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Topics - Skill Flea

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Featured CreepyPasta / String Theory
« on: 04:56:41 PM 09/02/16 »
Have you ever had an experience that suggested someone else was in your house, and just thought “I don’t wanna know” and left it? Sometimes, fear of the unknown just seems like the preferable option than facing a real, concrete danger. Normally it’s nothing, though. One time, the beeper function of my wireless housephone went off, when I was the only one home. It could only be called from the living room. Another time, I swear someone took some change from my desk. They’re all probably just slightly disconcerting tricks of the memory.

But what would you do when something truly suggestive happens? Would you run, or just ignore it, like I did?

Last Monday was a normal day. I got up, brushed my teeth, changed into school clothes… All little parts of my morning ritual. It seemed like it would be another totally un-noteworthy day, until I saw the strings.

There were three or four thick twine strings in my room. They criss-crossed between the walls around my bed, one attached to the door. No way would I have missed them before; I should have tripped over them. They were tied to pins in the walls, which had also not existed before ten seconds ago.

Nobody could have been in my room while I was in it, let alone set this up. It was early, and my brain wasn’t processing correctly. I simply discredited the sight, untied the strings and left for school, leaving them balled up on my desk.

It didn’t get any better later. Outside my house there were hundreds of them, tied between houses, around cars, across streets… This had to be some super elaborate prank. One of those hidden camera shows, or a comedy improv blog. They had gotten everyone else to play along too; passer-bys were tangled in them, tying them to objects they were walking towards and away from, as if they had been and were continuing to follow the course laid out for them.

I nervously continued my journey to school. On the bus, every except me was tied to the door. At school, groups of friends were tied to each other; teachers were tied to their desks and boards. Oddly enough, at this point all I could wonder was why I had been left out.

When my friend Lucy sat beside me in first period, she simply plonked her bag down on my lap and rested her chin in her hand, looking right past me to the window outside.

“Hey Lucy.”

No response.

“Come on, I didn’t expect you to be in on this too. “

She sighed and started taking books from her bag. All the books were tied to her hands. I grinned, and yanked one of the strings off a book. She didn’t seem to notice, instead simply disregarding the book completely, letting it drop to the floor without a moment’s hesitation.

“Um.” I leaned down, picking up her book and placing it back on her desk. She took no notice.

“Well, if that’s how we’re gonna play it.” I smiled, trying to look playful, but really just trying to hide my nervousness. I bundled all the strings attached to her together with one hand, then pulled them all free.
She blinked, turning to stare at me.

“Holy crap, Martin. You’re like a ninja or something.”

“I’ve been sitting here for maybe ten minutes.” I smiled again, relieved my friend had finally “noticed” me.

“Where did all these strings come from??” She gasped, seemingly noticing for the first time.
“I assumed you were all fucking with me…”

She stood up, backing into a corner. No one else in the class noticed.

“They weren’t here just a minute ago! Do you see them too??” Her tone made it clear she was genuinely scared.

“No. Didn’t you-. “ I was interrupted by my teacher slamming the door behind her. Everyone except me and Lucy murmured a good morning, and still, no one seemed to pay either of us any notice.
“People have been ignoring me all day.” I said to Lucy, before turning to our teacher. “Hey! Dumb bitch! You can’t teach for shit!”

No reaction.

“I’m getting away from all this shit.” Lucy pulled a few strings aside and left the class. I followed, and surprise-surprise, no one else noticed.

We wandered the corridors, leaving and entering classes as we saw fit. Whenever we untied a chair or book from someone else, it was like it suddenly didn’t matter to them. It didn’t exist.

I showed her the street outside; there were more strings than when I came in this morning. Twice as many. We carefully picked our way through the tangle, making our way to a nearby coffee shop. Not particularly grand, I know. But what would you do in our situation? As I said, fear of the unknown sometimes seems like the safer option. On a few occasions, I suggested we untie a few more people. Lucy was opposed to it, remembering how terrified she’d been.

In the coffee shop, we grabbed a couple of sandwiches and drinks from the fridge. We found a table, untied all strings attached to the chairs, and sat down. We both ate in silence, both of us too scared, both of us distracting ourselves by watching the strangers in the shop, oblivious to the strings.
After twenty minutes, Lucy spoke up. “Now she’s gonna take that sandwich.” She said, pointing at a woman across the shop. Sure enough, she walked to the fridge and took the plastic wrapped sandwich she was tied to. “She pays for it and leaves.” She did so, according to the prophecies of the strings. “That guy doesn’t intend to pay.” I watched as a man took his coffee and ran out of the store, the two servers just looking too exasperated to go after him.

“This is horrible.” She whimpered. “Let’s go. Please.”

Outside wasn’t much better. Everyone just followed the strings’ instructions, going about their daily lives. Lucy announced she was going home to sleep this off, and I agreed to walk her home. She only lived ten minutes away.

Away from the busier part of town there were fewer strings. It was nicer; we could pretend it wasn’t happening.

When we turned onto Lucy’s street, she stopped, her mouth falling open.

