Post by bizznot on Jun 6, 2006 16:16:30 GMT -5
1. bizznot works fine
2. Vampire, highschool
3. Pleasures of the flesh, being that I have no experience
4. Maybe a year
5. Highschool:
Whittle. Odd in name, odd in nature. He was short, never really topping 155, and not the most athletic, yet he was no loser. He was smart, remarkably so, but he was never noticed as being so by his peers - mostly because he made no mention of it and didn't act it directly- although results of his intellect were often noticed by those around him. He had very few enemies, except the ones he made for himself because he simply didn't like them; he always got what he wanted, even if it wasn't noticed and even if it wasn't when he wanted it; and if someone made him or his friends mad or hurt, they would get what they deserved.
He opened his locker, without fiddling with the combination. He had jammed a pencil in the mechanism long ago and no longer worried about it. No one would break into his locker, he knew that. Again, he had few enemies. He grabbed his books and nudged his neighbor for a pencil. The neighbor, a good guy and friend of his, handed him one, a BIC mechanical, without question: Whit figured to pay him back in some form later. That was his way: what might seem to be a favor would be repayed before too long.
Heading for his first class, he twirled the pencil and thought over the lesson in store. It involved going to the library to type up the rough draft they had already manuscripted. Whit had already done that, or, rather, had it done. Given his slow speed of typing, he'd managed to find a friend in the computer lab who was an incredibly fast typist, and had asked that friend to help him. The rough draft was already written: the friend just had to type it, which he, of course, had. Hardly anyone refused Whittle.
2. Vampire, highschool
3. Pleasures of the flesh, being that I have no experience
4. Maybe a year
5. Highschool:
Whittle. Odd in name, odd in nature. He was short, never really topping 155, and not the most athletic, yet he was no loser. He was smart, remarkably so, but he was never noticed as being so by his peers - mostly because he made no mention of it and didn't act it directly- although results of his intellect were often noticed by those around him. He had very few enemies, except the ones he made for himself because he simply didn't like them; he always got what he wanted, even if it wasn't noticed and even if it wasn't when he wanted it; and if someone made him or his friends mad or hurt, they would get what they deserved.
He opened his locker, without fiddling with the combination. He had jammed a pencil in the mechanism long ago and no longer worried about it. No one would break into his locker, he knew that. Again, he had few enemies. He grabbed his books and nudged his neighbor for a pencil. The neighbor, a good guy and friend of his, handed him one, a BIC mechanical, without question: Whit figured to pay him back in some form later. That was his way: what might seem to be a favor would be repayed before too long.
Heading for his first class, he twirled the pencil and thought over the lesson in store. It involved going to the library to type up the rough draft they had already manuscripted. Whit had already done that, or, rather, had it done. Given his slow speed of typing, he'd managed to find a friend in the computer lab who was an incredibly fast typist, and had asked that friend to help him. The rough draft was already written: the friend just had to type it, which he, of course, had. Hardly anyone refused Whittle.
