The Last to Comment Wins

[Tempokai]

I'm winning currently by waking up and wondering why the basic version of LLM makes the first sentence with a whatever land the story is in

 

[JayMark]

I'm winning currently by waking up and wondering why the basic version of LLM makes the first sentence with a whatever land the story is in

Seriously always, I can't write a prompt to make it not do that.

It's like the once upon time phrase that jogs its code to get it started.

 

[Navillus]

1172 nya-nya~

 

[Tempokai]

I'm winning currently by going late to work because I had a full breakfast

 

[Anonjohn20]

?

 

[Shiriru_B]

I guess your explosions are random now. I'm going to consult the butler and get back to you.

Nope not random literally what I saw when I woke up and opened up this thread.

*extinguish the fire caused by the explosion with a fire extinguisher?*

You okay?

Yeah I'm good.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Edit: oh yeah almost forgot *explodes*

 

[Tempokai]

I'm winning currently by bus going too fast, looks like it's late to its schedule

 

[Anonjohn20]

?

 

[JayMark]

Wa-*explodes*

Spoiler: Shiriru The Exploder

"The progenitor is dead," the young dog-woman kept her eyes glued to the TV screen as the local news anchor delivered the update. Her roommate, Shiriru, paused in the doorway, a cup of coffee in hand, "Another one?"

The dog-woman, Elara, nodded. "Another explosion. They're not sure how it happened. Just like with Mrs. Jenkins and that kid from the park last week."

Shiriru took a sip of her coffee and set it down on the end table while looking to the side, "It's so weird. It's like they just explode."

Elara frowned, her gaze still fixated on the flickering screen. "The police are calling it spontaneous human explosion, but that doesn't explain why it's happening to so many people. And why only here?"

Shiriru's ears twitched nervously, her fluffy tail swishing behind her. She'd felt something strange lurking within her, a ticking time bomb, "I think it might be connected to me."

Elara's eyes widened in disbelief. "What? How could it be connected to you?"

Shiriru took a deep, shaky breath. "Remember when I first moved in, and I had that accident?"

Elara's eyes searched hers, understanding dawning. "Your- your random explosions?"

Shiriru nodded, her heart racing. "It's like something inside me builds up, and I can't control it. And then-"

The room was suddenly filled with a deafening roar, and a blast of heat seperated Elara from her feet. Shiriru's eyes went wide. The explosion consumed the living room, the couch, the TV, and even the wallpaper. Plaster rained down, and the windows shattered into a million pieces.

When the dust settled, all that remained of Elara was a grisly scene. Her body was scattered across the room in an array of charred flesh and bone. The smell of burnt hair and fabric made it difficult to breathe. Shiriru's heart had been literally ripped from her chest. She surveyed the destruction she had wrought with an eye rolling across the floor.

The dog-girl looked down at herself in horror with her other eye as the organs slapped back into her. In moments, she found herself unscathed, her ear fur as brown and fluffy as ever, her tail wagging slightly. Her clothes were intact, not even a singe mark on the fabric. She had reformed, perfectly whole again.

With trembling hands, she approached the computer. The glow of the screen pierced the gloom. She stumbled upon 'The Last to Comment Wins' thread on the Scribblehub Forum (SHF) in a desperate search for answers. It was a game that had gone too far, where people with unexplained powers competed to be the last one posting. Some said the game was a curse, others a miracle. But she thought it was her only shot at finding a cure.

A fierce determination grew within her. If she could be the last to post, perhaps she could harness the power of the game to put an end to the explosions that had claimed so much. ElijahRyne, Anonjohn, Tempokai, Solitude, RepresentingTemperance, RepresentingGluttony, that French lady who blepped occasionally, and so many more stood in her way. She had to win by killing them all.

And she would start with the bull.

 

[DonHon]

?

 

[Shiriru_B]

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

 

[Anonjohn20]

?

 

[Tempokai]

Spoiler: Shiriru The Exploder

Spoiler

The Legend of Shiriru: The Wah Heard 'Round the World


Once upon a time—which is really just a socially acceptable excuse for the present to disown the past—there lived a wolf girl named Shiriru. Not just any wolf girl, mind you. No, this one had the temperament of a raccoon on espresso and the attention span of a goldfish trying to file taxes.


