Storyteller's Round Table/Robin: The Turn-Based Storytelling Thread

[Rutskarn]

Alright, the current storytelling project is on a bit of a hiatus, and is apparently set to resume with a strict schedule of rotation in February.

For this project, the rules are a bit more simple.

I'll post the first bit in an ongoing story. When that story chunk is posted, somebody else will step in and say, "dibs," or some variant thereof. First person to call it gets to write the next bit in the story.

The rules are as follows:

1.) After writing a part of the story, you must wait until at least three other people have had a go before doing the next part. This part may be changed, depending on the level of interest.

2.) After getting first dibs, you have three days to write the next part. Your submission must be longer than a couple paragraphs, but shorter than a couple pages. Within that, go with what your schedule can manage and what feels right. Should your turn expire, or you forfeit your claim, the next person who had called dibs gets to write the next part.

3.) The "dibs" system is pretty informal, but I would prefer that you not do something like, "I call dibs on the part 32 parts after this one," "I call dibs on the part 33 parts after this one", etc. Try to keep it to short-term planning--if we have too much interest, we can always just start a new thread.

4.) Respect the direction of the narrative. Try to keep a good, entertaining, consistent story going. You may obviously do new things with the story (take it in slightly different directions, add new characters, kill off minor characters in dramatically appropriate fashions) but don't do something like, "Suddenly, the main character dies of herpes, and Mary McAwesomeburger, Japanese Fry Chef and Parachute Instructor, steps in". That will only invite somebody to write a segment ending with, "'No, Mary, you are the demons.' And then McAwesomeburger was a zombie." Nobody wants that.

5.) Try to build a park, not a railway. A park has lots of interesting paths, different places to go, and diverse landscaping. A railway has only one possible route to take. Parks are fun to explore, railways are journeys to be endured.

6.) If the story seems to have run its course, and at least two or three people agree, a satisfying conclusion can be attempted. This conclusion might be vetoed.

7.) Go ahead and write in your own style; feel no pressure to keep to a particular diction.

Without further ado, I present part one.


My name is Flint Te-Ramun, and I’m a detective.

Kind of.

I’m an investigator. It’s my only job. I’ve only got one case, but it has personal significance. I’m not hard boiled, but I am leathery. I don’t have an office, unless you count a half-buried, sandblasted temple to be an office. I’m a private eye, even though I haven’t got one to spare for myself..

Let’s cut to the chase. I’m mummified.

Five thousand years ago, I was interred, with my guts in jars and body in a sarcophagus. I thought that’d be the end of it, and it really should have been. For all those years, I was fine chilling in the cold of my sandstone grave, until some thugs broke into my place and took my jars. I don’t know why they wanted them, but they picked on the wrong corpse.

Turns out, the mugs who ripped out my innards put some kinda curse on them. You take my organs out of the temple, you wake me up, and trust me, I woke up on the wrong side of the sarcophagus. Now I got to get the organs back, by any means necessary.

Problem is, the geniuses who did this to me didn’t think to give me some kinda magic way to find the jerks what took my jars. All I’ve got are my generous talents of detection. That’s all I’m going to need.

Now all I got is a genuine Samuel Colt firearm, a bottle of bourbon, and questions that need answering. I don’t rest, don’t breathe, don’t eat, drink or get distracted. I’m gonna track those goons down if it’s the last thing I do.

Don’t take that lightly. This is coming from a guy who thought he’d run out of last things to do a long, long time ago.


Cairo, 1924.

The moonlight shone cold, silver light onto the sandy streets of the market. Awnings, color bleached away in the night, threw darker and darker layers of shadow over the empty stalls. At this time of night, most people are afraid to be on the streets.

The fruit vendor tried to get up, slowly, every movement agonizing. He just managed to brace himself for the next blow, sending him rolling painfully onto his back.

Before he could move again, there was a low clicking noise. The dark figure had thumbed back the hammer of his massive revolver, the hole in the barrel seeming black as death in the darkness of the stall. Besides the outstretched pistol, only the figure’s silhouette was visible, fedora and trenchcoat forming stark outlines against the pale streets beyond.

