I hunt for keyboard
China man make it challenge
Such is keyboard life
I hunt for keyboard
China man make it challenge
Such is keyboard life
beautiful
Mods are censorship
TOS violations
Hoff is a circle
This piece is dedicated to Vespie-Senpai.
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This piece is dedicated to Vespie-Senpai.
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Okay, here is my submission. This one is rather long, 1400 words, but you said no word limits, so.....
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As Vladimir Putin masturbated to a map of the former Soviet Union laid over his treasured 122-key IBM Model F keyboard, part number 6110347, and Barack Obama felt himself aroused as he stroked his newest sand wedge while reading the text of his televised speech that evening, there was a war happening in some featureless expanse of sand that neither of them ever would visit. A General Atomics MQ-9 Reaper Unmanned Aerial Vehicle (a drone aircraft, for all those reading at home) controlled by an eager and professional Air Force pilot at Holloman Air Force Base in Alamogordo, New Mexico, fired a missile at a warehouse in northwest Iraq in another nameless dusty town believed to be a supply depot and hideout in Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS). With the press of a button by a clean and manicured thumb in an air-conditioned control center on the other side of the planet, the MQ-9 Reaper launched a missile and struck the warehouse, triggered a larger explosion of the munitions inside, and transformed the warehouse into a flaming pile of molten metal.
The four young boys in the warehouse were incinerated and left to smolder with the rest of the warehouse's remains in the late morning of northwest Iraq. Over the preceding weeks, a few alleged members of ISIS had been observed hauling various crates into the warehouse, but it also served as a place for local children to race their toy cars on a smooth, indoor, concrete surface rather than the bumpy, dusty roads of the town. Now it served as a pile of rubble for some still living children to play in once the flames stopped reaching towards the sky.
The usual routine surrounding such incidents ensued. The government of the United States dismissed the incident as a casualty of war, citing ample evidence that the warehouse was a strategic location and closely observed that no civilians had entered the warehouse prior to the missile strike. They expressed sympathy and issued an apology for any unintended casualties from the mission. ISIS used the incident as yet another rallying cry. Vladimir Putin and his beloved Russia added the incident to the list of reasons of why they should stand up to American military aggression.
Mr. Putin received news of the attack as he was eying the Baltic states on the map and increasing the intensity of the strokes on his penis at the thought of appointing his former finance minister as the president of Estonia following a brief and relatively uneventful invasion. His phone only used for the most pressing of emergencies triggered its shrill ring, which caused Mr. Putin to mumble a few curse words, removed his hand from his penis, and grab the receiver.
“What is it?” Mr. Putin yelled annoyingly. “I'm very busy at the moment.”
“I'm sorry Mr. Putin, there has been an incident in Iraq,” said the voice on the other end of the line.
“Go on.”
“The Americans have destroyed a warehouse that contained munitions that we supplied to ISIS, the Iraqi army moved in after the attack, and they were able to identify the remains of the munitions as being supplied by us. NATO is not happy.”
“Will this be a problem?” asked Mr. Putin.
“Perhaps. The Americans and Germany are talking another round sanctions and boycotts.”
“Ah, the usual.” Mr. Putin paused for a few seconds. “Let's move into the Baltics. It's long overdue. I've always enjoyed Tallinn in the late summer and early fall.”
In contrast to the typical errant missile fired by the Americans, this one had the added of flavor of dead children and Russian-supplied munitions to an armed group that should not be receiving munitions from anyone. All parties involved were pissed.
Mr. Putin, an IBM keyboard enthusiast even before the Iron Curtain fell, open the bottom left drawer of his desk constructed from a disappearing species of rosewood from Madagascar. The importance of this incident required Mr. Putin to use his specially programmed 50-key IBM Model F keyboard, part number 6019273. This particular keyboard was programmed to initiate only the most aggressive and risky military commands, such as invasions of neighboring countries and launches of nuclear missiles. The last time Mr. Putin used this keyboard, he triggered the invasion of Ukraine. Now he was about to trigger a land invasion of the Baltic states, starting with Estonia. Another part of the former Soviet Union would be absorbed back into Mother Russia.