“What now?” I broke the silence, my voice sounding surprisingly small.

”Look.” She pointed outside one of her neighbours houses.

I saw it clearly, and I’ll take my memory of that moment ‘til the day I die. A little dark imp, maybe three feet tall, walking along with its knuckles on the ground, almost like a monkey. It had two bulbous yellow eyes taking up about half its face, and no mouth or any other facial features. It was holding a hammer and a ball of twine, which it was letting out behind it.

It walked quickly and quietly from the front door of the house to the mailbox. It stopped, hammered a nail into the side of the box, and tied it’s string around it. It turned to face us, and stopped when it spotted us.

My bottom fell out even further than it had already been, but it just stared with a look of surprise and curiosity. You could almost say it was the more frightened one. Suddenly, it beckoned to us with its tiny hand.

I looked at Lucy, she hadn’t moved. I looked back at the imp, which stared at me.
I halved the distance between us, and then halved it again. This wasn’t fear of the unknown anymore; it was fear of this little guy. Didn’t seem like anything to be scared of. When I was a meter away from it, it extended its hand.

“Uh. Hi.” I shook it. It nodded in approval, blinking its massive yellow eyes up at me.

“So you’re the ones in charge of the strings?” It nodded eagerly. I called Lucy over, but she stayed where she was.

“There are more of you?” Another nod. I wanted to ask it so many questions, about what it was and where it came from, but it seemed for now I was stuck with only yes or no questions.

“Do we even have free will?”

It just looked at me, almost sadly. I immediately felt sick to my stomach, and couldn’t bear looking at the little monster anymore. I grabbed Lucy, who had been listening to our exchange, and now sat on the curb with her head in her hands.

“Come on.”

We entered her house, and I made her a cup of tea. When I found her in the living room, she had untied her dog and was curled up with it, crying. I set the tea down and sat beside her.

“I’m so scared.” She whispered after a good ten minutes of sobbing. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

“I’m going to sleep” She mumbled suddenly, and was under within the minute. Sleep was starting to sound pretty good all of a sudden, my eyelids suddenly felt like they were being weighed down.

I collapsed to the rug, and the last thing I heard before I fell asleep was the scurrying of several sets of little feet nearby.

I felt much better the next day, as if the whole affair had been a dream. I’d probably have believed that if I hadn’t been awoken by Lucy’s mother that morning, wondering what I was doing sleeping over without permission or something.

Over breakfast, Lucy asked me why I looked so pale and nervous. I turned to her and smiled, mumbling something to her about feeling sick.

But the truth was, I was scared because I couldn’t see any strings, and was wondering whether my actions were truly my own.

Crappypastas Only / You wake up one day without your nipples
« on: 04:53:05 PM 08/17/16 »
You wake up one day and go into the bathroom.

You wipe the sand from your eyes and look in the mirror.

You notice that your nipples are completely gone.

You run downstairs with tears in your eyes.

You approach the kitchen and see your mom with tears in her eyes.

You see her surrounded by police officers both far and near.

You can see a dead body in the kitchen.

You can make out his face and collapse in a heap.

You know this corpse was the father you seek whom had died last night while you were asleep.

You feel an officer's hand on your shoulder.

You cry harder, not able to cope with this day any longer.

You see the officers take your father away,

You know they may find his killer but who can say?

You sit down with your mother as she begins to explain.

"You were born without nipples and your father was ashamed."

"You would be sleeping in bed and he would come into your room."

"You were given two hickeys every night on your chest."

"You must know that he loved you and only wanted for you to fit in."

Featured CreepyPasta / Lost Episodes
« on: 02:25:05 PM 08/02/16 »
I don't want to burst anyone's bubble, here... so if you believe in haunted "Lost Episode" legends and enjoy living in that world, maybe this isn't the post for you.

Don't get me wrong - I hate when people complain about "lack of realism" in entertainment, and I think all kids need to believe in Santa and the Tooth Fairy for as long as possible, but... this is different.

Back in the 80s I met this dude, Sid, who used to cut old VHS tapes and shit. It was more than a hobby for him - it was pretty much his entire life. His parents were a bit more wealthy than I'd been blessed with, so when we were teenagers and I was slaving away at a "Skats" (Yes, Skats) fast food restaurant, he just hung out around the house, cutting tapes. All day. All night.

Of course, as you get older things in your past become a bit clearer and I think he might've been borderline Autistic... or maybe he was a very high-functioning person with Asperger's... but of course I'm no expert and I'm not saying that was the case. It's just the best and quickest way I can think of to explain his personality and this obsession with cutting tapes, cutting tapes, cutting tapes.

It started when he saw "Old Yeller" as a little kid. For whatever reason, his parents let him watch that shit. If you're unfamiliar with it, it's the tale of a boy and his dog. I hope I don't have to announce the spoiler on such an old-ass movie, but in the end the boy has to shoot his own dog because it's rabid.

Sid didn't appreciate this. His dad photographed and video-taped weddings, so he showed Sid how to operate some of the machines... and Sid cut out the ending, replacing it with an earlier, happier scene as if Old Yeller just suddenly "got better" offscreen.

