Hello World

[Pippi]

((The late debut of Glen Bole))

For whatever reason, Glen had woken up a lot later than usual. This however, wasn’t what was annoying him. What was annoying him, however, was the fact that someone had poured ice into his bed. Maybe it had been his brother, playing some shitty prank?

Glen opened his eyes.

Huh. He didn’t recall living next to a ski slope. And an abandoned one at that...

Oh. Wait. Wait.

“FUCKING FUCKING SHITTY ASS FUCK!”

Glen started breathing deeply, trying to calm down. Trying to think of things that weren’t him dying horribly and embarrassingly. Of course, it didn’t work.

“WHAT THE FUCK, WORLD? WHAT THE FUCK KINDA SICK JOKE IS THIS? OUT OF ALL THE FUCKING LOSERS FROM THAT SHITHOLE OF A SCHOOL, YOU PICK ME!? FUCK!”

Right. That’s that out of my system. But, Jesus Christ, really? Glen sighed deeply, standing up and looking around at the frozen wasteland he’d been dumped in. This, to make a gigantic understatement, was not good. Glen looked around to see what he guessed was the exit from this godforsaken place. He managed three steps before tripping over something large and soft.
“Ow! Jesus, what the hell was-oh.” Of course, it was his bag. Glen scrambled up, and hastily opened his bag. On top was a bunch of food and drink, water and bread as well as some other crap, but Glen was looking for something else. Hadn’t that guy at the beginning “ceremony” said something about bandanas? And collars? And... exploding?

BEEP

“Woah, what the hell?” Glen spun round looking for the source of the ominous sound.

BEEP

A voice rang through Glen’s head. “You will be required to have a team bandanna visible on your person at all times. Should you be without one for over five minutes, your collar will be detonated.”

“FUCK!” Glen yelled, turning back to his bag. He threw everything in it out, looking for his lifeline, his bandana, all the while the beeping ticking down to his death.

THERE. Right at the fucking bottom, of course. Glen pulled it out, making a disgruntled face at the colour and design. Seriously? This whole “killing your classmates” thing wasn’t enough? The beeping of his collar pulled Glen out of his stupor, and he hastily put the bandana on. The beeping stopped, and there was nothing but the wind. Glen sighed, and looked at everything that he’d chucked out of the bag. There was the food and drink he’d seen before, a map and compass, a flashlight, a plastic box with a red cross, and a bundle of clothes. There was a Nike T-Shirt, one which Glen had at home. He smiled slightly. It was a good top for running in. The next piece of clothing wiped the smile of his face. Another T-Shirt, this time in the same pink as his bandana. “Yeah, cos I loved that bandana so much.” Glen scoffed, throwing the shirt into the bag with disgust. The final item of clothing merely confused him. It was mostly a dark grey, but there was some sort of black hood thing, as well as a cape and boots in the same colour. A yellow belt came with it, it’s pockets filled with air, and on the front of the... thing, there was a stylised bat, in the same black as the cape and hood. Glen threw that into the bag as well, and saw something glinting in the snow. He bent down and picked it up.

“Oh, fuck yes.” The grin was back, as Glen threw the condom into the bag. Close to that was some sort of book, opened on a page with the illustration of a shotgun on it. Glen frowned. Sure, he enjoyed reading, but why’d they give him a book to-

“Oh my god.”

For just then, Glen had spotted it. A shotgun, lying in the snow. Beautiful. Glen ran over to it, picked it up, and laughed. The annoyance and fear he’d had earlier were all gone. Now there was only delight. The longer he stared at the weapon, and at the instruction manual, the better he felt. Sure, maybe back at school he’d been... forced to retreat from some of the larger students, but with this, Glen Bole was fucking invincible! As for finding his group, well, fuck that. Glen never really got on well in groups. If they died, that was their own stupid problem. Although maybe he’d tag along with them, just to see what a bunch of losers they were. Glen’s grin turned into laughter.

Somehow, SOTF-TV was turning out to be the best thing that’d happened to him.

[chitoryu12*]

((Bob Lazenby continued from In Bloom))

As Bob trudged up the rough rock path that carved a black gash up the mountain, he started to wonder exactly how this island worked. Looking over his map on the way through the seemingly endless fields, he found that it managed to have a volcano, ski resort, rain forest, a regular forest, tar pits, and a geyser all on the same relatively tiny stretch of land. The geography boggled the mind; probably some kind of odd weather-changing technology.

