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Code Issues Packages Projects Releases Wiki Activity

Moves custom books to main repo. (#6576)

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* Moves custom books to main repo.

* Fixes some oopsie woopsies.
This commit is contained in:
Schnayy
2019-12-20 01:04:47 -05:00
committed by VirgoBot
parent ec6ecb13ae
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code/modules/library/hardcode_library/fiction/APsychonaut.dm
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/*
CKEY: APsychonaut
CATEGORY: Fiction
*/
/// A Purrrrfect Man by Karla.
/obj/item/weapon/book/bundle/custom_library/fiction/apurrrrfectman
name = "A Purrrrfect Man"
desc = "A hardbound book titled \"A Purrrrfect Man\" Karla."
description_info = "This book is titled \"A Purrrrfect Man\" Karla. There's a blurb on the back: <br>\
A Tajaran woman and a Human man find warmth in each other to ward off the chill of Sif's night."
title = "A Purrrrfect Man"
icon_state = "book7"
origkey = "APsychonaut"
author = "Karla"
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<div class="border1">
<div class="border2">
<h1><i>A<br>Purrrrfect Man</i></h1>
<br><br>
<i>by<br>Karla</i><br>
<br>
</div>
</div>
</body>
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<div class="border">
Sasha set down his wrench with a sigh, wiping his toned forearm along his brow to clear the thin sheet of sweat that he'd built up, properly preparing the heating system. It had been a hard day of work for him so far, near alone on the cold plains of Sif. He, along with a scant few other men had been hired to help build a Tajaran lady a secretive cabin amongst the frosty tundra.<br><br>
Katya was a shy young thing, barely breaking twenty-five and already wanting to hide from the world, but if Sasha had learned anything in the last few weeks, it was that her shyness had done nothing to dull how sweet she could be. Seeing he had finished a sizeable section of work, she emerged from the blizzard tent being used as temporary shelter with a steaming hot mug of coco in hand for both of them.<br><br>
Handing over one of the little cups of warmth, she swayed her dark brown furred hips back and forth, watching Sasha take a cautious sip to test the temperature, leaving a thin milk moustache atop his stubbled lip. The little Tajaran smiled at him, and pulled a handkerchief from the waistband of her skirt to dab away at the mark.<br><br>
"Carrreful~" she said, "You'll catch yourrr death of a cold out herrrre if you're not."<br><br>
Sasha smiled back at her, one of his muscular hands going to ruffle at her hair.<br><br>
"You're so kind, miss Katya" he replied, "I just wish there was something I could do to repay such gestures."<br><br>
Katya gave a pleased little sigh at the gesture of affection, the warmth from the coco having seeped into Sasha's hand, and now flowing into her. She took him by the wrist with a cheeky smile, guiding his palm to her cheek instead. His touch was gentle as she redirected him, his tender grasp doing as much to warm her as the steaming milk in her hand.<br><br>
"It gets cold and lonely out herrre all alone. If you rrreally wish to do something morrre forrr herrrr, perrrhaps we can spend some time by the firrre tonight, togetherrrr. Beforrre you go to bed."<br><br>
<center>- 1 -</center>
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<div class="border">
How could Sasha refuse such a request? He gave a bassy chuckle, leaning forward to set an affectionate kiss on the Tajaran's forehead before letting her cheek free.<br><br>
"Of course, miss Katya" he answered, "I've already split the logs from the tree I felled earlier, why don't you set up the fire and I'll finish weather proofing what I've done for the evening? It should be getting dark soon after all."<br><br>
She nodded cheerfuly and wandered off to the firepit by the tents, her tail flicking happily at the prospect of her evening's plans while Sasha lingered with his coco, appreciating every chocolatey second of the kind gesture from his employer. In near no time at all, there was a roaring fire burning at the construction site, providing nearly all the light for the evening as the sun dipped low beyond the horizon. Sasha, having finished his promised work, made his way over to join Katya.<br><br>
Sasha set himself down by the fire and leaned back against his palms spread out behind him, stretching out his weary, muscular back with a growl of satisfaction before twisting slightly to watch the Tajaran prepare for the evening proper. In one hand she carried the ingredients for s'mores, while under that same arm she lugged over a pair of weighty woolen blankets. In her other's grasp, she once again held two steaming mugs, this time filled with decaff tea to settle them in for the night.<br><br>
