T
thesweetsweetness
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Oh no! I hope everything is okay. I've been missing you. Take care of yourself.
(((Big boobie squishing hugs)))
Dave's Zombie Proof Bunker and Refuge for Unattached Wimmens
- Thread starter Chaingun
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Oh no! I hope everything is okay. I've been missing you. Take care of yourself.
(((Big boobie squishing hugs)))
Chaingun
Who do ya love?
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- Mar 23, 2008
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- 8,203
I've missed you too. I've missed all of you.
But, really, I'm ok. Not trying to be an attention whore who says that to get you to ask what's going on. It's the truth. I'm great.
Chaingun
Who do ya love?
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I found this on 'The Walking Dead' site today...our new club t-shirt? lol!
That's awesome.
Chaingun
Who do ya love?
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Sound is an anomaly in the recesses of the bunker. Cobwebs are the mute evidence that nothing has passed this way in months. There is a stillness about the place that says, "Be careful, be vigilant, be warned...you don't know what you're doing."
The residents have all probably moved into the smallest section of the quarters, to conserve energy. The reserve tanks must be running low and it surely makes more sense to use the least amount of resources possible. Doubling up residency in the dorm rooms, turning off unnecessary systems, and conserving the precious water supply are all high priorities. All the same, it is quiet and things appear to have been uneventful. Life goes on. Breathe in, breathe out. The sun will rise tomorrow whether you're there to see it or not.
Surely the liquor is gone by now. The ice makers--do they still work? Perhaps they've been shut off to stop the power drain. The Nightly Naked Dance Party must have become a distant memory to anyone left in this nearly abandoned place by now. I wonder who's left?
From a distant treeline, I stare at my home. My greatest achievement, once it was a place of frivolity, mirth, fun, dancing, shelter, protection, and above all...love. It appears that the automated defenses are still working; the walls don't seem to have been breached. There is a small clump of trucks jumbled in the middle of a large field to the north of the bunker. They are burned and many are twisted beyond recognition.
Did someone attempt to attack? That would be the height of foolishness with so little resources. Just light trucks? I can see a Dodge Ram and two Ford F150's. The cab on the Dodge is blown up like a grenade went off inside of it. The two Fords are parked sideways and from the damage inflicted on the sides facing the bunker, it is evident that tremendous firepower was directed at the vehicles; perhaps the attackers sheltered behind them waiting for the defenders to run out of ammo?
I laugh quietly at that thought and the noise startles me. It's an unfamiliar sound, like dried corn husks rubbing against each other in a late autumn wind. It's been so long since I spoke, let alone laughed at anything. Standing and staring just a little longer, I wonder, am I even welcome in my own home? Is there even anyone there who would welcome me? Have they figured out the defenses, the sanitation, the communications, the power supplies, how to reload ammo, how to....?
Who cares? Stop trying to save the world. Stop trying to take care of them. They're grown women. They're more capable and strong than you will ever know and their "need" for you may be their kind spirits trying to make you feel useful. You're being humored, Stupid.
They surely have gotten along just fine without you.
The red flag of the Republic of Dave--that joke from so long ago--still flaps in a breeze that seems cleaner, but the flag is becoming frayed and faded. The air is clearer; the stink of the dead dissipates with each day, I've noticed. And even if 95% of the population has been infected and turned, how long can they survive without food? We never have found that out. Do they go on until destroyed, regardless of their "nourishment" or lack of it? I snap out of my tangential thinking with a start: The flag, in any case, is a good sign. Either no one took it down...or someone is still there. It may also indicate that the fortress was never taken by force.
Another minute of standing unseen in the tree line and I notice other things. The outbuildings seem taken care of. There is movement of livestock behind rows of fence and protective nets and a horse whinnies from far off. Good signs, all.
Still, one must approach with caution. "You've been away too long, Boy." I check the cut down Remington 870 shotgun; it has five rounds of double-ought-buck shells in the tube and one in the chamber. There are three more shotgun shells in my pocket. A large hunting knife, though dulled by constant use, hangs in a sheath on my chest. The only other weapon I have is a beat up Ruger 22-45, which I have found to be an effective and quick killer. A 22 Long Rifle round to a head ends the threat as easily and far less dramatically than a hundred rounds of 556 or seven rounds of 45 ACP. Plus, the ammunition for the little target pistol is easier to find.
