RKMBs Forums .::Important::. Fortress of Awesome Chat halo is anus spelled backwards!

it's true, check it out:

okay spelled forwards "halo"

now here it is backwards "anus"


this halo guy is fucking gay, he put a coded anus in his username!

I always thought my name spelled backwards was the same as that Indian God dude who doesn't like you eating cows.

Mxy?

Okay spelled forward is okay.


x=x

I learned that in pre-algebra. Message board god my ass.

I always learn so much on the internet.

Relik tought me how to suck dick.



Edited by Ollie North (05/25/08 05:18 PM)

No Child Left Behind is working! And people said the docking of school funds was going to hurt.




The rustle of a woman's dress was heard in the next room. Prince Andrew shook himself as if waking up, and his face assumed the look it had had in Anna Pavlovna's drawing room. Pierre removed his feet from the sofa. The princess came in. She had changed her gown for a house dress as fresh and elegant as the other. Prince Andrew rose and politely placed a chair for her.

"How is it," she began, as usual in French, settling down briskly and fussily in the easy chair, "how is it Annette never got married? How stupid you men all are not to have married her! Excuse me for saying so, but you have no sense about women. What an argumentative fellow you are, Monsieur Pierre!"

"And I am still arguing with your husband. I can't understand why he wants to go to the war," replied Pierre, addressing the princess with none of the embarrassment so commonly shown by young men in their intercourse with young women.

The princess started. Evidently Pierre's words touched her to the quick.

"Ah, that is just what I tell him!" said she. "I don't understand it; I don't in the least understand why men can't live without wars. How is it that we women don't want anything of the kind, don't need it? Now you shall judge between us. I always tell him: Here he is Uncle's aide-de-camp, a most brilliant position. He is so well known, so much appreciated by everyone. The other day at the Apraksins' I heard a lady asking, 'Is that the famous Prince Andrew?' I did indeed." She laughed. "He is so well received everywhere. He might easily become aide-de-camp to the Emperor. You know the Emperor spoke to him most graciously. Annette and I were speaking of how to arrange it. What do you think?"

Pierre looked at his friend and, noticing that he did not like the conversation, gave no reply.

"When are you starting?" he asked.

"Oh, don't speak of his going, don't! I won't hear it spoken of," said the princess in the same petulantly playful tone in which she had spoken to Hippolyte in the drawing room and which was so plainly ill-suited to the family circle of which Pierre was almost a member. "Today when I remembered that all these delightful associations must be broken off... and then you know, Andre..." (she looked significantly at her husband) "I'm afraid, I'm afraid!" she whispered, and a shudder ran down her back.

Her husband looked at her as if surprised to notice that someone besides Pierre and himself was in the room, and addressed her in a tone of frigid politeness.

"What is it you are afraid of, Lise? I don't understand," said he.

"There, what egotists men all are: all, all egotists! Just for a whim of his own, goodness only knows why, he leaves me and locks me up alone in the country."

"With my father and sister, remember," said Prince Andrew gently.

"Alone all the same, without my friends.... And he expects me not to be afraid."

Her tone was now querulous and her lip drawn up, giving her not a joyful, but an animal, squirrel-like expression. She paused as if she felt it indecorous to speak of her pregnancy before Pierre, though the gist of the matter lay in that.

"I still can't understand what you are afraid of," said Prince Andrew slowly, not taking his eyes off his wife.

The princess blushed, and raised her arms with a gesture of despair.

"No, Andrew, I must say you have changed. Oh, how you have..."

"Your doctor tells you to go to bed earlier," said Prince Andrew. "You had better go."

The princess said nothing, but suddenly her short downy lip quivered. Prince Andrew rose, shrugged his shoulders, and walked about the room.

Pierre looked over his spectacles with naive surprise, now at him and now at her, moved as if about to rise too, but changed his mind.

"Why should I mind Monsieur Pierre being here?" exclaimed the little princess suddenly, her pretty face all at once distorted by a tearful grimace. "I have long wanted to ask you, Andrew, why you have changed so to me? What have I done to you? You are going to the war and have no pity for me. Why is it?"

