The Last to Comment Wins
- Thread starter mrsimple
- Start date
ElijahRyne
A Hermit that’s NOT that Lazy, currentlycomplainen
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I am currently winning.
JayMark
It's Not Easy Being Nobody, But Somebody Has To.
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Cute.
Shiriru_B
Book binge in progress.
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Mhm Blob cookie is cute *nods*.
JayMark
It's Not Easy Being Nobody, But Somebody Has To.
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Not as cute as you though!
Shiriru_B
Book binge in progress.
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SRB
:Simple Russian Boi:
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What.
SRB
:Simple Russian Boi:
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You can be cool and cute at the same time.
Not true I am cool, there isn't any room for cuteness here.
Worthy39
The protagonist's third cousin, twice removed
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Not that I've ever seen.
Tempokai
The Overworked One
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I'm winning currently by "writing" a story:
Grandma Betsy’s Corolla had started the week the way Corollas are meant to start things: quietly, obediently, and with the spiritual ambition of a toaster. It was the sort of car that didn’t so much accelerate as gradually accept that time was passing. Its interior smelled like peppermint gum and old receipts. The cup holder held a sacred ring of dried coffee from 2014. In the glove box lived an insurance card, a flashlight with dead batteries, and a folded prayer that had been printed on a church bulletin and treated like a legal document.
Betsy loved it anyway, the way humans love anything that doesn’t argue back. She patted the steering wheel like it was a loyal dog, called it “my little Toyota,” and believed, with the faith of the innocent and the unserious, that a Corolla’s greatest danger was a pothole and a mildly rude teenager at a four-way stop.
Then Monday arrived, wearing its usual face of bureaucratic malice, and Betsy drove to the grocery store to buy canned soup and bananas that would ripen in the afterlife. She locked the car, because she wasn’t a fool, just a woman who still assumed locks meant something. She walked away. The Corolla waited, dutiful and doomed, in a parking lot full of other quiet vehicles minding their own business, as if minding your own business had ever saved anyone.
Enter Owner Number One, also known as Suspect Number One, also known as Darnell “Two-Phones” Kress, a man who looked like he had been raised by poor decisions and fed exclusively on shortcuts. Darnell didn’t “steal” the Corolla in the dramatic sense; he adopted it the way a raccoon adopts garbage. One second it was sitting there, the next second he was inside, performing the ancient ritual of “how easy can I ruin someone’s week,” and the Corolla’s ignition surrendered with the exhausted compliance of an employee who’s stopped believing in management.
Darnell drove off like he’d just won something, which is adorable, because the prize was a 10-year-old Corolla with a check-engine light that had been on so long it had become decorative. He didn’t get far before the first police unit saw the car lurch through a stop sign like it had somewhere important to disappoint.
Chase One began with the siren’s wail and the Corolla’s immediate existential crisis. The Corolla did not want to run. It had never wanted anything except regular oil changes and maybe, if we’re dreaming, a new set of wiper blades. But Darnell wanted to outrun consequences, and consequences, as ever, were patient and salaried.
The police pursued. Darnell tried to “lose them” by turning into a residential neighborhood at speeds usually reserved for meteor impacts. The Corolla rattled in protest, its suspension reciting its last will and testament over every speed bump. Darnell clipped a trash can, then a mailbox, then the last shred of anyone’s belief he had a plan. The chase ended the way many chases end when the suspect’s brain is on airplane mode: Darnell jumped out at a corner, left the Corolla rolling, and fled on foot, trusting gravity and innocence to handle the rest.
The Corolla kissed a curb hard enough to leave a piece of itself behind and came to rest at an angle that suggested embarrassment. The police approached, weapons drawn, as if a Corolla had ever been the kind of threat that required drama. The driver was gone. The car, wounded and confused, sat there like a hostage that had been returned but not fully reassured.
And then, because human beings cannot resist a free mistake, Owner Number Two arrived, also known as Suspect Number Two: Marcy “Lipstick” Tolland, a woman who could smell opportunity the way sharks smell blood, except sharks at least contribute to the ecosystem. She saw the abandoned Corolla, saw the keys still in it because Darnell had the foresight of a falling brick, and decided this was destiny handing her a ride.