Shiriru had one peculiar trait, which made her both feared and utterly uninvitable to any social gathering that involved dairy products: whenever someone said the word “moo,” she would shout “WAH!” and immediately explode.


Yes, explode. As in kaboom, boom, splorch, repeat.


This wasn’t some metaphorical emotional meltdown. We’re talking about full-scale, Hollywood-budget levels of detonation. Her body would erupt in a dazzling, self-annihilating fireball, vaporizing anything in a five-foot radius—including, occasionally, her self-esteem. Miraculously, and somewhat inexplicably (thanks, lazy world-building!), she would always reassemble, piece by furry piece, much like assembling IKEA furniture, only with slightly more dignity.


Shiriru’s oddity made her a legend among the masses, a walking cautionary tale, and the single greatest reason bovine-themed restaurants went out of business in her village. But where there is a curse, there is always someone willing to exploit it for petty vengeance.


Enter: Jay Mark. The villain, the frenemy, the shapeshifting bull whose life goal was apparently to be the ultimate embodiment of passive-aggression. Jay Mark was that one guy who thinks sarcasm is a personality trait (which is rich, coming from me). Born with the mystical, bafflingly underwhelming ability to turn into any bovine form—cow, ox, minotaur, or any dairy-dispensing ungulate—he took immense joy in tormenting Shiriru.


Jay Mark and Shiriru had history. The kind of history that involves awkward school dances, unreciprocated Valentine’s cards, and one too many games of “guess who just triggered your explosion reflex.” Theirs was a friendship forged in fire. Literally. Because Shiriru kept blowing up every time Jay Mark, in the subtlety of a sledgehammer, whispered “moo.”


Now, you’d think someone with the ability to atomize herself would learn coping strategies. Maybe therapy. Maybe earplugs. But no. Shiriru was the kind of person who heard “anger management” and assumed it was a video game. She refused to be cowed (pun fully intended), and vowed one day to defeat Jay Mark once and for all.


Thus began their legendary feud, a saga written in scorched earth, burnt fur, and the ashes of rural tranquility.


Chapter One: The Battle of Cowchella


It was a bright and stupidly cheerful day. Birds chirped with nauseating optimism. Clouds lolled overhead like cotton candy with commitment issues. And somewhere in the middle of the village square stood a banner reading “Annual Cowchella Festival: Celebrating All Things Bovine!”


Because life is a cruel joke.


Shiriru walked into the crowd like a landmine in heels. Her eyes twitched. Her tail bristled. She was surrounded by moo-laden merchandise. There were kids wearing t-shirts that said “Got Moo?” and grandmothers selling moo-muffins. It was a trap, a cow-themed carnival of doom, and Jay Mark was the ringmaster.


From atop a float carved into the shape of an udder (because taste is dead), Jay Mark revealed himself—six-foot-seven, horns polished, abs disturbingly chiseled for someone who spent most of his time grazing. He smirked, the kind of smirk that makes you want to commit a misdemeanor.


“Well, well, well,” he bellowed through the mic, his voice part velvet, part barbed wire. “If it isn’t Shiriru, my favorite fireworks display.”


“Jay Mark,” Shiriru growled, cracking her knuckles. “Still mooing like an overfed goat, I see.”


He raised a single eyebrow, then whispered moo into the mic.


“WAH!” Shiriru screeched—and promptly exploded.


Confetti flew. Children cheered. Somewhere, a dairy cow fainted.


Thirty seconds later, Shiriru reassembled, now wearing an entirely different outfit—thank the universe for modesty spells. Smoke curled from her ears like an angry teakettle with a vendetta.


“That’s it!” she roared. “No more moo games! We settle this now. Trial by combat!”


Jay Mark transformed midair, shifting from smug humanoid bull into a full-blown, glowing-eyed minotaur with jetpacks on his hooves. Because why not? This story had already abandoned realism and was now freeloading in the house of nonsense.


Chapter Two: Udder Mayhem


The two clashed in an epic that would make even Michael Bay say, “Maybe tone it down a bit.” Shiriru somersaulted into Jay Mark’s path, landing a flurry of flaming claw strikes. Jay retaliated by morphing into a cow the size of a minivan and body-slamming her into the Moo-Moo Milk stand.