"Lise!" was all Prince Andrew said. But that one word expressed an entreaty, a threat, and above all conviction that she would herself regret her words. But she went on hurriedly:

"You treat me like an invalid or a child. I see it all! Did you behave like that six months ago?"

"Lise, I beg you to desist," said Prince Andrew still more emphatically.

Pierre, who had been growing more and more agitated as he listened to all this, rose and approached the princess. He seemed unable to bear the sight of tears and was ready to cry himself.

"Calm yourself, Princess! It seems so to you because... I assure you I myself have experienced... and so... because... No, excuse me! An outsider is out of place here... No, don't distress yourself... Good-by!"

Prince Andrew caught him by the hand.

"No, wait, Pierre! The princess is too kind to wish to deprive me of the pleasure of spending the evening with you."

"No, he thinks only of himself," muttered the princess without restraining her angry tears.

"Lise!" said Prince Andrew dryly, raising his voice to the pitch which indicates that patience is exhausted.

Suddenly the angry, squirrel-like expression of the princess' pretty face changed into a winning and piteous look of fear. Her beautiful eyes glanced askance at her husband's face, and her own assumed the timid, deprecating expression of a dog when it rapidly but feebly wags its drooping tail.

"Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" she muttered, and lifting her dress with one hand she went up to her husband and kissed him on the forehead.

"Good night, Lise," said he, rising and courteously kissing her hand as he would have done to a stranger.

And I bet you were his star pupil! Did you get an A on your final?

"....fucking server...." Shirley grumbled to herself, ready to throw the entire PC through the window. She banged on it a few times, as the screen stayed locked.

A gust of wind suddenly blew the doors open, her hair and the papers on the desk tossed in the flurry.

"TOBIAS!!" she yelled in irritation, trying to grab all the pages as they scattered.

Tobias stood with a slight grin on his face, beads of sweat lining his tan features.

"What have I told you about that?" she exclaimed, pulling her hair back into place.

"HehSorryIforgotCometoacompletestopbeforeentering--"

Shirley quickly clamped her hand over her ears, the glass of water on her desk beginning to vibrate from the meta-sonics of his voice.

"SLOW DOWN!" she yelled.

TC immediately stopped talking, his mouth still open. He closed his eyes, a sheepish grin coming over his face.

"I...guess there's no point in me apologizing more, huh?" he finally said at, what was to him, a snail's pace.

She cocked her eyebrow, reshuffling the papers.

"Just....learn...to slow down a bit around us mortals, huh?" she breathed with a slight annoyance. Her face grimaced a bit. "And, please leave your workout shoes outside. You don't know what it's like to have to smell burning rubber every morning you walk in...."

He broke into a full smile, kicking his foot up onto the corner of the lobby couch, unlacing the completely melted sneakers.

"OFF the couch!" she barked.

He quickly jerked his foot down, gaining a very nervous expression as he noticed a smear of liquid rubber along the edge of where his foot had been. He looked back, seeing a set of rubberized footprints melted into the carpet.

He slowly turned towards Shirley, as she merely tapped her pencil rythmically against the desk.

"Fifth time this week, Christopher...." she mumbled, staring harsh eyes at him.

"I know! I'm REALLY sor--"

"Go!" she barked, pointing towards the elevator.

He hung his head a bit, a slight smile on both their faces, as the sleek metal doors opened for him.

"Anybody stopped by today?" he asked, entering the elevator.

"Not a soul...." she replied, dialing the office furnishers for new carpet.

*********************

A smile crossed Danny's lips, as he sat back from the finished plate of shrimp and pasta.

"Now THAT was good...." he mumbled, rubbing his stomach.

"Better than fish-sticks, for sure...." Sam replied between burps. A slight bruise occupied the left side of his face. "Too bad Larry ate them all..."

"...heh...fuck you..." Dan half-laughed, a burp suddenly interrupting his words. "You're just lucky I didn't say 'Gorilla fists'...heh..."

Suddenly, Danny's fists grew spontaneously into thick, primal, hair-covered hands.

"Oh, son-of-a-bitch HAL!" he rolled his eyes. "Very funny..."

///You asked for them///

"You know I was just joking! I didn't ask for anything. Now, reverse it!" he said outloud.

The hands re-morphed back into his normal hands.