She took it. She didn’t even hesitate. She slid into Betsy’s seat, moved aside the peppermint gum like it offended her, and drove away with the sort of confidence that only comes from never having survived a single consequence long enough to learn anything.
Chase Two began almost immediately, because Marcy made the bold tactical choice of driving past the same officers who were still standing there, processing the fact that reality had become a slapstick routine written by a cruel child. The cops turned, saw their Corolla-hostage being re-kidnapped in real time, and for a brief moment you could see something die behind their eyes.
They pursued again. The Corolla, now a reluctant marathon runner in the Olympics of felony stupidity, wheezed down the streets under sirens. Marcy tried to weave through traffic like she was playing a video game, except video games don’t have real physics and real regret. She sideswiped a parked SUV, flayed a strip of paint off the Corolla’s passenger side, and swore loudly, as if the car had personally betrayed her by existing.
Marcy lasted longer than Darnell, which isn’t praise so much as a comment on the wide range of incompetence humanity offers. She ditched the car near a convenience store, sprinted inside, and—because the universe enjoys symmetry—left it idling. The Corolla sat there humming, a stolen appliance waiting for its next thief.
Owner Number Three, also known as Suspect Number Three: Hector “Borrow-It” Ruiz, emerged from the store holding an energy drink and the kind of grin that suggests he mistakes chaos for charisma. Hector saw the idling Corolla, saw the police lights a few blocks away, and thought, in the timeless dialect of the damned, “This seems fine.”
He took it. Again. The police saw it. Again. Chase Three began with a kind of resigned fury, like a parent chasing a toddler who keeps running into traffic, except the toddler is a grown man with an energy drink and the traffic is felony charges.
Hector drove the Corolla like he was auditioning for an action movie, which the Corolla rejected on principle, because it was built for carpools and quiet disappointment, not cinematic mayhem. He tried to cut through an industrial area, hit a pothole that felt like divine retribution, and the Corolla’s front end screamed in metallic agony. Something important began leaking. The car’s steering pulled slightly left, as if it was trying to escape into the nearest river and end this nightmare with dignity.
Hector bailed at a chain-link fence, leaving the Corolla—still running, still suffering—half on the curb, half in the street, like a body nobody wanted to claim. The officers slowed, approached, and once again found no driver, just a battered car that looked like it had aged ten years in ten minutes.
At this point the Corolla had developed the haunted aura of a cursed object. It had been through three “owners” in less than twelve hours, and every new set of hands treated it like a disposable napkin. Its back seat now held someone’s hoodie, someone else’s fast-food bag, and the stale smell of adrenaline and poor upbringing.
Owner Number Four, also known as Suspect Number Four: “Little” Troy Vance, a man whose nickname was aspirational because nothing else about him was. Troy was fifteen minutes deep into a thought like, “I should probably not,” when he did it anyway. He slid in, threw the car into drive, and felt the Corolla’s wounded engine shudder as if begging for mercy.
Chase Four began with officers already moving, because now it was personal. You can’t have a Corolla stolen four times in one day without it becoming a matter of professional pride and cosmic insult. Troy tried to flee into a neighborhood where every street looked the same, an architectural labyrinth designed specifically to trap people who don’t read signs. The Corolla bounced over speed bumps, scraped its undercarriage, and developed a new symphony of squeaks that sounded like it was laughing bitterly at everyone involved.
Troy, perhaps sensing the story’s momentum turning against him, tried a last trick: he pulled into a driveway, shut off the lights, and crouched low like the car could turn invisible out of shame. The officers, who were no longer in the mood to participate in amateur theater, rolled up, spotlighted the Corolla, and watched Troy climb out and run. They gave chase on foot. He got away, because the universe likes to stretch things out, the way a cat toys with a mouse before the end.
The officers returned to the Corolla. No driver. Again. The Corolla sat there, scraped, dented, leaking, and somehow still running, because Corollas do not die; they simply become more exhausted.
