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A tomb for Ligea

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Είδος: Χιούμορ
Βία; Όχι
Σεξ; Όχι
Αριθμός Λέξεων: 1309
Αυτοτελής; Ναι
Σχόλια: Πριν πολύ καιρό η Ayu είχε βάλει μία πρόκληση για 4 ιστορίες που δεν έβγαζαν κανένα νόημα. Αυτή είναι η προσπάθειά μου να χρησιμοποιήσω μία από τις 4 ιδέες αυτές



Ligea was certain she'd hit bottom, but the Gulf Stream begged to differ, lazily drifting her floating corpse over the Atlantic, from Miami to South Wales.

One could easily retell the story of Ligea, it was the same old story: Young and innocent, going to the big city with big dreams, then falls in with the wrong crowd. She was all shiny and well-dressed on arrival, but soon she ended up spending her days and nights in a dark corner, her insides barely filled with cheep beer, stale pizzas and sour milk, her housemates constantly boozing, smoking crack and having casual sex. They even came up with the name Ligea from her initials.

At first it was a nightmare, the constant exposure filth and depravity, but, after a while, she found herself craving for more of the sweet debauchery she was constantly witnessing. She became all the more excited, as the drugs started circulating inside her, offering her a new high.

But all good things come to an end; In Ligea's case, the police burst in her house and took her housemates away. She was left on her own, the sole inhabitant of the deserted kitchen, until some new housemates came in. They were a family of seven, cramped in three tight rooms, children constantly screaming and running around, her belly swollen with all kinds of healthy, nutritious food.

But no crack. Not a single whiff of its intoxicating smoke.

At first, she thought she would endure, but the withdrawal symptoms came faster than she expected. Soon, she was trembling, overventilating, her temperature rising and dropping all the time. The technician who came to check her told her housemates their refrigerator was broken, probably beyond repair.

And so, Ligea ended up in a dump then, when a sudden flood came, she was carried to the sea and then, floating on the waves, she ended up in a small island on the other side of Atlantic. And this could have been the end of her story, had it not been for Dave.


Dave was an autistic boy. The type of boy you see in movies, the one that is a genius but cannot express himself and he is hunted by secret services and terrorists (until the tough but good-hearted hero come to kill all bad guys and make sweet love to his sexy mother). But Dave was not born and raised in Holywood, America, but in Wales, Britain and, no matter how well The Creator has implanted the cure for cancer on his brain (it was big mind you, so he had to leave out some secondary abilities, such as communicating with other people and being aware of his own emotions – but he could still play rugby and enjoy a pint or ten so he was quite functional as a human being, at least for local standards) and the only one hunting him was his father, when he was not taking care of their leek.

Thus Dave was constantly looking for a release for his pent-up genius. That was probably the reason he was strolling on that beach. He had taken a small, dramaticly appropriate boat and he came to the small rock jutting out from the sea to ponder on the nature of mankind, but, instead, what he found was a washed out fridge.

“Got a fix?” Ligeia asked the scruffy looking boy.

Dave took his time examining her. He was pretty sure the one back home didn't talk with a white-trash American accent – or any accent at all, come to think of that. “Nah,” he shrugged.

“Where am I?” Ligea asked him again. This time Dave was registering something within himself that he had seldom noticed before, a certainty he should be extremely cautious with the abnormality of the encounter to the point that the most logical reaction would be that he should run away screaming like a girl, instead of having such big and complicated thoughts that barely made any syntactical sense.

Instead he informed Ligea that fridges, as a general rule, don't do drugs.

“This is only for good fridges who stay at home,” Ligeia replied. “I fell with a wrong crowd and here I am...”

“Uh-huh,” said Dave, analysing his absurd need to crawl to a corner and just sit there, rocking like, well, a rocking chair, while muttering gibberish.

“That's why they threw me away. And the waves brought me to... Where am I? In Mexico?”

“South Wales,” answered Dave, casually. He was quite impressed by the fact he had been able to follow the conversation up to now, and that caused that illogical need for his lips to curl up.