Explosions followed. Shiriru “WAH!”ed six more times, obliterating the corn maze, the petting zoo, and a commemorative statue of Saint Buttercup, the village’s patron cow.


Children cried. Parents swore. A toddler tried to milk Jay Mark mid-battle and was gently yeeted into a haystack.


Shiriru finally found her opening after he transformed into a “bullsnake”—a hybrid form that sounded cool but looked like someone tried to draw a centaur while blindfolded.


“Any last words?” she snarled.


Jay Mark, bleeding arrogance and actual blood, grinned and said, “You wouldn’t hit a guy while he’s moo—”


“WAH!” she screamed, one last time, detonating with the force of a thousand grammatically incorrect fanfics.


The explosion left a crater so large it became a tourist attraction. Jay Mark was flung into the stratosphere, reportedly landing somewhere near a vegan commune where he now lectures cows about toxic masculinity.


Epilogue: The Aftermath


Shiriru was hailed as a hero. Not because she won, but because the townspeople were tired of replacing buildings every time she exploded and finally funded a research grant to help her suppress her moo-triggered detonations.


With the help of science, magic, and one very patient therapist named Dr. Snarls McWhiskers, Shiriru finally overcame her compulsion.


Sort of.


She now only explodes when someone says moo three times in a row. Like a twisted bovine Beetlejuice.


Jay Mark eventually returned, rehabilitated and now running a therapy group for shapeshifters with unresolved bull envy. He and Shiriru meet once a month for coffee. They talk. They reminisce. He almost says the word—but catches himself.


And Shiriru?


She still lives by her motto: “Explode first, ask questions never.”

---

Moral of the story: Never underestimate the volatile power of unresolved emotional trauma... or dairy.


Now go forth, and never say moo carelessly again.

 

[JayMark]

?

Spoiler: DonHon

In the quiet corner of a dusty old bookstore, a peculiar cat named DonHon could be found. His fur was white, and his eyes were as round and yellow as the moon in a child's storybook. DonHon wasn't like the other cats that prowled the streets outside; he had a certain je ne sais quoi that drew people to him. He was a cat of few words.

One fateful day, a young girl with a wild tangle of hair and a backpack full of junk stumbled into the store. She was looking for a place to hide from the storm, and DonHon's cozy spot behind a pile of dusty encyclopedias caught her eye. As she approached, she accidentally knocked over a set of headphones perched on the edge of a shelf. The headphones landed right on the cat's head.

DonHon's whiskers twitched. With a gentle shake, the headphones slid over his ears. Cushioned speakers fit snugly. To everyone's astonishment, he began to move in a peculiar rhythm. His hind legs stretched up and out, and his tail swayed side to side in time with the beat. DonHon boogied to the music of his people, who weren't actually people but cats.

DonHon twirled on his hind legs like a ballerina in a tutu. His fur swished around him, leaving a trail of dust in the air.

Customers gathered around the performance. A young man with a guitar slung over his shoulder took out his instrument and began to strum a tune. Two young men danced aside DonHon synced perfectly with DonHon's movements. Middle aged men with goatees pointed while looking into their phones with their mouths hanging open. The cat's dance grew more complex as he weaved in and out of the shelves, while leaping gracefully onto the countertops.

With a dramatic flourish, DonHon paused mid-dance and looked at the crowd. His tail stuck straight up like an exclamation point as he bowed deeply.

"Meow," he said.

The crowd erupted in furious applause until everyone of them died.

 

[Anonjohn20]

?

 

[JayMark]

Spoiler

The Legend of Shiriru: The Wah Heard 'Round the World


Once upon a time—which is really just a socially acceptable excuse for the present to disown the past—there lived a wolf girl named Shiriru. Not just any wolf girl, mind you. No, this one had the temperament of a raccoon on espresso and the attention span of a goldfish trying to file taxes.


Shiriru had one peculiar trait, which made her both feared and utterly uninvitable to any social gathering that involved dairy products: whenever someone said the word “moo,” she would shout “WAH!” and immediately explode.


Yes, explode. As in kaboom, boom, splorch, repeat.


This wasn’t some metaphorical emotional meltdown. We’re talking about full-scale, Hollywood-budget levels of detonation. Her body would erupt in a dazzling, self-annihilating fireball, vaporizing anything in a five-foot radius—including, occasionally, her self-esteem. Miraculously, and somewhat inexplicably (thanks, lazy world-building!), she would always reassemble, piece by furry piece, much like assembling IKEA furniture, only with slightly more dignity.