A battered, black jacket has pockets that are full of small things that I have needed. First aid items, safety pins, cord, matches, loose rounds, and zip-locked bags of preserved food. Military surplus pants with cargo pockets hand loosely from my hips. The constant movement and fighting has taken their toll on the clothing and me. I'm thinner and starting to wonder if I'm malnourished; the knees in the pants are threadbare, and one of the legs is torn below the knee. I need food and a shower.
I step out of the treeline and move twelve cautious yards into the open. I stand still again. Nothing changes. No challenges from the bunker, no rush to see who this is limping in across the fields.
I keep the weapons lowered and move slowly, painfully across an early planted field. The damage to my lower left leg, I fear, is permanent. It hurts constantly and makes movement difficult. But eventually, I am standing at the beginning to the small causeway that crosses the moat of alcohol and rotting bodies. The liquor seems to be keeping the stench of decay down; it makes a nice minty smell, but one that I have come to associate with death and an overall horrible-ness. Meh, it is what it is.
I stand still, allowing anyone inside to watch through the external cameras and hopefully recognize me. Nothing moves. Good sign? Bad sign? I don't know.
I take tentative steps across the walkway...avoiding the traps and keeping a sharp eye out. I make it to the door that I painted bright red all those months ago. "Come in peace, or go away" is still emblazoned there. My extra line below it is also still there. In big red letters: "NO QUARTER ASKED, NONE GIVEN."
And then below it is a surprise. In a female's hand is painted the words, "Fortune smiles..." and next to that is a very feminine looking flower painted in pink.
I move to the door. Welcome or not, it's my home; I built this. If there's vermin, it will be eradicated. If there's danger, I will make it safe again. Where once it was dirty and unkempt, I will add light and order. If there's mistrust and fear, I will replace it with love.
The defenses defeated, I press a secret button and the door slides easily on its well oiled wheels. The air is still but fairly fresh. There is no smell of decay, just a feeling of something missing. I step inside, brushing a cobweb out of the way and closing the door behind me.
"Home," I croak though the effort seems to hurt my throat. "I'm home."
The residents have all probably moved into the smallest section of the quarters, to conserve energy. The reserve tanks must be running low and it surely makes more sense to use the least amount of resources possible. Doubling up residency in the dorm rooms, turning off unnecessary systems, and conserving the precious water supply are all high priorities. All the same, it is quiet and things appear to have been uneventful. Life goes on. Breathe in, breathe out. The sun will rise tomorrow whether you're there to see it or not.
Surely the liquor is gone by now. The ice makers--do they still work? Perhaps they've been shut off to stop the power drain. The Nightly Naked Dance Party must have become a distant memory to anyone left in this nearly abandoned place by now. I wonder who's left?
From a distant treeline, I stare at my home. My greatest achievement, once it was a place of frivolity, mirth, fun, dancing, shelter, protection, and above all...love. It appears that the automated defenses are still working; the walls don't seem to have been breached. There is a small clump of trucks jumbled in the middle of a large field to the north of the bunker. They are burned and many are twisted beyond recognition.
Did someone attempt to attack? That would be the height of foolishness with so little resources. Just light trucks? I can see a Dodge Ram and two Ford F150's. The cab on the Dodge is blown up like a grenade went off inside of it. The two Fords are parked sideways and from the damage inflicted on the sides facing the bunker, it is evident that tremendous firepower was directed at the vehicles; perhaps the attackers sheltered behind them waiting for the defenders to run out of ammo?
I laugh quietly at that thought and the noise startles me. It's an unfamiliar sound, like dried corn husks rubbing against each other in a late autumn wind. It's been so long since I spoke, let alone laughed at anything. Standing and staring just a little longer, I wonder, am I even welcome in my own home? Is there even anyone there who would welcome me? Have they figured out the defenses, the sanitation, the communications, the power supplies, how to reload ammo, how to....?
Who cares? Stop trying to save the world. Stop trying to take care of them. They're grown women. They're more capable and strong than you will ever know and their "need" for you may be their kind spirits trying to make you feel useful. You're being humored, Stupid.
They surely have gotten along just fine without you.
The red flag of the Republic of Dave--that joke from so long ago--still flaps in a breeze that seems cleaner, but the flag is becoming frayed and faded. The air is clearer; the stink of the dead dissipates with each day, I've noticed. And even if 95% of the population has been infected and turned, how long can they survive without food? We never have found that out. Do they go on until destroyed, regardless of their "nourishment" or lack of it? I snap out of my tangential thinking with a start: The flag, in any case, is a good sign. Either no one took it down...or someone is still there. It may also indicate that the fortress was never taken by force.