Katya wasted no time in getting herself close to Sasha, sitting in his lap while setting the mugs aside before spreading the blanket over them. Her tail curled up behind her, the tip wrapping its way around the back of Sasha's neck like a warm, furry scarf, sheltering the sensitive skin from the cold as he was sheltering the rest of her. He wrapped his strong arms around her, taking a moment to rest his nose and chin in her clean, but windswept hair, catching the scent of honey and vanilla from her shampoo.<br><br>
<center>- 2 -</center>
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<div class="border">
There they sat for hours, first in silence as they simply appreciated each other's presence, then amidst a flurry of discussion. He asked of the woman she was, how she grew to be so reserved, why she was so sweet to those around her, what she did to whittle away the hours when she was alone with nothing but her thoughts. She asked of the man he wanted to be, where he wanted to be in the future, who the sort of person was that he envisioned himself being with, and when he wanted to settle down in the future.<br><br>
As the fires of their interest in each other grew, the fire warming the pair slowly petered out into nothingness, neither willing to get up to feed the flames of anything but their desires. Sasha had barely even been willing to relent his graps around Katya's waist, not that she had complained. She had acted the hands for both of them most of the evening, toasting s'mores and leaning back into his toned chest to reach up and pop the marshmellowy goodness into his mouth, usually accompanied by a giggle sweeter than the treat she'd just offered. Sasha had not even touched his tea, all thirst but one sated already.<br><br>
Katya had not anticipated this, however, and as the embers finally died into nothing and she begrudgingly relinquished the intimacy, she was caught off guard while whisking the now chilled mug up to clean it out. The tea spilled everywhere, most of the cool liquid soaking Sasha's work clothing, drawing a gasp of surprise from both of them.<br><br>
"She is so sorrrrry!" Katya exclaimed, hand covering her mouth in a mixture of shock and embaressment, "It was a complete accident!"<br><br>
Though Sasha did not seem remotely angry at the mistake, he was quickly losing body heat in his now soaked clothing, especially now that there was no fire to warm them.<br><br>
His teeth chattered as he replied, "I'm n-n-n-not m-m-m-mad" he replied calmly, "b-b-b-ut that was my only p-p-p-pair of d-d-d-dry clothes!"<br><br>
The Tajaran, experienced with many nights in the cold, sprung into action. "You must get out of yourrrr clothes beforrre you frrrreeze!" she said, panicing.<br><br>
"B-b-but I only h-h-have a s-s-sleeping bag!" he replied, slightly fearful.<br><br>
The Tajaran quickly helped him from his wet clothing, unperturbed by his worries.<br><br>
"You can stay in herrrr tent tonight! We will sharrre body heat, and keep you safe!"<br><br>
Now free from his chilling clothing, she quickly ushered him inside her temporary abode, and bundled under the covers with him.<br><br>
<center>- 3 -</center>
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<br><br><br><center>\[This page has been torn out of the book by someone.\]</center><br><br><br>
</div>
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<div class="border">
<br><br><br><center>\[This page, too.\]</center><br><br><br>
</div>
</body>
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"},
{"<html>
<head>
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<div class="border">
The pair of them collapsed breathlessly against each other, each basking in the afterglow of the evening. He gave a quiet, pleased growl, and she a soft purr of satisfaction while cuddling up against Sasha's heaving, sweaty pecs.<br><br>
"I hope--" he said, between growls and breaths, "I hope that you had a nice night, miss Katya..."<br><br>
Having gotten her breath back first, she gave a light nod and tilted her head back, pressing a line of affectionate kisses from chin, to temple, her teeth sinking lightly into her earlobe while she gave her reply, ASMR sending a shiver down his spine from her whispered reply.<br><br>
"It. Was. Purrrrfect..."<br><br>
Outside the wind howled, and the shantaks called to each other in the darkness, but Katya and Sasha blocked it all from their minds as they drifted off to sleep, safe and comfortable in each other's arms.<br><br>
<center>- 6 -</center>
</div>
</body>
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"})
code/modules/library/hardcode_library/fiction/PortedBooks.dm
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/*
CKEY: BattlefieldCommander
CATEGORY: Fiction
*/
/// The Chronicles of Margata: Volume I by Molly Highlander
/obj/item/weapon/book/bundle/custom_library/fiction/chroniclesofmargatavol1
name = "The Chronicles of Margata: Volume I"
desc = "A hardbound book titled \"The Chronicles of Margata: Volume I\" by Molly Highlander."
description_info = "This book is titled \"The Chronicles of Margata: Volume I\" by Molly Highlander. There's a blurb on the back: <br>\
In this first volume in the series of the Chronicles of Margata, follow a young man's journey to dispel a curse of pure evil."