Shiriru’s oddity made her a legend among the masses, a walking cautionary tale, and the single greatest reason bovine-themed restaurants went out of business in her village. But where there is a curse, there is always someone willing to exploit it for petty vengeance.


Enter: Jay Mark. The villain, the frenemy, the shapeshifting bull whose life goal was apparently to be the ultimate embodiment of passive-aggression. Jay Mark was that one guy who thinks sarcasm is a personality trait (which is rich, coming from me). Born with the mystical, bafflingly underwhelming ability to turn into any bovine form—cow, ox, minotaur, or any dairy-dispensing ungulate—he took immense joy in tormenting Shiriru.


Jay Mark and Shiriru had history. The kind of history that involves awkward school dances, unreciprocated Valentine’s cards, and one too many games of “guess who just triggered your explosion reflex.” Theirs was a friendship forged in fire. Literally. Because Shiriru kept blowing up every time Jay Mark, in the subtlety of a sledgehammer, whispered “moo.”


Now, you’d think someone with the ability to atomize herself would learn coping strategies. Maybe therapy. Maybe earplugs. But no. Shiriru was the kind of person who heard “anger management” and assumed it was a video game. She refused to be cowed (pun fully intended), and vowed one day to defeat Jay Mark once and for all.


Thus began their legendary feud, a saga written in scorched earth, burnt fur, and the ashes of rural tranquility.


Chapter One: The Battle of Cowchella


It was a bright and stupidly cheerful day. Birds chirped with nauseating optimism. Clouds lolled overhead like cotton candy with commitment issues. And somewhere in the middle of the village square stood a banner reading “Annual Cowchella Festival: Celebrating All Things Bovine!”


Because life is a cruel joke.


Shiriru walked into the crowd like a landmine in heels. Her eyes twitched. Her tail bristled. She was surrounded by moo-laden merchandise. There were kids wearing t-shirts that said “Got Moo?” and grandmothers selling moo-muffins. It was a trap, a cow-themed carnival of doom, and Jay Mark was the ringmaster.


From atop a float carved into the shape of an udder (because taste is dead), Jay Mark revealed himself—six-foot-seven, horns polished, abs disturbingly chiseled for someone who spent most of his time grazing. He smirked, the kind of smirk that makes you want to commit a misdemeanor.


“Well, well, well,” he bellowed through the mic, his voice part velvet, part barbed wire. “If it isn’t Shiriru, my favorite fireworks display.”


“Jay Mark,” Shiriru growled, cracking her knuckles. “Still mooing like an overfed goat, I see.”


He raised a single eyebrow, then whispered moo into the mic.


“WAH!” Shiriru screeched—and promptly exploded.


Confetti flew. Children cheered. Somewhere, a dairy cow fainted.


Thirty seconds later, Shiriru reassembled, now wearing an entirely different outfit—thank the universe for modesty spells. Smoke curled from her ears like an angry teakettle with a vendetta.


“That’s it!” she roared. “No more moo games! We settle this now. Trial by combat!”


Jay Mark transformed midair, shifting from smug humanoid bull into a full-blown, glowing-eyed minotaur with jetpacks on his hooves. Because why not? This story had already abandoned realism and was now freeloading in the house of nonsense.


Chapter Two: Udder Mayhem


The two clashed in an epic that would make even Michael Bay say, “Maybe tone it down a bit.” Shiriru somersaulted into Jay Mark’s path, landing a flurry of flaming claw strikes. Jay retaliated by morphing into a cow the size of a minivan and body-slamming her into the Moo-Moo Milk stand.


Explosions followed. Shiriru “WAH!”ed six more times, obliterating the corn maze, the petting zoo, and a commemorative statue of Saint Buttercup, the village’s patron cow.


Children cried. Parents swore. A toddler tried to milk Jay Mark mid-battle and was gently yeeted into a haystack.


Shiriru finally found her opening after he transformed into a “bullsnake”—a hybrid form that sounded cool but looked like someone tried to draw a centaur while blindfolded.


“Any last words?” she snarled.


