>>404775
>Wait until they're done burying you
I have no idea these choices all sound good. but lets sneak attack these bitches

>>404775
>>Wait until they're one burying you
They got us in there, chances are they could stop us from getting out.

>>404775
>>Wait until they're one burying you

>>404775
>Wait until they're one burying you
yeah, it'll probably be easier to crawl out of some freshly turned dirt than to dodge a few shovels to the face

>>404775
>Try to break out of the coffin
Our name is cowoby?

>>404775
>>404800
>>404809
>>404813

Was it a mafioso's wife, lips rich with the taste of Italian wine? Was it some sweet senorita smelling of bitter tequila, with an army of chollo brothers and uncles? Some Aryan pure-as-the-driven-Snow White?

Well, you're in a grave, not broken on a swastika, so you can probably rule out one of those options. There's no dead horse's head, and you're not being dragged behind a pickup truck, so maybe it's not the other two. And you don't feel like you got worked over by an AR-15 and its ex-marine, so you probably didn't go for a slice of American pie.

But whatever you did do, or whoever you got mistaken for, the people who put you down here were good enough to get you once, so you decide to wait until they think you're good and dead before coming back. You squirm in the tight confines of the coffin, bringing your watch up to your face. A CASIO digital, cheap, undersized, and with only a dim light still left inside, like a Japanese girl.

It's 7:06. Not 19:06, so it's bright and comparatively early in the morning. That makes this a "last night" problem. The day reads "SA", which increases the chance that you're somewhere near a bar exponentially.

>Try to find your cellphone and call/text someone
>Try to remember what the hell you did
>Search the coffin for clues

Twitter: https://twitter.com/HaikuDeluge
Ok, I was fucking joking about the government cutting transmissions, but about five minutes afterward, the power went off and a helicopter flew over my house. It came back on shortly, and I'm on a regular flight path between bases, but still...

>>404942
>Try to find your cellphone and call/text someone

>>404942
>>Try to remember what the hell you did
>>Search the coffin for clues
Reminds me of the time I woke up on a subway station without a shirt

>>404942
>>Try to find your cellphone and call/text someone
>>Search the coffin for clues

Remembering seems to already have failed.
Then again, we probably have time.

>>404942
>Try to find your cellphone and call/text someone
"911 what is yo-"
"IM BEING BURIED ALIVE HELP!"

>>404942
>Try to find your cellphone and call/text someone
>Search the coffin for clues
these kill bill vibes are giving me a hard-on

>>404942
>Try to remember what the hell you did
>Search the coffin for clues

>>404942
>>Try to remember what the hell you did

File: It's just a phone, what a(...).jpg (18 KB, 441x247)

18 KB JPG

>>404953
>>404957
>>404975
>>404994
>>405000
>motherfucking trips
>>405011

Alright, this is the Twenty-fucking-first Century, so you've got a few more options in your coffin than an old-style Transylvanian count. You reach down, like a cowboy going for an awkward draw as the Bolivian army closes in.

Ok, that hurt, damn it. More bruising than you thought you had. The leather jacket isn't making moving in the confined space any easier, either.

"A gun and a phone," you remember, the words echoing into your head from a distant past. Of course, you can't remember if a man or a woman said them to you, which gives you some doubt as to how reliable they are, and whether or not the're the secret passcode of some ancient hidden order of knights trapped in a modern nightmare.

Still, after a bit of grunting and a feeling of trying to fuck in a space too small for carnal desire, let alone two people, you've got a phone up by your face.

Only you're not entirely sure it's your phone. It's a bit too, well, sleek. Shiny. Expensive-looking. The sandy dust and blood sure makes it seem like yours.

3% battery and half a bar. Not too good.

No call history in the past few days, which is probably a good sign. Unless you deleted it all. No messages, which means you probably didn't drunk dial any exes, which a also a good sign.

...and, as far as you can tell, there's only one entry in the address book.

"666" listed as "A man of wealth & taste". That's uh, probably not the president. Maybe one of the current candidates, but it sounds like it's for someone a few miles down on the totem poles.

Or maybe everyone's just climbing his 'totem pole'.