It was cold. He ran his hand along a snowbank and it came back with authentic ice crystals, so they weren't just launching soap suds and flakes of plastic. He wasn't sure how it got so cold all of a sudden, though he heard a strange buzzing, whining sound for an hour before he reached the mountain and it had only gotten louder since.

Wondering like this is what kept Bob Lazenby sane as he wandered a deserted resort island with piss-stained jeans, a collar full of C4 around his neck, and dozens of people out to shoot him in the face. It kept him from focusing on what little chance he had of making it off the island alive and what a great chance it was that he'd suffer a slow, painful, degrading death on national TV. And who's to say that anyone but his parents would see it? None of his friends watched the show. "Mainstream trash and cruelty", they called it. They probably didn't even know he was there, just figured that he had stopped coming for drinks.

He sat on a boulder and looked out on the rest of the island. It was as if the island had multiple personalities; plains broken up by lakes and trees, a small spot of gray where the geyser sat, beaches, black splotches of tar, the tall stretch of concrete that was the hotel. It was like the designers couldn't figure out what they wanted to advertise the most, so they just threw in whatever they could and called it a day.

Odd. Very, very odd.

[Pippi]

Glen eventually stopped laughing, and instead decided to take a look around at where he was. He knew it was a ski resort, but that puzzled Glen. If the producers had dropped everyone on a snowy wasteland, then surely everyone’d die of hyperthermia or some shit before day one? Even now, Glen was beginning to shiver, even with his hoody for warmth. Right then, let’s get moving.

Glen checked that everything was inside his bag, taking a Clif Bar whilst doing so. He knew that he really should be trying to preserve his rations, but goddamnit was he hungry. Zipping the bag up, Glen held the shotgun in one hand, and threw the bag on his back with the other. There. Set. An idea suddenly popped into Glen’s head. He looked around for a camera, and sure enough, there one was, nestling in the branches of a tree. Glen turned towards it and spoke, grinning throughout. “Alrighty world, you’d better watch out, ‘cause Glen Bole’s looking for those motherfuckin’ ten kills.” Satisfied, Glen turned and strode off towards the exit.

As he got nearer, Glen noticed a figure perching on a rock. Glen’s smile broadened, if that was possible. His plan just got easier. And then things just got better and better. Glen recognized the kid on the rock.

Bob Lazenby. Pudgy hipster Bob Lazenby. Irritating and easy to piss off, Glen doubted that he’d managed to make many friends on the island. Glen scanned Bob’s forehead for a bandana, but could see none.

And then he noticed that Bob had pissed himself.

This is so fucking perfect! This. Is. Fucking. Perfect. Glen was literally beaming at the sight of Bob, but a small part of him was trying to ruin his day. That small part being his conscience. Could he really kill anyone? Even fuckers who deserved it like Madelyn Conner or Sidney Rice or fucking Kevin Fielding?

... Yes. Yes he could. Sooner or later, everyone would either snap or be dead. Everyone wanted off this island, and Glen was just getting in there earlier than everyone else.

He wasn’t sure if Bob had noticed him yet, so Glen walked closer, holding the shotgun up, pointing the barrel at Bob.

“Well hey there Bob!” Glen called out, in his trademark arrogant tone. “Looks like you’ve had a preeetty bad run so far. And guess what, buddy? It’s about to get worse.” Glen had never handled a gun before, but seriously? How hard could it be? Point gun at dude, pull trigger, gun fires, dude dies. End of story.

[chitoryu12*]

Bob froze. He didn't recognize the voice. All he recognized was the inherent animosity of somebody who was probably pointing a very large gun at him.

As he turned, Bob realized he was right.

The boy was tall, handsome, wearing a pink bandanna, and had a terrifying gleam in his eyes. And he was holding a big gray shotgun pointed right at him.

Bob did the only thing he could do. Really, the only thing he had EVER done up to this point when faced with another human being.

"AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!"

And with that, Bob Lazenby fell backwards off the boulder. This would not have been particularly bad had he not been turned 180 degrees to face the pathway. And so, Bob's back was facing the side of the mountain.

Bob knew nothing but a flurry of white snow and painful bumps as he rolled his way down the slope. After what seemed like an eternity, he slowed down and lightly bumped against a large rock.

"..........owwww."