The vendor froze, weighing his options carefully. “London,” he said, quietly. “That’s all I know. I don’t know if one of them, or all of them, or…I overheard London.”

The figure slowly lowered the pistol.

The merchant exhaled shakily, muttering a prayer for forgiveness.

“Don’t pray for yourself,” said a raspy, cold voice. “You’ve only aided justice, mister. Justice of the oldest and most primal kind.”

The figure replaced the pistol within a jacket pocket, replacing it with a small, rollup cigarette. He clenched it in his jaw, reached back into the pocket, and pulled out a gleaming bronze lighter.

A flame burst, briefly, into life, a dash of color on the colorless streets. The blazing orange spark held on the end of the cigarette.

Outlined in hellish reds was a desiccated, raw face, a face whose every line spoke of ancient ritual, grim determination, and bloody vengeance.

“If you want to pray, merchant…”

For a moment, small embers of red glowed within the eye sockets.

“Pray for them.”

With that, the figure turned, stalking away down the alley.

(note that most, if not all, of the storytelling will be in the third person. If you want to do another first-person segment like the intro, feel free.)

Who wants next?

[Coidzor]

Sounds like fun. Looks fun too. Hmm, mummy Ace **** (http://www.mspaintadventures.com/)...

Quite the curve. If I weren't so thrown by it, I'd be calling dibs right now. As is, I'm going to sleep on it and ruminate a bit. I'll definitely endeavour to get in on this though.

[three08]

totally dibs.

okay so sue me. i have more free time at work than at home. (saint's row 2 ain't gonna beat itself, folks.)


* * * * *

London, Flint thought to himself. Where the hell is London? Back in the day, I knew what there was to know. Education is the prerogative of the ruling class, right? So how does a fruit vendor know things a God-King doesn’t? He heaved a rattling, ragged sigh, which is an impressive feat for someone without lungs, and set out to find some directions.

After the third time he had to shoot his way out of a pub’s common room full of angry peasants shouting epithets about the English devil and the foreign oppressor, he began to get the impression that perhaps political relations between his nation and this "Eng-land" were such that simply asking, "Which way to London?" was going to be an ineffective tactic. Still, he had to find some way to get there. This time, sitting at the counter in the fourth neighborhood pub and nursing a beer he had neither the desire nor the organs to drink, he had a different tactic in mind.

Loudly, angrily, he muttered, “Damn English.”

The guy sitting next to Flint just glanced irritably over his shoulder and then turned back to his conversation, to find that his companion, who was a few beers further into his cups, had stumbled to his feet and gone to clap a hand on Flint’s shoulder. “An’ what ‘as you got ‘gainst them English, gran’father?” the man slurred drunkenly.

Flint thought fast. “Killed my son, they did! This was-” he took a wild guess, “three years now he’s been in the ground!”

“The riots in ’21?” the drunkard shouted. “Yer son, he... he’s a... he’s a hero, he is! HEY EVERYBODY!” he wailed, with the ear-splitting volume of a man completely unaware of where he is, “Gran’fa’ here’s son is a hero! Wait, was. WAS!” he shouted, again, before leaning in alarmingly close to Flint and exhaling huge clouds of sour, beery breath right in his face while whispering loudly, “I didn’ mean to make... to make you... to… You got a messed-up face, mister!” He then started giggling, fell on his ass, and collapsed onto his back.

Eyes rolled all around the bar, but angry muttering had commenced nonetheless. The fallen drunkard’s companion went down to haul his friend upright. “I think we’re done here. Come on, let’s get you home.” As the drunk gasped, clutched his stomach, and vomited over his friend’s shoulder, he addressed Flint, “We all feel your pain, grandfather. But his sacrifice was not in vain! We’re free now.”

“Still,” Flint rasped, “I wish I could avenge him. We have our freedom, but now we should take it to them where they live! To London!”

A man at a table behind Flint snorted. “Good luck getting past their navy, then. I will write letters to your wife after what’s left of you is buried.” The audience chuckled, and another patron added, “Unless if you disguised yourself as a mummy! Then those Royal Society thieves would steal you and the Navy would take you to London themselves, first class!” This provoked further snorts of angry laughter, which brought the room back to its previous levels of banter.

