Lonnie Firefly's page

Sorry folks, RL kicking me ATM. Will try and pick up threads soon..

Likewise. Not a problem at all.

Still here. Next couple of weeks are going to be killer, but I should be good after that.

Have a look back around page 37. It was that area we passed through run by a net of artificial intelligence. Think SkyNet without the terminators and need to kill humanity.

Right. I remember that. Thanks.

"'Tis not an honest thing of steel and cogs, sirrah. 'Tis a bound spirit, encased in its dark prison. The Elder Ones knew many dread powers and dark arts that have been lost since the Fall of Shiva. As to why it opens its doors, well, it keeps its secrets close."

"Shiva? Don't quite fit in with the whole medieval thing you've got going on here..."

I think we should enter this genie layer," Germain suddenly says, "I think a certain wizard we know will want that prize. Once we get OMNU what she wants the sooner we can get back to my quest."

OMNU?

Sherman has completely failed to follow any of the conversation since they got here and is loudly complaining to Marley that "da breden na speek proper."

He decides that alcohol is probably a good solution as the weed is not cutting it and order a large round for himself.

Lonnie, tired of Germain's doublespeak and unnerved by the Renaissance Faire atmosphere, agrees and heads for the bar.

"House ale. Gallon."

Germain half turns towards the inn when a thought hits her: "and supposing, on the off chance, that these bumpkins are part of some sort of death cult looking for a virgin sacrifice to bring about a good harvest or something, I'm not a virgin and am far older then I look."

"I wonder why it is that you feel the need to change your age and identity, each town we go to. You runnin' from someone?"

<Whistles like a cuckoo.>

"That about sums it up."

"Another village," Germain notes, typing away on her gauntlet, "do we want to stop here or do we continue on?"

"Might as well just continue on, I'd say. Civilized life gives me an uncomfortableness if I stay with it too long."

"Spidders close by. I can...smell them. Sort of. Stay alert." He c!&&& his AK, ready for trouble

Oh, no he doesn't! That would be scandalous!

Curse you, messageboard filter! I long for the day when we will no longer be forced to schlong our heads, or wang our rifles, or even be a dick-of-the-walk.

Spot: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (4) + 10 = 14

"That's certainly a valuable skill to have", Roach replies, his face studiedly neutral.

"Definitely. Believe me, I'd know."

"Oh no worries about that," Germain says in her "normal" voice, though only those that are near her and that know her can pick that up, and she instantly switches back to her cute innocent voice: "do spidders look like spiders?"

"Sure. Why not."

"Mon, back in Jamaica da I and I be seeing Spiders as big as a house mon," Sherman injects into the conversation, "da I blow dem to de maker wid dynomite, the pieces taste like chicken" he chuckles before raising his whiskey, "Slant eye?" he asks Lonnie quizzically before he downs his shot. "Back in deh island, we say Cheers!" he grabs his ale mug offering it out for Lonnie to clang his glass against.

"It's Old Gaelic. My great-grandfather, old Craig Lonergan, spoke a bit of it. Means 'good health.'"

"Damn straight."

"Spiders!" Germain asks, allowing the mask of fear to cover her face, "I don't like spiders!"

Lonnie slams back another large quantity of fermented beverage.

"You get used to 'em after a while. Taste pretty good, too."

"Where you folks from?"

"Up north."

Lonnie pounds down the pint glass in one swallow.

"Uh, you wouldn't happen to have any quart glasses, would you?"

"My age?" Germain asks, eyes wide with surprise, "how could that happen?"

Germain pats her face as if expecting it to be younger, places her hand on top of her head as if expecting herself to be shorter, and breaths a sigh of relief when she discovers nothing amiss. Her eyes narrow as she turns to Lonnie.

"I think you're trying to play a cruel trick on me Mr Firefly and I don't like it."

"I'm just callin' things as I see 'em. Don't mean to cause a fuss. Slainte."

Lonnie slams back a shot of whisky.

"You don't like milk?" Germain asks, "mama always said that if you drink your milk you'll grow up big and strong. You do want to grow up big and strong right Mr Firefly?"

"It ain't that. Seems like your age changes, every town we come through."