He watched the tape obsessively after that, even into his early teens when I'd first met him. He made me watch it once to show how he "fixed" it, and I could actually picture him as a little boy once he started applauding and cheering his own faux-ending.

I don't want to say I was a bad influence, but after I saw it I asked if he could do that with other movies.

My major interest was perhaps taking a film or two and cutting in some nude frames the actresses hadn't really done... Don't worry, though. I never had the guts to actually ask if he would. I just imagined how cool it would be. Often.

Sid told me that, yes, he could "fix" any movie he wanted. In fact, he had done it with a few others. He had a copy of a Ghost Busters cartoon and - I shit you not - every single ghost was completely removed. The story made no sense, there was no continuity, but he had accomplished it and I was very impressed.

I guess in the time of VHS, these things seemed more magical than they do nowadays.

As time went by, I encouraged Sid to edit more movies, but with different purposes. Instead of whitewashing all the scary stuff like he'd wanted to do, I got him to "see the light" on how awesome he could make things.

Somewhere out there, this chubby Star Wars nerd from our highschool has all three original films flawlessly cut together, with edited-in effects that would've made George Lucas himself cry out: "Enough meddling!!"

We charged him like twenty dollars for the only copy, because we were idiots.

Anyway, this went on for a while before I lost most of my interest in it. It was more of a goof for me than it was for him. This is the point where I started working, started driving, started taking bases with local girls... while he just got more and more involved in cutting those tapes.

I think his favorites were cartoons. When The Simpsons came around, he went ape shit with those. Now his edits weren't so much fixing things as just breaking them in interesting ways. Another thing that sticks out in my mind is when he recorded an episode of M*A*S*H and cut it with a gory old war flick. Halfway through his version, the camp gets bombed... soldiers invade... everyone dies. At the end, he specifically worked in freeze-frames of each cast member's face. Eyes closed.

He had completely reversed his interests and embraced what had once terrified him... scary endings. He seemed to love things like long, drawn-out sequences in terrifying silence. He'd make me be quiet while they played, too.

You may have heard about this mysterious fellow named Banksy who goes around creating interesting graffiti and whatnot. At one point, he went into a music store and replaced some Paris Hilton CDs with his own fakes.

Banksy had nothing on Sid. Every other week, he'd tell me about some store or a video rental place he'd snuck some of his tapes into. He swapped out the real ones for his versions, and then he'd start all over by cutting the ones he had stolen.

At one point, when I hadn't heard from him in a long while, I stopped by his parents' house and found him in the garage. He'd set up his own little movie studio there, complete with a drawing board.

He was actually animating entirely new content.

All at once, I was both blown away by his artistic skill I'd never seen before... and very concerned about when this guy was going to come out of the dark and start acting "normal" like me.

He barely looked up from his drawings as we spoke. I asked him what any kid, now in his late teens, would ask...

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"


"Seriously, dude. This is some crazy shit."

"It's work. I'm working. My work is just as important as anyone else's."

"Are you even selling these anymore, or are you just sneaking them into places? How much is all of this costing your Dad?"

"I don't care."

I looked at what he was so fervently illustrating.

"Is that a headless body? Dancing?"


"That's pretty dark, man."

"I know. That's the point."

"I don't get it."

"Those tapes. I thought they were wrong, but over time I figured out the truth."

"Which is..."

"The scary stuff is right. The happy endings are the lie."

He just kept drawing as I stood there. The silence was disturbing, and in that moment I could smell the B.O. coming off of him. It wasn't just sweat, either. It was a mingling of that and a foul ass and piss-soaked cloth.

I hate to say it, but I gave up on him right then. It's that moment when you look at someone... someone you thought you knew... and all that you can think is... "Holy shit, I never realized they were this far gone."

It wasn't until I was in my 30s that Sid crossed my mind again. I was pursuing the internet, just aimlessly wandering the web, when I came across a series of "urban legends" about strange VHS tapes, re-cut movies, and lost episodes.

Some of these I recognized. I'd watched them with Sid, or I'd actually seen him in the middle of working on them. Every disturbing scene, every unbelievable anecdote... I believed it, because I had been there.

Others... SpongeBob cartoons, episodes of iCarly or whatever, those shows came long after I'd made my break with Sid, but the style was all too familiar. Even the ones that didn't sound like his work seemed like they could've been broken copies or attempts at mimicing his work.

He was still doing it. My God, it boggled my mind.

I called up Sid's old number, not entirely sure I'd still find him there. It rang for minutes on end, and I knew that the search was hopeless. Even if he still lived with his parents, it wasn't likely they'd all still be at the same house by now.


I made it a point to drive out to his old place... to see if he was still in that garage, cutting tapes, or manipulating them via computer, or whatever he would be up to. When I passed by the house, the unkempt lawn was overgrown with huge, waist-high weeds. The dilapidated facade of the building, with its peeling paint on the shutters, missing roof tiles, and muck-filled gutters told me no one had lived here for a long time.

I saw a note on the door, but couldn't read it from the road. Maybe it was something I could use to locate Sid and see if he'd ever gotten the help I now realized I should have given him.