Dan just shook his head, suddenly catching a weird stare from Sam.

"What?"

"...that is SO weird..." he said with furrowed eyes.

"What do you mean? You can do the same thing!"

"Well, yeah, but I don't have to talk to myself to do it....."

"I was talking to HAL, you twit....you know that...."

Sam just shrugged, turning away to get up from his chair.

".....whatever......freak...."

"I heard that!"

Sam began laughing heading over to wash his plate, as Danny glared.

Neither noticed as a tall, bald man walked straight into the kitchen, looking around for a bit. Then, casually walked out.

///Who was that?/// HAL asked.

Dan stopped galring, turning his attention inwards.

Who was who, HAL?

///The man that just entered and then exited this area///

What are you talking about?

///Checking......your frontal optical lobe was blocked of specific neurological signals for 4.7 seconds///

HAL, are you okay?

///Genetic-Imprint center is functioning at optimal levels///

"You okay?" Sam asked, staring at the blank look on Danny's face.

"What? Oh, yeah.....HAL's just seeing ghosts, or something...."

Prince Vasili kept the promise he had given to Princess Drubetskaya who had spoken to him on behalf of her only son Boris on the evening of Anna Pavlovna's soiree. The matter was mentioned to the Emperor, an exception made, and Boris transferred into the regiment of Semenov Guards with the rank of cornet. He received, however, no appointment to Kutuzov's staff despite all Anna Mikhaylovna's endeavors and entreaties. Soon after Anna Pavlovna's reception Anna Mikhaylovna returned to Moscow and went straight to her rich relations, the Rostovs, with whom she stayed when in the town and where and where her darling Bory, who had only just entered a regiment of the line and was being at once transferred to the Guards as a cornet, had been educated from childhood and lived for years at a time. The Guards had already left Petersburg on the tenth of August, and her son, who had remained in Moscow for his equipment, was to join them on the march to Radzivilov.

It was St. Natalia's day and the name day of two of the Rostovs- the mother and the youngest daughter- both named Nataly. Ever since the morning, carriages with six horses had been coming and going continually, bringing visitors to the Countess Rostova's big house on the Povarskaya, so well known to all Moscow. The countess herself and her handsome eldest daughter were in the drawing-room with the visitors who came to congratulate, and who constantly succeeded one another in relays.

The countess was a woman of about forty-five, with a thin Oriental type of face, evidently worn out with childbearing- she had had twelve. A languor of motion and speech, resulting from weakness, gave her a distinguished air which inspired respect. Princess Anna Mikhaylovna Drubetskaya, who as a member of the household was also seated in the drawing room, helped to receive and entertain the visitors. The young people were in one of the inner rooms, not considering it necessary to take part in receiving the visitors. The count met the guests and saw them off, inviting them all to dinner.

"I am very, very grateful to you, mon cher," or "ma chere"- he called everyone without exception and without the slightest variation in his tone, "my dear," whether they were above or below him in rank- "I thank you for myself and for our two dear ones whose name day we are keeping. But mind you come to dinner or I shall be offended, ma chere! On behalf of the whole family I beg you to come, mon cher!" These words he repeated to everyone without exception or variation, and with the same expression on his full, cheerful, clean-shaven face, the same firm pressure of the hand and the same quick, repeated bows. As soon as he had seen a visitor off he returned to one of those who were still in the drawing room, drew a chair toward him or her, and jauntily spreading out his legs and putting his hands on his knees with the air of a man who enjoys life and knows how to live, he swayed to and fro with dignity, offered surmises about the weather, or touched on questions of health, sometimes in Russian and sometimes in very bad but self-confident French; then again, like a man weary but unflinching in the fulfillment of duty, he rose to see some visitors off and, stroking his scanty gray hairs over his bald patch, also asked them to dinner. Sometimes on his way back from the anteroom he would pass through the conservatory and pantry into the large marble dining hall, where tables were being set out for eighty people; and looking at the footmen, who were bringing in silver and china, moving tables, and unfolding damask table linen, he would call Dmitri Vasilevich, a man of good family and the manager of all his affairs, and while looking with pleasure at the enormous table would say: "Well, Dmitri, you'll see that things are all as they should be? That's right! The great thing is the serving, that's it." And with a complacent sigh he would return to the drawing room.

