overmortal
Bearded Person
That's it. I've had enough. To stop this madness, I'm going to post part of my latest (and worst) privateer story, in an attempt to show you how painful it is to read someone else's bad fiction!
[QUOTE="Drop Dead", another lame story]I rubbed my face, glad that the ordeal was coming to an end. Mr. Kepler hadn't been very cooperative; no, not at all. I'm a privateer. My partner, Snake, and I fly missions for hire. When we complete a mission, we usually prefer to recieve full payment . . . actually, we always prefer to recieve full payment. Plus some. Mr. Kepler, however, wasn't terribly satisfied with the quality of the ore we'd just delivered to him. Iron ore isn't very common here on Tersa IV, the "Obsidian Sphere" as this planet is sometimes called. Most of the surface was covered by large mountains composed of semi-precious stone. It had been terra-formed over a century ago, but it wasn't capable of supporting a wide variety of vegetations. The main exports were precious stones and ultra high-grade silica. Nearly everything had to be imported to the planet; food, fuel, clothing, and building materials. This shipment of ore we'd just delivered was apparently too low-grade to build the mining equipment that they'd intended it for. Mr. Kepler, a man in his early 50's with greying red hair and a firm grip, had insisted that we "return to sender."
The problem was that we had another job lined up and were eager to load our new cargo and head out. His majesty wasn't too pleased, then, when we told him to take up the issue with his supplier and then asked for our payment. After a debate over contractual obligations (and a few threats of legal action), he finally offered half of our original payment. I was furious, but didn't have time to argue with him. I was already late to meet with our next employer for the contract signing, and Snake was busy checking over the local publications for more job opportunities. Fortunately, our next employer's office was located in this same commercial building, just a few floors up. I, personally, was eager to return my pistol to its holster. This particular commercial structure allowed individuals to carry weapons on them as long as the weapon wasn't concealed. However, I had agreed to leave my sidearm in a cardboard deposit box just outside Mr. Kepler's door. My hip felt naked without the weapon in its holster. I kept it on my hip because it was much more "ergonomic", or, I could get to it more quickly when I felt the need.
Mr. Kepler finally handed back the manifest with "Paid" stamped at the bottom. I would have preferred "Paid in Full". I took it from his hand and headed for the door, perusing it on my way, still seething. "A pleasure doing business with you.", he said to my back, sarcasm dripping in his voice, and then a muffled cough. Normally, I would leave without a response, but today I just felt game. "Drop dead."
Thud.[/QUOTE]
. . . yes, yes, yes, I know. It's shameless. Shut up.
[QUOTE="Drop Dead", another lame story]I rubbed my face, glad that the ordeal was coming to an end. Mr. Kepler hadn't been very cooperative; no, not at all. I'm a privateer. My partner, Snake, and I fly missions for hire. When we complete a mission, we usually prefer to recieve full payment . . . actually, we always prefer to recieve full payment. Plus some. Mr. Kepler, however, wasn't terribly satisfied with the quality of the ore we'd just delivered to him. Iron ore isn't very common here on Tersa IV, the "Obsidian Sphere" as this planet is sometimes called. Most of the surface was covered by large mountains composed of semi-precious stone. It had been terra-formed over a century ago, but it wasn't capable of supporting a wide variety of vegetations. The main exports were precious stones and ultra high-grade silica. Nearly everything had to be imported to the planet; food, fuel, clothing, and building materials. This shipment of ore we'd just delivered was apparently too low-grade to build the mining equipment that they'd intended it for. Mr. Kepler, a man in his early 50's with greying red hair and a firm grip, had insisted that we "return to sender."
The problem was that we had another job lined up and were eager to load our new cargo and head out. His majesty wasn't too pleased, then, when we told him to take up the issue with his supplier and then asked for our payment. After a debate over contractual obligations (and a few threats of legal action), he finally offered half of our original payment. I was furious, but didn't have time to argue with him. I was already late to meet with our next employer for the contract signing, and Snake was busy checking over the local publications for more job opportunities. Fortunately, our next employer's office was located in this same commercial building, just a few floors up. I, personally, was eager to return my pistol to its holster. This particular commercial structure allowed individuals to carry weapons on them as long as the weapon wasn't concealed. However, I had agreed to leave my sidearm in a cardboard deposit box just outside Mr. Kepler's door. My hip felt naked without the weapon in its holster. I kept it on my hip because it was much more "ergonomic", or, I could get to it more quickly when I felt the need.
Mr. Kepler finally handed back the manifest with "Paid" stamped at the bottom. I would have preferred "Paid in Full". I took it from his hand and headed for the door, perusing it on my way, still seething. "A pleasure doing business with you.", he said to my back, sarcasm dripping in his voice, and then a muffled cough. Normally, I would leave without a response, but today I just felt game. "Drop dead."
Thud.[/QUOTE]
. . . yes, yes, yes, I know. It's shameless. Shut up.