Mr. Putin had a gleeful half smile on his face. He plugged the keyboard into the USB port on his computer, unfolded a piece of paper with a layout of the unique commands activated by each key, located the key that would commence military preparations for the invasion of Estonia, and pressed the key with measured enthusiasm. A window popped up on his computer screen asking him if he wished to confirm his selection, and he quickly pressed yes, grumbling about the inconveniences of the system. He told his secretary that he would prefer to be unbothered for the next hour and unzipped his pants to return to his previously scheduled activity.
Forty-five minutes later, Mr. Putin's secretary barged into his office and told him that they needed to evacuated immediately to the bunker underneath the Kremlin. Mr. Putin, eating a Twinkie with his pants around his ankles after his masturbation session, was visibly annoyed. She explained that China has responded and they need to take the necessary precautions.
“Responded to what?” yelled Mr. Putin.
“The nuclear attack you ordered, sir,” she explained.
“The nuclear attack? What nuclear attack? I called to prepare for an invasion of Estonia! What's going on here?!” he yelled as he slapped his palms on his desk.
The piece of paper with the commands for his 50-key Model F keyboard went flying onto the floor, which his secretary dutifully picked up and placed back on his desk. As she did, Mr. Putin noticed the date on the paper. It was from a week ago, and not the most recent version he received earlier that morning with the weekly update of keyboard commands. He mistakingly pressed the key for a nuclear attack against China. Within Mr. Putin's unbothered hour, the Pacific nuclear submarine fleet of the Russian Navy turned their missiles towards the southwest to launch a nuclear attack on the major cities and vital military installations of China. The Chinese responded with a similar attack on Russia. Mr. Putin noticed outside his Kremlin window the anti-ballistic missiles being launched from the outskirts of Moscow. World War Three had begun.
* * * * *
Simultaneously in Washington, D.C., Barack Obama was practicing his bunker shots with his new sand wedge on the artificial bunker installed on the White House South Lawn. He wore the tie-dyed Lithuania Grateful Dead basketball T-shirt given to him by Arvydas Sabonis during the president's last trade mission to the Baltic nations. He was interrupted mid-stroke by one of his advisors yelling and running from the direction of the White House.
“Mr. President! Mr. President! Mr. President!”
“Come on!” yelled the president as he sliced the ball towards the White House basketball court. “Yea, what is it, Frank? I'm busy here.”
“I'm sorry Mr. President. I have big news from out east,” said the messenger, panting heavily.
“The Knicks traded Carmelo and his contract to the Lakers? I knew it would happen eventually.”
“No, further east, Mr. President. Russia and China are launching nuclear missiles back and forth. Land invasions are imminent. It's World War Three. Us and the other nuclear-armed nations are on high alert.”
President Obama looked towards the busy street to his left, observing the cars move up and down the avenue for a few seconds. He glanced up at the late morning sun, then down at his T-shirt, studying the Lithuanian skeleton dunking a basketball, and tossed around the sand at his feet with the end of his golf club.
“Mr. President?”
“Frank, move the IBM keyboards to the bunker, along with a couple soldering irons and all Teensys and xwhatsit controllers we have lying around. Then get Michelle and the kids down there. Let's stay out of this one. Looks we'll be the only sheriff in town for awhile. We need the best keyboards at our disposal.”
Sorry for taking so long, this thread didn't get much traffic and I sort of forgot about it. Congrats Sygaldry! Just PM your info and I'll get the cap out to you
Death by IBM
It was unnaturally quiet and all that could be heard was the soft, mechanical whirring of the mini refrigerator. The screen of a laptop computer cast an eerie red glow across the room and a man was hunched over in front of the desk, arms hanging lazily at his sides.
Drip...
Drip...
Drip...
A strange sound broke the silence.
Drip...
Drip...
Drip...
Lying under the motionless man's head was an old fashioned keyboard, missing key caps and soaked in a strangely viscous fluid. The red glow of the room hid the fact that the liquid slowly and rhythmically dripping from the now-broken relic of a computer peripheral was actually blood but the metallic and acrid smell filling the air left no room for doubt.
On the laptop screen, a single message was displayed, "At last, it is quiet."
Honorable mention goes to billnye for "My Struggle"
I hunt for keyboard
China man make it challenge
Such is keyboard life