Still, there's always good ol' 911, although you probably can't give enough of a location to get any help.

Only enough battery for one call, better make it count.

>Call the only listed number
>Make that 911 call
>Try 311, diretory assistance
>Write in

>>405090
>Make that 911 call

>>405090
>Call the only listed number
911 probably won't have enough time to locate us before our battery dies
and who wouldn't want to phone good ol' Lucifer?

>>405090
>>Call the only listed number
I don't think 911 will do us any good.
We're in the middle of the desert, finding where we are will probably be harder with shitty reception and is never precise, we don't know many people there are, we don't know what we did and who's on our ass...
And somewhow I imagine the reception might be smaller problem with a certain number.

>>405090
>>Call the only listed number

>>405090
>>405132
>>405136
>>405173

You dial the only entry in you phone's adress book, an ominous name attached to an even more ominous number.

The triple digits slam through the circuits in your phone, like a dose of a powerful narcotic, and wing away into the air as a flock of pulsuating digital waves.

You really hope this doesn't fall into the category of "calling your ex with a hangover". By the light of the flickering phone, you can make out the words "JACK DANIELS Old No. 7 Tenessee Whiskey" on the wood above your face.

Are they really burying you in a coffin made of ald Jack Daniels crates? That's actually not a bad way to go, now that you think about it.

Suddenly the phone stops ringing, and you hear screaming coming through the speaker. Can't quite tell whether it's screaming in pleasure our pain.

And there's a crackling, crunching noise, either some sort of digital problem with the connection or the noise the lace on a maid frilly dress makes as it crushes violently, her supple body violated by demonic lust -

"Good evening," a deep voice says, impossibly cultured, the tone of the luxurious decadence of Rome, of Egypt, of the powerful back rooms of New York coursing through it like the finest vintages of old wine, "and don't tell me it's sven AM there, it's always EE-VEH-NEENGH here. Makes interior decorate sso much more, dramatic" you hear, over entirely unmuffled grunting.

"So why are you interrupting me today, Caius? Remember, this is a nine hundred number, and we measure the cost in virgins per minute."

>Caius? You're pretty sure that's not your name...
>I'm with the Vatican
>I'm in a bit of a jam
>Would you like to hear a short message about Hillary Clinton?

>>405255
>I'm in a bit of a jam

>>405255
>I'm in a bit of a jam

>>405255
>>405273
>>405305

"I'm in a bit of a jam," you say, "bit of a six-feet-under kinda deal."

"And you don't want to cash out and come back yet?" the voice says, "You know, there's such a thing as losing gracefully. Should try it sometime."

"I'll pass," you say, wondering how much of a good idea it would be to ask for help more explicitly, "but I'm not sure I can make it out of this one on my own own power."

"So you want a little push," the voice says. You hear a sharp slap, high-pitched screaming, "just a little something to put you back on an even playing field, huh? Well, there's nothing I like more than fair play. So what's it gonna be?"

>I want a drink
>I want to get out of this hole
>I want to make a bargain
>I'd like you to transfer this call to someone upstairs
>write in

>>405377
>>I want to get out of this hole
>I'd like you to transfer this call to someone upstairs
Let's not make bargains with Satan

>>405377
>I want a drink and a can of spinach

>>405377
>I want to get out of this hole
but let's not just accept a blind deal

>>405377
>>405387
>>405403
>>405432

"I want a drink," you say, glancing at the words on the wood on the box, "and I want to get out of this hole."

"Hmm," the voice says, "those are more than reasonable, considering your situation,but what are you offering in return?"

Now, your mother always told you not to make deals with devils, and avoid adjudicating with angels if at all possible. You're not sure if it's possible to avoid it in this situation, though.

"I'm not cutting any deals today, Lucifer," you tell him confidently, "and I'd like a can of spinach."

The devil laughs. The maid screams. The phone in your hand gets very, very hot.

"Adding an extra request on the end and not offereing anything in return? Ho ho, that takes guts. I'll do it for my own amusement this time, but I'll be hearing from you again, mark my words."

And with that, the phone goes dead.

And cold.

Huh, so that was the devil. You can't help but wonder what the interview would have been like in person, and be glad you didn't sign any sort of contract.