Lonnie moves over to the bar and sits down on the floor, so that his head is at the same level as the other patrons'.

"Shot o' whisky, pint o' beer, please. Irish, if you got 'em."

"'Scuse me sir," Germain says using her cutesy voice and batting her eyelashes at the bartender, "but do you have any milk? I better not hav anything stwonger cuz I'm onwy widdle."

"Pffft..."

You are a gentleman and a scholar, both is a splendid idea! Do I hear the cry of Depth Charges?

Irish Car Bombs, maybe?

Roach wrote:

Mutant Monkey wrote:

Gimmie your actions

Beer.

Whiskey.

Both.

"Sounds good to me." Roach walks Bullwinkle over to the stable.

Lonnie does the same with his rented beetle.

"I ain't particularly fond of water, myself. I'd take the road."

"It's sociological theory," Germain says with a shrug, "from a book called "Man's Fall", kind of a long boring book, but it was required reading so I suffered through it. Weird the things you remember huh?"

"Right..."

"Young boys are especially destructive," Germain says, as if quoting from something, "these destructive tendencies only become entrenched and refined in the traditional patriarchal society. The roots of all war can be found in young boys encouraged to play with guns or swords."

"'The hell is that supposed to mean?"

Warning. Unneccessary agression detected. Citizen Harv McNugget. You are being cited. Please stand still.

The terrified child drops the stick and stands rigid in his grey jumpsuit. His mother freezes in mid-sob. The talking sphere projects a large red stop sign.

Citizen Harv McNugget, you have been cited for unneccessary violence and aggression against a subsapient creature. This is your second citation. A third citation will neccessitate a temporary relocation to the Bureau of Psychological Hygene. Please make a note of this.

The several small spheres stop projecting their stop signs and zip off. The mother runs forward and hugs her crying child

"That ain't right. Think we should do anything about it?"

LOL, well, since you are in the most high-tech area in the general area, feel free to get a riding beetle. I gave everyone a starting mount, so assume you own one

I left it out because a) Lonnie's freakin' huge, and b) riding is not really his *thing*. I'll just say that when Lonnie left the last town, he rented a Large hercules beetle (treat as Giant Stag Beetle from the 3.5 MM). Hooray for retcons!

Guy Humual wrote:

Lonnie Firefly wrote:

Alright, I guess I'm renting a beetle. The insect kind.

You mean you don't want to ride a Beatle? A horribly mutated Ringo Star perhaps? Your loss then ;)

Personally, I'd take the reanimated corpse of John Lennon, but that's just me.

Actually referring to Beetle. Or perhaps Beetle. Or even Beetle.

Now, back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Alright, I guess I'm renting a beetle. The insect kind.

Perhaps a variety of Lucanus akbesianus or Dynastes hercules.

"You need one of those giant beetles," Germain notes, "they smell awful, are ugly as sin, and are dumber then a bag of hammers, but they're strong and pretty fast as long as it's a straight line."

"Where would I get myself one?"

"Manhattan Arcology. Nu Ork clans. Let's become da streets, bruvas."

"Fair 'nough. Let's ride."

He pauses. There seems to be a problem.

"I can't ride a horse. I'd crush it to death."

"He wants to know if we can buy guns n's~~& here once we come back through with a bunch of hard Nu Orkers. I think."

"That's what I gathered, at least."

<Coca turns away from the ball.>

"Whateva. Let's roll."

"Seconded."

Coca Cola wrote:

"So, metal bich, do yous guys knows about da Wreckahs?"

"Indeed, I have been gathering information on the Rectified Church of the Martryred Saints, or the 'Wreckers' as they are nicknamed. I predict they will be entering the Cumberland Gap and the Hudson Valley by this Fall. I have run many permutations, and I believe they pose no serious threat to me or my polity."

"If they ain't a threat, then why do they call 'em 'Wreckers'? If I were you, which I'm not 'course, I'd pay 'em quite a bit of mind."

"Please make a note of it ..."

GLaDOS is watching.

"This place is causing me a mighty uncomfortableness. I'm thinking we should get in and get out as soon as possible."

"Two plus two is f-f-f-f... ten kjkjkkkjfffksjkkfjk ...in base four; I'm fine!"