title = "The Chronicles of Margata: Volume I"
icon_state = "chronicles1_battlefieldcommander"
origkey = "battlefieldcommander"
author = "Molly Highlander"
pages = list({"<html>
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<div class="border1">
<div class="border2">
<p class="font2">
<i>The</i><br>
</p><p class="font1">
<b>CHRONICLES</b><br>
</p><p class="font2">
<i>of</i><br>
</p><p class="font1">
<b>MARGATA</b><br>
</p>
<font size="3">VOLUME I</font>
<br><br><br><br>
<font size="4">MOLLY<br>HIGHLANDER</font>
<br><br><br>
</div>
</body>
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<h1>The Chronicles of Margata</h1>
Volume I: The Wolf and the Blacksmith
<h2>By Molly Highlander</h2>
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<p class="margin">
<em>For Mercurie;<br>in the hopes that you'll be able to come up with<br>better jokes than me when you grow up.</em>
</p>
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<div>In the land of Margata, nothing is ever as it seems. There have been many verifiable cases of local bakers having a secret double life as DJs. The correlation between exposure to bread and wanting to scratch out some sick beats has never been quantified, quite possibly to science being illegal in the region. That didn't happen to be the case of a young boy named Gadroc, who was neither a baker nor a DJ. In fact, his story happens to have nothing to do with either of the two. Poor Gadroc was afflicted with a terrible curse. It had been that way ever since he was born, because a witch had cursed his mother for saying "Keep the change," when there was only one cent of change left. Gadroc’s curse was horrible, one that no human being should suffer through: he couldn’t look at butts. Whenever someone showed him a full moon, he transformed into a horrible beast with astoundingly fresh breath. Whenever this happened, he would always run to the nearest cornfield and begin uncontrollably eating corn. Why corn? Because magic, that’s why. That's just how it fucking works. Don't you know anything?</div>
<div>After coming home with corn stuck in his teeth for three days straight, and only having one more pair of pants that weren’t destroyed, Gadroc knew that he needed to do something about his curse. He went to the first person he could think of for help.</div>
<div>Carne was the town’s blacksmith. He wasn’t very wise, but he always spoke as though he was. It was for this reason that Gadroc often came to Carne for help, despite the fact that he could probably go to basically anyone else. The town beggar, who was constantly sitting in a puddle of his own pee, gave better advice than the blacksmith. Carne was the only one who knew about Gadroc’s affliction. No one else knew who was ravaging the town’s corn population, and riots had already broken out over the severe deficit in cornbread supply.</div>
<div>"Carne, you have to help me!" Gadroc shouted as he burst through the doors of the smithy. Carne was in the middle of forging a pair of iron gauntlets, and had his back turned to Gadroc. He did not turn around.</div>
<div>"Do you need my help? Or do you need my help to help yourself?" Carne said, spouting his signature wisdom.</div>
<div>"Yes. No. What? Did you get that from a fortune cookie?" replied Gadroc.</div>
<div>"Yes, actually." Carne turned around. He was loudly crunching on some fortune cookie and inexplicably wearing the gauntlets he was working on, still glowing red hot. He held up the fortune, but Gadroc didn’t have time to read it, as it immediately caught fire and fell into a pile of ashes on the floor.</div>
<div>Gadroc was concerned. "Doesn’t that... you know... hurt?"</div>
<div>"Oh yes, extremely," Carne said with a smile. They both stared at each other for a moment.</div>
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<div>"<strong>AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!</strong>" screamed Carne. He flailed his arms around wildly until the gauntlets flew off. One of them flew across the room and hit a painting hanging on the wall. The painting was of our lord and president, Orcbama, and the gauntlet punched him in the face. The painting had a large scorch mark in the same place where the gauntlet had hit, indicating that this was a common occurrence.</div>
<div>"Anyways," Carne said casually, hands blistered and burnt, "What do you need to help me with?"</div>
<div>"That’s not what I... you know what, nevermind. Listen. I am sick and tired of this stupid werewolf bullshit! Corn used to be my favorite, and now I can’t stand it! I miss the days when I enjoyed cornbread..."</div>
<div>"Yeah, so do the townsfolk," the blacksmith replied.</div>
<div>"That's not helpful," Gadroc said, but Carne went on.</div>
<div>"I've always been more of a corn casserole kind of guy myself. Easier on the old gut. Y'know, when I was a boy-"</div>
<div>"Would you shut up and listen? We need to do something about this!"</div>
<div>"Right... What’s the problem again?" Gadroc smacked his forehead. He pointed to his own butt.</div>
<div>"Listen, son, if that's the way you're swingin', you don't have to play charades about it. Old Carne won't judge," Carne said.</div>
<div>"No, the werewolf problem!" Gadroc screamed. He fell to his knees, tears welling up in his eyes. He sniffed. "I just want to be able to look at butts. That’s all I want."</div>
<div>Carne walked up and put his gross, burnt hand on Gadroc’s shoulder. "It’s alright. I’ll help you with your problem."</div>
<div>Gadroc sniffed again. "Really?"</div>
<div>"Yes. Even if it means I’m helping myself to help you help me-"</div>
<div>"Carne, you’re not helping again."</div>
</br>