His glasses were gone, leaving him in what looked like a blank field of white. As he looked up, he saw a cliff faintly above him. The 10 foot roll hadn't done more than bruise and scrape him, but now he was blind. Blind, completely unarmed, and motionless against the shotgun-wielding maniac above.

[Pippi]

Glen had a fairly good idea of what Bob’s reaction would be. Screaming, crying, begging, possibly more pants-wetting. So when Bob turned to face him, Glen didn’t even blink as Bob started yelling. What he was not expecting, however, was for Bob to tumble backwards off the boulder and down the slope behind him, a slope Glen hadn’t really been paying attention to. He let off a soft “Goddamnit” and hurried over to the slope’s edge. To Glen’s satisfaction, however, Bob hadn’t rolled far. He hadn’t even moved, the idiot! Seemed he was looking for his glasses, or something. Glen smiled, raising the shotgun again. He didn’t know the range on it, but it would definitely be enough to hit Bob. This time, there would be no mistakes. Glen’s fingers curled round the trigger, and he squeezed.

*CLICK*

...What?

*CLICK* *CLICK* CLICK*

Where are the fucking bullets? The fucking recoil? WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS CLICKING SOUND? Glen’s mood swiftly changed yet again, from satisfaction, to confusion, to frustration and finally to anger. And in Glen’s mind, the only solution was to shout loudly, using lots of expletives. “No. Just, what the fuck. WHAT. THE. FUCK. A FUCKING SHOTGUN, AND IT TURNS OUT TO BE FUCKING FAKE OR SOMETHING?” At this, Glen hurled the gun to the snowy ground, and turned to the nearby camera. “Fuck you game!” he yelled. “Fuck you, shotgun!” as he turned to look at it lying on the ground. “Fuck you Bob!” as he leaned over the slope. “And fuck you, you fucking boulder!”

In desperation, Glen tore open his bag, looking for another weapon. Nestled in the pile of clothes was a white box, which he’d managed to overlook. Deciding that there’d be no harm in opening it, Glen hurriedly flipped it open. Inside were a bunch of red cylinders. Shotgun shells. Shotgun shells which he’d neglected to load the shotgun with.

And the award for the stupidest SOTF-TV contestant goes to...

Glen could feel his face going red. Who-knows-how-fucking-many people watching this, and I manage to do something dumber than Bob’s hill rolling. He could still pull this back, though. Prove he wasn’t a complete moron. He went back to the cliff to check if Bob was still there. Sure enough, he was, seemingly still stunned. This, however, provided Glen with another dilemma. He could load the shotgun, sure, but how long would that take? Would Bob run off by then? Glen looked over at the boulder Bob had momentarily been resting on, and an idea sprung into his mind. Hoping his voice could be heard over the wind, Glen called over to Bob. “Right, chubby, change of plan. Shooting you’d be too easy, too quick, and other such bullshit. Instead, I’m gonna be pushing that boulder you were perching on down the slope towards you.” Glen walked over to the boulder and, putting all his weight behind it, placed his hands on it and started to push.

At first, there was nothing. After a few seconds, however, Glen felt the boulder start to move. For about the hundredth time that day, his mood changed, this time back to satisfaction. Standing up straight, he called back to Bob. “Now, because I’m feeling so generous and good-natured today, I’m going to give you a choice. You can either stay there and get crushed, or move out the way and get shot. Either way, say goodbye to your specs, hipster boy!” Glen crouched back down, and placed his hands back on the rock. “You’ve got ten seconds to make your mind up” he called.

[chitoryu12*]

Dazed and blind, Bob sat.

Oh God, that hurts. Goddamn.

Where the hell are my glasses? All I see is white....

Wait, what's he saying? Something about specs? Does he have them? Maybe he'll tell me where they are.

I hate being blind. It's stupid. Blindness is stupid. Blind should be shot.

Is that a rumbling sound? It reminds me of earthquakes. We don't really get earthquakes.

Hey, what's that black spot?

This took about ten seconds.

"FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!"

With speed faster than he thought possible, Bob Lazenby dove out of the way less than a second before his old seat crashed into the snow behind him, the ground rumbling almost enough to throw off his balance.

Turning around, Bob could see the blurry outline of the huge rock sitting right where he was mere seconds ago, a light dust of snow falling back to the ground. Looking back up, he couldn't see the douchebag. Which meant he was probably getting ready to shoot him, knowing his luck.

