Ara and Aethon. Blame Sal for being difficult and my other obligations.
Ara: Dude, this story needs more Ara.
Aethon: I think she means this fence needs more Ara.
Ara: Point taken. Carry on not abusing the Aerie.
Shemo: Still not long enough.
Donut: Aww, bow chicka.
I hate you all.