Flint, looking thoughtful, thanked the bartender, left his un-drunk beer on the counter, took several steps toward the door, stopped, heaved another dessicated sigh, hopped out the door of the building on one foot, wiped the sick off the bottom of his other foot, and headed out into the late evening.

[MrEdwardNigma]

Flint Te-Ramun didn't need food or water, or any other sort of sustenance. He knew that much. However, as he found out in the last couple of days, there were limits to his patience. Flint had been in that tomb for ages, but he had been in a deep slumber then, and now he was wide-awake. It wasn't the same thing. He'd paid some kids on the street to box him in and get him onto the next ship to England as an artifact, but he hadn't anticipated this. Being interred in this box without any light or anything to do for god knows how long know was hell. He'd just run out of Bourbon too. He was almost glad when there was a loud creaking and the nails that held the lid on his box let loose.

Light shone in, and blinded Flint momentarily.
"A mummy! I told you we'd find some valuable stuff in the cargo"
"I dunno, Achmed, where can we sell a mummy? Maybe we should just put it back?"
"Hey, it has something..."
Flint felt a cold hand glide past his leather skin, and reaching down to his revolver.
"This looks like a gun. What's a mummy doing with a gun?"
"Achmed, put that back! It's dangerous!"
Flint's hand grabbed onto the grave robber's wrist.
"Yeah, kid, put that back" he said, with a voice so raspy it could have only come from a dead man.
"Oh, sh-"
The robber swore and then gun went off, blasting a nice round hole in Flint's dusty chest. Flint gave the robber's arm a jerk, and the gun fell back into the box. He quickly grabbed onto the second robber's arm too. His eyes were getting adjusted to the light. These were just kids. They were eighteen at most. The one that had been referred to as Achmed looked the eldest and his face was covered in pimples. He had thick black eyebrows and dark skin. The other kid looked foreign, with much lighter skin and blonde hair.
"Let go!" the kid yelled.
"Be quiet, I won't hurt you" Flint said, remembering that if anyone found out he was on the ship they'd most likely throw him overboard.

The kid calmed down.
"I told you this wasn't a good idea, Achmed"
Achmed seemed to be in a state of shock and wasn't responding.
"Who are you?" the kid asked.
"You can call me Flint. I'm a detective. I figure stuff out"
"You're a mummy" the kid said, stating the obvious.
"That too" Flint grumbled. He let go of the kids' wrists.
"What are you doing here?" the kid asked, wholly intrigued now with the notion of a living mummy. Achmed seemed less enthusiastic. Flint shrugged, taking a pack of cigarettes out of Achmed's chest pocket and lighting one.
"I'm going to London"
"London? You sure are taking the scenic route, mister, this is a Nile river cruise"
"Does it go to London?"
"The luggage eventually gets stowed on a bigger boat that goes to London, yeah"
"Eventually?"
"In a week, sir"
Flint cursed under his breath. He looked out of the porthole.
"Where are we, kid?"
"My name's John, sir"
"That's a strange name"
"My father was from England, mister"
"I'm sorry to hear that" Flint said sympatheticly.
"He was an archaeologist" the kid said, showing great difficulty at pronouncing that last word.
"That means he went in tombs to look for mummies, like you, mister"
"A grave robber? Where is he now?"
"I don't know, sir... He left when I was very young. Mom said he had to go back to England"
"You speak English?" Flint asked suddenly, if nothing else to avoid mushy moments.
The kid nodded.
"Al right, you're coming with me"
"I can't, mister, me and Achmed don't belong on the boat. We were just trying to steal some stuff while the tourists were visiting the pyramids of Jack Kawhara"
Flint almost choked on his cigarette.
"They gave that buffoon a pyramid??"
"Yes, sir. It's pretty big too"
"How long did you say the people from the boat would be gone?"
"Oh, until nightfall, mister"
"Good. I'm going to go check out that pyramid"
"We'll still be here when you get back, mister. We still haven't found anything worth to take, and I need to get Achmed to snap out of it"
"Alright, kid, see ya later"

This off course doesn't mean the bit in the pyramid needs to be described. It might as well be skipped if nothing interesting is going to happen, but I needed somewhere to cut the story short.