<div>CUT TO: Gadroc and Carne, scaling a mountain. Both men were equipped with the finest blades from Carne’s smithy. Gadroc was feeling a little indignant, considering Carne had only given him a foam sword. Carne had taken the only finished blade in the smithy.</div>
<div>"You see that up there?" Carne said to Gadroc as they climbed. "That’s the ancient temple whose name is really hard to pronounce."</div>
<div>"Really?" Gadroc asked. "What's it called?"</div>
<div>"I’d tell you, but it’s really hard to pronounce," explained the smith. He continued. "From what I understand, there’s a mystical artifact that can cure any curse. We’re going to use it to cure your werewolf problem."</div>
<div>"Why didn’t you tell me any of this on the way here? I’ve been following you up this mountain for hours with no idea of what we’re doing."</div>
<div>"We took that part out in post. It was a really long and not very funny bit that didn't get much of a reaction out of anyone the first time this story was read out loud. It's a little trick the boys back home call 'the Director's Cut.'"</div>
<div>"Ah. That makes a lot of sense."</div>
<div>"Right?" The two laughed at that, looked at the camera for a moment, then back to each other. A laugh track played during this. It lasted for an uncomfortable amount of time. It was the kind of laughter that you think is about to die down, but then it kicks right back up again. There’s also that one lady who’s cackling like a hyena having a tea party with a witch. You try to unhear her, but you just keep noticing her. Why do sitcoms think laugh tracks add anything to the show? It doesn't. That shit just doesn’t sit right with me.</div>
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<div>They continued to hike up the mountain. After a little while, they reached the temple. The door was guarded by two dog-men holding spears.</div>
<div>"Who are these guys?" Gadroc asked.</div>
<div>"Let me handle this," assured Carne. "How’s it going gentlemen?" The dog-men stepped closer and crossed their spears across the door.</div>
<div>"Listen boys, there’s no need for the attitude," said the smith. The dog-men began to growl at him.</div>
<div>Carne frowned. "Hey now, that’s just rude." The dog-men responded to this by shoulder-checking Carne, knocking him to the ground. Gadroc sighed and walked up to the armored, bipedal golden retriever.</div>
<div>"Who’s a good boy?" Gadroc said as he began to scratch the dog behind his cutie ears. The dog-man turned his head into Gadroc’s hand and began to pant.</div>
<div>Gadroc continued. "You are! You’re a good boy! Oh it’s you!" The dog barked as if to say, "YES IT IS ME, I AM THE GOOD BOY." The dog-man eventually got down on all fours, stomped around in a circle a bit, and promptly fell asleep. The other guard whimpered. He had felt that he had been a good boy too, and that he deserved scratchies just as much as his partner, if not more. He conveyed this to Gadroc in a single bark. Gadroc turned to him.</div>
<div>"Oh I know! You’ve been a good boy too!" He pet the guard for a little bit, then pulled an ear of corn out of his pocket.</div>
<div>"You want a treat boy?" Gadroc asked, as he held up the corn. The dog nodded violently and made a couple of attempts to nibble on the corn, but Gadroc pulled it away before he could.</div>
<div>"Go get it!" shouted Gadroc as he threw the corn down the mountain. The dog guard threw his spear to the side as he bounded after the corn bouncing down the path. Certain the guard had made it out of sight, Gadroc went to help Carne up.</div>
<div>"Where did you learn to deal with Canine-sapiens like that?" Carne asked.</div>
<div>"Well, if you think about it, werewolves are technically part dog. Plus, I just know a good boy when I see one."</div>
<div>The two stepped through the doors of the temple. At the end of the long, church-like room was a marble altar on a platform, with a set of stairs leading up to it. On the altar sat a small, simple wooden box. From above, a light fell gently on the box, giving it a soft, almost holy glow. The stained glass windows at the back of the room were arranged in such a way that they almost seemed to be pointing at the box. Many different flowers were arranged on either side of the box and at the foot of the altar.</div>
<div>"Call it a hunch," Carne said slowly, "but I think those flowers might be important somehow. I just get that feeling, I couldn’t tell you why."</div>
<div>"It’s the box that’s important, or whatever's in it," Gadroc said dryly. "The only thing that could make it more obvious is if a huge, luminescent sign dropped down with blinking arrows that read, ‘There’s probably a magic artifact in this box.’" Just then, a huge luminescent sign with blinking arrows that read, "There’s probably a magic artifact in this box." dropped down. Gadroc pinched the bridge of his nose.</div>
<div>"Do you think there might be a secret compartment in the altar? I bet that’s where the artifact is," pondered the smith.</div>
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<div>"Welcome to the temple of Ivyechneyoveen Kah’al, my children," came a voice.</div>
<div>"Who said that?" Gadroc asked. "So that’s how it’s pronounced," mused Carne. A figure stepped out from behind a pillar. It was a robed dog-woman, an ancient St. Bernard.</div>
<div>The dog lady spoke again. "Have you come to give your thanks to Orcville?"</div>
<div>"I’m sorry, who?" Gadroc asked, confused.</div>
<div>"Yes, Orcville Redenbacher. He blessed the world with his glorious popcorn and saved our souls."</div>
<div>"Wait," interrupted Carne. "Then why is it called the temple of Itchyville Cable?"</div>
