Nickel Potassium
The Battle

When I finally got to Jay’s house – actually, mansion might be more appropriate – everybody else was already there.  Luke, Colin, and Jay were all sitting on the sofa, paying no mind to the chandelier that hung above them – I could only assume that they had already had plenty of time to gawk at it.  Mike came out from the bathroom, the toilet flushing behind him, and walked past me as I slid my shoes off my feet.

“Hey Nick, only 15 minutes late this week huh? Esin help you tie your shoes this time or what,” Luke jested from his sprawled-out position on the couch.  He slid his phone shut loudly, having just finished writing a text, then leaned forward and plopped it onto the coffee table.

“Yeah, man.  It was so much quicker that I had time to stop and say hi to your sister.  Turns out she was still passed out on your bed, though.”  I snickered on the inside at my response.  Luke and I could’ve kept going, for at least a couple more stabs, but Jay interjected with a comment of his own. 

“Alright, alright, now I know you gotta razz him, but we gotta hurry this thing up, Becca’s waiting for me at the mall.”  Luke slid his vibrating phone open, exposing the keyboard, and began shaking his head.  His mouth barely opened when Mike intervened with his own excuse.

“Yeah, no, he’s right.  I’m raiding tonight so I gotta be out of here by seven at the latest.”  Luke’s mouth closed, but we could all imagine what he was thinking.  Luckily, he was preoccupied with texting, and this gave Colin a chance to shine.

“Jesus, and I thought I was gay!” Colin said, looking at Mike disapprovingly.  Jay let out a light chuckle, and quietly said “yeah,” more to himself than to anyone else.

“Man, whatever,” Mike said impatiently, “let’s just go get this over with.”  He began moving toward a door that was slightly ajar, and the rest of us followed.  Luke brought up the rear, shutting his phone and sliding it into his pocket right before entering the room.

Jay went first, followed by Colin and then Mike.  They all had some pretty good jabs, but nothing too memorable.  Jay’s style was quick and witty, while Colin and Mike were both still fairly new, so they would fumble a bit and at times, I thought they wouldn’t even be able to finish.  They both did, of course, but were nearly out of breath by the end.

Luke went fourth, and his wounds were the deepest.  When Luke struck out at someone, he went for their very core and spared absolutely no expense.  He had been known to make grown men cry in the past, but tonight was not one of those nights.  He did have a pretty strong finish, though, his last four lines being:

“Jay, and Mike, and screw it, you too Nick,

Can all have a taste of my little tiny dick.

And Colin, don’t think that I forgot about you,

Your chest is the reason I’ve hoarded all this poo.”

He followed the last word with an impressively well-timed fart, the kind that makes you second-guess whether you should have had Mexican for lunch.

I was up next, and I always got nervous right before I delivered my lines, no matter how many times I did it.  For the most part, I had them already planned out in my head, but when it came to actually saying them aloud, they would inevitably get jumbled, and one or two lines would get mixed up, and then it would turn into a real freestyle.

I took my place in the middle of the room, the other four spread in a half-circle around me.  We took a quick recess to let the room air out after Luke filled it with his gaseous waste, which I was oddly thankful for because it gave me some additional time to prepare.  But now, it was time.  I took a deep breath, and then got right into it.

“Let me start with Colin, by callin’ him a faggot.

You can take my food, and go ahead and bag it.

Cause Art Education? We know what that means; 

Ya might as well apply and try to sell some coffee beans.

And Mike, let’s be honest, your sex is like a comet,

It’s quick and rare and often paired with diff’rent colored vomit.

And Jay, don’t you laugh at them, you’re next up on my list,

Your face is odd, you suck at CoD, I think you get the jist.

And last and least’s the beastly chief

Whose freestyle raps sound worse than queefs.

Your breath’s like death, and Crest can’t wrest

That unspent scent despite its best.

So listen up, you glistened pups,

Your dissin’ sucks, like you piss in cups.

So I’ll leave you, with a short review:

Your lines are crap, goodbye and screw you.”

If I had a microphone, that would have been the point at which I dropped out and the crowd went wild.  People would have been cheering my name, and I would have just looked my opponent in the eye, unblinking and unflinching, like an invincible juggernaut.  Unfortunately, I did not have a microphone, so I did the next best thing.  I threw my hands into the air, facing the others, and yelled, “BOOOOOM!” 

The Shining Knight

So I didn’t get a chance to post my story from last week, but it was just another depressing story about “How to be an Engineer”.  If anyone is incredibly interested in learning how to be one, I’ll post it, but in the meantime, here is this week’s writing challenge!  The prompt was: “Distance and coolness in perspective.”

"The Shining Knight":

As Sir Edward rushed forward, mounted on his noble steed, I watched in awe while he lightly bounced up and down in his regal saddle.  The dust and dirt that was being kicked into the air behind him made him look like a shooting star, his metal armor reflecting every ray of sunlight that struck him.  His family crest was emblazoned on the front of his metal shield; a black silhouette of a thick tree and a mystical dragon joined together at the bottom.  I knew, without a doubt, that the eyes of every peasant girl, noble lady, and queer man pointed looked upon the shining knight as he strode forward gracefully.  For a moment, I forgot that there even was an opponent.

There may as well have not been a second rider, though, for when Sir Edward’s lance struck the poor man, he went flying from his saddle as easily as a bag of flour.  The way that the shining knight maneuvered his blow in such a way as to bring minimal harm to his opponent was likely lost on most, but my trained eye told me better.  This valiant Sir was clearly the most skilled in the entire tournament; even his shield was unscathed despite it being his third joust of the day.