"Marya Lvovna Karagina and her daughter!" announced the countess' gigantic footman in his bass voice, entering the drawing room. The countess reflected a moment and took a pinch from a gold snuffbox with her husband's portrait on it.

"I'm quite worn out by these callers. However, I'll see her and no more. She is so affected. Ask her in," she said to the footman in a sad voice, as if saying: "Very well, finish me off."

A tall, stout, and proud-looking woman, with a round-faced smiling daughter, entered the drawing room, their dresses rustling.

"Dear Countess, what an age... She has been laid up, poor child... at the Razumovski's ball... and Countess Apraksina... I was so delighted..." came the sounds of animated feminine voices, interrupting one another and mingling with the rustling of dresses and the scraping of chairs. Then one of those conversations began which last out until, at the first pause, the guests rise with a rustle of dresses and say, "I am so delighted... Mamma's health... and Countess Apraksina... and then, again rustling, pass into the anteroom, put on cloaks or mantles, and drive away. The conversation was on the chief topic of the day: the illness of the wealthy and celebrated beau of Catherine's day, Count Bezukhov, and about his illegitimate son Pierre, the one who had behaved so improperly at Anna Pavlovna's reception.

"I am so sorry for the poor count," said the visitor. "He is in such bad health, and now this vexation about his son is enough to kill him!"

"What is that?" asked the countess as if she did not know what the visitor alluded to, though she had already heard about the cause of Count Bezukhov's distress some fifteen times.

"That's what comes of a modern education," exclaimed the visitor. "It seems that while he was abroad this young man was allowed to do as he liked, now in Petersburg I hear he has been doing such terrible things that he has been expelled by the police."

"You don't say so!" replied the countess.

"He chose his friends badly," interposed Anna Mikhaylovna. "Prince Vasili's son, he, and a certain Dolokhov have, it is said, been up to heaven only knows what! And they have had to suffer for it. Dolokhov has been degraded to the ranks and Bezukhov's son sent back to Moscow. Anatole Kuragin's father managed somehow to get his son's affair hushed up, but even he was ordered out of Petersburg."

"But what have they been up to?" asked the countess.

"They are regular brigands, especially Dolokhov," replied the visitor. "He is a son of Marya Ivanovna Dolokhova, such a worthy woman, but there, just fancy! Those three got hold of a bear somewhere, put it in a carriage, and set off with it to visit some actresses! The police tried to interfere, and what did the young men do? They tied a policeman and the bear back to back and put the bear into the Moyka Canal. And there was the bear swimming about with the policeman on his back!"

"What a nice figure the policeman must have cut, my dear!" shouted the count, dying with laughter.

"Oh, how dreadful! How can you laugh at it, Count?"

Yet the ladies themselves could not help laughing.

"It was all they could do to rescue the poor man," continued the visitor. "And to think it is Cyril Vladimirovich Bezukhov's son who amuses himself in this sensible manner! And he was said to be so well educated and clever. This is all that his foreign education has done for him! I hope that here in Moscow no one will receive him, in spite of his money. They wanted to introduce him to me, but I quite declined: I have my daughters to consider."

"Why do you say this young man is so rich?" asked the countess, turning away from the girls, who at once assumed an air of inattention. "His children are all illegitimate. I think Pierre also is illegitimate."

The visitor made a gesture with her hand.

"I should think he has a score of them."

Princess Anna Mikhaylovna intervened in the conversation, evidently wishing to show her connections and knowledge of what went on in society.

"The fact of the matter is," said she significantly, and also in a half whisper, "everyone knows Count Cyril's reputation.... He has lost count of his children, but this Pierre was his favorite."

"How handsome the old man still was only a year ago!" remarked the countess. "I have never seen a handsomer man."

"He is very much altered now," said Anna Mikhaylovna. "Well, as I was saying, Prince Vasili is the next heir through his wife, but the count is very fond of Pierre, looked after his education, and wrote to the Emperor about him; so that in the case of his death- and he is so ill that he may die at any moment, and Dr. Lorrain has come from Petersburg- no one knows who will inherit his immense fortune, Pierre or Prince Vasili. Forty thousand serfs and millions of rubles! I know it all very well for Prince Vasili told me himself. Besides, Cyril Vladimirovich is my mother's second cousin. He's also my Bory's godfather," she added, as if she attached no importance at all to the fact.

