Some Joker Calling Himself "Chim Richards" Has Been Messing with Us

SUBMITTOR'S NAME:
Rich Chimchards

EVENT:
Where Is My Robotic Boot

DATE:
2014-1-23

TIME:
when the boot is found

COST:
23 pfennig

VENUE NAME:
Der Schwarzwald

VENUE ADDRESS:
6358 delmar Bd 63130

CONTACT NAME:
Warlord Chim

DESCRIPTION:
Where is my robotic boot? My father gave it to me on my 24th birthday. I had been gravely injured in a toboggan accident, and the doctors said I would never walk again. My father left the room at that point and didn't return. I assumed he was ashamed of my weakness, my disability, and had rejected me for being less than a man.
Six years later he returned, looking exactly as he did the day he disappeared. Same hair, same smile, same clothes. In his hand was a massive chunk of metal that shone iridescent green, like the carapace of a beetle. Snaking conduits and wires dangled from one end, and it shed an ichorous gleet at regular intervals.
"My son, this I won in battle from an odious necromancer. It is alive yet dead, warm to the touch but cold from a distance. He swore that this thing allowed him to walk, and so I struck him down and severed it while he lay dazed."
He inserted my withered leg into this eldritch object and, to my shock and horror, I felt it meld with my flesh. Those dripping conduits burrowed through my leg and affixed themselves to the bones therein with a hungry grating sound.
But I could walk. I could run. I could toboggan once again, for the honor of clan and country.
Now I am aged, and the weight of my years pushes my eyes to the ground. Still, I walk as powerfully as I did when I was 24 -- or at least I did until last night, when my father appeared behind me in a shuddering haze of unnatural light.
"Old man, are you the one they call Chim Richards?," he shouted.
"Father, you know that to be true --"
"Don't call me father, necromancer! I've come for you and your sorcerous appendage!," he shouted as he buffeted my head with the haft of his ax.
I dropped, mazed and helpless. He hacked off my leg, the one he gave me centuries ago with such pride, and spat in my face.
"A pox on all your vile kind, necromancer. Would that I had time to slay you, but my son waits in another dimension for my return." He vanished into that luminous cicatrice without another word.
I am old, my powers quartered by overuse and the passing of the seasons. I no longer recall how I became this creature, this inhuman figure of dissipated power. But I know this: The man who finds and slays my traitorous father and recovers my robotic boot will have all of my wealth and what remains of my knowledge.
If you see Geddy Lee on the road, kill him.

CATEGORY/GENRE:
Scavenger Hunt

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18 comments
Kayleigh Vogelgesang
Kayleigh Vogelgesang

That was the mist beautiful thing I have ever read. Bless you, Chim Richards.

Samuel W. Mulholland
Samuel W. Mulholland

I love the absolute pessimism of that Norwegian post. How absolutely fucking fantastic.

Laura Cox
Laura Cox

Um...Milton McDaniel...are you Chim Richards ?!

Richard Kyles
Richard Kyles

Denmark Laine , Sir have you been having a bit of fun?

David Lee Smithson
David Lee Smithson

This "Chum" and his surname Richards derives from the same ilk of loitering foul mouths, and bar room tricksters. Those same that scratch ceaselessly at their groins soothing the V disease their fathers bestowed on them. A harbinger of masturbation and leaking phallus, this traitor of Wizards will meet his disheveled corpse face to bod when his melon sized head is loped off. If Chim "Chum" Dicks is spotted, please report to the Hall of Wizing for The Wiz, in downtown Atlantis, 30 leagues under the sea due North West by West North. Sincerely Put Out, Earl Erroneous, First Class Dr.

mattstuttler
mattstuttler

Mindwipes, Brain Blast, and Dreaded Ego Whip. All awesome band names. 

Person
Person

My vote for the mystery writer goes to... your very own Paul Friswold! Yes, he may currently be banished to the journalistic Siberia of theater review, but only the P-Frizz could (and would) write stuff this awesome.


Now contrast his writing to the insufferable, millennial pop culture clickbait of Drew Ailes and you'll be convinced the Arch is a giant frown.


So rock on, Pope John Paul the Friswold. Even though you'd probably never, ever, EVER in a million years admit to doing this, you are loved that much more for it.

Pwnzorrz
Pwnzorrz

<3  Hire Him. Immediately.

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