Anonymous
ID: uV+k975I
7/19/2025, 11:48:20 PM No.6277309
Rolled 7, 3, 20, 9, 5, 11, 5, 8, 3, 2, 12, 16 = 101 (12d20)
Some jackass with blinged out shades and an afro just ran you over with his bright red sportscar
Your body got sent flying into the air and crashed into a dumpster, but that wasn't what killed you.
Nor was it the coyote living in the dumpster. Oh, it mauled you real good and made you question the state of society, where dangerous animals like that roamed free in the city streets, but despite everything you were going to make it.
Even getting hit with a splash of corrosive acid - thrown by a fine young gentlemen who was probably aiming for the nearest unaccompanied woman scurrying about in violation of his peoples' religious law - would not be enough to kill you. Scar you and melt some of the flesh off your face? Of course! The pain was agonizing.
Deadly? Nope! As a proud Brit born and raised in London, you of course kept a stiff upper lip and did your best to keep calm and carry on. Even the local urban youth, who put a pause in their beatings of that poor oriental woman to come put a few more bruises could not get you down. For King and Country you would endure, just as your old man endured the bombings of blitz!
At least, until, the worst thing imaginable happened. You said something bad on the Twitter... wait, no, it's the X now that a certain Boer gentleman purchased it from the Yanks. Well, he is a Yank, but still.
[I say, country's going to hell in a handbasket! Wild animals running amok, hit and runs, and lads beating old ladies instead of helping them across the street! What's an Old Briton to do?]
"Oi!" five and a half seconds after you posted that, a bobby came up. "You got a loisence for that hate speech?"
"Blimey old chap, didn't mean nothin' by it," you tell the bobby, but he ain't having it. Sure, there's blood where the coyote bit you, and your shoulder's still a bit dislocated, and the bruises from the lads with the bats, but he's got a point. Complaining like that on the internet is just no good. "Just havin' an off day is all. First a bloke with a car near ran me over, then a coyote tore right into me, it did! Where'd that even come from, ain't those from across the pond?"
"Mate, I get your meaning, but still," the bobby claps you on the shoulder, the one partially melted from the acid. "You can't go sayin' that sort of thing on the Twitter... or the X. What have you. Let alone the new Brits who might think ya did mean sommat by it - an' I know you didn't, but the optics mate! - you might hurt the politicians' feelings."
"Oh shite, well now I feel right awful about meself," you apologize to the bobby. "No, wait, that's the acid. Think your clap got it into me bloodstream and now it's melting me heart."
"Right then, my mistake, shoulda just clapped ya in irons and brought you to the Yard," the bobby apologizes back to you. Unfortunately, you can barely hear him, as your consciousness has already begun to fade. "I'll let you off with a warning this time. Steady on!"
Some jackass with blinged out shades and an afro just ran you over with his bright red sportscar
Your body got sent flying into the air and crashed into a dumpster, but that wasn't what killed you.
Nor was it the coyote living in the dumpster. Oh, it mauled you real good and made you question the state of society, where dangerous animals like that roamed free in the city streets, but despite everything you were going to make it.
Even getting hit with a splash of corrosive acid - thrown by a fine young gentlemen who was probably aiming for the nearest unaccompanied woman scurrying about in violation of his peoples' religious law - would not be enough to kill you. Scar you and melt some of the flesh off your face? Of course! The pain was agonizing.
Deadly? Nope! As a proud Brit born and raised in London, you of course kept a stiff upper lip and did your best to keep calm and carry on. Even the local urban youth, who put a pause in their beatings of that poor oriental woman to come put a few more bruises could not get you down. For King and Country you would endure, just as your old man endured the bombings of blitz!
At least, until, the worst thing imaginable happened. You said something bad on the Twitter... wait, no, it's the X now that a certain Boer gentleman purchased it from the Yanks. Well, he is a Yank, but still.
[I say, country's going to hell in a handbasket! Wild animals running amok, hit and runs, and lads beating old ladies instead of helping them across the street! What's an Old Briton to do?]
"Oi!" five and a half seconds after you posted that, a bobby came up. "You got a loisence for that hate speech?"
"Blimey old chap, didn't mean nothin' by it," you tell the bobby, but he ain't having it. Sure, there's blood where the coyote bit you, and your shoulder's still a bit dislocated, and the bruises from the lads with the bats, but he's got a point. Complaining like that on the internet is just no good. "Just havin' an off day is all. First a bloke with a car near ran me over, then a coyote tore right into me, it did! Where'd that even come from, ain't those from across the pond?"
"Mate, I get your meaning, but still," the bobby claps you on the shoulder, the one partially melted from the acid. "You can't go sayin' that sort of thing on the Twitter... or the X. What have you. Let alone the new Brits who might think ya did mean sommat by it - an' I know you didn't, but the optics mate! - you might hurt the politicians' feelings."
"Oh shite, well now I feel right awful about meself," you apologize to the bobby. "No, wait, that's the acid. Think your clap got it into me bloodstream and now it's melting me heart."
"Right then, my mistake, shoulda just clapped ya in irons and brought you to the Yard," the bobby apologizes back to you. Unfortunately, you can barely hear him, as your consciousness has already begun to fade. "I'll let you off with a warning this time. Steady on!"
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