"Prince Vasili arrived in Moscow yesterday. I hear he has come on some inspection business," remarked the visitor.

"Yes, but between ourselves," said the princess, that is a pretext. The fact is he has come to see Count Cyril Vladimirovich, hearing how ill he is."

"But do you know, my dear, that was a capital joke," said the count; and seeing that the elder visitor was not listening, he turned to the young ladies. "I can just imagine what a funny figure that policeman cut!"

And as he waved his arms to impersonate the policeman, his portly form again shook with a deep ringing laugh, the laugh of one who always eats well and, in particular, drinks well. "So do come and dine with us!" he said

THAT WON IS TOTALLY DIFFERENT!

Silence ensued. The countess looked at her callers, smiling affably, but not concealing the fact that she would not be distressed if they now rose and took their leave. The visitor's daughter was already smoothing down her dress with an inquiring look at her mother, when suddenly from the next room were heard the footsteps of boys and girls running to the door and the noise of a chair falling over, and a girl of thirteen, hiding something in the folds of her short muslin frock, darted in and stopped short in the middle of the room. It was evident that she had not intended her flight to bring her so far. Behind her in the doorway appeared a student with a crimson coat collar, an officer of the Guards, a girl of fifteen, and a plump rosy-faced boy in a short jacket.

The count jumped up and, swaying from side to side, spread his arms wide and threw them round the little girl who had run in.

"Ah, here she is!" he exclaimed laughing. "My pet, whose name day it is. My dear pet!"

"Ma chere, there is a time for everything," said the countess with feigned severity. "You spoil her, Ilya," she added, turning to her husband.

"How do you do, my dear? I wish you many happy returns of your name day," said the visitor. "What a charming child," she added, addressing the mother.

This black-eyed, wide-mouthed girl, not pretty but full of life- with childish bare shoulders which after her run heaved and shook her bodice, with black curls tossed backward, thin bare arms, little legs in lace-frilled drawers, and feet in low slippers- was just at that charming age when a girl is no longer a child, though the child is not yet a young woman. Escaping from her father she ran to hide her flushed face in the lace of her mother's mantilla- not paying the least attention to her severe remark- and began to laugh. She laughed, and in fragmentary sentences tried to explain about a doll which she produced from the folds of her frock.

"Do you see?... My doll... Mimi... You see..." was all Natasha managed to utter (to her everything seemed funny). She leaned against her mother and burst into such a loud, ringing fit of laughter that even the prim visitor could not help joining in.

"Now then, go away and take your monstrosity with you," said the mother, pushing away her daughter with pretended sternness, and turning to the visitor she added: "She is my youngest girl."

Natasha, raising her face for a moment from her mother's mantilla, glanced up at her through tears of laughter, and again hid her face.

The visitor, compelled to look on at this family scene, thought it necessary to take some part in it.

"Tell me, my dear," said she to Natasha, "is Mimi a relation of yours? A daughter, I suppose?"

Natasha did not like the visitor's tone of condescension to childish things. She did not reply, but looked at her seriously.

Meanwhile the younger generation: Boris, the officer, Anna Mikhaylovna's son; Nicholas, the undergraduate, the count's eldest son; Sonya, the count's fifteen-year-old niece, and little Petya, his youngest boy, had all settled down in the drawing room and were obviously trying to restrain within the bounds of decorum the excitement and mirth that shone in all their faces. Evidently in the back rooms, from which they had dashed out so impetuously, the conversation had been more amusing than the drawing-room talk of society scandals, the weather, and Countess Apraksina. Now and then they glanced at one another, hardly able to suppress their laughter.