Jay Mark, bleeding arrogance and actual blood, grinned and said, “You wouldn’t hit a guy while he’s moo—”


“WAH!” she screamed, one last time, detonating with the force of a thousand grammatically incorrect fanfics.


The explosion left a crater so large it became a tourist attraction. Jay Mark was flung into the stratosphere, reportedly landing somewhere near a vegan commune where he now lectures cows about toxic masculinity.


Epilogue: The Aftermath


Shiriru was hailed as a hero. Not because she won, but because the townspeople were tired of replacing buildings every time she exploded and finally funded a research grant to help her suppress her moo-triggered detonations.


With the help of science, magic, and one very patient therapist named Dr. Snarls McWhiskers, Shiriru finally overcame her compulsion.


Sort of.


She now only explodes when someone says moo three times in a row. Like a twisted bovine Beetlejuice.


Jay Mark eventually returned, rehabilitated and now running a therapy group for shapeshifters with unresolved bull envy. He and Shiriru meet once a month for coffee. They talk. They reminisce. He almost says the word—but catches himself.


And Shiriru?


She still lives by her motto: “Explode first, ask questions never.”

---

Moral of the story: Never underestimate the volatile power of unresolved emotional trauma... or dairy.


Now go forth, and never say moo carelessly again.

Spoiler: Tempokai and the Bull

"So, what's the big idea you're chasing today?" The barista at the corner café teased as she poured a steaming cup of coffee.

"The ultimate question," Tempokai replied with a wink, "How do we know that which is truth?"

The barista chuckled, sliding the cup across the counter. "Well, if you find your answer, you're going to need more than that to stay warm."

With a nod of thanks, Tempokai took the coffee and stepped out into the streets of Ashkekbakutana. The early morning light played tag with the towering skyscrapers, their gleaming surfaces bouncing the golden beams back and forth. The city, still groggy with sleep, began to stir as the first murmurs of traffic rolled in like a gentle wave. He savored the warmth of the beverage, feeling it spread from his fingertips to his core as he strolled through the quiet neighborhood. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of the mountain desert that surrounded the urban sprawl.

There, in the bustling market, a crowded rickety old bus stood, belching smoke and groaning under the weight of its eclectic cargo. Chickens clucked in protest from wooden crates, their feathers ruffling in the early breeze. Goats, tethered by ropes, chewed on the occasional piece of stray plastic that littered the floor. The bus was a patchwork quilt of colors and rust, a testament to the passage of time and the perseverance of its owner. It was here that Tempokai hoped to find a piece of the puzzle that was human nature.

With a grumble of the engine, the bus lurched forward, and the driver, an old man with a weathered face and a twinkle in his eye, called out for passengers. Tempokai climbed aboard, his curiosity piqued by the driver's insistent nod. The man handed him a small stone, smooth and cool, with veins of gold that gleamed in the sunlight. It was the stone of Rhetoric, an artifact rumored to enhance the eloquence of those who held it. The driver spoke no words, his expression a silent question.

But the stone was a trap. It made Tempokai dumb and unable to talk well. His tongue grew thick, and his thoughts, once a river of wit and wisdom, now stumbled over themselves like a drunk in a darkened alley. Panic set in as he tried to articulate his purpose, to ask about the truth he sought, but the words came out as a jumbled mess. The passengers stared, a mix of confusion and amusement playing on their faces. Their chattering swirled around him like a cacophony of unintelligible noise.

The driver's eyes smiled, "My apologies, young scholar, the stone's power is unpredictable. It seems you've encountered the trickster's jest."

With no other choice, Tempokai stumbled off the bus, the weight of his suddenly dimmed wit heavy on his shoulders. He had to find a way to regain his voice, to continue his quest for the magnum opus. But the world had other plans. The government job fair had set up shop in the city square, and the siren call of stability beckoned him closer. It was a stark contrast to the philosophical odyssey he'd been on, but the thought of a steady income and a quiet life was suddenly tantalizing.

But then he heard the voice of his friend Shiriru, a young poet whose words danced like flames on paper. Her laughter pierced the cacophony of the market, a beacon of familiarity in the alien landscape of silence that had swallowed him. She was surrounded by a group of performers, her eyes sparkling with the same passion that fueled her verses. ElijahRyne, the stoic historian, stood beside her, his arms crossed as he critically observed the crowd. A pencil holder held a tray of cheese. And there, among them, was an oddity - a mooing bull, its bellows a strange melody.

