I wrote this as something new for the ISB a while ago just because I had this compulsion to write something [badly may I add], but it hasn't been posted because I [nor Geb] have been able to think of a title I'm happy with so here it is with something subpar.

I'm not totally sure what style it's supposed to be but I felt that theres not a whole lot on the ISB that deals with a modern day setting, also I think this may have been born out of me wishing that the Soap Opera thread from ages ago never died. Take that as you wish but if anyone would like to write for this you can do what you like and we'll see what it turns into. [As you'll be able to tell I like my bad comedy, and the comedy of bad writing.]

*HIRRR*

*HURRR*



*HIRRRRRRRRR*


*HURRRRRRRRR*




*HIRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR*




*HURRRRRRRRRRRRRRR*





*HIRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-THUNK*

“HRGMM!”

Toby Caulwell slowly opened his bleary eyes and removed the near-empty bottle that his face had recently acquired. He lay on the floor for a minute contemplating why he was there in the first place. Had he scored the night before and she had kicked him out of bed? Had one of his friends brought him back from a bar and let him fall asleep on the hard ground for kicks? Had he been abduct by aliens that were a bit slow and didn’t realise people slept in beds when they returned him?

The bottle rolled back into his face.

No, that would be it. The joys of living on a boat; he had rolled out of bed again with the tide. He glanced at his alarm clock as he got up stiffly. Seven Twenty-three; he must have been out for about 15 hours. Strange, but it was probably his own fault for staying up all night writing and drinking. Well, not that he could remember staying up writing and drinking but let’s not get into the little details of what he could and couldn’t remember.

Toby grabbed the bottle that was obviously begging to be absorbed into his bloodstream and finished it by pouring himself a rather large glass of dark rum. He climbed out onto the deck of 30ft sailing yacht, “The Baconfish” and took a deep breath of cool sea air as he leaned against the portside railing.

He stared out past the line of streetlights on the waterfront and past the park’s thick trees to the rather jarring silhouette of Port Silverlake’s skyline. Most of the city had a clean and safe, sort of conventional feel to it, but the centre of town was filled with a lot of towering glass buildings in unconventional shapes. Toby understood that modern architecture tended to ask for nothing but glass windows and original structures, but quite frankly downtown looked like an explosion had gone off in a bottling plant.

Coincidentally at that very moment a large explosion went off in the bottling plant near the centre of town.


----------------------------------------------------------------------


Two mysterious characters with torches moved around in dark.

“Y’know if I didn’t know better I’d say this doesn’t look like the basement of a bottling plant at all, I’d say it looks like --”

“I feel that we‘re cliché enough as it is already thanks.” said one of the shifty blokes, glancing at his watch, “Now I take it you‘ve still got the timer and detonators if you‘ve not been daft enough to misplace them?”

“Right here; the boss set up the timer before he gave it to us so all we need to do position the stuff and run like hell.”

“This looks like a good spot, now, just place this here and push this and… Oh Bugg--”


------------------------------------------------------------------------



A short distance away and about 60 stories up, a sinister set of sunglasses stared out of a mildly less sinister window. Of course to personify sunglasses in such a way as to make them represent evil has become rather cliché as of late, so in this instance our sinister figure is going to take them off.
A sinister set of eyes stared out of an unsinister window upon Port Silverlake. They swivelled side to side in their sinister eye sockets which technically hid a sinister brain thinking sinister thoughts.
There was a rather bright flash and a sound wave that shook the unsinister window in a sinister fashion.

“Well that was unnecessarily large” the brain thought. Sinisterly.

Awe-sooooome. I'll be sure to link it in my signature which I doubt many people look at much, and I'll see about maybe even taking a stab at this story!

"The explosion appears to have been caused by a mishap at the Captain Happy's Glass and Plastic Bottled Beverage Products. Initial reports indicate that a technician mistakenly inserted a four-and-five-eights size metal bottle cap into a machine that had been calibrated to process size five-and-two-thirds, which started the chain reaction that ended with the destruction of several city blocks. All of us at Captain Happy's wish to apologize for any undue inconvenience that may have resulted from the incident, and remember: buy smart, buy Captain Happy."

Having finished his speech, the executive began to field questions from the reporters. The press conference was being held on the steps of Silverlake City Hall and representatives from all of the community's new outlets were present.

"Mitch Harrington, Silverlake Times. What new bottle regulations are being purposed as a result of this disaster?"

"First of all, my good fellow, disaster is quite possibly too strong a word," replied the businessfellow. "The government has classified it as level three bottling incident, which is well below a rating of 'disaster'."

He cleared his throat and continued, "however, in the interest of avoiding any future level three incidents Captain Happy's is implementing a nationwide cap measurement system to double-check all bottle caps before machine insertion."

Another reporter spoke up.

"Chip Chippington, Silverlake Daily Mail and Post. How will the level three incident effect the drink-bottling industry that forms the core of Silverlake's economy?"

The businessman was smooth as ever in his reply. "My good Mr. Chippington, our experts believe that any negative effects will be purely short-term in nature and that the bottling industry will bounce back better than before!"

The reporters chuckled at this enthusiastic response, and approving 'attaby Captain's and 'good show's rippled through the throng.

"Professor Theodore Q. Stevedore, independent investigative reporter."

A collective gasp came from the reporters and an empty space quickly formed around the lone voice.

"Isn't it true that Captain Happy's has been engaged for some time in the manufacture and transport of illegal firearms for some time now and this latest 'incident' is little more than proof of your nefarious business practices?"

The businessman was shocked. "My good sir," he exclaimed, "how dare you insult me so! You cannot possibly have any evidence of what you suggest."

"It's just a question. Yes or no."

"A question which I will not deign to dignify! Now see here, professor. This is a proper British town filled and I am a proper British gentleman. I must insist that you retract your slanderous remark lest I be forced to challenge you to a proper British duel."

"I'll take that as a 'no comment'," muttered Professor Stevedore as he scribbled in his dog-eared notebook.

"You may take it any way you like," replied the businessman in a huff. "Now then. I'm afraid that my patience has been worn somewhat thin. I shall have to bring this press conference to a close and retire to my study for tea. Good day to you all."

The reporters dispersed with a few glares directed at the Professor, who for his part paid them no notice.

"'No comment' indeed," he said to himself, snapping the notebook shut.