Debate Rounds (2)
But we will tell a story. You must appeal to your audience with some sort of a story told in any way you want. It may be a drama, comedy, adventure, etc. You can tell it in any manner or genre you want. Ask any specific questions in the comments. Basically, just make sure Airmax won't feel compelled to remove this debate because of your story.
S&G is obviously part of judging. Conduct is still the same. More convincing arguments and sources should go to whoever had the most compelling story to the viewers. You have the max amount of time and characters to write your stories. I want to best you at your best. So challenge me!
I accept. Even though this isn't a debate, it's still very unique, thanks for coming up with the idea.
Jonbonbon forfeited this round.
Joshua Riddle lurched out of his favorite bar, allowing the rowdy sounds found in a bar on a game night to escape into the otherwise quiet neighborhood. As the door slammed shut, Josh wished he had driven to the bar, it had gotten cold. At least home is close, thought Josh.
He had been walking, or stumbling, whichever you like, for a few blocks, and was almost home when something brought him out of his alcohol induced haze. He frowned, trying to recall what had taken him out of his stupor. He couldn't. He realized he had been standing still as he thought. With a shake of his head he started walk-lurching again. This time he heard it. His head swerved clumsily trying to find the source of the noise. There were footsteps, he was sure of it.
Addressing the seemingly empty street behind him, he slurred out, "Hello?"
Suddenly feeling very foolish, and wanting to get home to his bed, he continued on. He thought he heard something again but he wasn't about to turn around, he knew he was just letting his imagination get the better of him.
Four miles away and an hour later a man knew he could hear footsteps. But John Petzko wasn't drunk, and he wasn't walking down a dark street. He was hiding in his closet, having been prompted to go there after a window downstairs had been broken. As he tried to remain quiet he heard his floorboards creaking, and.. a voice? John held his breath and listened. Silence for the longest time it seemed. His lungs were beginning to strain when the sounds resumed. Floorboards. Voice. No, voices. Talking to each other. Before John could discern the conversation, he had to take a breath.
Now he could hear the familiar pattern of creaks his carpeted stairs made as one walked up them. The voices came into focus. One, like sandpaper, the other almost comically low pitched. Their creaking was coming closer. John was frozen in terror. There were only two rooms on the upper floor of his house, his room and the bathroom, and as a creaking door down the hall could attest to, the robbers had just opened the bathroom door. "It's a bathroom," Sandpaper whispered. "Check for some meds," low voice responded.
The creaking grew closer. He felt paralyzed, he tried to move his fingers, his head, he couldn't. He didn't dare to try to breathe. The creaks had paused outside his door.
Then, a hideous animal roar, coupled by the shattering of his door killed the silence. John could hear a man grunting in pain. The low voice began to swear but was cut off. Silence.
John could've been sitting in his closet, in the dark, tensed up for a few seconds or a few minutes, he would never be able to properly account for the length of the silence.
Then, the low pitched voice screamed, terrified, "WHAT ARE YOU?!" He was answered by a loud thump. Floorboards creaked, quickly now, the stairs moaned as if somebody ran down them.
John sucked in a deep breath, preparing to open his door, terrified of what he might find.
An alarm clock, belonging to James Gordon began to sing its unfeeling song. Up at 5:40, James thought sourly, the perks of a Gotham City Detective. He moaned the moan all human beings have at least once, the moan containing all feelings of dread toward waking up, getting out of bed, and generally facing the day. He blindly pawed around his alarm clock, until he mashed the button. The song stopped. James sighed.
20 minutes later and with a little more enthusiasm, James was headed out. Moving carefully through his dark house's shabby living room he pulled his equally shabby coat off his coat rack, and grunted as he swung it over his head and pulled his arms in. His shoulder ached, along with parts of his back. I'm too young to be falling apart, he thought.
20 minutes later and with significantly more enthusiasm, James sat down to his desk, amidst the sounds of an awakening police station, with a coffee in one hand and several papers in front of him. He took one final gulp, and tossed the cup into his wastebasket. As he fished for a pencil at the bottom of one of his many disorganized drawers, clicking heels made themselves known amongst the cacophony of the station. He looked up to see Detective Essen, tall, blonde, and striking as usual. "Morning Essen," he said gruffly.
"There's two more in for questioning," she paused, "and one of them says he saw something. He's not making much sense," she cautioned as James stood up purposely, "but at least we've got something."
"Indeed, show me to them."