<div>"Ivyechneyoveen Kah’al," corrected the priestess with a polite smile.</div>
<div>"Yeah, that’s what I said."</div>
<div>"I’d be glad to enlighten you, my child. It all started when..." The priestess lengthy explanation on the history and fine points of the religion of the dog people. It didn’t make the slightest bit of sense, though Carne did have a bit of a chuckle at the part where Orcville defeated the demon lord who wouldn't stop pretending to throw a ball to go fetch and then never actually throw the ball. Gadroc nearly fell asleep on his feet. He decided not to take part in the theological discussion and turned his attention back to the box. He walked up to the altar platform and climbed the steps. Carefully he opened the two small, wooden doors on the front of the box. Words could not describe his excitement. Inside the box was...</div>
<div>"A hot dog?" Gadroc asked aloud. He was thoroughly baffled. Inside the box was a golden hot dog that sparkled in the light. He couldn’t tell whether or not it had ketchup, mustard, or even relish on it; it was all gold.</div>
<div>"What are you doing with our sacred artifact?" shouted the dog priestess. Gadroc jumped, startled. He was too busy thinking about what gold tasted like.</div>
<div>"Uh... I need it... for... a friend," Gadroc lied, incredibly convincingly.</div>
<div>"You’d better not eat that because that’s totally not how a magic artifact shaped like a hot dog would work!" screeched the priestess.</div>
<div>Gadroc looked again at the supposed cure to all his problems. It was right there in his hands! "You’re not my mom!" he shouted, and promptly shoved the entire hot dog in his mouth and made a break for the door. Carne seemed impressed.</div>
<div>"Damn," he said. "Wish I could run that fast after stuffing an entire hot dog in my mouth. Last time I did that I got a hernia." He turned to the dog priestess.</div>
<div>"So, uh... wanna go grab some popcorn later?" The priestess slapped him across the face. "Right. I'll get goin', then. Sorry about the hot dog. We'll make you a new one." Carne began to head in Gadroc's direction.</div>
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<div>"Gadroc, where are you?" Carne shouted. "You can come out now, she didn’t follow us." Gadroc looked around and slowly stepped out from behind a tree that didn't even come close to consealing him whatsoever.</div>
<div>"I... I don’t know if it worked, Carne," the boy said nervously.</div>
<div>"Here," said the smith. He handed Gadroc a small, folded up piece of paper. Almost the exact moment Gadroc’s fingers touched it, Carne leapt like an orc-lympic death hurdle sprinter and combat rolled to take cover behind a nearby fallen tree. Gadroc unfolded the paper, hands trembling. On it was a pin up of a real buff orc dude. His shirtless body was ripped and glistening with sweat. He held a wrench and his jeans were not tight around his waist. Another shot showed him crouched down in front of a sink, which was confusing because plumbing was not very popular yet. The orc’s loose jeans were sagging down his pants, and they revealed the glowing, firm cheeks of his fine behind. A single tear rolled down Gadroc’s face.</div>
<div>"Carne," he sniffed. "It worked." Carne came out from behind the log and wiped the sweat from his brow with a "Phew!"</div>
<div>"It’s beautiful, Carne," Gadroc went on.</div>
<div>"Keep it, kid," the blacksmith said with a smile. "You need it more than I do. Let’s go home."</div>
<div>Gadroc had gold poop for a week.</div>
<br>
<br>
<h1><b>Fin.</b></h1>
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/*
CKEY: Schnayy
CATEGORY: Fiction
*/
/// Beyond the Door - Philip K. Dick
/obj/item/weapon/book/bundle/custom_library/fiction/beyondthedoor
name = "Beyond the Door"
desc = "A hardbound book titled 'Beyond the Door' by Philip K. Dick."
description_info = "This book is titled 'Beyond the Door' by Philip K. Dick. There is a blurb on the back: <BR>\
Larry Thomas bought a cuckoo clock for his wife - without knowing the price he would have to pay."
title = "Beyond the Door"
icon_state = "book1"
origkey = "Schnayy"
author = "Philip K. Dick"
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<center><h1>Beyond the Door</h1>
<h2>by Philip K. Dick</h2></center>
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<b>That night at the dinner table</b> he brought it out and set it down beside her plate. Doris stared at it, her hand to her mouth. "My God, what is it?" She looked up at him, bright-eyed.
<br><br>
"Well, open it."
<br><br>
Doris tore the ribbon and paper from the square package with her sharp nails, her bosom rising and falling. Larry stood watching her as she lifted the lid. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall.
<br><br>
"A cuckoo clock!" Doris cried. "A real old cuckoo clock like my mother had." She turned the clock over and over. "Just like my mother had, when Pete was still alive." Her eyes sparkled with tears.
<br><br>
"It's made in Germany," Larry said. After a moment he added, "Carl got it for me wholesale. He knows some guy in the clock business. Otherwise I wouldn't have-" He stopped.
<br><br>
Doris made a funny little sound.
<br><br>
"I mean, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to afford it." He scowled. "What's the matter with you? You've got your clock, haven't you? Isn't that what you want?"
<br><br>
Doris sat holding onto the clock, her fingers pressed against the brown wood.
<br><br>
"Well," Larry said, "what's the matter?"
<br><br>
He watched in amazement as she leaped up and ran from the room, still clutching the clock. He shook his head. "Never satisfied. They're all that way. Never get enough."