Then came Owner Number Five, also known as Suspect Number Five: Calvin “Receipt” Halsey, a man who carried a stack of unpaid parking tickets like a résumé. Calvin found the Corolla at the curb, unattended, and decided, with the confidence of the chronically unwise, that he could be the one to “finish the job,” which in his case meant driving it to a chop shop he’d heard about from a guy who’d heard about it from another guy who’d been arrested last month.
He got into the car and drove off, and Chase Five began like the climax of a joke nobody wanted to hear twice, let alone five times. Sirens screamed. Calvin floored the gas. The Corolla responded with what can only be described as a tired wheeze, the engine vibrating like a blender full of bolts. He tore down a main road, blew through an intersection, and narrowly missed a bus full of people who had the misfortune of existing near him.
This chase ended differently, not because Calvin was smarter, but because the Corolla was done participating in his fantasy. The wounded engine finally coughed, stuttered, and sagged into a limp mode of existence, dragging itself forward like a wounded animal with a deadline. Calvin tried to force it. The car refused. The police closed in. Calvin panicked, turned too sharply, and slammed the Corolla into a low concrete barrier with a crunch that sounded like a skeleton giving up.
Airbags deployed with a theatrical pop. Calvin stumbled out, dazed, and immediately met the hard, unromantic reality of officers who had chased the same car five times and had run out of patience somewhere around chase number two. He went face-down on the pavement, cuffed, hauled up, and stuffed into the back of a cruiser like yesterday’s laundry.
The Corolla sat there, airbags hanging like deflated hopes, bumper mangled, side panels scraped raw, and a slow drip of something expensive staining the road. Its license plate still said Betsy’s name in the system. It still carried her peppermint gum in the console, the last innocent artifact of a life that hadn’t asked to be interesting.
When the police finally returned the car to Grandma Betsy, it was less a “return” and more a solemn presentation of the aftermath. They brought it back on a flatbed, because driving it home would have been a form of cruelty. Betsy stood in her driveway, hands clasped, eyes wide, watching her little Toyota arrive like a wounded veteran of a war it never enlisted in. The officers tried to be gentle, which is what people do when they’ve watched the worst of humanity play hot potato with someone’s property.
Betsy walked around the Corolla slowly, taking in the dents, the shredded paint, the crumpled bumper, the spiderweb crack in the windshield, the deflated airbags, the faint smell of burnt rubber and failure. She touched the hood with the same tenderness she used for church hymnals and grandchildren, and her face did that small, brave human thing where grief tries to pretend it’s fine.
“Still starts?” she asked, because optimism is a hell of a drug.
One officer glanced at the car the way you glance at a corpse and say, “He looks peaceful.” “Ma’am,” he said, “it’s… home.”
And then came the part where the universe, having finished its little comedy, insisted on paperwork.
In the end, the five suspects—Darnell, Marcy, Hector, Troy, and Calvin—stacked up charges the way children stack blocks, proud of their little tower right up until gravity arrives. Each faced grand theft auto or unlawful taking of a motor vehicle, possession of a stolen vehicle, and receiving stolen property; most picked up felony evading police, reckless driving, and driving without a valid license; several collected vandalism and property damage enhancements for the mailbox-and-SUV buffet; Calvin, the grand finale, added hit-and-run (for the barrier and the near-miss chaos), resisting arrest, and a DUI charge because of course he did, because some people treat sobriety like it’s a rumor.
Grandma Betsy’s insurance company, performing its sacred ritual of denying human feeling and worshiping depreciation, deemed the Corolla a total loss, then paid the maximum allowed under her comprehensive coverage: the actual cash value assessed at $6,900, minus her $500 deductible, delivering $6,400 to Betsy in exchange for her signing away whatever was left of the Corolla’s dignity. The check arrived with a polite letter full of sympathy written by someone who had never met Betsy and never would, because the modern world prefers compassion in pre-printed fonts.
Betsy deposited the money anyway, because she lived in reality, not revenge. She bought herself another used Corolla two weeks later—slightly newer, slightly less cursed—because some people learn from tragedy and some people, like Betsy, simply refuse to let tragedy pick the soundtrack. The police drove by sometimes and waved, and the neighborhood quietly agreed never to speak of The Week The Corolla Became A Communal Crime Scene, because nobody likes admitting how easily life turns into a farce when the wrong hands find the right keys.
