461 The Ace.


Truth be told, Brooksie may have bent the rules a little.  That’s Mike’s fault for not rigidly defining them at the start. 

There are many variations of this game.  Fenn mentioned the version I prefer in an earlier comment.  You start with a title and then the next person has to add to it.  Of course that’s way too easy, so my friends had extra rules.  Like, if you can’t add to the list yourself then you lose instead of the one you stump.  Meaning that you can’t use ringer titles that end with unchainable words.  Then, if it came to it, you had to be able to prove that the film exists.  So if a title was disputed we had to wait till someone could find a movie guide, or access the internet. 

There’s also a super version where you can link the titles of any media together.  Those games tend to go on forever, and you can’t keep track of the score very well.


Here is a thing I wrote for no reason, that has nothing to do with the above:

“Every person in this room is your enemy.” He said passing his eyes over the class. “Careers in art are extremely rare. One third of you are wasting your time, money, and effort by trying to be professionals.”
The students were as still as the dead. Professor Brown strode into the classroom proper and up to the podium. He had the look of an aging hippy, but spoke with all the authority of a general sending troops to war.
“I can already tell which of you have futures. I know which of you will spend the better part of your lives trying, desperately, to escape the horrors of the work a day world. Deep inside you know who you are. You’ve doubted your skills every moment of every day; seen other surpass you in every discipline. To you I say save yourselves now! Give up on art! Go to your counselor and transfer into business courses. Become chefs, mailmen, laborers. You will simply become lifeless husks, spending each day wishing you had the talent to have been someone, but you will survive. If survival is important to you tarry not in this place. I assure you… only the strongest will ever do more than simply survive.”

The room was as silent as a tomb. Brown stood on his point; his cold gaze meeting with the eyes of random students. Then, near the back of the room, the sound of chair legs grinding across tile. A tall, lanky, boy stood quietly, gathered his things and strode, silently, from the room. Moments later a blonde girl followed. Obviously choking back tears. A few seconds later a boy with long, stringy, black, dyed hair rose and walked calmly towards the door. Just before he left he paused, looked the class over, and gave the assembled a single digit salute. His gaze met Professor Brown’s last. Brown simply smiled and waved back.

“Ta-Ta,” He chirped. “I look forward to seeing you at Starbucks.” The boy grimaced, muttered something, and strode out.

“Well,” He continued. “Now that the drama is out of the way the rest of us can set to work. In the adjoining room you will find easels already prepared with paper and charcoal. Please find one for yourself and I shall join you presently.”

Slowly, almost cautiously, the class filtered into the drawing room. Brown waited till they were all inside before making his way towards the door. Pausing briefly, he looked over the list of names his clipboard. “Only three this year.” He thought. “I’m losing my touch.”