<br><br>
He sat down at the table and finished his meal.
<br><br>
The cuckoo clock was not very large. It was hand-made, however, and there were countless frets on it, little indentations and ornaments scored in the soft wood. Doris sat on the bed drying her eyes and winding the clock. She set the hands by her wristwatch. Presently she carefully moved the hands to two minutes of ten. She carried the clock over to the dresser and propped it up.
<br><br>
Then she sat waiting, her hands twisted together in her lap - waiting for the cuckoo to come out, for the hour to strike.
<br><br>
As she sat she thought about Larry and what he had said. And what she had said, too, for that matter - not that she could be blamed for any of it. After all, she couldn't keep listening to him forever without defending herself; you had to blow your own trumpet in the world.
<br><br>
She touched her handkerchief to her eyes suddenly. Why did he have to say that, about getting it wholesale? Why did he have to spoil it all? If he felt that way he needn't have got it in the first place. She clenched her fists. He was so mean, so damn mean.
<br><br>
But she was glad of the little clock sitting there ticking to itself, with its funny grilled edges and the door. Inside the door was the cuckoo, waiting to come out. Was he listening, his head cocked on one side, listening to hear the clock strike so that he would know to come out?
<br><br>
Did he sleep between hours? Well, she would soon see him: she could ask him. And she would show the clock to Bob. He would love it; Bob loved old things, even old stamps and buttons. He liked to go with her to the stores. Of course, it was a little awkward, but Larry had been staying at the office so much, and that helped. If only Larry didn't call up sometimes to-
<br><br>
There was a whirr. The clock shuddered and all at once the door opened. The cuckoo came out, sliding swiftly. He paused and looked around solemnly, scrutinizing her, the room, the furniture.
<br><br>
It was the first time he had seen her, she realized, smiling to herself in pleasure. She stood up, coming toward him shyly. "Go on," she said. "I'm waiting."
<br><br>
The cuckoo opened his bill. He whirred and chirped, quickly, rhythmically. Then, after a moment of contemplation, he retired. And the door snapped shut.
<br><br>
She was delighted. She clapped her hands and spun in a little circle. He was marvelous, perfect! And the way he had looked around, studying her, sizing her up. He liked her; she was certain of it. And she, of course, loved him at once, completely. He was just what she had hoped would come out of the little door.
<br><br>
Doris went to the clock. She bent over the little door, her lips close to the wood. "Do you hear me?" she whispered. "I think you're the most wonderful cuckoo in the world." She paused, embarrassed. "I hope you'll like it here."
<br><br>
Then she went downstairs again, slowly, her head high.
<br><br>
Larry and the cuckoo clock really never got along well from the start. Doris said it was because he didn't wind it right, and it didn't like being only half-wound all the time. Larry turned the job of winding over to her; the cuckoo came out every quarter hour and ran the spring down without remorse, and someone had to be ever after it, winding it up again.
<br><br>
Doris did her best, but she forgot a good deal of the time. Then Larry would throw his newspaper down with an elaborate weary motion and stand up. He would go into the dining-room where the clock was mounted on the wall over the fireplace. He would take the clock down and making sure that he had his thumb over the little door, he would wind it up.
<br><br>
"Why do you put your thumb over the door?" Doris asked once.
<br><br>
"You're supposed to."
<br><br>
She raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure? I wonder if it isn't that you don't want him to come out while you're standing so close."
<br><br>
"Why not?"
<br><br>
"Maybe you're afraid of him."
<br><br>
Larry laughed. He put the clock back on the wall and gingerly removed his thumb. When Doris wasn't looking he examined his thumb.
<br><br>
There was still a trace of the nick cut out of the soft part of it. Who - or what - had pecked at him?
<br><br>
One Saturday morning, when Larry was down at the office working over some important special accounts, Bob Chambers came to the front porch and rang the bell.
<br><br>
Doris was taking a quick shower. She dried herself and slipped into her robe. When she opened the door Bob stepped inside, grinning.
<br><br>
"Hi," he said, looking around.
<br><br>
"It's all right. Larry's at the office."
<br><br>
"Fine." Bob gazed at her slim legs below the hem of the robe. "How nice you look today."
<br><br>
She laughed. "Be careful! Maybe I shouldn't let you in after all."
<br><br>
They looked at one another, half amused half frightened. Presently Bob said, "If you want, I'll--"
<br><br>
"No, for God's sake." She caught hold of his sleeve. "Just get out of the doorway so I can close it. Mrs. Peters across the street, you know."
<br><br>
She closed the door. "And I want to show you something," she said. "You haven't seen it."
<br><br>
He was interested. "An antique? Or what?"
<br><br>
She took his arm, leading him toward the dining-room. "You'll love it, Bobby." She stopped, wide-eyed. "I hope you will. You must; you must love it. It means so much to me - he means so much."
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"He?" Bob frowned. "Who is he?"