Pulling into the driveway, my headlights illuminated the garage door. It was windowless and vandalized with the gangster tags of some traveling band of assholes.

The note on the door, as one might expect, spoke of a certain bank now owning the property. It noted that trespassing was heavily discouraged, and that at a certain point someone would be out to make sure the house was "winterized". Whatever the Hell that is.

As I walked back to the car, defeated, something was nagging at me. I knew that Sid's parents kept a spare key under a false rock by the back stairs, basically by virture of Sid locking us both out on several occasions.

When I found that key, a sense of cold, gnawing dread swirled in my stomach.

Who would move out and leave everything in place like this? The key was the most obvious thing, but flower pots and lawn decorations were still there. Sid's old, rusted-out Huffy bike was leaning against the house, and had created thick rusty streaks along the aluminum siding.

I don't even know what I expected to find, but using the key, I entered the house.

The smell was overwhelming.

Not a putrid smell, nothing rotten or decaying... just the smell of... I don't know if this would make any sense to you, but... the smell of electricity. Like burning dust on a lightbulb or a heater giving off a peculiar warmed metal odor.

That was the least of my concerns, however, as I saw everything just as I had left it. Everything Sid's family owned was frozen in time. The dining room table we'd all sat at on many occasions was dust-covered and supported an emiaciated dead rat which had all but turned to dust.

The television... that bulky, oversized television set we'd all sat around to watch Sid's tapes and laud his creativity... it sat where it always had been, silently displaying a violent bombardment of black and white static.

As I moved through the rooms, the sense of panic and discomfort within me only grew. Every fiber of my being was shouting RUN... RUN, you fucking idiot!

Still, I pressed on into Sid's bedroom. It was now empty and in disrepair, his prized action figures and blank video tapes... hundreds of video tapes... stale and water damaged.

I almost wanted to call out... to shout "Sid!" and wait for him to appear as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

I went into his parents' bedroom.

There, lying in bed, were two motionless bodies. Gaunt. Gray. Half turned to dust, just like the rat in the dining room.

I could scarcely believe what I was seeing with my own eyes. Not only were two dead bodies slowly dissipating within the confines of this once idyllic suburban household... but nobody had even checked on them. Nobody had discovered this until now.

My mind raced. My heart raced. The only things that wouldn't move were my feet, which remained glued to the spot.

Sid, I thought, must have done this. There was no way the two of them would just lie down one night and simultaneously DIE of natural causes! Sid had said he didn't care about his parents, and...

When was the last time I had seen them? God, I hadn't seen them for days, maybe weeks BEFORE the last time I talked to Sid...

When I finally left the room, I took out my cell phone and began dialing 911. However, as soon as I lifted it to my head, an ear-splitting shriek of interference nearly caused me to fling the object across the room.

I rushed to the kitchen phone. Squealing static.

I tried the living room phone just to be thorough. Static.

It wasn't until I put the receiver back down that I heard it. Music. Faint, barely audible music that I hadn't noticed before. It seemed to be some repeating melody... happy and light... some flutes, maybe a whole horn section.

I followed the peppy tune to the in-house door to the garage. Pressing my ear to the door's dirty surface, I determined that the music was indeed coming from just beyond.

"Sid?" I called out, barely managing to form the name with cold, bloodless lips, "Sid, are you in there? Are you alright?"

I tried the door only to find it somehow locked from the other side. It was no matter, since one wild kick nearly knocked the rotting wood off its hinges.

"SID?" I shouted as the dust slowly cleared.

Through the haze, I could only see the light of a television screen. Vibrant colors. Blue, green, yellow...

Soon, I could make out a cartoon playing on the screen. Then, the silver wires running from the set itself to some dark mass. Then, the dark mass took shape as my eyes adjusted to the odd lighting.

It was Sid... or rather, his body... not dead nearly as long as his parents, seated in an old office chair. The wires from the television set lead directly to his body, eventually disappearing into several old, crusted-over holes his leathery flesh. Through a small worm-eaten opening in his ribs, I thought I could see more metal inside of him.

I walked to Sid's side, holding my hand over my mouth for fear of vomiting. His face was twisted into a hideous, wide grin... his empty eye sockets almost seemed happy, hooded by a pleased brow line.

"Hi there!" I heard a jarring voice.

The voice was upbeat. High-pitched. It sounded almost like Sid, but... different. Bubbly, cartoony.

I turned to the screen. The green grass, the blue sky, the yellow flowers... and Sid. A perfect caricature of him. It strolled along the infinite loop of that utopian cartoon background.

It waved to me.

"Sid..." I whispered, "Oh God, Sid..."

He... the cartoon version of him... turned his attention away from me and continued to merrily stroll across that unending cycle of the same backdrop. He passed a shrub... then passed it again... and again... The same bluebird, chirping happily, flew through the sky in a figure eight.

"Sid..." I shook my head, unable to comprehend the scenario, "I never should have let you leave reality."