The two young men, the student and the officer, friends from childhood, were of the same age and both handsome fellows, though not alike. Boris was tall and fair, and his calm and handsome face had regular, delicate features. Nicholas was short with curly hair and an open expression. Dark hairs were already showing on his upper lip, and his whole face expressed impetuosity and enthusiasm. Nicholas blushed when he entered the drawing room. He evidently tried to find something to say, but failed. Boris on the contrary at once found his footing, and related quietly and humorously how he had know that doll Mimi when she was still quite a young lady, before her nose was broken; how she had aged during the five years he had known her, and how her head had cracked right across the skull. Having said this he glanced at Natasha. She turned away from him and glanced at her younger brother, who was screwing up his eyes and shaking with suppressed laughter, and unable to control herself any longer, she jumped up and rushed from the room as fast as her nimble little feet would carry her. Boris did not laugh.

"You were meaning to go out, weren't you, Mamma? Do you want the carriage?" he asked his mother with a smile.

"Yes, yes, go and tell them to get it ready," she answered, returning his smile.

Boris quietly left the room and went in search of Natasha. The plump boy ran after them angrily, as if vexed that their program had been disturbed.

Silence ensued. The countess looked at her callers, smiling affably, but not concealing the fact that she would not be distressed if they now rose and took their leave. The visitor's daughter was already smoothing down her dress with an inquiring look at her mother, when suddenly from the next room were heard the footsteps of boys and girls running to the door and the noise of a chair falling over, and a girl of thirteen, hiding something in the folds of her short muslin frock, darted in and stopped short in the middle of the room. It was evident that she had not intended her flight to bring her so far. Behind her in the doorway appeared a student with a crimson coat collar, an officer of the Guards, a girl of fifteen, and a plump rosy-faced boy in a short jacket.

The count jumped up and, swaying from side to side, spread his arms wide and threw them round the little girl who had run in.

"Ah, here she is!" he exclaimed laughing. "My pet, whose name day it is. My dear pet!"

"Ma chere, there is a time for everything," said the countess with feigned severity. "You spoil her, Ilya," she added, turning to her husband.

"How do you do, my dear? I wish you many happy returns of your name day," said the visitor. "What a charming child," she added, addressing the mother.

This black-eyed, wide-mouthed girl, not pretty but full of life- with childish bare shoulders which after her run heaved and shook her bodice, with black curls tossed backward, thin bare arms, little legs in lace-frilled drawers, and feet in low slippers- was just at that charming age when a girl is no longer a child, though the child is not yet a young woman. Escaping from her father she ran to hide her flushed face in the lace of her mother's mantilla- not paying the least attention to her severe remark- and began to laugh. She laughed, and in fragmentary sentences tried to explain about a doll which she produced from the folds of her frock.

"Do you see?... My doll... Mimi... You see..." was all Natasha managed to utter (to her everything seemed funny). She leaned against her mother and burst into such a loud, ringing fit of laughter that even the prim visitor could not help joining in.

"Now then, go away and take your monstrosity with you," said the mother, pushing away her daughter with pretended sternness, and turning to the visitor she added: "She is my youngest girl."

Natasha, raising her face for a moment from her mother's mantilla, glanced up at her through tears of laughter, and again hid her face.

The visitor, compelled to look on at this family scene, thought it necessary to take some part in it.

"Tell me, my dear," said she to Natasha, "is Mimi a relation of yours? A daughter, I suppose?"

Natasha did not like the visitor's tone of condescension to childish things. She did not reply, but looked at her seriously.

Meanwhile the younger generation: Boris, the officer, Anna Mikhaylovna's son; Nicholas, the undergraduate, the count's eldest son; Sonya, the count's fifteen-year-old niece, and little Petya, his youngest boy, had all settled down in the drawing room and were obviously trying to restrain within the bounds of decorum the excitement and mirth that shone in all their faces. Evidently in the back rooms, from which they had dashed out so impetuously, the conversation had been more amusing than the drawing-room talk of society scandals, the weather, and Countess Apraksina. Now and then they glanced at one another, hardly able to suppress their laughter.

