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 NewHome Diner: Coffee? Burgers?
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Sneaky
 Tuesday, April 30 2013 @ 06:22 PM UTC (Read 3347 times)  
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Why were these removed?


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Trowa
 Wednesday, May 01 2013 @ 04:30 PM UTC  
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That's what I was wondering, too.

Quote by: Trowa

Is it just me, or did anyone else notice that Joe's Diner no longer sells coffee?

...the coffee Jill buys you when you're a newbie.

...the coffee you buy [redacted] when you [redacted].

Everyone's Story jokes about Joe's terrible, gritty coffee don't make sense anymore!


Something something unintelligible gibberish something.
 
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Skidge
 Wednesday, May 01 2013 @ 08:15 PM UTC  
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The NewHome guards still speak in hushed tones of the day Joe ceased carrying coffee.

It had been a Thursday.

Actually, this is a lie; no-one is ever entirely certain what day it is, on Improbable Island. Not even the days themselves, which keep changing their minds three hours in and deciding that instead of Friday, they would like to try being Pink Fluffy Unicorn Day instead. Days on Improbable Island can get quite stubborn when left to their own devices; there are some who mutter that this is what comes of too much free will floating about the place.

They are usually the ones who end up stuck in half-hour long loops of four o'clock in the afternoon on a Tuesday, which has been statistically proven as the most boring time known to man or beast.

That's what happens when you question the sentience of the days of the week.

In any case, perhaps it had been a Thursday. Perhaps not.

There are many who claim to have been in the diner when it happened, as is always the case when something of momentous importance takes place; if one were to go by the number of those who claimed to have been there, the occupancy of the diner at the time would have been at least fifty people over standard fire code regulations.

Not that the Island has standard fire code regulations.

But that is another story entirely.

Up until that point, the day had been relatively quiet: one zebra stampede, two Rookies discovering chainsaws for the very first time and having the standard screaming fit, and only three shivering naked WHAT AM I DOING HERE??!! drop-offs; even those with multiple personalities were mostly taken up with muttering to themselves, and the demon possessions were, for reasons that were never adequately explained, down by ten percent that week.

Mostly the population had been occupying themselves with sitting by the fountain and staring oddly at anyone who walked in or out without interacting in any other way. Occasionally, one would mutter something about being ignored and storm out.

And so, when the eruption of screaming burst forth from the Diner, it was especially noticeable.

ANYONE WANT TO CONTINUE?!


 
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kythia
 Thursday, May 02 2013 @ 07:44 AM UTC  
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Wall guards came running. It had happened once before that a portal had emerged from the jungle to inside the outpost, bypassing the towering walls. They can be forgiven for thinking this was more of the same. In fact, they passed the local EBoy's franchise holder flipping the sign in his door from "Open" to "Closed" in preparation for the outpost being breached. The bank was doing the same.

But it was something worse. Oh so very worse.

There was no sounds of conflict, none of the gut-wrenching squelching noise of butchery, and the thieving midgets were resorting to stealing from each other without the steady scream of unconscious contestants. Retraining personnel were present, as they always were, but instead of the constant industry of them hauling bodies to be unceremoniously dumped on the failboat, they just stood white faced. Aghast.

A young kittymorph sat slumped in the doorway. His firm abdominals glinted with a slight sheen of sweat, delicately sculpted pecs heaved with evey weeping breath. His tail was wrapped around his knees hiding anything non PG-13 but this was almost certainly just a comfort thing rather than any attempt at modesty.

The closest wall guard slowed to a walk as he approached the crying figure. "What happened here?"

He looked up, tears streaming down his face. The crowd drew nearer - even the ones who had heard the story wanted, needed, to hear it again. As if pure repetition could make it finally sink in.

"I'd been...I'd been fighting. In the jungle. The camera gave me some money and I thought I'd come in to Joe's and get a coffee. But when..when I asked for one..." He trailed off, unable to continue.

Solemnly a nearby Robot finished the story:

"JOE SAID NO"




TAG SOMEONE ELSE.