I thought about what Sid had done to his Mom and Dad. I thought about how the bank would come by soon and this would all come to light. I watched Sid walk along for nearly a half hour.

Then I unplugged the set.

Your Stories / A list of everything that matters.
« on: 04:55:25 AM 08/01/16 »

I'm looking for contestants for a creepypasta game show I'm running on my YouTube channel called "Gory Gnocchi!". If you have a good mic, please respond if you are interested and also provide a list of creepypasta you would feel comfortable answering questions for.

Ex: funnymouth, Jeff the Killer, Barbie.avi, etc.

* The more stories you list the better your chances are for getting on. This is to help me since I plan to group people for shows based on similarities in creepypasta lists. I want to get 3-5 people all of whom, listed 4 of the same creepypasta.   

Featured CreepyPasta / Dusty's Radio Show
« on: 05:26:45 PM 06/26/16 »
About a year ago I frequented one of those sites where people post a variety of funny pictures, videos and all kinds of stupid internet memes. I didn't do much after school besides sitting on my computer wasting time back then. Sometimes I would browse the newest uploads section of the site looking for pictures that might give me quick laugh or smile. My internet connection was slow and laggy so I always skipped over posts of videos, being too impatient to wait for any of them to buffer just to see some thirty second clip of a guy getting hit in the crotch or whatever, but there was this one time I made an exception. I spotted a video titled, “Radio host prank called,” which quickly captured my interest. I figured something like that was worth waiting a minute or so to watch.

The video clip turned out to be audio only with a black screen for the entire duration. I probably should have expected that considering the post title did say it was a “Radio” host.

The man in the video who was being prank called, ran an internet radio show called “The Real Eagle” where he apparently spent a few hours twice a week ranting about how white people were the only “real Americans” and other racist bullshit like that. The guy sounded kind of old, maybe in his forties or fifties, and talked in a low sort of grumbling tone. He also went by the alias “Dusty”. Not surprising that he wouldn't use his real name. But what was mainly important here was that during the last twenty minutes of every show he would do a segment where he started accepting phone calls from the audience.

Needless to say, it was hilarious. Every single call the guy received was a joke and let me tell you, it made the guy pissed. Sure the jokes the callers pulled on him were pretty lame, but it was Dusty's reaction that made it so entertaining. At one point towards the end of the show you could hear him throw something at the wall and curse far away from the mic as if he were about to leave the room in his anger.

After I had seen that video I started visiting Dusty's web page at a radio blogging site to listen to the show live. Even without the barrage of prank calls it was funny enough just to listen to his idiotic rants on their own. He would say crap like, “We need to purge the blacks and Mexicans from our soil!” almost on a daily basis. The site had a chat room box on the side where everyone that visited mocked the hell out of him during every broadcast. Dusty never paid any attention to it though. The site he hosted his show off of had a chat box for every individual broadcast by default, so I guess he either never noticed or just didn't care.

I spent the next few months listening to Dusty whenever he was on. Every Monday and Friday from 8pm to 11pm he was on the air spouting the same nonsense with a little re-wording. Despite all the prank calls he received, he would always still proceed with the phone call segment at the end of every show. You would think by then he would learn his lesson and call it quits, but he never did. Similarly you could say the same thing about me. Nothing really changed over the months that I listened to Dusty, and I wasn't even one of the people that consistently prank called him every show. To me, listening to “The Real Eagle” was just another way to kill my boredom.

Sure the show was funny, but it never really caught on or grossed a huge following. At most There were maybe a hundred and fifty people that had tuned in to the show live at once, and I can almost guarantee that every single one of them were there to mock and laugh at him. For these reasons, what happened during one particular episode took me completely by surprise.

It was the start of the last twenty minutes of the show. Everything up to that point was ordinary. My parents were out, so I had been parked on my living room couch with my laptop and headphones listening to the pathetic rantings of Dusty, now awaiting the almost routine barrage of prank calls from his “fans”.

This is where things had begun to get odd. Rather then starting the last segment like he usually would, Dusty instead had gotten strangely silent, and then got up, leaving the room without a word.

Several minutes had passed without a sound. Everyone in the chat room was going berserk, clearly pissed off that they weren't getting the chance to harass their favourite bigot. Some had even started leaving, most likely thinking that Dusty had simply had enough of their crap and just left them to sit there like idiots for the rest of the show. I was about to give up and leave the live stream myself, until the distinct noise of a door opening sounded through over the broadcast.

Curious to see what Dusty had come back for, I stopped myself from closing the window and listened.

As I heard Dusty reenter the room, there were the muffled sounds of him shouting stuff along the lines of, “Get in there!” in a few different variations followed by the muted sounds of someone sobbing.

I was now even more curious. Dusty had never once brought another person on the show before. Every other broadcast, it had only ever been him alone doing the show. But besides the obvious questions of who this new person was and why were they there, what concerned me more was why they were crying, and why was Dusty shouting at them in such a threatening voice? All of this had caught me off guard, and I was starting to feel a sinking feeling brewing in my gut.

