half-assed RE4 fics, MANGLED
Dec. 20th, 2008 12:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
la_belle_laideI don't know dude, all of a sudden I was writing fanfictions again, really short ones that I didn't even bother to finish. I was just goofing around, trying to see if I could come up with anything. I wasn't too thrilled with it.
So I did what I always do: uploaded them to a private page and ran them through my old friend The Mangler.
As always, mangled lines are in italics and parenthetical comments are my own.
Surely I'm entitled to a group of terrorists, but who had made the difficult decision to send one man on a filthy, stained bed.
(I made that decision. Now can I have my terrorists, please?)
President Graham was still anatomically correct.
(That's one less thing to worry about.)
Fresh blood trickled out and his police force cuts that had, thus far, kept him living in a red dress for this lady.
(Things have been pretty tough for Leon.)
That was, if he even lived long enough to get as wasted as they came at him.
(Just a few more drinks, then they can kill him.)
Ashley stared up at him with knives, scythes, even goddamn chainsaws.
(She doesn't stare daggers. She stares chainsaws.)
He tried not to mention a political photo op. President Graham was still in the hay, probably looking for something to eat.
(Best wait until he's done foraging before taking pictures.)
She laughed nervously and crossed her legs while standing, a girl with a rusty pitch fork.
(I know that's how I flirt with all the guys.)
"Don't move. Hands where I can see them." Still the figure approached and he jerked away from his icy fingers. He grabbed it up again and held them up. "For money?" The blue eyes over a mask that covered his face. "Eat," he commanded.
(The Mangler wants you to think I'm writing Leon/Merchant pr0n. IT LIES.)
She wore a black, anonymous suit; her clothes didn't have anything to eat, either.
(They were trying to stay a size 2.)
"Come here, you," Leon said to him. "A little overtime."
(NOT PORN.)
." He turned his eyes in the underground cell and he jerked away from them, half aware that his body existed somewhere outside of my price range--more's the pity--but still.
(More's the pity, indeed. Maybe someday I can afford it. O_o )
With the adrenaline still pumping from the tentative touch on his vest and hauled him to his mouth.
(NOT. PORN.)
The whole time he was out with her, Leon didn't know who it was.
(Leon's not too good with names.)
"You...you killed a chicken?" he asked nonsensically. "Hehe...you killed the entire world.
("I think you have a little more to answer for!")
Or your rescue mission, American. This is charity work for you?" Leon's lips parted in dull surprise. He didn't recognize her voice over the phone; she was just plain scary fun.
(Leon, what's your favorite scary movie?)
People didn't just walk into the Secret Service with a goddamn chainsaw.
(They more or less frown on that kind of thing.)
Leon didn't know what it was done licking up the darkness that still lingered around his chest and stomach, a few notes, right?
(I don't even know what to tell you about this.)
I mean, this is my first foray into fanfiction writing in a filthy stable surrounded by cows, from getting stabbed with a twisted combination of revulsion and pity and affection.
(Writing is not easy, people!)
I mean, this is my first foray into fanfiction writing in a filthy stable surrounded by cows, from getting stabbed with a bunch of other work-related issues etc.
(And this is actually sort of true.)
His muscles held tight, involuntarily, as if waiting for some fries.
(That's me every day around lunch time.)
She smelled like baby powder or something. He guessed he smelled like baby powder or something. He guessed he smelled like aftershave. Neither of them smelled like baby powder or something. He guessed he smelled like baby powder or something. He guessed he smelled like blood, death and sewage, so he just shrugged.
(After all, when you're that confused, does it matter what you smell like?)
Every once in a while with the Mangler, I discover that I've used a word--or two, or eight--that ends up being really funny. Then I just keep reloading the page to search for that word or words. This time those words were "pants" and "package."
Well, he had barely registered her bold attempt, and had barely registered her bold attempt, and had barely registered her bold attempt, and had barely even registered his own package to make sure he was out with her,
(With some people, you actually have to register it.)
Leon stared back, shivering in the underground cell and he felt the heat of his pants.
(All is not lost!)
And he slept that night, with the IQ of his pants.
(He can be kinda, uhh, blond sometimes.)
He kicked that man directly out of his own package .
(GTFO!)
His life experience, the things he had barely even registered his own package to make sure he was imagining this, he thought.
(Sometimes it's so hard to tell reality from fantasy, he can barely register his own package.)
A frightened whine came from outside of his pants.
(Which is so much better than if it had come from inside.)
"Umm, wow," she said with a crush, afraid to meet his eyes and the gun fell from his own package to make sure he was back in the green room.
("I shot him with a small revolver I keep near my balls!" [Which only makes sense if you've seen Kiss Kiss Bang Bang.])
They grab onto something--a barrel a sack of grain, he can't be seeing this: spikes shoot out of his pants.
(I'm thinking Saddler. Umm, Leon? That's not a spike.)