Tripping over his feet, Bob stumbled his way down the slope as quickly as possible, praying to not get a load of pellets in the back.

[Pippi]

Ten seconds.

Doesn’t seem long, does it? Nope. No it doesn't. For Glen, however, it seemed much longer, as if the island was taunting him, giving him time to actually think. For instance, what’d happen if when he got off the island? How would the public react? More to the point, what about his parents? Harry and Sophia? They were, perhaps, the only people Glen really got along well with. The thought of never seeing them again, quite honestly, scared Glen. But only for a few seconds.

Because goddamnit, I am getting of this fucking island.... Aaaand, that’s ten seconds.

Glen gave one final shove, and the unpleasant thoughts vanished, replaced by the earlier satisfied, confident ones. He turned back to the ammo box, hearing a rumbling sound, a noise half way between a thud and a crash, a rapid burst of expletives, and then silence. Glen smiled to himself as he loaded the precious shotgun. This process took slightly longer than he’d expected, but eventually he finished, packed the ammo box back into his bag, and went back to the slope, looking for any signs of dead hipsters.

There was nothing, unless you count two boulders.

Glen frowned. Had Bob been crushed between the two boulders? Nope. They look way too small to hide him, and there’s no blood either. Where the fuck has he gone?

And then Glen saw the figure further down, rapidly getting further and further away. Raising the shotgun he yelled, at the top of his voice, and rather pointlessly;
“Hey! HEY! Get the fuck back here!”

Glen pulled the trigger of the shotgun twice, and this time, there was a satisfying double crack sound. Not even bothering to check whether Bob had been hit or not, Glen jumped down the slope, hoping his running skills meant he would be able to easily reach Lazenby. Unfortunately for him, the uneven surface meant he could do little more than jog down, lest he fall over like Bob had.

This, however, was exactly what Glen seemed to want to do as he fired the shotgun a third time.

Had he been on even ground, this would have been no problem, as he’d proved a few seconds ago. The ground was sloped and uneven however, and when Glen pulled the trigger, he was completely off balance. The recoil was enough to push him over, and with a cry of “AUGHOHFUCK”, over he went, tumbling down the slope, somehow still holding onto the shotgun, with no boulder to stop his decent.

[chitoryu12*]

Slipping and sliding his way down the slope, never managing to stay on his feet for more than a few seconds, Bob eventually managed to make it to roughly level ground. Rolling back to his feet from a rough tumble, he started making his best efforts to run in the ankle-high drifts.

Yes! I'm going to make it! Suck on that, bitch!

CRACK CRACK

"GYAAAAAHH!!"

Two puffs of snow the size of his chest erupted just 10 feet in front of him. His adrenaline shot into overdrive, or at least that's how it felt, and he started running faster than he had ever run before. Paying absolutely no heed to anything else and screaming his head off, Bob just ran and ran until he was on solid ground.

((Bob Lazenby continued in Wising Up))

[Pippi]

For several seconds Glen Bole was completely blind as he tumbled down the snowy slope, his eyes screwed tightly shut. He could hear nothing but his own body thudding against the slope, and his own cries of “FUCKSHITFUCKSHITFUCK”. To Glen, it felt as if he was being punched repeatedly by Kevin Fielding, as his bag, shotgun and the ground clattered into him. Eventually the slope levelled out and Glen stopped sliding and tumbling, sprawled on the ground. He kept his eyes screwed shut, however, and stayed where he was for a couple of minutes, waiting until he could think coherently.

When he finally opened his eyes, Glen noticed his bag had been flung off of him in the fall, and he rushed over to it, praying that nothing had been damaged. Glen hastily opened it, and after a few minutes checking and double checking, found that everything seemed to be okay-ish. The bullets had all come out of their box, as had the beef jerky from their packet, the spine of the shotgun’s instruction manual was barely hanging on and the batteries had somehow managed to fling themselves out of the flashlight, but the most important thing was, everything worked, including the shotgun itself. Glen was equal parts relieved, embarrassed and pissed off. Not only had he made a prat of himself, he’d managed to lower himself to Bob Frickin’ Lazenby’s level. He was also annoyed at the fact Bob himself had managed to disappear. Everyone from school would have a field day if they found out what had happened. “The sooner off this fucking island, the better” Glen growled, as he picked up his stuff and left, looking for somewhere a little less cold.

((Glen Bole continued in Writing From Personal Experience, and thread closed, I believe))