The soft crying noises grew louder as Dusty and the second person approached the still turned on microphone. Now closer, the crying from the other person was clearer now. The sound quality of the microphone Dusty used for his show was far from great, and you could only hear him clearly when he talked directly into the microphone, but I could still tell that this person was a woman.

Between her cries I could hear her softly pleading.

“Please...” She begged. “Stop it...”

I wasn't sure at first, due to the scratchy audio, but it had sounded like the woman had an accent of some kind. I couldn't tell you which, but I think you can understand why that would be relevant to mention.

Before my head could fill itself with any more questions Dusty himself began speaking into the mic with the same threatening authoritative tone he had just ordered the woman in.

“In this beautiful land we live in, filthy bastards like these wander in and taint the progress of the true Americans!”

His words were nothing different from anything else I've heard him say in previous shows. But hearing him say them in the current circumstances, carried a sense of dread with it. I was more then a little unsettled at this point, and I was greatly reconsidering the option of leaving the broadcast.

The chat box, which was usually flooding with heckling at the shows host had noticeably decreased in activity. I imagined that everyone was most likely focusing directly on what was happening on the show right now.

Dusty continued on. Speaking more nonsense about a “Pure Race” and how he would cleanse the US of all who dared to taint it. I can't fully recall everything he had said at that point, as I was more focused on the sounds of the woman's crying. This went on for a few moments with me listening attentively, hoping that everything was going to be okay, and that this woman was not actually in any kind of danger.

Suddenly, Dusty's rant came to an abrupt stop and was immediately followed by a loud clicking noise. The Woman began screaming in reaction, her yells gaining an echo as she ran away from wherever the microphone was placed. Her pleading words from earlier were now intensified and desperate, now loud enough to be picked up by the mic at a distance.

“Please don't do this!!! Just stop!!!”

That was when it hit me. I couldn't tell at first due to the previously mentioned audio quality issues, but that clicking noise must have been the cocking of a gun! Dusty was going to shoot this woman!

My mind did not want to fully accept the belief that this woman was in serious danger. But there was no way to deny it now. This couldn't have been a prank, the woman’s cries for help sounded too real. I was now convinced that Dusty had forced this woman in to the location of wherever it was that he hosted the show from, and planned to shoot her.

I had completely frozen up. What the hell was I supposed to do? It wasn't as if I could just pick up the phone and call the cops. This was a radio show on the internet. There was no way they'd be able to do anything, at least not immediately anyway. Panic began to overwhelm me as I struggled to think of something, anything I could do.

The woman's begging had suddenly grown louder. It was hard to hear over her shouting, but Dusty also began to say something. The way his voice was muffled indicated that he had his back to the mic.

“You've ruined our land! You are the disease and I am the cure!”

Unable to do anything else, the woman once again pleaded with her attacker.

“You don't have to do this!” The woman shouted. “I won't tell anyone! Please! Just let me-”



All of the noise ceased, and the only sound I could hear was the rapid beating of my heart. The loud bang had sent a jolt through my body. Once again I was frozen in place, not knowing what to do. And then my brain finally finished processing everything I had just heard.

Dusty had just killed that woman.

Upon this realization, my mind began to panic, and I started to try and convince myself that this was all just a dream or elaborate hoax. All the while, hearing nothing but the static buzzing of the broadcast through my headphones, with no sound coming from the gunman. I shook my head, desperately trying to remove the gruesome image of the woman's dead body from mind.

Several more minutes of silence passed. I don't know why I didn't just close the browser. I just sat there listening, unable to do anything else. I don't know how long this continued for, but eventually some of my sense began to return to me and I moved my mouse towards the red X in the top right corner of the screen. But then something stopped me.

In a tone that sounded as if he were grinning, Dusty spoke into the microphone one last time.

“They snuck into our country by the waves of the ocean. I'll make sure they go back the same way. One piece at a time.”

I clicked and closed the browser.

Credited Author is Pikasprey.

Your Stories / The Day The Internet Died
« on: 04:51:11 AM 06/17/16 »
C-139 (Code Name: Cruise Ship) Audio Entry #45

Hello, my name is Wilson. I am 24 years old and have been off the internet for 9 months.

Excellent. Now can you tell us a little about yourself?

I really love candy. Can’t get enough of it really. I am trying so hard to have hobbies. I want this out of me!! 

Wilson, it’s alright. Everything is fine. Look, I just happen to have some in my pocket. Would you like some?

Now then. Please share with the people how your life has been in these last 9 months?

Oh my god! How could I forget!? I want to finally see my kids. I can’t wait to see how much they have grown and I may have an opportunity to see them tomorrow.

Ah, the joys and ignorance of children these days. They go out. Play. Never knowing as much as we did.

Wil$on. Do not shout at m3. You are better than that.

I’m trying.

It has been great seeing you improve. In fact, I’m going to let you go for the day.

Thank you! No really sir, I promise. You have my word!

Oh. No no no Wilson. It is my pleasure.

