World, Writing, Wealth discussion
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Let's have a virtual party - Read previous posts
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Scout
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Jan 05, 2018 09:41PM
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Yeah, a party!If to look for something equidistant, then maybe - International Space Station. Second best for max convenience of international crowd would probably be a night club in NY or London. Or we can borrow a giga- 4 decks-yacht from pretending to be busy oligarchs and have round the world partying cruise -:)
If it is virtual, why a real location? I vote for complex space!
Ian wrote: "If it is virtual, why a real location? I vote for complex space!"Yes! I can't stand nightclubs (but wait, if this is complex space my nightclub could be the kind I like......CBGB back in 1979.........so maybe that could work). I suffer from naviphobia, so no yachts for me and as I understand it, there are no horses in space, so I don't want to go there.
If we party in complex space I can access places that are not available to me otherwise. I so vote for complex space and then I can join the party from my cozy spot next to the fireplace in the library at the Biltmore estate. https://www.google.com/search?hl=en&a...
Holly wrote: "the library at the Biltmore estate. https://www.google.com/search?hl=en&a........."Looks like a cool place!
Okay, Nik, first to reply. The setting is a luxury yacht.I'll begin by setting the scene, then each poster has a 5-sentence paragraph to progress the story, ending with a cliff hanger sentence that leads to another scene. Use members as characters, adding your own when necessary.
Let's begin.
On a hot Caribbean night aboard the yacht Algo Mas, members of WWW have gathered. On the deck, Jimmy Buffett music is playing under the stars. The bar is busy, and people are dancing and talking about physics and money and books. Zoom in on Nik saying to the bartender, "Drinks are on me." Meanwhile, Alex is
surveying the scene from the top deck. This is his job, keeping these ultra-creative people from doing anything too stupid like falling overboard.To Nik the bartender dryly replies,"It's an open bar, pal, what'll you have?
"Uhh, scotch rocks. Thanks." He leans back and catches Holly out of the corner of his eye. What is she doing?
Holly, the lady in a red dress, is trying very hard to not look at Nik. There's something about the way Nik downs his scotch that keeps her eyes fixed on him . . .
Eventually, she drags her eyes away, focusing on her own drink, and realises that the bartender forgot to put in the paper umbrella."Damnit! A cocktail isn't complete without an umbrella! You know I always have one."
"Sorry, Holly, here it is." The bartender pops a red umbrella into her drink, exactly the same shade as her dress and she nods her thanks. She turns to Ian, who's just about
to explain umpteenth time that he's another 'Ian' and all this Ian business is becoming confusing in linear regression to the quantity of emptied bottles.Michel is busy with the BBQ, while Matt distributes all kinds of 'blonde' beers to the cheering crowd, squinting wearily for Russians able to cast light on Trump conspiracy.
'Idi suda' he grabs one of the sailors, using his best Vladivostok accent. The sailor hugs him, apparently mistaking him for a homie, and starts a long tirade in Russian with AK -47 staccato about
this woman Leonie, who said he looked like a camel. "No," says Nik, "she only worked with camels." Nik sidles away toward the barbie, which is giving off fragrant aromas of sizzling steaks and seafood. Suddenly, Alex points toward the sky and
Help! A drone is recording this bacchanalian event. This will be reported to the
... "Not any more!" Michel, using a skewer for a javelin and his still potent military prowess, downed the damn thing, with one throw reserving for himself a place on Canadian Olympic team. The drone fell on the deck, broke to pieces, which self-destroyed instantaneously, leaving intact only a portrait of smiling Mr. Putin.
"Now we know who's spying" somebody yelled.
"No, they might be framing Russians. This evidence is inconclusive." retorted Graeme.
"Well," says Alex, distracting the group, "this hardly seems like a Bacchanalian event so far. Let's put on some dance music and forget about the Russians." The disc jockey begins to play
disco music. "I Will Survive" pounds out over the speakers, and just as Nik is walking over to ask the lady in red to dance, Ian flags him down and shouts, "There's a helicopter coming in for a landing on the upper deck!"