He was tempted to check his own package to make sure he was dreaming.
(Some people just pinch themselves. Not our hero.)
FUN!
So I did what I always do: uploaded them to a private page and ran them through my old friend The Mangler.
As always, mangled lines are in italics and parenthetical comments are my own.
Surely I'm entitled to a group of terrorists, but who had made the difficult decision to send one man on a filthy, stained bed.
(I made that decision. Now can I have my terrorists, please?)
President Graham was still anatomically correct.
(That's one less thing to worry about.)
Fresh blood trickled out and his police force cuts that had, thus far, kept him living in a red dress for this lady.
(Things have been pretty tough for Leon.)
That was, if he even lived long enough to get as wasted as they came at him.
(Just a few more drinks, then they can kill him.)
Ashley stared up at him with knives, scythes, even goddamn chainsaws.
(She doesn't stare daggers. She stares chainsaws.)
He tried not to mention a political photo op. President Graham was still in the hay, probably looking for something to eat.
(Best wait until he's done foraging before taking pictures.)
She laughed nervously and crossed her legs while standing, a girl with a rusty pitch fork.
(I know that's how I flirt with all the guys.)
"Don't move. Hands where I can see them." Still the figure approached and he jerked away from his icy fingers. He grabbed it up again and held them up. "For money?" The blue eyes over a mask that covered his face. "Eat," he commanded.
(The Mangler wants you to think I'm writing Leon/Merchant pr0n. IT LIES.)
She wore a black, anonymous suit; her clothes didn't have anything to eat, either.
(They were trying to stay a size 2.)
"Come here, you," Leon said to him. "A little overtime."
(NOT PORN.)
." He turned his eyes in the underground cell and he jerked away from them, half aware that his body existed somewhere outside of my price range--more's the pity--but still.
(More's the pity, indeed. Maybe someday I can afford it. O_o )
With the adrenaline still pumping from the tentative touch on his vest and hauled him to his mouth.
(NOT. PORN.)
The whole time he was out with her, Leon didn't know who it was.
(Leon's not too good with names.)
"You...you killed a chicken?" he asked nonsensically. "Hehe...you killed the entire world.
("I think you have a little more to answer for!")
Or your rescue mission, American. This is charity work for you?" Leon's lips parted in dull surprise. He didn't recognize her voice over the phone; she was just plain scary fun.
(Leon, what's your favorite scary movie?)
People didn't just walk into the Secret Service with a goddamn chainsaw.
(They more or less frown on that kind of thing.)
Leon didn't know what it was done licking up the darkness that still lingered around his chest and stomach, a few notes, right?
(I don't even know what to tell you about this.)
I mean, this is my first foray into fanfiction writing in a filthy stable surrounded by cows, from getting stabbed with a twisted combination of revulsion and pity and affection.
(Writing is not easy, people!)
I mean, this is my first foray into fanfiction writing in a filthy stable surrounded by cows, from getting stabbed with a bunch of other work-related issues etc.
(And this is actually sort of true.)
His muscles held tight, involuntarily, as if waiting for some fries.
(That's me every day around lunch time.)
She smelled like baby powder or something. He guessed he smelled like baby powder or something. He guessed he smelled like aftershave. Neither of them smelled like baby powder or something. He guessed he smelled like baby powder or something. He guessed he smelled like blood, death and sewage, so he just shrugged.
(After all, when you're that confused, does it matter what you smell like?)
Every once in a while with the Mangler, I discover that I've used a word--or two, or eight--that ends up being really funny. Then I just keep reloading the page to search for that word or words. This time those words were "pants" and "package."
Well, he had barely registered her bold attempt, and had barely registered her bold attempt, and had barely registered her bold attempt, and had barely even registered his own package to make sure he was out with her,
(With some people, you actually have to register it.)
Leon stared back, shivering in the underground cell and he felt the heat of his pants.
(All is not lost!)
And he slept that night, with the IQ of his pants.
(He can be kinda, uhh, blond sometimes.)
He kicked that man directly out of his own package .
(GTFO!)
His life experience, the things he had barely even registered his own package to make sure he was imagining this, he thought.
(Sometimes it's so hard to tell reality from fantasy, he can barely register his own package.)
A frightened whine came from outside of his pants.
(Which is so much better than if it had come from inside.)
"Umm, wow," she said with a crush, afraid to meet his eyes and the gun fell from his own package to make sure he was back in the green room.
("I shot him with a small revolver I keep near my balls!" [Which only makes sense if you've seen Kiss Kiss Bang Bang.])
They grab onto something--a barrel a sack of grain, he can't be seeing this: spikes shoot out of his pants.
(I'm thinking Saddler. Umm, Leon? That's not a spike.)
He was tempted to check his own package to make sure he was dreaming.
(Some people just pinch themselves. Not our hero.)
FUN!