Also, I realise not much actually happened in this chapter, but some set-up was needed for stuff to actually happen, plus he needed to at some point board a ship to England before the story could continue there.

[Rutskarn]

Perfectly good post, MedN. I like where this is going.

I'd call dibs, but it's still not my turn. Who wants a go?

[Lissou]

I am REALLY enjoying this story. I thought I'd let you guys know.
I might join in a bit later but for now I was thinking, would it be ok for me to gather all posts and make an rtf document? This way when the story end we could upload it for people to read it or something.

EDIT: I'm not sure if I should credit anyone individually in the middle of the document or at the end... I'll see about that if I get the permission.

[Rutskarn]

I am REALLY enjoying this story. I thought I'd let you guys know.
I might join in a bit later but for now I was thinking, would it be ok for me to gather all posts and make an rtf document? This way when the story end we could upload it for people to read it or something.

EDIT: I'm not sure if I should credit anyone individually in the middle of the document or at the end... I'll see about that if I get the permission.

I'd be fine with that. I would recommend crediting people per section, not just at the end.

[Lissou]

I'd be fine with that. I would recommend crediting people per section, not just at the end.

Yeah, I was thinking it's probably a better idea, especially since people will most likely write several parts. Going "person A: parts 2, 5, 12, 32 and 45" would force the person to go back and stuff.
I'm thinking of putting the name at the beginning of the part, but on the right side on the page. Wouldn't disturb the reading but would still be read.
I'm going to work on it, if anyone is against it, feel free to tell me, since I won't be uploading it for a while anyways.

Here are some rules I've decided to follow:

1) Obvious rule: I won't change the text. That would just be rude. For that reason, I'll also avoid correction misspelling, if any, unless I'm absolutely sure it's one "the cat licked it's fur" instead of "its fur" for instance.
At any rate, if I spot mis-spelling I'll tell the person so it can be changed here too. After all, us writer want to know when we're making mistakes :P

In the same vein, no uniformisation of course. If someone says colour and another color, that's perfectly normal. Everyone will have their own style anyway, and it's not meant to be something uniform at all. Just putting it out there so you don't worry about it.

2) However, the layout will be "changed" to fit an actual book. By which I mean stuff like alineas being added (a small space at the beginning of a paragraph) and no line between paragraphs unless it's a scene change.
However, I won't cut paragraphs because I think they're too long or put two together because I think they're too short. That's part of the author's work, and I won't touch it.

3) I'll jump two lines after the end of a part, then have the name of the next person on the right-hand side, between parentheses and in italics, then jump another line and have their part.

4) Speaking about italics, I'll track them down and have them at the same places as in your original work (they don't copy-paste)

5) I've decided to use the font Georgia, by the way.

When I'm done with the three existing chapters, I'll upload a screenshot so you can tell me what you think. Then, I'll stop polluting this thread.

I might try and work a way to keep the file uploaded so people can download it to read it rather than navigate through the forum pages when that thread gets bigger.
I chose the extension .rtf because it's read by the most programs as far as I know.

I'll get to work on it and let you guys now.

EDIT: I gave it a try. You can get it here (http://www.webedes.com/Te-Ramun.rtf) and make suggestions. I'm willing to carry any further discussion in a new thread. Once everybody agrees on the format and stuff, adding a link at the beginning of the thread could help the newcomers. They could download it, read it and then check the thread to make sure no newer chapter has been made since then (I'll update it as much as I can but won't always be online when someone posts.)

[Uncle Festy]

Awesomesauce.
I'll try writing a segment when I have some more time.

[MrEdwardNigma]

Sounds excellent, Lissou.

Now someone write a next bit. I want to find out what happens to Flint.

[Lissou]

May I politely suggest rethinking rule 1, at least for now?

[MrEdwardNigma]

I don't get it. This thread is a great idea, and there are plenty of semi- to very talented writers on the boards, so why isn't this a bigger success?? :smallconfused:

[three08]

humor writing is intimidating. but c'mon folks! it's the internet. you can just assume we're all rolling around on the floor, clutching split sides. who's to disagree?

[MrEdwardNigma]

This was supposed to be humour?