Nik scoffs. "You've had far too much to drink. There is no upper deck." He waves triumphantly in the direction of the helicopter, then yells, "Scheisse! It's going to
crash into the yacht! Everyone has final thoughts. Ian thinks, "I wrote about this in one of my novels." Michel thinks, "I know that's not a Canadian at the controls. Canadians are nice." Alex thinks, "If I live through this, I'll write a memoir, and I know how to get it published." Denise and Vince think, "I'm glad I'm high." Graeme and Michael think, "This is what I was expecting, but I'm still glad I treated others well." Scout thinks, "I knew there was a conspiracy to wipe out writers, thinkers, scientists, economists!" Matthew thinks, "There's no such thing as a conspiracy, but we're going down anyway." And Nik thinks, "I wish I'd talked to the girl in the red dress."
"Mayday, Mayday, drone recon helicopter JX611 is going down. I repeat. We are going down. Coordinates are as last reported for drone GX9 over the ADriatic. Send rescue." His co pilot leaned over to resist the G force being heaped upon them by the uncontrolled rotation of the giant metal bird in which they sat and shouted, "Do you think they got that?" To which the pilot calmly replied, "Won't matter much kid if we hit that ship there with all those people since we are going to explode into a million pieces. Hold on!"
You freeze, you die. Seeing everyone's stunned around him, the captain fetched his personal bazooka with 9/11 associations firmly in his head. "Oh, boy, I love this 2nd amendment." It's few versus many. The chopper is doomed anyway, the yacht can be saved. Still hesitant he takes the aim, his finger on the trigger and
thanks to far too much vodka, misses. Michel notes the inappropriate use of equipment. Scout remarks that this helicopter has already crashed into the yacht, while Alex nods wisely and says, "Like Groundhog day. How can we get out of this?"
As in Groundhog Day, everything resets. In order to change the outcome, different and better decisions must be made, beginning with the music. "Disco is out," says Nik. We need better music. I suggest . . .
we try a little musical theatre!"The group stands stunned, but Ian smiles, produces a top hat and cane, and begins to dance.
One by one, everyone joins in, until...
Alex shouts, "Incoming!" A lone parachute descends from the sky with a large bundle attached. The Lady in Red cautiously approaches the bundle to find . . .
a bag with an assortment of blue, white, yellow pills, white powder, some herbal mix and other stuff with a small card attached: "With compliments, The League for Legalization". Without thinking twice..
(okay, this made me laugh)People dive for their favorite vice, and a mild scuffle ensues among the mellow for the herbal mix, which they decide to share. Ian stands apart, thinking, "They're going to regret this." Matthew and Holly happily agree to disagree, and ask the Deejay to play
Nirvana.Suddenly (despite the protest of some authors to use the word), a wild shriek pierces the music. "Don't touch them! I checked them out on the net. This league is for legalization of human cloning not drugs!"
Those speedy enough to have swallowed or sniffed, start to cough hysterically, looking for
something to vomit into. The whole idea of becoming a clone generator was anathema! Ian sniggered quietly. "Is this where I say, 'I told you so?'"
Nik finally manages to expectorate a purple pill, which flies through the air, coming to rest upon
The outstretched hand of a very confused Morpheus, who says, "Dang it, either red pill or blue pill. How hard can that be to understand? If you take both together, you get purple, which means
you barely escaped becoming double-cloned. The Lady in Red thinks, "Oh, snap! That would have tripled my chances of being with Nik."The captain announces over the loudspeaker, "We have lost all navigation capability. I don't know where we are." Luckily . . .
someone leans over the side and there is a bottle floating on the sea. The bottle is picked up and it contains a message inside on very old paper. Alex carefully unravels it, to see, "You are here." "Well, that's good to know," Leonie says, "but wait, there is something on the other side, which says . . .
" 40°N 30°W - Atlantis and its treasures"As soon as the ship gets fixed, the next destination became self-evident. It was too big a chance to blow.
"What's Atlantis?" asked someone young from the back row, hidden by taller folks in the front. Ian, busy waiting for the sun to come out of clouds to establish geolocation, nevertheless explained..
It's underwater, and these coordinates are a little to the west of the mid-Atlantic ridge. Fortunately there is an old diving suit over there, so all those who want to try a 1600 meter dive should put their names in this here hat. He waves a hat around and . . .
several people toss their names into the hat. Nik investigates the air hose and pump that supplies the diving suit, and a frown creases his forehead. "Ian!" he says. "I don't know...
what this funny little box here does. It's bleeping, and there's numbers on the front that seem to be counting down. Eleven, ten, nine ... "Alex shouts ...