“Is that near South Dakota?” Ligea asked, pretty unaware that she was in Kansas no more.

“It is near England,” Dave replied, but by then some long-forgotten cog was turning inside his head.

“Fridges don't do drugs,” he said.

“I didn't,” Ligea told him, “I was exposed to them. And, after my old owners left, I needed crack to keep going.”

tick. Something clicked in Dave's brain. “It is impossible for a thing that is not supposed to be” click “addicted to a substance” tack “it is unable to process.”

They say two wrongs don't make a right and this is a very good rule of thumb, but on this small island two wrongs reached a point of mutual self-realisation.

Dave, destined to find the cure for cancer, did so. If cancer cells don't belong, we can addict them to something then deprive them of it and then flush them away to Wales or something, he thought and that was his first step to becoming the World's first cell-level-dope-dealer.

Ligea, a machine, was the first inanimate object to achieve sentience. And this was no divine goof, just a logistics error, having an organic-based super-chip installed into her, instead of the Pentagon's top secret billion-dollar supercomputer (that would have died from cancer ten years after wiping humanity from the face of the Earth, along with Dave's cure). In her semi-organic state, she was quickly evolving into an entirely new form of life, a crack-baby born of top-grade science and military so-called intelligence.

“So, where exactly are we?” she asked the boy.


It should be noted here that, in times bygone, back in the dawn of Aeons, the Creator had trapped his Adversaries, Eldrich Beings of Αlien Intelligence, to prisons far beyond the Earthly Realm. In order for them to be released, one would have to utter their unspeakable names of endless consonants and sickening phlegm.

But the Creator never considered two important factors: Two extraordinary sentient forms actually meeting up on a moment of mutual paradoxical self-awareness that distorted the space-time continuum around them and the Welsh language, that speech of three sixths phlegm, two sixths drunken rugby yells and one sixth language.

Dave pronounced the isle's name, but his brain had surpassed all human limitations. Synapses clicked madly, faster than a room of monkeys playing Diablo 3, moving consonants back and forth in time into a maddening chorus of phlegm.

“Oi! Oi! Llullu! Ffthang!” shrieked Dave in a crescendo of unpronounceable blasphemies.

The Stars shifted to their rightful position, and, lo, behold, the Unspeakable monstrosity known to mankind as Llullu shattered His unearthly prison and, under the unholy piping of myriad idiot servants from the center of the universe, He trampled on the Earthly realm, opening the prisons of his Exiled Brothers, wiping the Earth of all life (except from some politicians, lawyers and serial killers – the only breeds evil enough to become servants of the Old Ones).


Let's just say that, while remaking the Universe, the Creator opted not to repeat his mistakes and make all refrigerators immune to crack cocaine...

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Μάρβιν ΑΑΠ

εντάξει, γέλασα, πολύ, και δεν είναι διόλου ακατανόητη η ιστορία. Στο πρώτο κομμάτι κάλεσα για βοήθεια τον Άνταμς. Στο δεύτερο, τον Τζόρνταν, αλλά ίσως κάτι χάνω και να μην είναι αυτή η σωστή επιλογή : ))))


έντιτ: (κρίμα που δεν προλαβαίνω να ξαναδιαβάσω και τον έντγκαρ, αυτόν τον καιρό· μόλις βρω χρόνο θα το κάνω :ρρ)

Edited by Μάρβιν ΑΑΠ
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Στο δεύτερο, τον Τζόρνταν, αλλά ίσως κάτι χάνω και να μην είναι αυτή η σωστή επιλογή : ))))

Δεν είναι, μήπως να έριχνες μια ματιά στον Χάουαρντ. Όχι τον Μπομπ, τον άλλον.

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Μάρβιν ΑΑΠ

αχαχαχα, καλά το ψυλλιάστηκα :ρρ τον άλλον τον έχω αφήσει πίσω μου από το '91, και δεν ξέρω αν έχω όρεξη να του ρίξω ματιά. προτιμώ όσα γράφουν οι αναγνώστες του : ))

Edited by Μάρβιν ΑΑΠ

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