 
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Daedalus
 Thursday, May 02 2013 @ 08:09 AM UTC  
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Scene the next:

If this was one of those god awful made-for-TV 70's era movies, there would be fading of the shot, and a couple of bars of swirling harp chords to introduce a flashback. But it isn't, so stop thinking about it. Insted we cut straight to a shot of a much younger Joe, in a shiny new diner. On this day, as for many before it, the diner is in fact crowded way beyond its occupancy limit. There is a queue stretching out through the door and winding up to the Museum. And what, you might reasonably wonder, are they here for? Joe's coffee!

In the early days of Joe's enterprise his coffee was the stuff of legends. It was sublime, yet robust. It woke the spirit and fired the imagination. Newly arrived rookies starved while veterans chatted amiably in the queue. And Joe was a justifiably proud man. Jokers, zombies, kitty-folk and strangly anthropomorphic robots would make the hazrdous and stamina-sapping trek across the island for a cup of 'Joes Joe'. And to tease the rookies, let's not deny it, but mainly for the coffee.

The ingredients were hard to come by, and Joe worked hard to keep his stocks up, and his prices down. Crates were ransacked, the prized teleporters cast aside in his fervour; new arrivals were frisked, and there even was talk of smuggling by hard up Network interns trying to stretch their meagre earnings.

In the midst of his thriving industry, Joe still had time for romance. In his pocket was a newly acquired wedding ring, destined for the paw of his kitty girl. He had plans, he had drive, he had ambition.

But it was not to be. The tragedy that was about to unfold, to turn the Joe of yester-year into the surly grease-monger that recycled his coffee beans until even the wood-ash additives tasted better without them, looms in our next scene.

(Next!)


The lunatics are taking over the asylum! Come with?
 
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Shi
 Thursday, May 02 2013 @ 08:04 PM UTC  
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She was waiting for him at the back door, loitering by the bins like she always did. The tricksy, blink-and-you'll-miss them nights on the island don't make for much time off, a fact she was always pretending to be angry about. She was terrible at pretending. Terrible at lots of things, but as far as Joe was concerned she was flawless. he leans on the door frame watching her for a while. she hasn't noticed him yet, she's busy playing with something clasped in her paws. she looks just like when he first met her, rooting through the bins at the back of the diner for spare change. so bad at fighting she couldn't scrape together the req for a coffee.
she looks just the same, just as naive and blithely optimistic as the day he met her, and she pestered him for two hours till he let her have the kitchen scraps. He takes a deep breath, and slips the ring out of his pocket.
"I got something for you. I hope you've not been waiting long."
She turns and grins at him, and something jarrs in his heart, because her smile is different. her eyes glint in the streetlamp glow, and as he spots the smart new bow tie and the bowler hat she's holding, he feels a sudden heaviness in his chest.
"only a few thousand moments. what have you got for me?"
she purrs. her purr is the same, at least.
"I thought you could come in and have a cup of coffee, and then I'd show you."
she's still purring, that's what he remembers. her purr is the same purr she always had, as she shrugs, and says, "I'd prefer tea, if you've got any."


 
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Cherriki Ten
 Thursday, May 02 2013 @ 08:30 PM UTC  
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It was if time itself had stopped as those words ripped through the younger Joe.

"T-tea?" He asked, not entirely sure he had heard the words right. Perhaps a bit of skronky was clogging his ears - a midget had come along earlier and given him a wet willy. She turns her eyes up toward his face, the faint green hue even more noticeable as she stepped into the thin light streaming out of diner.

"Yes, tea. Darjeeling, preferably." The bowler is set smartly upon her head and a sharp-toothed joker grin spreads her lips.

(Next.)


"Optimist: Person who travels on nothing from nowhere to happiness." -Mark Twain.
 
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Skidge
 Thursday, May 02 2013 @ 09:13 PM UTC  
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More than anything, it was her movement that really drove the point home. She had always been scattershot, a saunter and a bound, cat-grace and kitten-energy tied up in one; as she brushed past him now with a sidelong, slanting glance, it became inherently and immediately obvious that the natural sensual invitation of her previous form had drawn about itself an edge of knife-blade threat. The saunter was now a sidle, the bound a spring of madness wound tight, awaiting release.