"What's this?" ElijahRyne asked, raising an eyebrow at the peculiar gathering.

"It's the 'Last to Comment Wins Thread'," Shiriru explained, her eyes never leaving the performance. "A place where the last one to speak after the bull's final moo wins a prize. Today is a special day, so I promised not to explode."

ElijahRyne's skepticism was palpable, but curiosity got the better of him. "And what's the prize?"

"The truth," Shiriru said, her eyes alight with mischief. "At least, that's what they say."

Tempokai felt a spark of hope. Could this be the key to his quest? The crowd grew denser, and the air thick with anticipation as the bull was led to the center of the makeshift stage. The animal's moos grew louder and more insistent, echoing through the market like the toll of a bell. The philosopher's heart raced. If he could only find the wisdom within these absurd conditions, he might unlock the secrets of the universe.

He took a deep breath and stepped into the circle, the stone of Rhetoric a cold weight in his pocket. As the bull's bellows reached their crescendo, he reached into his pocket and clutched the stone tightly. The gold veins grew warm against his palm, and he felt the fog in his mind begin to dissipate. With a clear mind, he faced the animal, drawing on all his knowledge of logos, pathos, and ethos to construct a speech that would resonate with the very fabric of reality.

"Ah, noble creature," Tempokai spoke with a voice strong and steady, "whose lowly sounds echo the cries of truth in a world deafened by the din of ignorance! Let us consider the nature of your discourse, so simple, yet so profound. For in your moos, we find the purest form of expression, untainted by the deceitful art of persuasion. You speak not to deceive, nor to manipulate, but merely to be heard." The bull paused, as if in contemplation, and the crowd leaned in, hanging on his every word. "In the grand symphony of existence, your voice stands as a testament to the primal essence of communication."

The philosopher continued, his eyes never leaving the creature's soulful gaze. "Your moos, my friends, are the embodiment of logos, the rational appeal to our intellects. They cut through the noise of our complex lives, stripping away the layers of rhetoric to reveal the bones of truth beneath." The bull snorted, and the audience chuckled, but the humor did not deter Tempokai. "Let us learn from this beast, whose honesty is matched only by its strength. For is not truth the cornerstone of all that is good and just?"

The bull's moos grew softer, more contemplative. The tension in the air was palpable, the anticipation a living entity that danced among the spectators. The final moo hung in the air, a single note that slowly faded into silence.

The crowd held its collective breath, waiting for someone to speak. But no one did. The bull had made its final point.

And it promptly died, thorougly roasted.

 

[Tempokai]

?

 

[Anonjohn20]

Spoiler: Tempokai and the Bull

"So, what's the big idea you're chasing today?" The barista at the corner café teased as she poured a steaming cup of coffee.

"The ultimate question," Tempokai replied with a wink, "How do we know that which is truth?"

The barista chuckled, sliding the cup across the counter. "Well, if you find your answer, you're going to need more than that to stay warm."

With a nod of thanks, Tempokai took the coffee and stepped out into the streets of Ashkekbakutana. The early morning light played tag with the towering skyscrapers, their gleaming surfaces bouncing the golden beams back and forth. The city, still groggy with sleep, began to stir as the first murmurs of traffic rolled in like a gentle wave. He savored the warmth of the beverage, feeling it spread from his fingertips to his core as he strolled through the quiet neighborhood. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of the mountain desert that surrounded the urban sprawl.

There, in the bustling market, a crowded rickety old bus stood, belching smoke and groaning under the weight of its eclectic cargo. Chickens clucked in protest from wooden crates, their feathers ruffling in the early breeze. Goats, tethered by ropes, chewed on the occasional piece of stray plastic that littered the floor. The bus was a patchwork quilt of colors and rust, a testament to the passage of time and the perseverance of its owner. It was here that Tempokai hoped to find a piece of the puzzle that was human nature.

With a grumble of the engine, the bus lurched forward, and the driver, an old man with a weathered face and a twinkle in his eye, called out for passengers. Tempokai climbed aboard, his curiosity piqued by the driver's insistent nod. The man handed him a small stone, smooth and cool, with veins of gold that gleamed in the sunlight. It was the stone of Rhetoric, an artifact rumored to enhance the eloquence of those who held it. The driver spoke no words, his expression a silent question.