Hi everyone, this is xxSkillzFleaxx here! I've written three "incredible" stories as part of an ongoing series that I am now calling Dad Cop. At this time, they include Super Hyper Realistic Smoke, TwoInterviewees.exe, and recently A Few Complaints©. If I feel inspired or wasted, I may update this post should a new one be made. Here are the current stories so far in order. (Note: In case you couldn't figure it out, these stories are a fucking blight against humanity.)

Super Hyper-Realistic Smoke

I turned to my partner and saw hyper-realistic smoke coming out of his mouth! He did this every day on the force, blowing it in my face. He died of lung cancer ...

30 years later.

After the funeral I was walking in the dark forest outside of muy house when I saw it. A blood-red NES cartridge laying there in the middle of the woods. I jumped back in horor at its presence. The words rang out so clearly:

"Smoking Simulator".

I took it home. It was a sign. From my dead partner - this is his work.

I popped it in to my son's NES. He complained about me using his NES so I beat his ass. This was 4 my partner!!

When I turned on the NES, the NES began to vomit out hyper-realistic vomit! My son screamed, so I had to hit him again.

The game continued to play on my TV and despite the mountain of vomit spewing everywhere. The sound was unbearable!! The hyper-realistic vomit was turning into hyper-realistic blood -I couldn't handle it anymore.

I had to turn off the game.

As I hit the power button,one final message played on the screen.

There was my partner's face crying hyper-realistic blood. With the words underneath in blood:

"Smoking Killz"


(Note: this is a followup of "Super Hyper-Realistic Smoking" It is recommended you are familiar with the original story before continuing – you fucking morons)

After my partner died from smoking, I was alone a lot of nights. The cold, cool refreshing taste of a Bud Light hit the back of my throat one night as I reflected on what my life had become. I was forced to retire from the force, I guess they don’t take to kindly to the excuse “he died in a Nintendo game”. My wife had also left me with my fucking son but that’s not why I am here. The reason I’m still alive is because of that game. That accursed game. That unholy abomination:

“Ask me what it means” by Mauro Vanetti.

Now my son was messing around with a bunch of these chucklefucks on this website called Gamejolt. Being the tough ex-cop that doesn’t play by the rules, I had asked him to go outside. He didn’t want to so I had to … eh, you know the rest. After his sobbing ass went outside, I decided to look at his computer. Yeah, so what if I was bored and had an alternative motive?

I saw that he had downloaded and opened up this game called “Listen to me, I’m profound!” By Mauro Vanetti. The strange thing was that the name of the file was called “TwoInterviewees.exe” which made no sense to me. I mean if the file was called TwoInterviewees.exe, than why did the title screen clearly say “Look how subtle I am!” by Mauro Vanetti?

I hit the start button and began playing “The Vagina Monologue” by Mauro Vanetti. The first image that pop on the screen made me jump back in fright!!

Now, listen. Listen real good. Even with my own limited experience with the haunted game “Smoking Simulator”, I understand how to spot a haunted game. This time I was prepared. Now look, if you don’t want to have nightmares stop reading now!! Your psyche may be broken just by viewing this image. So I’m warning you guys now to turn back while you still can!!

Ok then. Prepare yourselves.

When I hit the start button two people appeared on the screen. One a man and one a woman. 

I swear on my badge that neither of them had faces. I even took a screen shot so that people will believe me this time:

*insert screenshot here8

It was so creepy.

Now I was hooked. A game took my partner from me and now I had a chance for revenge. I decided to commit to playing through the whole game. For my partner’s eternal rest, “Beaver Fever” by Mauro Vanetti was going to pay.
The gameplay was incredibly easy and I beat in the game after a few attempts. The premise is simple, you play as the two disturbing faceless characters and make the same decisions for them. Most people can’t spot what the game was trying to do here. Luckily, as a detective, I knew how to crack this case like so many others. It was so obvious! The game was trying to say that two interviewees for the same job can’t get that same job!1 Well of course, its only one job, I mean what did the developer expect? That two people can coexist within the same space? Ugh … idiot.

Eventually, I successfully got the man the job and beat “Did you know women can’t get jobs” by Mauro Vanetti! I was victorious!! My partner could now rest in peace! And as I went into the files to delete this thing I knew that I had conquered my greatest fears! Until I realized something as the final file was deleted. I never got the girl the job. What happened? Why couldn’t she get hired!?

Then, I felt a presence near me. All I can remember before blacking out was a soft voice whisper something into my right ear.

“Ask me what it means.” 

A Few Complaints©

I’m still the same old retired police officer. And I got to tell you, it’s boring as fuck.  My hand is actually starting to hurt from all the beatings I give my dick of a son and even getting piss drunk at the local church has started to not give me that same feeling of satisfaction. The truth is, I’m bored as fuck.

So I decided to go back into my old memories and try to find some nostalgia from my days on the force. I shed some joyful man tears when I saw pictures of my old partner. I was so happy to see him and hadn’t cried this hard since the last Trump rally.

Then I took out this giant box that was sealed tightly with packing tape. The message on the box was written very cruelly in comic sans:


“That’s right!” I thought to myself as I began to laugh at this box.