It was with his heart beating hollow at the back of his throat that he turned to watch her pass. At the back of his mind, distantly, rose the gradual realization that there wasn't that much difference between the butterfly-flutter of nervous love and the cold slide of genuine fear, after all.

And that more than anything silenced the questions that he would otherwise have asked. There had been so very many questions, before. That had always been the way of it, between the two of them, an easy give-and-take that had established itself within moments of their having met.

But everyone knows that Jokers don't answer questions, not for free.

Never for free.

You're being ridiculous, he told himself, quite sternly. She still loves you. Doesn't matter what she looks like. And repeating this thought like a mantra, he forced his hands to close the door, and forced his legs to follow in her humming wake.


 
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kythia
 Saturday, May 04 2013 @ 02:51 AM UTC  
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His hands were shaking. Tea was in low demand here. Maybe the stores up in Ace High (were there stores in Ace High? He had never been. His mind was racing, chasing at half a hundred minor distractions.) But maybe they sold it. But here in New Home. It was coffee.

It had always been coffee.

Maybe had he sold it more the actions would have been more familiar. He would have been able to settle into an easy ritual with well-practised actions needing no thought. It would have been calming. Meditative even. But it wasn't the case. Had he seen a teapot under the sink? A frantic knee banging search through the cobwebbed cupboard said no. Was there still a teabag in the old spaghetti jar that a section of the wall had morphed in to one day? Peering through the dust said no. It was like this at every stage. Every aspect of the brewing process necessitated searching, thought, panic. Stress.

She rolled a dice.

He realised he had held his breath and let it out in a noisy unsubtle gasp. She just peered mildly at the red cube, though, nodded to herself and replaced it in a pocket. Satisfied with the results, mild curiousity her only noticeable reaction.

Finally he found the tray. It was propping up the leg of a table in the customer's area. A quick spit, a quick scrub with his sleeve, it looked nowhere near as good as new. His hands shook as he placed the chipped china mugs, the small container of "sugar" - best not to query the quote marks, the tongs, the teapot. They clattered wildly as he brought it over. Calm eyes belied by the audible evidence of his nervousness.


 
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Daedalus
 Monday, May 06 2013 @ 10:44 AM UTC  
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She had teased him about the chipped, mis-matched tea paraphanalia. This was not surprising, even comfortingly familiar. She had laughed off his hesitant, unsure suggestion of cucumber sandwiches. He relaxed. She frowned, ever so brief and slight, at the dusty taste of the stale, indeterminate variety of tea, then changed the subject. He knew.

His gaze went around the room; a proprieter's reflex. A small group of fan-boys alternated between raucous laughter and intense concentration as they collaborated on their latest homage. He smiled indulgently at another table, the pair tete a tete and not because of the crowding. Mr Stern returned his smile uncertainly, the Corporal scowled. The Watcher sat at the centre of the only uncrowded section of the diner, neither disconcerted nor oblivious to her being the only solitary customer or the clear radius around her. The room bustled, though at this hour the queue was finally abating. The image, seemingly irrelevant, was etched in is mind for years to come.

His eyes dropped to their table, and came to rest on the natty bowler that she had placed carefully to one side. After a while she had spoken, then again, finally he heard "hellooo ... you in there Joe?", and he realised that he had drifted off in his reverie. "Sorry, what?" Her brow had furrowed. "A req for your thoughts?". He blinked, and stopped fidgeting with the ring in his pocket. Still. Not the calm still of confidence that he always had. The frozen still of stoicism. The iced resignation to an inner death. He cocked his brow towards the hat. "Just thinking how things change" he reflected, significantly. She tilted her head. "Everything changes, Joe, especially here on the Island, you know that." Soft. As she spoke she had placed her hand over his, but as she concluded the contact was broken, ostensibly to pick up the tea.