But the stone was a trap. It made Tempokai dumb and unable to talk well. His tongue grew thick, and his thoughts, once a river of wit and wisdom, now stumbled over themselves like a drunk in a darkened alley. Panic set in as he tried to articulate his purpose, to ask about the truth he sought, but the words came out as a jumbled mess. The passengers stared, a mix of confusion and amusement playing on their faces. Their chattering swirled around him like a cacophony of unintelligible noise.

The driver's eyes smiled, "My apologies, young scholar, the stone's power is unpredictable. It seems you've encountered the trickster's jest."

With no other choice, Tempokai stumbled off the bus, the weight of his suddenly dimmed wit heavy on his shoulders. He had to find a way to regain his voice, to continue his quest for the magnum opus. But the world had other plans. The government job fair had set up shop in the city square, and the siren call of stability beckoned him closer. It was a stark contrast to the philosophical odyssey he'd been on, but the thought of a steady income and a quiet life was suddenly tantalizing.

But then he heard the voice of his friend Shiriru, a young poet whose words danced like flames on paper. Her laughter pierced the cacophony of the market, a beacon of familiarity in the alien landscape of silence that had swallowed him. She was surrounded by a group of performers, her eyes sparkling with the same passion that fueled her verses. ElijahRyne, the stoic historian, stood beside her, his arms crossed as he critically observed the crowd. A pencil holder held a tray of cheese. And there, among them, was an oddity - a mooing bull, its bellows a strange melody.

"What's this?" ElijahRyne asked, raising an eyebrow at the peculiar gathering.

"It's the 'Last to Comment Wins Thread'," Shiriru explained, her eyes never leaving the performance. "A place where the last one to speak after the bull's final moo wins a prize. Today is a special day, so I promised not to explode."

ElijahRyne's skepticism was palpable, but curiosity got the better of him. "And what's the prize?"

"The truth," Shiriru said, her eyes alight with mischief. "At least, that's what they say."

Tempokai felt a spark of hope. Could this be the key to his quest? The crowd grew denser, and the air thick with anticipation as the bull was led to the center of the makeshift stage. The animal's moos grew louder and more insistent, echoing through the market like the toll of a bell. The philosopher's heart raced. If he could only find the wisdom within these absurd conditions, he might unlock the secrets of the universe.

He took a deep breath and stepped into the circle, the stone of Rhetoric a cold weight in his pocket. As the bull's bellows reached their crescendo, he reached into his pocket and clutched the stone tightly. The gold veins grew warm against his palm, and he felt the fog in his mind begin to dissipate. With a clear mind, he faced the animal, drawing on all his knowledge of logos, pathos, and ethos to construct a speech that would resonate with the very fabric of reality.

"Ah, noble creature," Tempokai spoke with a voice strong and steady, "whose lowly sounds echo the cries of truth in a world deafened by the din of ignorance! Let us consider the nature of your discourse, so simple, yet so profound. For in your moos, we find the purest form of expression, untainted by the deceitful art of persuasion. You speak not to deceive, nor to manipulate, but merely to be heard." The bull paused, as if in contemplation, and the crowd leaned in, hanging on his every word. "In the grand symphony of existence, your voice stands as a testament to the primal essence of communication."

The philosopher continued, his eyes never leaving the creature's soulful gaze. "Your moos, my friends, are the embodiment of logos, the rational appeal to our intellects. They cut through the noise of our complex lives, stripping away the layers of rhetoric to reveal the bones of truth beneath." The bull snorted, and the audience chuckled, but the humor did not deter Tempokai. "Let us learn from this beast, whose honesty is matched only by its strength. For is not truth the cornerstone of all that is good and just?"

The bull's moos grew softer, more contemplative. The tension in the air was palpable, the anticipation a living entity that danced among the spectators. The final moo hung in the air, a single note that slowly faded into silence.

The crowd held its collective breath, waiting for someone to speak. But no one did. The bull had made its final point.

And it promptly died, thorougly roasted.

I'll be honest, when I read that title I expected a different type of fanfiction. lol jk

 

[ElijahRyne]

I am currently winning.

 

[Tempokai]

damn