The two young men, the student and the officer, friends from childhood, were of the same age and both handsome fellows, though not alike. Boris was tall and fair, and his calm and handsome face had regular, delicate features. Nicholas was short with curly hair and an open expression. Dark hairs were already showing on his upper lip, and his whole face expressed impetuosity and enthusiasm. Nicholas blushed when he entered the drawing room. He evidently tried to find something to say, but failed. Boris on the contrary at once found his footing, and related quietly and humorously how he had know that doll Mimi when she was still quite a young lady, before her nose was broken; how she had aged during the five years he had known her, and how her head had cracked right across the skull. Having said this he glanced at Natasha. She turned away from him and glanced at her younger brother, who was screwing up his eyes and shaking with suppressed laughter, and unable to control herself any longer, she jumped up and rushed from the room as fast as her nimble little feet would carry her. Boris did not laugh.

"You were meaning to go out, weren't you, Mamma? Do you want the carriage?" he asked his mother with a smile.

"Yes, yes, go and tell them to get it ready," she answered, returning his smile.

Boris quietly left the room and went in search of Natasha. The plump boy ran after them angrily, as if vexed that their program had been disturbed.

"Damn, man...." Danny continued, "...why aren't you coming with us?"

Sam sighed, rubbing his somewhat-tense neck, as the two made their way down the hallway towards the elevator.

"I don't know.......just don't have my heart into it right now, you know?" he tried to explain.

Danny shook his head.

"Well, it's not like I really want to do it, either....." Danny replied, "but, it is our job..."

Sam frowned.

"No it's not! It's not like we have a responsibility to the rest of the world....." he replied with a hint of irritation. "....I mean, have you forgotten what this century is like? They don't like us out there, man. They don't want us...."

Danny held his hands up in a surrendering position.

"Hey! You're preaching to the choir, here! I know all this!" he exclaimed. "But, I mean, we stay here.....eat the food.....get paid.....it's a job. If a few people get saved along the way, what's the harm in that?"

"Nothing!" Sam stopped, just in front of the elevator, hitting the button. "You're misunderstanding me! I'm all for a positive effect of the world. God knows, they need it. But, after all we've sacrificed....to have them STILL hate us....."

"Fear us."

"What?"

"Fear. They fear us. That's where the hate comes from...."

"WHATEVER!" Sam exclaimed. "What I'm saying, is that if I don't feel like risking my neck for once to help their ungrateful asses out......if I need a bit of rest......then, why not let somebody else take care of them for awhile.....you know?"

Danny sneered a bit, turning fully to face him, held his hand out in a greeting.

"Hi, asshole......I'm somebody else...." he drolled.

Sam just rolled his eyes.

"I have NO idea why I'm having this conversation with you....." he sighed.

Danny studied him for a moment, then turned back towards the elevator.

".....it's what you get for those fucking 'fish-sticks'......" he replied quietly.

There was a brief pause, as the two said nothing.

Sam: "Bite me."

Danny: "Tool."

Both began cracking up with bouts of sighing laughter.

///There///

Danny's head jerked back a bit.

What?

///To your immediate left. Look.///

Danny slowly turned his head to the left, staring down an empty hallway.

What? I don't see anything?

///The same man from the kitchen is staring at you///

AGAIN with this?

///Take three steps to the left, and reach out quickly///

....HAL....

///Take three steps to the left, an--///

OKAY, okay

Danny slowly stepped, as nonchalantly as possible, three steps over, reaching his hands slowly up into a fake yawn. Then, as quick as possible, he snapped his hand out into the air.

"AAAHHHH!" Danny yelled, jumping back with a start.

"WHAT?!" Sam yelped, Danny jerking him around with wide eyes.

His eyes darted around the empty hallway, an almost terrified look about him, trying to find the cause of Danny's wide-eyed stare.

"WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?" Danny yelled outloud at HAL.

///He stepped back from you.....you barely touched his garment///

"Danny?!" Sam asked, still trying to find what Danny was staring at. "What the fuck's wrong, man?"

The elevator finally arrived, the doors beginning to open with a 'ding'.

///He's stepping towards the elevator....he knows you are detecting him///

Danny immediately pushed Sam out of the way, jumping in front of the lift doors, trying to block them.

"Dammit, Danny! What the hell--"

"A GUY!" he stammered. "There's something here with us! Shit! I felt it! There's someone here!"

Sam's eyes narrowed.

"Where?!"

"I don't know! HAL can see him though!" he replied.

Sam spun around towards the intercom panel on the wall, slamming the button.

"Everyone converge on the main elevator hub......we have an intruder in the building..."