<br><br>
Doris laughed. "You're jealous! Come on." A moment later they stood before the clock, looking up at it. "He'll come out in a few minutes. Wait until you see him. I know you two will get along just fine."
<br><br>
"What does Larry think of him?"
<br><br>
"They don't like each other. Sometimes when Larry's here he won't come out. Larry gets mad if he doesn't come out on time. He says--"
<br><br>
"Says what?"
<br><br>
Doris looked down. "He always says he's been robbed, even if he did get it wholesale." She brightened. "But I know he won't come out because he doesn't like Larry. When I'm here alone he comes right out for me, every fifteen minutes, even though he really only has to come out on the hour."
<br><br>
She gazed up at the clock. "He comes out for me because he wants to. We talk; I tell him things. Of course, I'd like to have him upstairs in my room, but it wouldn't be right."
<br><br>
There was the sound of footsteps on the front porch. They looked at each other, horrified.
<br><br>
Larry pushed the front door open, grunting. He set his briefcase down and took off his hat. Then he saw Bob for the first time.
<br><br>
"Chambers. I'll be damned." His eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?" He came into the dining-room. Doris drew her robe about her helplessly, backing away.
<br><br>
"I-" Bob began. "That is, we-" He broke off, glancing at Doris. Suddenly the clock began to whirr. The cuckoo came rushing out, bursting into sound. Larry moved toward him.
<br><br>
"Shut that din off," he said. He raised his fist toward the clock. The cuckoo snapped into silence and retreated. The door closed. "That's better." Larry studied Doris and Bob, standing mutely together.
<br><br>
"I came over to look at the clock," Bob said. "Doris told me that it's a rare antique and that--"
<br><br>
"Nuts. I bought it myself." Larry walked up to him. "Get out of here." He turned to Doris. "You too. And take that damn clock with you."
<br><br>
He paused, rubbing his chin. "No. Leave the clock here. It's mine; I bought it and paid for it."
<br><br>
In the weeks that followed after Doris left, Larry and the cuckoo clock got along even worse than before. For one thing, the cuckoo stayed inside most of the time, sometimes even at twelve o'clock when he should have been busiest. And if he did come out at all he usually spoke only once or twice, never the correct number of times. And there was a sullen, uncooperative note in his voice, a jarring sound that made Larry uneasy and a little angry.
<br><br>
But he kept the clock wound, because the house was very still and quiet and it got on his nerves not to hear someone running around, talking and dropping things. And even the whirring of a clock sounded good to him.
<br><br>
But he didn't like the cuckoo at all. And sometimes he spoke to him.
<br><br>
"Listen," he said late one night to the closed little door. "I know you can hear me. I ought to give you back to the Germans-- back to the Black Forest." He paced back and forth. "I wonder what they're doing now, the two of them. That young punk with his books and his antiques. A man shouldn't be interested in antiques; that's for women."
<br><br>
He set his jaw. "Isn't that right?"
<br><br>
The clock said nothing. Larry walked up in front of it. "Isn't that right?" he demanded. "Don't you have anything to say?"
<br><br>
He looked at the face of the clock. It was almost eleven, just a few seconds before the hour. "All right. I'll wait until eleven. Then I want to hear what you have to say. You've been pretty quiet the last few weeks since she left."
<br><br>
He grinned wryly. "Maybe you don't like it here since she's gone." He scowled. "Well, I paid for you, and you're coming out whether you like it or not. You hear me?"
<br><br>
Eleven o'clock came. Far off, at the end of town, the great tower clock boomed sleepily to itself. But the little door remained shut. Nothing moved. The minute hand passed on and the cuckoo did not stir. He was someplace inside the clock, beyond the door, silent and remote.
<br><br>
"All right, if that's the way you feel," Larry murmured, his lips twisting. "But it isn't fair. It's your job to come out. We all have to do things we don't like."
<br><br>
He went unhappily into the kitchen and opened the great gleaming refrigerator. As he poured himself a drink he thought about the clock.
<br><br>
There was no doubt about it - the cuckoo should come out, Doris or no Doris. He had always liked her, from the very start. They had got along well, the two of them. Probably he liked Bob too - probably he had seen enough of Bob to get to know him. They would be quite happy together, Bob and Doris and the cuckoo.
<br><br>
Larry finished his drink. He opened the drawer at the sink and took out the hammer. He carried it carefully into the dining-room. The clock was ticking gently to itself on the wall.
<br><br>
"Look," he said, waving the hammer. "You know what I have here? You know what I'm going to do with it? I'm going to start on you - first." He smiled. "Birds of a feather, that's what you are - the three of you."
<br><br>
The room was silent.
<br><br>
"Are you coming out? Or do I have to come in and get you?"
<br><br>
The clock whirred a little.
<br><br>
"I hear you in there. You've got a lot of talking to do, enough for the last three weeks. As I figure it, you owe me--"
<br><br>
The door opened. The cuckoo came out fast, straight at him. Larry was looking down, his brow wrinkled in thought. He glanced up, and the cuckoo caught him squarely in the eye.