"Get out of the way! It’s a bomb!"Everyone did as Alex said. When then the box got down to 0...
some poor fella tripped over somebody's leg, his body absorbing a full blast of .... confetti. The involuntary kamikaze fainted concomitantly with those who weren't quick enough to jump into the water. A huge white shark, seeing so much food landing/watering all around mused: "This must be my lucky day" until another skewer, thrown by a skilled hand, hit its left eye.
The Big brother's surveillance sputnik spotting in one tiny part of the ocean yacht, copter, drone, shark and people, who just started resurfacing...
signaled that there was no emergency, just a bunch of tipsy people going for a swim. Lifesavers were thrown out, and all overboard were recovered, except for the deejay, who was useless anyway. Soaked and happy to be alive, Esther and Leonie, wrapped in blankets but still ready to party, shouted . . .
"That was amazing!" However, not everyone else agreed with them. Someone suggested more music and dancing, but that was quickly over ruled since it seemed to create a bad indent. In the end everyone gathered at the bar and
the bartender whispered to Nik "We are running low on vodka, Sir."Out of all the calamities, that was something serious that required immediate care.
"If we are out of bread, let them eat cake," Nik whispered back while contemplating 'refueling' options.
Seeing startled expression on bartender's face, he added loudly "Hey, pour this century old single malt to our guests, Goodreads is paying. And if it doesn't ....."
Nik gazed around the room, and most there sensed he was looking for a payer of last resort, which was likely to be of first resort. The wise immediately decided that a toilet stop would be wisest this point, but there was limited availability, and . . .
the guys resort to peeing off the stern, which they thoroughly enjoy. The ladies, as usual, have to stand in line for the loo.The captain announces that he will share the ship's reserve of spirits with the passengers and will stock an open bar. Everyone, slightly tipsy and in the spirit of good fellowship, gathers around the fire pit on the deck. Looking into the flames, each person feels the age-old need for a story.
Nik says, "We're all warm, dry, and safe - and there's plenty of alcohol. Let's make a story together, real or imagined. I'll start with the first line, and you can add what you want, ending with a final line that is open-ended. Anyone can begin this fireside story."
If I had only known . . .
what kind of story this would lead to. "A crowd had formed at some old fair ground." Nik began. "I thought it was some kind of circus, but when I got closer it was obviously something else. If I wasn't already in the crowd I would have turned around and walked away, but it was too late for that. Following everyone else up to what resembled a booth..."
The words roll over Ian, but being the scientific type, he feels a frisson of unease. This seems oddly familiar, he thinks to himself. And then he realises what's happening.
"We're stuck in a....
distorted groundhog day. The good news, he thought, was at least the bar will have exactly the same as it had first thing in the morning, but he was wrong. Instead, all the barman could offer was . . .
... milk. "Glass of milk, maybe a coffee, Sir?""What do you mean you have only milk? Who comes to the bar for that?" To Ian the situ reminded his odd experience of seeing empty shelves in a communist environment.
"Yeah, this pig, I think you call him 'moderator' finished all the booze. We found him snoring in the back shop, bikinis clutched in his hand."
The chemist in Ian searched for a solution. If they make booze from barley, potatoes, rice, practically anything, maybe they could make fish vodka!
"Eureka!" Excited, Ian squinted for accomplices to ...
catch some fish. But no one found fish vodka tempting, not even Nik, who jumped over the bar and menaced the bartender, who admitted that there was plenty of booze that his alcoholic self had stashed away, along with a large bag of pot. Nik says, "Everyone partake, and then settle down around the fire pit. I want to hear some good stories. Any subject is fine. Who's going first?"
Ian says, "I'd like to hear a good story, too, but I don't want to sit next to someone smoking pot!"
But - too late. He's already inhaled, and he says, "Let's think about the year 2028. What will each of us be doing then?"
Nik hopes he won't be stuck on a dysfunctional yacht with no booze around and no internet and cellular coverage, unable to check Goodreads and congratulate/commiserate Putin with his 6-th reelection. "At least, if we are out of weed we can call Malia, a DNC candidate for 2028 elections," he concludes, enjoying a moment of relaxation.
It's 2028, and Scout isn't worried about the elections. I'm worried about my android cleaner, who's acting spookily human, asking for weekends off and a cuter wardrobe. Should I be worried?