Sir Edward grabbed the reins of his horse and yanked on them ever so slightly, gradually slowing his horse to a light trot by the time he reached the end of the posts.  He turned and began to slowly make his way down his opponent’s side of the field, waving to the occasional lucky fan as he made his way to the king’s seat.  When he finally arrived, he turned his horse to face the king directly, and lifted his full helm up off of his head.  His dark hair was cut close to his head, and stood in stark contrast to his blindingly white armor.  The contrast seemed fitting, however, even more so with the dark symbol of his House proudly displayed on his breastplate.

“You’re a good rider, Sir, I’ll give you that,” the king’s gracious voice rang out as the crowd’s cheers dwindled.  From my vantage point, not ten feet from the Knight, I could see the sweat glistening on his brow.  He bowed as low as he could without throwing off his balance.

“Thank you, your Grace,” Sir Edward replied, lifting his head back up and meeting the eyes of the king.  He looked everything a fairy tale at that moment, with the sun reflecting into the crowd and his violet eyes high and full of pride.

“Remind me not to bet on my own men in future jousts,” the king responded, followed by light laughter from everyone in the audience and a wide, bright smile from Sir Edward.

“Your majesty,” the shining knight spoke proudly once the laughter had mostly subsided, “with your permission, I would have your daughter’s hand in dance at the banquet this evening.”  My heart leapt for joy, and it seemed like a fortnight before the king finally made his reply.

“Even I dare not deny you that, good Knight,” the king spoke jovially.  “I certainly hope you’ve no desire to test those riding skills, though.”  This time the crowd roared with laughter, and Sir Edward grinned once more as he turned his gaze to me.  Our eyes met for a brief moment, but I tried to catch that moment and stretch it out as long as I could.  His deep, violet eyes made me feel weak, yet protected at the same time, and I wanted nothing more than to jump from my seat and wrap my arms around the sun-sheathed knight before me.  I knew better than that, however.  It took every bit of my royal training to remain calm, and respond with only a pleased smile.  Too soon, the knight blinked slowly and returned his gaze to the king.

“I would never dream of it, your Grace.” 

Are you tight or loose butthole?

I am definitely tight butthole, though I’ve been known to be loose butthole from time to time.

Ivan’s Last Mission

The writing challenge for this week was: Create an ordinary or everyday situation that is somehow interrupted by the extraordinary.  I took a slightly different approach, but I like to think that I still stuck to the prompt.  As usual, any feedback is welcome!  So here it is everyone, Ivan’s Last Mission.

When Ivan Rostov was six years old, he watched from underneath the kitchen table as his father was forced to his knees and shot in the head. The men who had murdered him mumbled something about, “that’s what traitors deserve,” before walking out the front door. After dropping out of high school his sophomore year and working as a mechanic, Ivan enlisted in the military on his 18th birthday. He wasn’t the quickest runner, and he lacked the fortitude of even the newest recruits, but when he held a sniper rifle, no man dared look down on him from within a 5 mile radius.

This was Ivan’s 9th assassination mission, and the last 8 went so well that he didn’t even bother to reload his Dragunov. “The target’s location is 425 Fifth Avenue, 10th floor. There is a building across the street on the south side that has a clear view,” was all the information that Ivan was given, and he needed no more. It was surprisingly easy to reach the rooftop, and thanks to the small crescent moon that was high in the sky, the only part of Ivan that was visible was the metal of his rifle. He flipped the bipod down and gently placed it on the edge of the building, lowering the back end of the rifle snugly against his shoulder.

“Govno!” Ivan’s partner cursed in his native tongue as he lowered the binoculars from his face.

“What?” Ivan whispered back, flipping the cover off his rifle’s scope and peering through it with his right eye. He didn’t need to hear Mikhail’s answer, because now he could see it for himself. It took his eye a second to adjust to the new view, and when it did he had a clear sight on the target – codename Miberg. The man was easily in his mid to late 70’s, which was strange, but not as striking as the little girl standing next to him, laughing in response to something he had said. She was only 4 or 5, Ivan figured.

“She’s just a little girl,” Mikhail whispered. Ivan remained silent, both of his eyes open and staring forward blankly. He adjusted his grip on the rifle slightly.

“Means she won’t do shit,” Mikhail finally broke the silence. Ivan lowered his head from the scope slightly and glanced sideways at his partner. He breathed a deep breath, and as he exhaled he gazed back through the sight and closed his left eye tightly. He took another deep breath, and this time held it in as he slightly adjusted his grip once more. He could feel his heart beating, and he forced himself to remain focused on the target in the window, even though his mind was racing. He thought back to his childhood, when the bigger kids would force his face into the toilet and flush it, leaving him gasping for air. When his bicycle was kicked out from under him, and his face hitting the pavement was the least of his worries. When he first laid eyes on Natasha, only to be laughed at and spat upon when he asked her to the school dance.

Ivan’s thoughts quickly vanished, and as soon as he came to, he squeezed the trigger. The gun gave a small kick that Ivan was more than used to, and when it steadied itself, he quickly pivoted it at a tiny angle, exhaled quickly, and squeezed the trigger once more. The shattering of glass masked the noises that Ivan and Mikhail made as they pushed themselves up and began moving toward the open door to the building’s interior.

“You’re one sick mudak, you know that?” Mikhail joked as the two of them rushed down the stairs. “I know that first shot was on purpose.”

Ivan didn’t say a word. He simply continued running down the stairs, his empty Dragunov slung over his shoulder.

I was involved with this also, check it out!


Here’s the trailer our team made for project islandia at the end of the first term. Try it for yourself at

More changes and additions will be made every week!