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capeandcowllogs2010-02-27 02:31 pm
ajrimmer-ssc.livejournal.com) wrote in capeandcowllogs2010-02-27 02:31 pm
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WHO: Rimmer Mr. Flibble and OPEN. Tag yourselves in.
WHERE: Financial District.
WHEN: Saturday 27/2 and Sunday 28/2
WARNINGS: Fighty fighty snickety snack.
SUMMARY: With only 48 hours left to save Rimmer's life, certain people better get their smegging arses in gear to try and stop him and shut down his light bee.
FORMAT: Whichever works!
"You understand, you know. You see the puzzle pieces, the little edge bits and the corner that are always the wrong way round and upside down and missing the second the box is open. We've got to make them understand, you're my only friend..."
Silence.
"Such still waters," Rimmer sighed, stroking the figure in front of him with Mr. Flibble's orange beak. "Such quiet depths, such understanding. We'll crack open the crusts of bread and the flagons of wine and roast the prodigal son."
Silence. A deep, bronzy silence.
"Come with me, my friend, and we'll light a path through the dark and neglected air."
And still the giant bronze bull statue in front of the Stock Market maintained its dynamic silence. Which...was probably for the best, all things considered, because only crazy people thought inanimate objects spoke. And if there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was crazy people.
"Excuse me, sir?"
Rimmer turned his flat, distant eyes on to the figure of a Rent-A-Cop, one who didn't rate doing actual security work inside the building, but was rather stuck out in the cold guarding the symbol of American exchange.
"What is it, Leftenant Sebastian? I'm arranging matches."
"Uh....yeah. About that. We're going to have to ask you to leave."
And, beyond the Rent-A-Cop, a crowd of harried, hassled and gobsmacked day traders, clutching their slim briefcases and sporting their power ties and pencil skirts and their whiff of smug superiority, stared at Rimmer.
"But the party is just beginning!" he said, floating up a good five feet in the air, to the astonishment of the gathered crowd. "We haven't even put on our paper hats!"
"He's an imPort!" screamed one of the women, backing away. Already the first rumblings of the stampede had begun, a stampede that was sure to bring about a crash. Well, isn't that what the financial district was for, after all?
"I will show you! The bulls and the penguins will show you! You're breathing in the air and not respecting it! You're all intangible and I'm the only sane one left!"
And the hooves of the bull moved. Shuddered loose of their moorings with a bell-like 'kloooooooong' and flew at the crowd. It was like a scene right out of Pamplona, Spain, only with considerably more gingham. The stampede had begun, and Rimmer took casual pot-shots at the buildings around the clearing with his Hex-vision, encouraging the little ants to scurry away from him. A few bullets passed through his head, fired by the panicked Rent-A-Cop, but they soon stopped when the man's arm was pinned under a large piece of cornice that was knocked off the Exchange building.
"THERE WILL BE NO BANANAS!" Rimmer shrieked at the sky. "NO BANANAS FOR ANY OF YOU! NAUGHTY BOYS AND GIRLS! WE KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH NAUGHTY BOYS AND GIRLS, DON'T WE, MR. FLIBBLE?"
And from that point on, it was really kind of a blur...
WHERE: Financial District.
WHEN: Saturday 27/2 and Sunday 28/2
WARNINGS: Fighty fighty snickety snack.
SUMMARY: With only 48 hours left to save Rimmer's life, certain people better get their smegging arses in gear to try and stop him and shut down his light bee.
FORMAT: Whichever works!
"You understand, you know. You see the puzzle pieces, the little edge bits and the corner that are always the wrong way round and upside down and missing the second the box is open. We've got to make them understand, you're my only friend..."
Silence.
"Such still waters," Rimmer sighed, stroking the figure in front of him with Mr. Flibble's orange beak. "Such quiet depths, such understanding. We'll crack open the crusts of bread and the flagons of wine and roast the prodigal son."
Silence. A deep, bronzy silence.
"Come with me, my friend, and we'll light a path through the dark and neglected air."
And still the giant bronze bull statue in front of the Stock Market maintained its dynamic silence. Which...was probably for the best, all things considered, because only crazy people thought inanimate objects spoke. And if there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was crazy people.
"Excuse me, sir?"
Rimmer turned his flat, distant eyes on to the figure of a Rent-A-Cop, one who didn't rate doing actual security work inside the building, but was rather stuck out in the cold guarding the symbol of American exchange.
"What is it, Leftenant Sebastian? I'm arranging matches."
"Uh....yeah. About that. We're going to have to ask you to leave."
And, beyond the Rent-A-Cop, a crowd of harried, hassled and gobsmacked day traders, clutching their slim briefcases and sporting their power ties and pencil skirts and their whiff of smug superiority, stared at Rimmer.
"But the party is just beginning!" he said, floating up a good five feet in the air, to the astonishment of the gathered crowd. "We haven't even put on our paper hats!"
"He's an imPort!" screamed one of the women, backing away. Already the first rumblings of the stampede had begun, a stampede that was sure to bring about a crash. Well, isn't that what the financial district was for, after all?
"I will show you! The bulls and the penguins will show you! You're breathing in the air and not respecting it! You're all intangible and I'm the only sane one left!"
And the hooves of the bull moved. Shuddered loose of their moorings with a bell-like 'kloooooooong' and flew at the crowd. It was like a scene right out of Pamplona, Spain, only with considerably more gingham. The stampede had begun, and Rimmer took casual pot-shots at the buildings around the clearing with his Hex-vision, encouraging the little ants to scurry away from him. A few bullets passed through his head, fired by the panicked Rent-A-Cop, but they soon stopped when the man's arm was pinned under a large piece of cornice that was knocked off the Exchange building.
"THERE WILL BE NO BANANAS!" Rimmer shrieked at the sky. "NO BANANAS FOR ANY OF YOU! NAUGHTY BOYS AND GIRLS! WE KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH NAUGHTY BOYS AND GIRLS, DON'T WE, MR. FLIBBLE?"
And from that point on, it was really kind of a blur...