Betsy loved it anyway, the way humans love anything that doesn’t argue back. She patted the steering wheel like it was a loyal dog, called it “my little Toyota,” and believed, with the faith of the innocent and the unserious, that a Corolla’s greatest danger was a pothole and a mildly rude teenager at a four-way stop.
Then Monday arrived, wearing its usual face of bureaucratic malice, and Betsy drove to the grocery store to buy canned soup and bananas that would ripen in the afterlife. She locked the car, because she wasn’t a fool, just a woman who still assumed locks meant something. She walked away. The Corolla waited, dutiful and doomed, in a parking lot full of other quiet vehicles minding their own business, as if minding your own business had ever saved anyone.
Enter Owner Number One, also known as Suspect Number One, also known as Darnell “Two-Phones” Kress, a man who looked like he had been raised by poor decisions and fed exclusively on shortcuts. Darnell didn’t “steal” the Corolla in the dramatic sense; he adopted it the way a raccoon adopts garbage. One second it was sitting there, the next second he was inside, performing the ancient ritual of “how easy can I ruin someone’s week,” and the Corolla’s ignition surrendered with the exhausted compliance of an employee who’s stopped believing in management.
Darnell drove off like he’d just won something, which is adorable, because the prize was a 10-year-old Corolla with a check-engine light that had been on so long it had become decorative. He didn’t get far before the first police unit saw the car lurch through a stop sign like it had somewhere important to disappoint.
Chase One began with the siren’s wail and the Corolla’s immediate existential crisis. The Corolla did not want to run. It had never wanted anything except regular oil changes and maybe, if we’re dreaming, a new set of wiper blades. But Darnell wanted to outrun consequences, and consequences, as ever, were patient and salaried.
The police pursued. Darnell tried to “lose them” by turning into a residential neighborhood at speeds usually reserved for meteor impacts. The Corolla rattled in protest, its suspension reciting its last will and testament over every speed bump. Darnell clipped a trash can, then a mailbox, then the last shred of anyone’s belief he had a plan. The chase ended the way many chases end when the suspect’s brain is on airplane mode: Darnell jumped out at a corner, left the Corolla rolling, and fled on foot, trusting gravity and innocence to handle the rest.
The Corolla kissed a curb hard enough to leave a piece of itself behind and came to rest at an angle that suggested embarrassment. The police approached, weapons drawn, as if a Corolla had ever been the kind of threat that required drama. The driver was gone. The car, wounded and confused, sat there like a hostage that had been returned but not fully reassured.
And then, because human beings cannot resist a free mistake, Owner Number Two arrived, also known as Suspect Number Two: Marcy “Lipstick” Tolland, a woman who could smell opportunity the way sharks smell blood, except sharks at least contribute to the ecosystem. She saw the abandoned Corolla, saw the keys still in it because Darnell had the foresight of a falling brick, and decided this was destiny handing her a ride.
She took it. She didn’t even hesitate. She slid into Betsy’s seat, moved aside the peppermint gum like it offended her, and drove away with the sort of confidence that only comes from never having survived a single consequence long enough to learn anything.
Chase Two began almost immediately, because Marcy made the bold tactical choice of driving past the same officers who were still standing there, processing the fact that reality had become a slapstick routine written by a cruel child. The cops turned, saw their Corolla-hostage being re-kidnapped in real time, and for a brief moment you could see something die behind their eyes.
They pursued again. The Corolla, now a reluctant marathon runner in the Olympics of felony stupidity, wheezed down the streets under sirens. Marcy tried to weave through traffic like she was playing a video game, except video games don’t have real physics and real regret. She sideswiped a parked SUV, flayed a strip of paint off the Corolla’s passenger side, and swore loudly, as if the car had personally betrayed her by existing.