Another minute of standing unseen in the tree line and I notice other things. The outbuildings seem taken care of. There is movement of livestock behind rows of fence and protective nets and a horse whinnies from far off. Good signs, all.
Still, one must approach with caution. "You've been away too long, Boy." I check the cut down Remington 870 shotgun; it has five rounds of double-ought-buck shells in the tube and one in the chamber. There are three more shotgun shells in my pocket. A large hunting knife, though dulled by constant use, hangs in a sheath on my chest. The only other weapon I have is a beat up Ruger 22-45, which I have found to be an effective and quick killer. A 22 Long Rifle round to a head ends the threat as easily and far less dramatically than a hundred rounds of 556 or seven rounds of 45 ACP. Plus, the ammunition for the little target pistol is easier to find.
A battered, black jacket has pockets that are full of small things that I have needed. First aid items, safety pins, cord, matches, loose rounds, and zip-locked bags of preserved food. Military surplus pants with cargo pockets hand loosely from my hips. The constant movement and fighting has taken their toll on the clothing and me. I'm thinner and starting to wonder if I'm malnourished; the knees in the pants are threadbare, and one of the legs is torn below the knee. I need food and a shower.
I step out of the treeline and move twelve cautious yards into the open. I stand still again. Nothing changes. No challenges from the bunker, no rush to see who this is limping in across the fields.
I keep the weapons lowered and move slowly, painfully across an early planted field. The damage to my lower left leg, I fear, is permanent. It hurts constantly and makes movement difficult. But eventually, I am standing at the beginning to the small causeway that crosses the moat of alcohol and rotting bodies. The liquor seems to be keeping the stench of decay down; it makes a nice minty smell, but one that I have come to associate with death and an overall horrible-ness. Meh, it is what it is.
I stand still, allowing anyone inside to watch through the external cameras and hopefully recognize me. Nothing moves. Good sign? Bad sign? I don't know.
I take tentative steps across the walkway...avoiding the traps and keeping a sharp eye out. I make it to the door that I painted bright red all those months ago. "Come in peace, or go away" is still emblazoned there. My extra line below it is also still there. In big red letters: "NO QUARTER ASKED, NONE GIVEN."
And then below it is a surprise. In a female's hand is painted the words, "Fortune smiles..." and next to that is a very feminine looking flower painted in pink.
I move to the door. Welcome or not, it's my home; I built this. If there's vermin, it will be eradicated. If there's danger, I will make it safe again. Where once it was dirty and unkempt, I will add light and order. If there's mistrust and fear, I will replace it with love.
The defenses defeated, I press a secret button and the door slides easily on its well oiled wheels. The air is still but fairly fresh. There is no smell of decay, just a feeling of something missing. I step inside, brushing a cobweb out of the way and closing the door behind me.
"Home," I croak though the effort seems to hurt my throat. "I'm home."
RubenesqueAphrodite
Pphhfthtt.....
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Well, I'll be dipped in chocolate and called an Easter bunny....
Dave....glad the forces of evil didn't swallow you up, dear one.
Glad you are back from your journey..
Dave....glad the forces of evil didn't swallow you up, dear one.
Glad you are back from your journey..
Ellafun
Just Visiting This Planet
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I hear RA talking to someone, and turn to look as I pull the freshly baked cornbread muffins out of the oven, and I drop the pan to the floor. The tin makes a loud clattering noise as it hits the floor, covering the sound of the choked sobbing noise that escapes me.
I cross the room in seconds flat and throw my arms around our resurrected friend, tears of relief falling down my cheeks. It takes me a few moments to realize that he isn't hugging me back, and I back away, looking at him, inspecting him. He is weak, sunburnt, thinner and so exhausted, it seems, that he cant even form any words.
It is all RA and I can do to get him to a chair, and he sinks down into it, clearly in need of rest. I return to the counter to get some coffee, and to get the muffin tin off the floor. His timing, as always, is impeccable when it comes to the damn cornmuffins...
I cross the room in seconds flat and throw my arms around our resurrected friend, tears of relief falling down my cheeks. It takes me a few moments to realize that he isn't hugging me back, and I back away, looking at him, inspecting him. He is weak, sunburnt, thinner and so exhausted, it seems, that he cant even form any words.