Of course, that leaves open the question of how the devil's going to fulfill your brash requests, or if he's going to fulfill them at all.

As you put the phone back in your pocket, you feel something against the side of the coffin. It turns out to be an honest-to-god handle of Jack Daniels. Devil's Cut, of course.

Was it there the whole time? You'll never know.

Just then, you can hear some loud discussion. It's muffled by the earth above your coffin, but you can barely make out phrase like "where's my fucking phone?" and "Come on Caius, calm the fuck down."

Then you hear shovels in reverse, frantically scraping earth off of your coffin.

Huh. The devil does fast work, even if this is going to be more trouble than you'd imagined.

>Swig from the bottle
>Take stock of your magic
>Play dead
>Write in

>>405498
>>Swig from the bottle

>>405498
>Swig from the bottle

>>405498
>>Swig from the bottle
>>Take stock of your magic
I'm interested in what we can apparently do.

Also, nice to have you back.

>>405498
>>405507
>>405567
>>405591

You were being buried alive.

You are now being hurriedly unburied by the same people who put you down here in the first place, and are swigging from a bottle of Jack as they do so, calmly awaiting your fate.

Life is good.

Life is going to be a lot better once this stuff does more for your than warm your stomach.

The only question is whether you have enough magic to take on a man whose only phonebook entry in his very expensive cellphone is the Devil himself, and his entourage of goons, or whether they'll put you back in the ground for good.

While you wait for the alcohol to do its work, and listen to the sweet sounds of shovels unburying your coffin, you take stock of your magical reserves. They're low, uncomfortably low, although the alcohol is doing something for that.

See, you're a motorcycle wizard. And motorcyle wizards can only carry so much magic around with them. Where do they get it? From the roads, from the nations network of highways.

There are a lot of theories about how it works, but you blame the Masons. Back when Eisenhower was planning out his paradise of interstates for the GIs coming home to the staid comforts of fifties Americana, they wormed their ways into all the important planning committees, laying out the roads in a pattern that would collect and direct magical energies, cutting the natural leylines of the land.

Ever wonder why the open road has been so powerful in America? It's goddamn magical.

And the motorcycle is the rawest, most powerful way to experience that magic, without the protection and grounding of being wrapped in Detroit Heavy Metal. Just you, plowing through the roiling magical energies at seventy, eighty miles an hour.

That's why bikers age so fast.

Well, not all of the are motorcycle wizards, built to last again the almighty power of the highway.

But when a motorcycle wizard is running out of power, a trip down the highway is the best, surest way to recharge. It means most motorcycle wizards lead nomadic lives, traveling from one city to the next, moving on when they start running low on power.

Unfortunately, you can't et a good ride in before you have to fight these guys. Which leaves you with the other, more dangerous method of recharging your magical power.

Drugs.

You take another pull at the bottle, and wonder how long it's going to take them to get you out of here, and what'll be waiting for you when they do.

All motorcycle wizards are particularly good at some branch of magic, and yours happens to be:

>Visions. All motorcycle wizards have the Sight, but yours is particularly strong.
>Geists. You're good with ghosts, and the tolerate you, sometimes doing your bidding, feeding you information, and even signing contracts
>Destruction. You bring the pain, in hellfire, lightning, and other high-impact forms
>Crafting. From tattoos to chrome, you're good at making things look like what they truly should be.

>>405746
>GHeists

>>405746
>Destruction. You bring the pain, in hellfire, lightning, and other high-impact forms

>>405746
>>Destruction. You bring the pain, in hellfire, lightning, and other high-impact forms
Time to ride the highway to hell

>>405746
>Crafting. From tattoos to chrome, you're good at making things look like what they truly should be.

>>405746
>Geists. You're good with ghosts, and the tolerate you, sometimes doing your bidding, feeding you information, and even signing contracts
Fuck HD I missed your writing.

>>405746
>>405777
>>405784
>>405786


There's a lot to being a motorcycle wizard, and you're seen them do some crazy things.

But you don't go in as much for some of the more esoteric stuff. Not that you can't do it, it just isn't your strongest suit. That's burning things and laying waste wiht highway-fueled high destruction.