Oh dear, I should have made my bit funnier...

[Uncle Festy]

This was supposed to be humour?

Oh dear, I should have made my bit funnier...

Not necessarily. Rutsy wrote a relatively funny intro, but we can take it wherever we want.
Also, I'll write up a piece when I get some more time, but I kinda just got back from vacation…
Wait, we have three days to write, right? You know what? I have an idea for the next part, I'll bite. It'll probably be short, but I think it could be a good setup for another segment to get this thing moving again.

[three08]

thank you for stepping up, mr festy sir. i mean really all we need is someone to put up a line or a paragraph and then rutskarn can go again and then i can and so on.

i realised shortly after posting that humor was not really made explicit anywhere. that came entirely out of the murky depths of my mind. i mean, one could argue a certain inherent humour in the premise - a mummy, in a trench coat, with a colt .45? - but it doesn't have to go that way. if someone wants to write it as a horror or crime that would be fantastic.

i guess i just saw the inherent humor mentioned above, and knew a little about egypt in the 1920s from a history class, and my mind sort of went to a pratchett-esque place.

[MrEdwardNigma]

*eagerly anticipates Festy's post while shamelessly bumbing*

[Uncle Festy]

Um…
I totally did not forget about this! Nosiree!
I'll try and get something written later today.

[MrEdwardNigma]

*cough*

That wasn't really a very convincing way of telling us you didn't forget, Festy.

In other words, "liar, liar, pants on fire".

[Rutskarn]

Whoah, crap, forget to check this one.

Okay, Festy, take a swing at it and then I'll step up to the plate.

I'm thinking rule one needs the following revision:

For every day that nobody claims the next segment, the amount of posts between your last and the most recent decreases by one.

Basically, if I post a segment, someone else posts a segment, someone else posts a segment, and then nobody claims it for a day, I can safely come in and claim it.

At the other extreme: if you post a segment and it goes untouched for three days, you can just pick it right back up.

Sound fair? This is all pretty experimental.

[Uncle Festy]

*stabbities schedule*
So, yeah, I haven't forgotten. I just don't have time. :smallannoyed:
I'll take another shot at getting something down tonight, but don't count on it.

[Lissou]

Sounds fair to me. It's experimental, after all, and so far there aren't many people... If there ever gets more people it could be tweaked again.

[Uncle Festy]

((Sorry I'm, like, 11 days late. ><))


Flint followed the crowd of tourists into Kawhara's pyramid. He got some odd looks from passers-by, but nothing worse. Not that he would have noticed, as he was thinking. No… remembering. Bittersweet memories flashed through his mind – memories of a time long dead, of beauty, power, and –
Gods dammit, that guy was a bastard!
Ok, maybe not those memories.
Flint paced through the halls, face twisted in rage. I can't believe this. How did that moron get himself in a pyramid!? I always assumed he'd be wiped out of the history scrolls! He lied, he murdered, he stole… I mean, even I never did any of that stuff! I… I just, um… said what needed to be said, and executed the guilty, and requisitioned materials for the sake of the kingdom…
Why is it that moral justification always sounds hollow five thousand years in retrospect?
Flint's eyes (or at least what was left of them), which had been staring off into the middle distance during his retrospective, alighted on one of the displays in the tomb. Off to one side sat a golden goblet, rimmed with emeralds. The mummy stared. Wait a second, I recognize that goblet. I lent it to Kawhara, didn't I? Yeah, I did! I can't believe he never gave it back! Well, yes I can, but still! Reaching forward, Flint snatched the goblet from its stand. "There. Justice is done." said Flint, grinning.
RINGARINGARINGARINGARING Alarm bells started ringing, as cries of "stop, thief!" were shouted out around him.
"… well, huh. That can't be good."

[Rutskarn]

(Sorry, kinda rushed)


Flint reflected that perhaps today wasn't going so well.

Museum guards began fighting through the crowd, racing towards him. Dammit, Flint thought, I do NOT need this. I was just trying to kill some time waiting for the damn boat, not get the brass on my tail.

Flint dove over the displays, racing towards the front door. A pair of police officers ran in, pointing at him and shouting.