Marcy lasted longer than Darnell, which isn’t praise so much as a comment on the wide range of incompetence humanity offers. She ditched the car near a convenience store, sprinted inside, and—because the universe enjoys symmetry—left it idling. The Corolla sat there humming, a stolen appliance waiting for its next thief.
Owner Number Three, also known as Suspect Number Three: Hector “Borrow-It” Ruiz, emerged from the store holding an energy drink and the kind of grin that suggests he mistakes chaos for charisma. Hector saw the idling Corolla, saw the police lights a few blocks away, and thought, in the timeless dialect of the damned, “This seems fine.”
He took it. Again. The police saw it. Again. Chase Three began with a kind of resigned fury, like a parent chasing a toddler who keeps running into traffic, except the toddler is a grown man with an energy drink and the traffic is felony charges.
Hector drove the Corolla like he was auditioning for an action movie, which the Corolla rejected on principle, because it was built for carpools and quiet disappointment, not cinematic mayhem. He tried to cut through an industrial area, hit a pothole that felt like divine retribution, and the Corolla’s front end screamed in metallic agony. Something important began leaking. The car’s steering pulled slightly left, as if it was trying to escape into the nearest river and end this nightmare with dignity.
Hector bailed at a chain-link fence, leaving the Corolla—still running, still suffering—half on the curb, half in the street, like a body nobody wanted to claim. The officers slowed, approached, and once again found no driver, just a battered car that looked like it had aged ten years in ten minutes.
At this point the Corolla had developed the haunted aura of a cursed object. It had been through three “owners” in less than twelve hours, and every new set of hands treated it like a disposable napkin. Its back seat now held someone’s hoodie, someone else’s fast-food bag, and the stale smell of adrenaline and poor upbringing.
Owner Number Four, also known as Suspect Number Four: “Little” Troy Vance, a man whose nickname was aspirational because nothing else about him was. Troy was fifteen minutes deep into a thought like, “I should probably not,” when he did it anyway. He slid in, threw the car into drive, and felt the Corolla’s wounded engine shudder as if begging for mercy.
Chase Four began with officers already moving, because now it was personal. You can’t have a Corolla stolen four times in one day without it becoming a matter of professional pride and cosmic insult. Troy tried to flee into a neighborhood where every street looked the same, an architectural labyrinth designed specifically to trap people who don’t read signs. The Corolla bounced over speed bumps, scraped its undercarriage, and developed a new symphony of squeaks that sounded like it was laughing bitterly at everyone involved.
Troy, perhaps sensing the story’s momentum turning against him, tried a last trick: he pulled into a driveway, shut off the lights, and crouched low like the car could turn invisible out of shame. The officers, who were no longer in the mood to participate in amateur theater, rolled up, spotlighted the Corolla, and watched Troy climb out and run. They gave chase on foot. He got away, because the universe likes to stretch things out, the way a cat toys with a mouse before the end.
The officers returned to the Corolla. No driver. Again. The Corolla sat there, scraped, dented, leaking, and somehow still running, because Corollas do not die; they simply become more exhausted.
Then came Owner Number Five, also known as Suspect Number Five: Calvin “Receipt” Halsey, a man who carried a stack of unpaid parking tickets like a résumé. Calvin found the Corolla at the curb, unattended, and decided, with the confidence of the chronically unwise, that he could be the one to “finish the job,” which in his case meant driving it to a chop shop he’d heard about from a guy who’d heard about it from another guy who’d been arrested last month.
He got into the car and drove off, and Chase Five began like the climax of a joke nobody wanted to hear twice, let alone five times. Sirens screamed. Calvin floored the gas. The Corolla responded with what can only be described as a tired wheeze, the engine vibrating like a blender full of bolts. He tore down a main road, blew through an intersection, and narrowly missed a bus full of people who had the misfortune of existing near him.
This chase ended differently, not because Calvin was smarter, but because the Corolla was done participating in his fantasy. The wounded engine finally coughed, stuttered, and sagged into a limp mode of existence, dragging itself forward like a wounded animal with a deadline. Calvin tried to force it. The car refused. The police closed in. Calvin panicked, turned too sharply, and slammed the Corolla into a low concrete barrier with a crunch that sounded like a skeleton giving up.