"You saw nothing?" James' puzzlement hardly equaled the embarrassment of John Petzko. "Yes sir," then suddenly, "No sir, I-I mean--," James cut him off with a quick gesture, "I get it." The silence stretched out a little longer than John could stomach. "I"m sorry for wasting your time detec-"
"The voices, describe them again please." John settled slightly, "They were whispering, so you maybe I"m wrong about this.." he trailed off, uncertain now. He felt somewhat foolish for even going to the police about this, the only thing in his house to support his story was a broken window. He sighed and continued, "One sounded kinda gravelly--like sandpaper I'd say, the other guy--well voice I suppose, I mean there, uh really were no--" James leaned forward. "Mr. Petzko, I don"t think you're crazy."
"The other voice was very deep, kind of silly how deep it was." James barely paused, "And did you ever hear them talking at the same time?" John looked down for a moment, wanting to be sure, "No sir, they didn't."
James stood up, "Thanks Mr. Petzko, we'll get back to you if anything comes of this."
"I"m tellin' ya man, it was like a shadow tackled me!" James Gordon sat across a table from Joshua Riddle, who seemed oddly excited about the whole affair, especially given that he'd had a rib fractured. "A shadow Mr. Riddle? Do you think perhaps you could give a little more detail?"
Josh paused, a little put off over the fact that the detective hadn't been impressed by his story. "Well.. it looked like he was wearing some kinda dark cloth, and maybe some kinda helmet with horns, I guess? I don't know man I'll admit I was kinda drunk."
James glanced up at the two-way mirror, "This horned man say anything?" Josh responded with a quick no. James stood up, heading for the door, unable to keep his frustration down, he said, "Thanks Mr. Riddle, you've been a huge help to this investigation."
Somewhat surprised, Josh asked, "Really?" The detective paused under the doorway, thought twice, and walked out, letting the door slam shut.
Hours later, Gordon was at home, frustrated by everything. For years after his wife and son died, he had let his job as a Chicago Police Detective be his life. It was work he had never enjoyed, but he needed something. Even if that something was a job where you didn't stop bad things from happening, you just cleaned up afterward.
But now things were even worse. After a mental breakdown, and subsequent treatment, he'd been transferred over to Gotham PD, as if he was an embarrassment Chicago PD didn't want around. And now I'm chasing down a person who doesn't even exist. James snorted derisively as he sat down in his empty living room. So empty. They didn't even have a name for this 'person'. Just called him the Attacker. A couple people were beat up and they made a case out of it, and gave it to me, coincidence? No..
He sat down, looking over at the coffee table in front of the TV. There sat a Batman comic, his son's favorite. James took it out weeks ago, knowing it'd hurt, but doing it anyway. A tear made its way down James' face. He knew he shouldn't torture himself with these old memories..
Jeremy Flass' wife had him out fetching a couple things from the grocery store down the street, and Jeremy had decided to cut through a couple alleys to speed up the trip. Both of his arms were full with a the paper bag, stuffed full with milk and assorted meats. The bag crinkled and shifted with every step he took, so when Jeremy thought he heard a footstep that wasn't his, he dismissed it as his exposure to alleyway stereotypes affecting his imagination.
The second time though, Jeremy began to worry, but he wasn't about to admit he was scared by turning around, so instead he sped up, trying to get out of the alley and onto the sidewalk on the other end without actually breaking into a run.
In a flurry of sounds and flesh, Jeremy Flass was brought to the ground by a man whose features he couldn't discern in the dark. All that he could discern was a pair of horns, and a dark cape enveloping him. Fists rained down on Jeremy, bringing pain with them.
Darkness. The cape covered his face, and he felt hands clench his neck. A voice growled, "Where are they?
Where are they Joker?!"
Hours earlier, the Attacker had lept out of a second story window, landing on a suburban lawn. He vaulted the fence adjacent to the house from which he had come, thinking himself unseen.
He was wrong.
The next day James Gordon is back at his desk. He is merely going through the motions, mind stuck in other times, when Detective Essen tells him the good news.
Trenton Licht related his story from the back seat to the Detectives as they took directions from him. As James pulled out of the GCPD parking lot, the hobo began his story, "I was out looking for a place to stay the night when I saw a giant bat leap out of a window of a house. Swear on my mother's life I saw it clear as day! He--oh take a left right here offi--uh detective, yeah almost there. Anyhow.. oh yeah! Leaped right over the fence in front of him he did, and that's all I saw of him."
Essen responded, "What time was this?" The hobo responded unashamedly, "Don't rightly know ma'am, I got no watch ya see. It was just after the sun fell though. Oh right here detectives! This is it, the blue one!"
Detective Essen looks over at the Attacker, but he does not look at her, all he sees is his house, and truth within, sitting on the coffee table.
1 votes has been placed for this debate.
Vote Placed by PiercedPanda 2 years ago
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