Double damn.

Flint spun on his heels. Museum guards running down the hallway towards him, Police running from the entrance--he was trapped like a scorpion in an urn.

"Alright," yelled on of the museum guards, "Just put down the cup and get on the floor, grandpa. Do it!"

Flint grimaced. Great.

He glanced at the door--and suddenly, something caught his eye.

On the wall next to him a worn spot, a small indent in the stone that would pass unnoticed to the casual observer.

Flint grinned. Insider knowledge. It really pays.

Casually, Flint raised his hands--then dove to the side, slamming the stone with all his might.

He tumbled through the dusty secret door, relishing the look of shock in the eyes of the guards as he vanished. Crashing into the dark staircase beyond, he had the reflexes and presence of mind to slam the door shut after him--and to throw the door lock--before he lost his balance and tumbled backwards down the staircase.

Keenly feeling each and every painful knock, Flint finally collapsed in a dusty heap on the stone floor. He lay there for a second, wincing.

Suddenly, he heard a voice, raspy and familiar, above him.

"WHAT THIEF DARES TO DISTURB MY SLUMBER?"

Flint looked up with an expression of supreme annoyance.

"Camel-Turd? That you?"

The robe-wrapped mummy looming above him growled in surprise. "Sphinx-Snot? What the hell are you doing on my property?"

Flint shook his head, irritated. "Long story."

[Uncle Festy]

:smallbiggrin:
Nice.
By the way, how was mine?

[Rutskarn]

Nicht schlecht. Certainly an interesting direction to take it in.

[Deathslayer7]

i suggest using the first post and linking the story together, so people dont have to go through posts searching for it. Just a thought. :smallsmile:

[MrEdwardNigma]

Very well done, both of you. Both those bits made me laugh, plus, we've got a real storyline building here.

[three08]

((sorry for the delay - was on vacation from the 16th to the 20th.))

Flint paused to reflect that, in some situations, the things you'd thought were advantages might end up causing trouble. Consider his present predicament. Ordinarily, being unable to bruise or feel pain is an advantage in a fistfight, and not needing oxygen renders a sleeper hold ineffective. However, when both participants in a scuffle happen to be undead, this can cause it to stretch on, and on.

And on.

Ad nauseum.

"Willya leggo me already?" Flint growled as he tried to yank his head free of Kawhara's full nelson. "Damn, it's just a goblet. You can hang onto it for now if you're so crazy about it."

Apparently, Kawhara agreed that three whole uninterrupted days was enough time for what was basically a slapfight to last. He released Flint, who hit the floor and rolled to his feet. "You're nuts if you think that's your goblet, though. I got that made for me on my thirtieth birthday," Kawhara insisted.

"Then why does it have my NAME on it?" Flint demanded in exasperation.

"It was supposed to be a tribute to my good friend," Kawhara said with a wounded look in his eyes.

"Of COURSE it was a tribute to me," Flint exploded, "I commissioned it for - ugh. Nevermind. Keep it. Now listen. I have to-"

"I WILL keep it," Kawhara snapped defensively, "but not because you told me to."

"-to get to the boat to London," Flint soldiered on, gritting his teeth. Still in surprisingly good shape, after all these years, too. Who needs dentistry? "Do you have any way of getting there from here? Preferably one that doesn't involve going through a couple dozen museum security guards?"

"Just curse them and get it over with, you wussy!" Kawhara snorted derisively. Flint only stared at him stonily and awaited a response. "Oh fine. Passageway 23D should let out somewhere past the laundry-washer's three blocks north of the museum. But I'm escorting you there to make sure you don't steal any more of my stuff!"

Flint had finished rolling his eyes and was in the middle of turning to go when a resounding CRACK from the direction of the secret door suggested that the museum guards had not, in fact, given up their pursuit. He said to Kawhara, over his shoulder, "You might wanna come with me, so's they don't catch onto us.

"Or are you gonna stay here and curse all of them?" he added sarcastically.