You prefer the simple things in life.

At least you're less likely to wind up with half a ghost town of screaming gheists contracted to your motorcycle, or at leaast that's what you tell yourself whenever you start feeling enviouos.

The shovels are scraping on the coffin lid now, so it's time to decide how you're gonna handle this.

>Play dead
>Rocket out in an orgy of destruction
>Burn the closest dudes, then use the grave for cover
>Write in

>>405872
>Burn the closest dudes, then use the grave for cover

>>405872
>small, controlled explosions aimed at the heads of everyone who gets in range

File: PreparationForPosting.webm (2.83 MB, 1280x720)

2.83 MB WEBM

>>405887
>controlled
>Motorcycle Wizard
Bruh, I think you're in the wrong quest. Strategically Conservative Woke-up-in-an-MMO Wizard Warlord Quest is a few doors down.

>>405872
>Rocket out in an orgy of destruction

>>405935
well, fuck ammo conservation, then
>>Rocket out in an orgy of destruction

>>405872
>Burn the closest dudes, then use the grave for cover

Here we go again. Not the first time you've danced this particular dance.

As a crowbar smashes through the rotten lid of the coffin, you pull youself together and rocket your fist straight up through it.

The one holding the handle of jack, of course.

As the brown fire liquid splashes around, your grit your teeth and it spits aflame. Rotting splinters, transformed into embers by your magic, explode out in a gout of fire.

The fiery serpent, made of flaming jack and swirling embers, circles around you as you rise from the grave, arms outstretched to the sides just because you can.

"It hasn't been three days yet," you say as the serpent tears through the heads of the tree henchmen with shovels who had been disinterring you. What little brain matter they have flash fries into the hot desert air.

You're in back of what looks like a combination gas station, dive bar, and sleazy motel. It's the only civilization for miles, if you're generaous enough to call it that.

The flickering neon horse on the sign swigs from a Jerrycan of gasoline, as his member unfurls between the buxom breastes of a blonde in a neon cowboy hat. Yeah, ok, you already got the implication on the titty bar/motel combination.

Not exactly the scene you'd have chosen for your final resting place, but maybe it's appropriate.

As the luckless henchmen fall to the sands, you dive back into the shallow grave, in case they've got friend nearby, maybe that 'Caius' someone was yelling about.

>Stay in the grave and taunt any friends they've got
>Run for the gas station
>Go hunt this 'Caius'
>Write in

>>406053
>>Go hunt this 'Caius'

>>406053
>Run for the gas station

>>406053
>>406075
>>406081

You quickly glance around for more. There's one left, and he's running for the gas station. If this 'Caius' is still around, he'll be in the building somewhere.

Jumping into pursuit, you dash after the runner, snatching a pistol off one of the unlucky goons as you pass him. The back door swings wildly as the henchman slams through it, then holds suspiciously steady, as if he's holding it for some sort of ambush.

That's not going to work, you think, bracing yourself to take the door.

You smash into it, in an infero of burning jack and flaming cinders. You feel the impact of the door again the goon behind it, as you roll onto the floor.

You slide behind him, bringing up the gun, and put three shots somewhere near his spine. He's down.

And you seem to be left as the only living thing inside the ex-den of depravity that is the combination hotel lobby / bar.

Smashed bottles, dead bikers, a couple of bodies in suits. Something really fun went down here. And somehow, you were in the middle of it. Why'd you get buried? Maybe the knew you were a motorcycle wizard, and wanted to be sure you didn't get back up.

Well, that didn't work out exactly as planned. You're back up, and your'e going to figure out who tried to put you down.

>>406189
>META POST

Alright, that concludes the first thread of Motorcycle Wizard Quest.

This didn't go anywhere near where I'd planned, but it was still very interesting.

Thank you all for playing, maybe we'll see each other again someday.

Might archive this at some point.

I still have to figure out how I got these bruises that run along my collarbones, like they tried to rip themselves out of my chest.

>>406206
thanks for running, glad to see you back in the game

Thanks for the run

Fuck yeah! It great to see you again boss, Welcome back!

>>406206
I missed this one, but I had a blast reading. Thanks OP