"YOU HEAR THAT?" Danny yelled. "I CAN SEE YOU!"

Is he still here? What's he doing?

///He is standing directly in front of you. He seems to be contemplating a course of action.///

"We don't want any trouble...." Sam said aloud.

"As do I."

Sam lurched as he realized that merely seconds ago, where there had been nothing but air, a tall, bald man, cloaked in a gray robe stood before him. Danny, so tense, merely lost his balance falling back into the elevator at the appearance.

"Who are you?" Sam began, cautiously.

"My name is---", he paused, casually holding his flat palm up to his right, perfectly catching a fist flying at nearly fifty-six-miles-per-hour.

"whOA!" Tobias exclaimed, suddenly standing there, his fist being held by the strange man.

"---Turkish Stringfellow...." he continued. Then, with a bowing glance towards the speedster, he released the fist, Tobias backing away a bit, still somewhat shocked.

"Well, Mr. Stringfellow.....tell me one good reason why I shouldn't have you arrested for breaking-and-entering, eh?" Kit Piper suddenly announced, walking up. Behind him, Pete, Mick, and Larry all followed, coming from the stairwell.

"Dude!" Larry began. "They can see him!"

"Yeah, Kit!" Mick glared at the man. "I thought you said you were going to throw our roots away!"

"....hogging them all for themselves, more likely...." Larry continued.

".....we would've shared...." Mick shrugged.

"QUIET!" Kit barked, his hands on his hips, still staring at the large enigma before him. "Well?"

"Sir..." Turkish replied with a tone of respect, his hands folded under his robes, "....I am in need of your services..."

"Then make an appointment like everyone else." he responded curtly. "We are already on a case.....one that is paying more than what it looks like you can offer...."

Turkish shrugged.

"I...have no means of payment...."

"I thought so...." Kit sighed. He turned towards the comm, leaning into the speaker. "Shirley, call the authorities---"

"....but, perhaps, in exchange for your assistance, I can peform needed tasks....?"

Kit stopped, suddenly. He slowly turned towards the man, curious.

"Services?" he asked.

"Yes." Turkish nodded. "It appears to me that each of you have specific...'talents', shall we say...."

Kit released the comm button, turning fully towards the man.

"Annnnd......you have....ummm...'talents'.....yourself?"

Turkish paused for a moment, then, turned towards the far wall.

".......if you don't mind....." he asked.

"Mind?" Kit responded. He looked at the same wall, and then back to Turkish. "Mind what?"

Turkish glanced a neo-purple eye his way, a devilish smile on his face.

"I was not talking to you...."

Suddenly, the wall began to vibrate. Then, with a slick, wet sound, the entire complete first-layer of paint seperated from the wall.....floating out like a liquid sheet.

Sam's jaw dropped.

Then, the second layer repeated the action.

Mick and Larry grinned. "Coooooool..."

The solid bricks of the wall began to move, as well. Seperating with a sound of granite-on-granite, large blocks released themselves, floating a few inches out from the moorings of the iron-cast-metal underframe of the building.

Kit Piper stood, his eyes gleaming with amazement, as the wall sat, in its' component parts, floating in the air before him.

"Talents such as these, perhaps?" Turkish asked.

Kit just nodded, still dumbfounded.

Turkish looked back towards the parts, nodding his head.

"......thank you...."

The wall immediately re-sealed itself, as if it had never happened in the first place.

Mick and Larry broke out into applause.

"You are the coolest hallucination we've EVER had, man!" Mick exclaimed, shaking his hand.

"Do me next! Do me!" Larry waved his hands in the air.

"Mr. Piper, I have the authorities on the line. Do you want to talk to--"

"Cancel that, Shirley...." he quickly said into the comm.

Kit Piper gained a very naughty grin on his face, pushing through the pair, walking up to Stringfellow with dollar-signs in his eyes and a outstretched hand.

"Stringfellow, was it?" he began, grasping the man's hand. "Welcome to the MBL....."

Altering another's post is very immature.

You know what's funny? Not once have you been able to spell my name right when you try and burn me. Guess I'm expecting too much from a boy who takes his name from an RPG. Fag.

spelling hack, how immature.....