[MrEdwardNigma]

Next bit of the story:


The two mummies sagged down by a small tourist shop at the riverside. The riverboat was, off course, long gone. Flint swore. Three days. Three whole days they'd lost fighting each other.
"When does the next cruise pass by?" Flint asked.
"There's boats here every day, from all over the world" Kawhara said quite proudly. Flint couldn't believe millions visited that bastard while his only visitors in a couple of thousand years had stolen his organs.
"What about boats from England?"
Kawhara shrugged.
"Every two weeks?" he ventured.
That was eleven days he'd have to wait, Flint calculated. He had all the time of the world, but the longer he waited the harder it would be to track down those thieves. He didn't want the trail to go cold.
"How about other means of transportation?"
"I don't know, Flint. I had no need to leave my pyramid until someone decided to show the guards my secret hide-out"
Something occurred to Flint.
"What were you doing there anyways, Jack?"
"I was enjoying some peace and quiet until you came by!"
"No, no, I mean, what are you doing up? Aren't you supposed to be a slowly rotting hunk of meat right now?"
"Oh. That"
"Yeah. That"
"They stole my brains"
Flint burst out laughing.
"Sorry" he finally managed, swallowing another burst of laughter.
"Yeah, you go ahead and laugh. From the looks of it they took something from you too"
"They took everything" Flint said, who was suddenly not amused any more, "I've been tracking them down. They're in London"
"With the heathens. It figures"
"From what I can tell pretty much everyone's a heathen now"
"Especially the English" Kawhara said knowingly.
"So why aren't you tracking your thieves down? You're a private eye too, after all" Flint asked.
Hardly, he added in his mind.
"And go back to sleep for another couple of thousand years? I think not!"
"You botched up, didn't you?"
"... Yes"

Seventy-five years ago, before Kawhara's pyramid was even a museum, grave robbers had broken in there much as they had done in Flint's tomb. Jack scared them stiff using some very intimidating shadow puppetry and they ran off with what little they had already pilfered: a necklace and a jar with Jack's brain in it. After going on a fruitless hunt for the necklace, which had off course been that moneygrubbing bastard's primary concern, Jack decided to go after the brains, the item they hadn't been able to sell. He found the thieves in an abandoned factory, and after a very unfortunate series of events it went up in flames with both the thieves and his brain in it. Well, Jack had been in there too, but his less than mortal state had allowed him to escape with nothing but a few singes. Off course, escape to what? An endless life of hanging around in his tomb? Life was dull when you were dead.

"I think I'll come with you" Kawhara finally said. They'd been drinking whisky from the souvenir shop for hours now. It was surprising what amount of credit an ancient Egyptian goblet would give you.
"So you can botch up my search for my organs too? No thanks"
"It's not like you're doing well by yourself"
"I was doing fine until you showed up and made me miss my boat"
"Let me make it up to you by helping you find back your organs"
Flint laughed again. Him and Kawhara teaming up? He just couldn't imagine what it would be like.
"Mister!"
Jack and Flint turned around to see where the voice had come from. The kid from the riverboat was standing in the shop's doorway. He had several purses slung across his shoulder.
"I thought I'd never see you again, mister" he said, "In fact, Achmed had almost convinced me we had dreamt it"
"This, this kid right here, he's from England!" Flint said.
Kawhara whistled, clearly quite impressed.
"Welcome, heathen dog!" he said.
"Actually, I've never been to England, mister"
"And what's it like there then? Very decadent, I imagine?"
"Sorry?"
"England, what's it like?"
"I've... never been there, mister"
"Sounds horrible" Jack said, pouring another load of whisky down his throat.
"Will... will you still be needing me to head down to England, sir? It's just that, well, life here isn't all that. We have trouble getting round, me and Achmed"
"Off course we need you! We'll need someone who knows the ins and outs of the place! Consider yourself hired!"
Flint tossed the kid a pouch filled with freshly earned coins. The kid thanked him about a thousand times and then went inside to sell those purses. There was probably some sort of irony in the fact that Flint was earning his money by selling pillaged artifacts now, but in his drunken state it completely passed him by.

[Uncle Festy]

Nice. :smallbiggrin:

[MrEdwardNigma]

Why thank you.
I just tried to fill up some plotholes, give us somewhat of a cast and put them back on track (well, sort of).

[MrEdwardNigma]

Isn't someone going to post?