As Lonnie sticks out his tongue the android manipulates the tagger. He feels a slight sting in the back of his throat

"Thank you."

"Right then. Thinkin' outside the box. I like that in a woman."

Lonnie Firefly wrote:

Lonnie lets himself be tagged.

"Good luck gettin' the needle through my skin. Last I checked, it was an inch thick in places."

The android pauses

"Good point. Please stick out your tongue sir."

"Good luck."

Lonnie sticks out his tongue. It's covered in chitinous plating and tipped with a bony spike.

Lonnie lets himself be tagged.

"Good luck gettin' the needle through my skin. Last I checked, it was an inch thick in places."

"Are these things permanent? 'Cause if they're gonna stay inside me, we might be havin' a bit of a situation."

<Coca nods at everyone then looks up at Lonnie.>

"Dis iz wot dey act whun dey dig yous. Whun dey don't dig yous dey'z shootin."

"Never had any sort o' female give me that kind of reception before. Either kind, actually. Usually, they just run."

<Scratches at some of the remaining rashes. Picks a piece of sloughing skin off his cheekbone and flicks it away.>

"So iz yous in? We'z all heavy peeps. Just adaptin to da mental s@#*. An' tryin to keep da wolves outta da gates."

"I'm in."

"Huh."

"Don't worry, it's just banter. Noi harm in that." Maccoy takes a sip before leaning close to Lonnie and whispering. "That, and the kid's a damn psychopath."

Lonnie nods imperceptibly.

"Given her propensity for spoutin' unkindnesses, that ain't a shock."

"I think the swelling as gone to your eyes Coca," she says dryly, "we might need to lance them and remove some of the goo."

"Might just be me, but I don't think that sounds particularly toward."

<Coca chatters away without pause, skirting the fringe of comprehensibility, and leads Lonnie back to the others.>

Who is still with us?

<He waves his giant chicken over.>

"Dis here iz da Kernul. Kernul Sanders."

"Huh. Looks more like a chicken to me."

"Yo, yo, yo spitz wiv me massiv bruva an' meet da others. But do' min' da chunky b&~&@, she'z loco."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Yous neva erd hof Wreckers? Whun wuz da last bells yous wuz in civilizashun? Or did yous spitz from up north? Maybe down south?"

<Squinty eyed look.>

"Whateva."

<Slicks his hair back.>

"Chek I'z da recruita, bak from da front, an' me an' me homies iz headin to Big Dump lookin to heezie up some coasters into da war. Wreckers iz mental whacked hout nutjobs sweepin into da mountains killin heavy geezers."

"Up north, sure, we got 'em, but I never heard tell of 'em being called 'wreckers.' Interesting, that. At least now we're on the same page."

<Cocaman nods at Lonnie's sword.>

"Me digs da blade."

"It's an antique. My granddaddy took it outta his father's shop 'fore it burned down."

<Takes Nixon off his back and unzips the 4 foot leather case, cracking a rare grin.>

"Chek it. I'z da snipaman."

"Ah, well. You may be the sniper man, but..."

Lonnie unbuttons his duster, revealing an array of deadly-looking small arms strapped to a leather vest.

"... I'm more of a close-quarters guy myself."

<Coca collects up his money and eyes the giant.>

"Firefly. You wants te kill wreckers?"

"Wreckers?"

The ferretman looks over at Lonnie

"I sell nine mil at a credit a shell. How many you want?"

1 GP = 100 credits FYI

"Hmmm... Lemme see... I'll take one box of the nine mil (50 rounds), and a half box of the thirty-six (25 rounds), if you got 'em."

And Lonnie's remaining money is GONE, folks...

Lonnie Firefly wrote:

"Crawford Lonergan, though most folks call me Lonnie Firefly on account of the fact that I find tracer bullets real pretty at night. You wouldn't happen to know if Mr. Badger here has any nine mil, would you?"

The pawnbroker looks mildly offended, his fur ruffling irritably.

"I ain't no Badder, yeh giant moocow of a man. If you want 9mm rounds I got plenty. But you gotta ask nice, see?"

"Right. Please, then. You got a box?"