For some reason a lot of the other officers hated me while I was a cop. When this happened, I would naturally try to get them fired.  My reasoning was that anyone who disliked someone as patriotic as myself could only be a spy for the Mexican government. The point is, I needed to get on good terms with the chief in order to get these fake cops to go back over the border. He loved me and I hated his cats. He’d make me go over there when he was out of town to feed them and shit. It was awful but I did it for America.

In any case, the chief put me in charge of the office complaints. Aside from cops and dicktectives, we had normal people come into the office to do office work. Accountants, tech guys, and all those other cubicle faggots circle-jerking around our solitude of justice. They and anyone working in the precinct could fill out an office complaint form if they were triggered in some way. Of course, I never read them and would report to the chief with a box filled with my own complaints. Sometimes hundreds of them by the end of the week. That’s how I was able to get so many people fired and give the middle finger to their stupid Mexican country. But I always took the real complaints home with me and put them in a box. Kind of like a trophy of my success.

But I was bored and read through thousands of these things that were written in a span of at least two decades. I decided to post some of them for you dickweeds sitting there reading this garbage.
COMPLAINT: The donuts keep disappearing from the break room. If the cops don’t have their donuts and coffee it could cause “police brutality”. Especially for Dad Cop.

COMPLAINT: How do we get conformation with the complaints? None of mine have been answered.
COMPLAINT: Since nobody is actually looking into this box, a few officers said they were going to put some really stupid shit in it to see if it gets a response.

COMPLAINT: Frank is cheating on his wife when he thinks I'm not watching. Please do something about this immediately.   

COMPLAINT: Too many brothers in the holding cells. What the hell is up with Dad Cop!

COMPLAINT: Three punk ass kids with weapons were beat up at a birthday party. Apparently all the parents just watched and helped some teen after he was set on fire. I’m too old for this shit.

COMPLAINT: Dad Cop is a menace. He needs to be fired.

COMPLAINT: Why the fuck do we keep getting 911 calls about Disney! Peopl need to be more creative. 

COMPLAINT: The Yankees lost last week and Gary isn’t paying up. I want my $30!

COMPLAINT: I arrested this guy for having a ton of illegal pornography. He keeps saying it was advertised as “Normal”. Please book him in cell 8-D.

COMPLAINT: This is a robbery!

COMPLAINT: Frank is now cheating on my wife. I like watching and hate sitting there in my filth. 

COMPLAINT: Someone on the force has a sick sense of humor. At a closed off crime scene, someone carved words into the trunk of an oak tree where three artists hung themselves. It read “Artist Tree”. 


COMPLAINT: Who the hell authorized the Boy Scouts to come in here for a community service project? Frank is giving them looks and it’s weird.

COMPLAINT: Vincent tried to sell me a skull for $6,000. I don’t know where he got it but I need backup NOW!

COMPLAINT: No! I’m serious! This is a robbery! why wouldn’t anyone get on the fucking ground! 

COMPLAINT: Frank’s office smells like Boy Scouts! DEAR GOD WHY!

COMPLAINT: Some idiot came in here to report a costume freak try to rip his own head off. I beat his ass and told him to leave. Please arrest the fucker if anyone sees him again.

COMPLAINT: Seriously, Dad Cop needs to be fired. Whoever reads though these things is not doing their job.


COMPLAINT: The woman in the holding cell B-3 complained about the lack of taste with her lunch. Dad Cop just beat her ass an d calls her dead pallet. 

COMPLAINT: Kaela knows who I am! Someone call the police!!
COMPLAINT: My Penpal stopped writing. Can I have another?

COMPLAINT: The Girl Scouts are now coming. HAVE WE LEARNED NOTHING!

COMPLAINT: What do I do if the chief is hitting on me?

COMPLAINT: Dad Cop called me a slutty McButt and then slapped my backside. I’d complain to HR is they weren’t so lazy.

COMPLAINT: dunkin donuts is NOT Krispy Kreme! Get your shit together there are lives at stake here!!

COMPLAINT: The old man in holding cell M-C keeps rattling the holding cell bars with his cane. Get him to stop I can’t work!

COMPLAINT:  Hi, I’m a registered sex offender.

COMPLAINT: Dad Cop’s son came to the precinct and I punched him in the face. I can’t explain it but seeing this kid makes everyone here really irate. Please ban him from all offices.

COMPLAINT: The copy machine is acting up again. Also who put me on all the wanted posters again?

COMPLAINT: I ran into this teenager with hyper realistic blood dripping out of his eyes and mouth. He had a knife and told me it was time to sleep. I shot him. My job here is too boring can I transfer?

COMPLAINT: Frank came in with this stupid video game and now plays it all day. Some sort of simulator game for the NES. He’s addicted and isn’t doing his work. 

COMPLAINT: Serious question here. Why are you still reading this? I mean sure, you have a box filled with complaints and it may seem interesting to you but I wanted to ask you why. Why you thought reading this post randomly written by someone else would be necessary. Get a life! Otherwise you are going to be spending all your time on online forums and chat rooms.

COMPLAINT: Seriously stop reading.

COMPLAINT: Seriously stop it.

COMPLAINT: These Girl Scouts taste great.

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