BOWLING FOR STEW [ bi-weekly event ]

[Pharaoh Leap]

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[attr="class","rcgenright"] [attr="class","rcgentitle"]BOWLING FOR STEW [attr="class","rcgen2"] [attr="class","rcgen3"]In a tragic accident involving a clown car and more than a hundred gallons of HeeeHaw brand soda, all but one of Tomodachi Island's esteemed bowling team have been rendered unable to play for the upcoming “Game of the Century”. Because sports teams from other universes don't come around often (save for those dastards over at Miitomo), however, rather than call it quits, the remaining member and team captain, Oneyea Monocular, has decided to extend her search parameters outward in search of players to fill the empty player roles. Qualifications don't matter, nor does your understanding of what a “bowling” even is. If you're an able body – or, heck, just a body will do! – willing to stand out for the Tomodachi Bowling Team's name, you're welcome aboard! Let it be noted, however, that even those familiar with standard bowling rules will find themselves terribly confused here. You've never played a bowling match this unruly, nor will you likely ever again in your lifetime. [attr="class","rcgentitle"]HOW TO PARTICIPATE [attr="class","rcgen2"] [attr="class","rcgen3"]This event will last until Thursday, OCTOBER 5th 11:59 PM (Central Time). In this time, any willing character will be able to participate as a fill-in member of the Tomodachi Bowling Team during their so-called “Game of the Century” against their opponent, the Tomogachi Bowling Team. There will be no posting order, as well as a word count maximum of 400 words. Posts should not exceed this number. We're aiming for quick posts of a numerous quantity. Knowledge of bowling is unnecessary; in fact, it might do you worse for trying to play by them than following along with others – but which I mean acting bat crud insane. Throw bowling balls at your opponent's head. Start a game of poker in the middle of a round. Place bets on whether you or your opponent can down more shot glasses in under five minutes. The method of scoring is unclear, and Oneyea's certainly not telling, so try anything and everything and wonder how your team's number on the board tripled when you started a flash mob to the YMCA dance. All participants, even if you have only posted once, will be awarded with experience points post event for helping the team, regardless of win or lose, as well as a potential cash reward if you can propel your team to victory by hitting that lucky number thread page three in four weeks' time. Reply to this thread in order to tag along for the ride. Good luck, and do Captain Oneyea proud!

[Walker DuVall]

Walker didn't know much of anything about bowling. They had said that no knowledge was necessary, but anxiety still lightly chewed at them. No one had yet explained to them the rules of the game and, really, at this point it seemed there were none. Scores fluctuated even as balls weren't rolling down lanes. On the bright side, the bowling alley served alcohol and Walker was easily helping themselves. Cheeks were flushed a light pink, but the frown on their face still had yet to lift itself even with the assistance of alcohol. "Hey, Walker, it's your turn." Someone held out for them a bowling ball and with a sigh they got up and took it. They weren't sure of the rules or how the scoring worked, but they got the idea. Throw the ball down the lane and hit as many pins as possible. Easy. Easier if they hadn't been drinking. Still, they stepped up to the line and rolled, the ball bouncing a bit across the wood. It hit only a couple of pins, but at least this time it didn't go straight into the gutter.

[Dipper Pines]

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[attr="class","jawneogtxtcont"]The barista's scowl deepened, splitting his leathery skin—sea-greenish, stretched loose like a gelled avocado facemask—in two. Seven arms and enough hands to crawl out of a tv screen, his fingers coiled around bottles of candied syrup. Hair-raising, like the bodies of dead spiders. One came down in a thunderclap and Mason lurched, "A dog? Is that part of the game this year? And what are you even here for? A milkshake?" He juggled his answer and adjusted the Maltese curled against his jawline, rock-heavy for a baby. [break][break]
"Give me the oldest, most expired glass of apple cider you've got?" [break][break]
"Sorry kid, that doesn’t fly here. But I commend your originality. The drinking age is somewhere between—eighteen and twenty-one." [break][break]
(Thanks, Grunkle Stan.) [break][break]
"You know," he snorted halfheartedly, "That's super uncanny. C'mon, this isn't even Earth!" Drooped against the countertop, Mason deflated, a dreary child's party balloon on a boiling summer morning. "Yeah. Bad joke. But I didn't want one anyway," and his puppy sidekick—Zippers printed on the polished tag—squirmed. Well, he muttered aloud, then at least they had each other. [break][break]
The announcer coughed, a static, metallic hack that shivered through the shadowy netting of its sound box, "No, actually. He's on loan until eleven. We couldn't play for Monocular with just any puppies, they had to be highbrow."[break][break]
Mason repeated it in disbelief, "Wait, on loan? From what?" [break][break]
"Walter's Trained Animal Extravaganza. Our bowling alley is a low budget operation. Turns out adopting the capitalist economy wasn't such a good idea since we're one island and all. We've been talking bartering, or maybe feudalism. We try on a lot of different hats."[break][break]
He chose to ignore that and peered over the counter instead. The barista seemed normal-ish. "I could pass as eighteen maybe," Zippers dripped down his shirt front and he tucked him inside his closed hoodie for now, haunted by a floating dog's head poking out from below his neckline. [break][break]
"Too ambitious." [break][break]
"Hey, everyone should have dreams, man. Like for example: can I still have the milkshake?" A sleepy glance to his side, where this woozy guy collapsed into his seat after scoring an okay clatter of pins, and Mason hid a yawn. He sank into a creampuff of ten-dollar-vanilla-soap-scented dog fur, "So. Here's an idea. Do any of us know how to bowl?" [break][break]
(The barista spoke again in a low rumble, "No.")[break][break]

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Aggie hasn't been bowling since she was six years old, and after her fourth gutterball, it's starting to show. She's baffled, shocked, incredulous -- she's supposed to be the one who's good at everything, and now the ragtag band of teammates behind her urge her towards the ball machine with cheshire grins and slumped shoulders.

She likes to think that she's good with anger management, and usually she is - it's all a matter of venting, of turning anger into something different. Finding an outlet. Usually it's in the form of biting endearments, unadulterated stubbornness, and even meticulous artistry - but now, stepping up to the dotted line at the forefront of the bowling lane, wearing absolutely deplorable velcro-strapped smooth-soled shoes, she feels her anger bubble up and over like a bad pot of tea.

She clenches her fingers, twists her arm back, and tosses the ball.

One.

Two.

Three.

Gutter.

And then - a primal roar rips from her throats and she stalks, slipping on her shoes, back to the ball machine. Two green balls are lifted triumphantly - barbarically - above her head, and she bellows, stomping down the alley as attendants shout and the lanes beep and the team behind her explodes into laughter. She slams both bowling balls into the pins stacked at the end of the lane, laughs wildly, and lifts her middle finger to the gutter itself.

"Bitch!"