It is all RA and I can do to get him to a chair, and he sinks down into it, clearly in need of rest. I return to the counter to get some coffee, and to get the muffin tin off the floor. His timing, as always, is impeccable when it comes to the damn cornmuffins...
Chaingun
Who do ya love?
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"Well, I do love me some corn muffins. And for a girl not raised in the south, you make some wonderful ones.
I don't know if I'm coming back from this. I'm more damaged than I have ever been and whatever miracle heeling properties my "affliction" may have had don't seem to be working. It was...tough.
I may be doomed to wander what's left of this world like Steven King's Gunslinger Roland from the Dark Tower series. Damaged permanently, forced to overcome his handicap, a tragic figure driven to move forward despite odds that would destroy the minds and and obstacles that would ruin the physical assets of entire armies of men. The things I've seen...
I've worn out entire arsenals of firearms.
I've slept in places that weren't fit for the worms.
I've fought...things...that I can't explain.
This is all that's left of me.
Well, Ladies, let's just say, there were no corn muffins where I have been. I've missed you."
I don't know if I'm coming back from this. I'm more damaged than I have ever been and whatever miracle heeling properties my "affliction" may have had don't seem to be working. It was...tough.
I may be doomed to wander what's left of this world like Steven King's Gunslinger Roland from the Dark Tower series. Damaged permanently, forced to overcome his handicap, a tragic figure driven to move forward despite odds that would destroy the minds and and obstacles that would ruin the physical assets of entire armies of men. The things I've seen...
I've worn out entire arsenals of firearms.
I've slept in places that weren't fit for the worms.
I've fought...things...that I can't explain.
This is all that's left of me.
Well, Ladies, let's just say, there were no corn muffins where I have been. I've missed you."
TongueLust
Bruja-Hija De Yemaya
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*Slaps Dave in the ass* Hi baby. 
Chaingun
Who do ya love?
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*Slaps Dave in the ass* Hi baby.
Oh my. Careful there. That's been chewed down to almost nothing. But thanks for saying hi. How are you?
Chaingun
Who do ya love?
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I'm still thinking the whole group is going to want to help with your, uh, rehabilitation.
And you know I'm not opposed to that. But...a little bit at a time, ok? There's not much left to rehabilitate.
I'm not superman, apparently. Just another dumbass who is held together with old rusty nails and bailing wire.
Ellafun
Just Visiting This Planet
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lol! Well, we'll just have some of the wimmens crochet you a bodysuit to hold everything together. With escape hatches in all the right places. I think we still have a ton of yarn in one of the closets from one of our pillaging adventures...
Chaingun
Who do ya love?
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lol! Well, we'll just have some of the wimmens crochet you a bodysuit to hold everything together. With escape hatches in all the right places. I think we still have a ton of yarn in one of the closets from one of our pillaging adventures...
LOL, you're the eternal optimist aren't you?
Ellafun
Just Visiting This Planet
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lol! Well, really, what the hell are we gonna DO with all this damn yarn? Throw skeins of it at the undead?? Ooooo, that'll teach em!
Chaingun
Who do ya love?
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lol! Well, really, what the hell are we gonna DO with all this damn yarn? Throw skeins of it at the undead?? Ooooo, that'll teach em!
Good point.
I had a thought a minute ago. What if a bunch of us started posting in the Dutch Literotica section...in English? Would it make them mad? I bet they read English just fine, but would it confuse them? Or would they simply think we're really stupid?
When one of them answers, simply type, "Y'all talk funny."
Ellafun
Just Visiting This Planet
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Interesting thought. You have more of those random thoughts bottled up in there??
Chaingun
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I have some odd ideas for IHateClowns' silly thread titled, "Would you...?"
But I don't think those are best let out into the open.
RubenesqueAphrodite
Pphhfthtt.....
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Hey!! Don't be hating on the yarn, baby...lol! Well, really, what the hell are we gonna DO with all this damn yarn? Throw skeins of it at the undead?? Ooooo, that'll teach em!
I've strangled many a zombie with the worsted weight fancy acrylic....
Ellafun
Just Visiting This Planet
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Hey!! Don't be hating on the yarn, baby...
LMAO! Leave it to you! Always so resourceful!
Chaingun
Who do ya love?
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Hey!! Don't be hating on the yarn, baby...
Good plan for that. Because it never gets cold enough for the scarf that you could make from that here.
Not that I know anything about yarn or knitting...that I'll admit.
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