<br><br>
Down he went, hammer and chair and everything, hitting the floor with a tremendous crash. For a moment the cuckoo paused, its small body poised rigidly. Then it went back inside its house. The door snapped tight-shut after it.
<br><br>
The man lay on the floor, stretched out grotesquely, his head bent over to one side. Nothing moved or stirred. The room was completely silent, except, of course, for the ticking of the clock.
<br><br>
"I see," Doris said, her face tight. Bob put his arm around her, steadying her.
<br><br>
"Doctor," Bob said, "can I ask you something?"
<br><br>
"Of course," the doctor said.
<br><br>
"Is it very easy to break your neck, falling from so low a chair? It wasn't very far to fall. I wonder if it might not have been an accident. Is there any chance it might have been--"
<br><br>
"Suicide?" the doctor rubbed his jaw. "I never heard of anyone committing suicide that way. It was an accident; I'm positive."
<br><br>
"I don't mean suicide," Bob murmured under his breath, looking up at the clock on the wall. "I meant something else."
<br><br>
<center>But no one heard him.</center>
<hr>
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"})
/// The Man From Snowy River by A.B. "Banjo" Paterson
/obj/item/weapon/book/bundle/custom_library/fiction/manfromsnowyriver
name = "The Man From Snowy River"
desc = "A hardbound book titled 'The Man From Snowy River' by A.B. 'Banjo' Paterson."
description_info = "This book is titled 'The Man From Snowy River' by A.B. 'Banjo' Paterson."
title = "The Man From Snowy River"
icon_state = "book3"
origkey = "Schnayy"
author = "A.B. Paterson"
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<center><h1>The Man From Snowy River<br><br>
<font face="Times New Roman" size="4" color="#623A13">A.B. Paterson</font></h1></center>
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There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around<br>
That the colt from old Regret had got away,<br>
And had joined the wild bush horses - he was worth a thousand pound,<br>
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.<br>
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far<br>
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,<br>
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,<br>
And the stockhorse snuffs the battle with delight.<br>
<br><br>
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,<br>
The old man with his hair as white as snow;<br>
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up -<br>
He would go wherever horse and man could go.<br>
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,<br>
No better horseman ever held the reins;<br>
For never horse could throw him while the saddle girths would stand,<br>
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.<br>
<br><br>
And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,<br>
He was something like a racehorse undersized,<br>
With a touch of Timor pony - three parts thoroughbred at least -<br>
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.<br>
He was hard and tough and wiry - just the sort that won't say die -<br>
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;<br>
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,<br>
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.<br>
<br><br>
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,<br>
And the old man said, "That horse will never do<br>
For a long a tiring gallop - lad, you'd better stop away,<br>
Those hills are far too rough for such as you."<br>
So he waited sad and wistful - only Clancy stood his friend -<br>
"I think we ought to let him come," he said;<br>
"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,<br>
For both his horse and he are mountain bred.<br>
<br><br>
"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,<br>
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,<br>
Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,<br>
The man that holds his own is good enough.<br>
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,<br>
Where the river runs those giant hills between;<br>
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,<br>
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."<br>
<br><br>
So he went - they found the horses by the big mimosa clump -<br>
They raced away towards the mountain's brow, <br>
And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump, <br>
No use to try for fancy riding now. <br>
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right. <br>
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills, <br>
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight, <br>
If once they gain the shelter of those hills."<br>
<br><br>
So Clancy rode to wheel them - he was racing on the wing <br>
Where the best and boldest riders take their place, <br>
And he raced his stockhorse past them, and he made the ranges ring <br>
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face. <br>
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash, <br>
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view, <br>
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash, <br>
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.<br>
<br><br>
Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black <br>
Resounded to the thunder of their tread, <br>
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back <br>
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead. <br>
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way, <br>
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide; <br>
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day, <br>
No man can hold them down the other side."<br>
<br><br>
When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull, <br>
It well might make the boldest hold their breath, <br>
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full <br>
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death. <br>
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head, <br>
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer, <br>
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed, <br>
While the others stood and watched in very fear.<br>
<br><br>
He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet, <br>
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride, <br>
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat - <br>
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride. <br>
Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground, <br>
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went; <br>
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound, <br>
At the bottom of that terrible descent.<br>
<br><br>
He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill, <br>
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,<br>
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,<br>
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit. <br>
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met <br>
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals <br>
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet, <br>
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.<br>
<br><br>
And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam. <br>
He followed like a bloodhound on their track, <br>
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home, <br>
And alone and unassisted brought them back. <br>
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,<br>
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur; <br>
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot, <br>
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.<br>
<br><br>
And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise <br>
Their torn and rugged battlements on high, <br>
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze <br>
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky, <br>
And where around The Overflow the reed beds sweep and sway <br>
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide, <br>
The man from Snowy River is a household word today, <br>
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.<br>
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