And that was the problem. Everything changed on the Island. Except Joe.

When she left that night on some excuse for not staying, the ring was still in his pocket. He hadn't even told her about it.


(Next).


The lunatics are taking over the asylum! Come with?
 
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Twosocks Monkey
 Thursday, May 09 2013 @ 11:24 AM UTC  
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It was a slow decline, the quality of the coffee. Joe held out hope that she might change back. If he waited, if he waited maybe things would be the same as they were before.

Maybe he could still make things work.

Maybe he wouldn't need to change.

Time passed, passed in the way it has on the Island. Faster for some, faster for others. Chicken Marsala for the lucky few.

For Joe though, he spent his days in a haze. He couldn't tell you if it was a week, a month, a year, several.

And the coffee well.

The coffee just reminded him of her. Of what he couldn't give her. The coffee was him. She didn't want it.

He didn't want it either.

And so it declined in quality. No longer did he look for excellent ingredients, scour for new 'flavors of the week', pop open crates just to see if the passage through the Bubble had changed a pair of energy drinks into espresso.

No. He didn't care. He let the coffee drift as he let himself go. His hair began to get thinner, he stopped waxing the table tops, then eventually just stopped cleaning them at all. He snapped at customers, grew stingy, ever more bitter as his hopes faded.

(next?)


moooooooooo Visit and help me finish the monster list: goo.gl/rpBGe (Ya'll mostly know me as CLOG, fyi)
 
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soban
 Thursday, May 09 2013 @ 02:38 PM UTC  
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A young kittymorph walks down the road in frilly panties. a red backpack and her fists strapped to her back. The Gates to NewHome frame the shot.

The young kittymorph goes through the front door to Joe's Diner. The sign that reads 'Joe's Diner' is clear.

The young kittymorph sits at the bar. Joe is washing glasses. "Coffee?" Her speech bubble reads.

Joe is now at the Coffee machine pouring a cup. "Sure, so what brings a young kit like you all the way down south?" His speech bubble reads.

The young kittymorph's face is smiling. Her hands now hold a cup of Coffee. "I heard you have the best coffee to be found." Her speech bubble reads.

Joe looks slightly surprised. 'I have not heard that in a long time.' His thought bubble reads. "I do, I'm glad to hear you came for it. A young kit like yourself have a name?" His speech bubble reads. "Ziara." Ziara's speech bubble reads.

(Some Will, Some Won't, So What? Next!)


 
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Full Metal Lion
 Monday, July 15 2013 @ 06:45 PM UTC  
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As Ziara sipped her coffee, the story Improbably stopped being a transcribed comic book. Ziara stopped smiling, but that was probably the coffee, not the sudden medium-change. With obvious difficulty, she gulped down the sip she had taken, and set the mug on the counter.

"Well..." she said, "that coffee is certainly... interesting."

Joe resumed his customary slouch, which had been slightly straightened by some minuscule measure of hope. "That'll be fifty req."

Ziara plunked her tokens on the counter, but then she hesitated a moment. Joe directed his sullen glare at her, and she shrugged off her backpack, dropping it next to the req.

"What--" started Joe, eyeing the words "NEW FOOD" stenciled in black on the backpack's red fabric.

"Take it," Ziara told him, smiling again as she turned to leave. "They wanted you to have it."

"Who're 'they'?" Joe called after her. But she was gone.

Joe regarded the backpack again. Well.


An unfinished story bothers me even more than having to write something does. But not more than posting twice in a row bothers me. Next!


 
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tuypo1
 Thursday, July 18 2013 @ 02:47 PM UTC  
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Joe opened the backpack and empted it out on the table inside were various recipes and samples along with a note from the aforementioned love intrest with trembling hands he began to read dear Joe it has not escaped my attention that things between us have been difrent lately and so it was with a heavy heart that I fliped the coin that would decide our future together I would be lying if I said I was disappointed that the coin told me to leave you but I was hopeing with all my heart that it woudent me and my new fiance jack decided to put together this new menu for you to help you through what will be hard times I hope it helps love Killy


 
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