Randy Newman could not imagine what had possessed him to go along with his roommate's scheme. Hours before they had been in their dorm room, playing Dungeons and Dragons Now they were riding around in a hearse, at midnight, in the old abandoned cemetary across town.
Randy was a tall, good looking fellow with dark brown hair in a short haircut. His unfortunate plastic glasses did not help his looks though. He was in decent shape from lifting weights. He kept in such good shape for is Society For Creative Anachronism bouts. That damned plate mail was heavy!
The evening had started innocently enough. Reg had intruduce him to a friend from back home named Betsy. With her flaming red hair and infectious laugh she had been a good edition to the game. After all, have a girl play, and girl play, with them was fucking awesome. He hadn't gotten a good look at her because he was to nervous to do so, but his impression was that she was cute.
They had played for a few hours, and drank a few beers, before Betsy volunteered to take them on a beer run in her car. Seeing as his was a shit bucket, Randy thought this a brilliant idea.
Two hours later, Reg was passed out drunk in the back and Randy was nervously smoking a Lucky Strike and wondering what the world was coming to. Her car had turned out to be a long, black hearse and her taste in music ran toward Marilyn Manson and Rasputina, whoever that was. Being more of a Ben Fold's Five sort of fellow, and never really a fan of the Shinning or the Exorcist, he was unnerved, so say the least.
The radio was playing some morbid song about a year without a summer, filled with cellos and ghostly female voices. His death stick was down to a nub and his pack was empty. He was in a hearse with a strange ass red head, a case of beer and a sad excuse for a roommate. What else could go wrong?
(Pm me before joining. I am not sure if this is When Harry Met Sally or Night of the Living Dead, but I am looking for quirky and fun writing.)
Randy was a tall, good looking fellow with dark brown hair in a short haircut. His unfortunate plastic glasses did not help his looks though. He was in decent shape from lifting weights. He kept in such good shape for is Society For Creative Anachronism bouts. That damned plate mail was heavy!
The evening had started innocently enough. Reg had intruduce him to a friend from back home named Betsy. With her flaming red hair and infectious laugh she had been a good edition to the game. After all, have a girl play, and girl play, with them was fucking awesome. He hadn't gotten a good look at her because he was to nervous to do so, but his impression was that she was cute.
They had played for a few hours, and drank a few beers, before Betsy volunteered to take them on a beer run in her car. Seeing as his was a shit bucket, Randy thought this a brilliant idea.
Two hours later, Reg was passed out drunk in the back and Randy was nervously smoking a Lucky Strike and wondering what the world was coming to. Her car had turned out to be a long, black hearse and her taste in music ran toward Marilyn Manson and Rasputina, whoever that was. Being more of a Ben Fold's Five sort of fellow, and never really a fan of the Shinning or the Exorcist, he was unnerved, so say the least.
The radio was playing some morbid song about a year without a summer, filled with cellos and ghostly female voices. His death stick was down to a nub and his pack was empty. He was in a hearse with a strange ass red head, a case of beer and a sad excuse for a roommate. What else could go wrong?
(Pm me before joining. I am not sure if this is When Harry Met Sally or Night of the Living Dead, but I am looking for quirky and fun writing.)
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