Airbags deployed with a theatrical pop. Calvin stumbled out, dazed, and immediately met the hard, unromantic reality of officers who had chased the same car five times and had run out of patience somewhere around chase number two. He went face-down on the pavement, cuffed, hauled up, and stuffed into the back of a cruiser like yesterday’s laundry.
The Corolla sat there, airbags hanging like deflated hopes, bumper mangled, side panels scraped raw, and a slow drip of something expensive staining the road. Its license plate still said Betsy’s name in the system. It still carried her peppermint gum in the console, the last innocent artifact of a life that hadn’t asked to be interesting.
When the police finally returned the car to Grandma Betsy, it was less a “return” and more a solemn presentation of the aftermath. They brought it back on a flatbed, because driving it home would have been a form of cruelty. Betsy stood in her driveway, hands clasped, eyes wide, watching her little Toyota arrive like a wounded veteran of a war it never enlisted in. The officers tried to be gentle, which is what people do when they’ve watched the worst of humanity play hot potato with someone’s property.
Betsy walked around the Corolla slowly, taking in the dents, the shredded paint, the crumpled bumper, the spiderweb crack in the windshield, the deflated airbags, the faint smell of burnt rubber and failure. She touched the hood with the same tenderness she used for church hymnals and grandchildren, and her face did that small, brave human thing where grief tries to pretend it’s fine.
“Still starts?” she asked, because optimism is a hell of a drug.
One officer glanced at the car the way you glance at a corpse and say, “He looks peaceful.” “Ma’am,” he said, “it’s… home.”
And then came the part where the universe, having finished its little comedy, insisted on paperwork.
In the end, the five suspects—Darnell, Marcy, Hector, Troy, and Calvin—stacked up charges the way children stack blocks, proud of their little tower right up until gravity arrives. Each faced grand theft auto or unlawful taking of a motor vehicle, possession of a stolen vehicle, and receiving stolen property; most picked up felony evading police, reckless driving, and driving without a valid license; several collected vandalism and property damage enhancements for the mailbox-and-SUV buffet; Calvin, the grand finale, added hit-and-run (for the barrier and the near-miss chaos), resisting arrest, and a DUI charge because of course he did, because some people treat sobriety like it’s a rumor.
Grandma Betsy’s insurance company, performing its sacred ritual of denying human feeling and worshiping depreciation, deemed the Corolla a total loss, then paid the maximum allowed under her comprehensive coverage: the actual cash value assessed at $6,900, minus her $500 deductible, delivering $6,400 to Betsy in exchange for her signing away whatever was left of the Corolla’s dignity. The check arrived with a polite letter full of sympathy written by someone who had never met Betsy and never would, because the modern world prefers compassion in pre-printed fonts.
Betsy deposited the money anyway, because she lived in reality, not revenge. She bought herself another used Corolla two weeks later—slightly newer, slightly less cursed—because some people learn from tragedy and some people, like Betsy, simply refuse to let tragedy pick the soundtrack. The police drove by sometimes and waved, and the neighborhood quietly agreed never to speak of The Week The Corolla Became A Communal Crime Scene, because nobody likes admitting how easily life turns into a farce when the wrong hands find the right keys.
Shiriru_B
Book binge in progress.
- Joined
- Nov 1, 2020
- Messages
- 356
- Points
- 133
True but I'm just all cool
Can't your fart tornadoes
, stop yanking my chain.
)Edit: Wait why is everyone double posting...
JayMark
It's Not Easy Being Nobody, But Somebody Has To.
- Joined
- Jul 31, 2024
- Messages
- 1,709
- Points
- 128
Because you're so cute it's making us see double.True but I'm just all cool.
Can't your fart tornadoes
(I call cap! Also no double posting! You did it twice this week!
Edit: Wait why is everyone double posting...
SRB
:Simple Russian Boi:
- Joined
- Sep 8, 2022
- Messages
- 941
- Points
- 133
Because it's funny.True but I'm just all cool.
Can't your fart tornadoes
(I call cap! Also no double posting! You did it twice this week!
Edit: Wait why is everyone double posting...