h a l f b a k e r yThere goes my teleportation concept.
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A dark oak desk, smooth, caryatid-legged, vast, for placing in the offices of physically frail but still diabolically ruthless metropolitan plutocrats, that, at the silent press of an obsidian button, fires sleek, sharp polished wooden tridents from a concealed panel, to either fatally puncture flesh
or shoot hard into the far wall, where they will jut, shaft vibrating gently, until removed by velvet-gloved lackeys, depending on the agility of the individual summoned before the boss.
Sniper Business
https://www.youtube...watch?v=ct2AWh-nKSk
[Voice, Jun 14 2015]
[link]
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I'd like a full sized swivelled harpoon launcher a top my desk complete with thick twined rope. |
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Oh yes. This is very good. I'll take two. And half a dozen lackeys, if you please. |
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Aye, but it's no' how you make porrige. |
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Oh. That might explain what's wrong with my porrige. |
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Fork'em if they can't take a joke. |
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What size are the tridents? Are we talking about myriad table-fork-sized projectiles or big f*** off, Neptune style? |
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I think I prefer [skinflaps] version. then I can stand on my desk and holler, "thar she blows!" when the office intern goes past with a particularly large pile of photocopies. |
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In the meantime, though... (reaches under desk) whooosh! Thunk, dagadagadagadaga... |
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//from a concealed panel// suggests they're probably not Sea-God-size, especially if there are several of them in there. I guess maybe garden trowel-sized? |
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The desk is vast, a barren tundra of highly polished oak, so large in fact that those few who have been brought before it and have lived to tell the tale claim that it is not simply large, but almost planetoidal in scale, the desk is not flat but curved and at the zenith of the subtle arc of horizon that is the far side of the desk, visible from the employee's chair rises the plutocrat himself, besuited, wheezing, almosy dead, veiny hands and liverspots clearly visible, in spite of, indeed in direct contravention of, the continental distances between the two actors in this scene, yes, close enough to see a finger like a length of knotted yellow string twiching towards, onto the obisidian feathertouch button, to see it pressed and then WHAM! a massive wooden trident, a foot between each spiked tip, whizzes at Mach Plenty towards the widening, yielding orbs of the employee's eyes, where it will puncture, driving the hapless staffer back like a rag doll, and pinning his now Jack O' Lantered head to the wood panelling behind. At the far end of the still-vibrating, carved hardwood shaft of the trident, on the far side of the desk, almost over the horizon, a small cough is emitted, summoning the said velvet-gloved lackeys, who, despite years of being ignored by the by-now snoring plutocrat, still creep trembling onto the plush shagpile of the office. |
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[angel], actually, yes. How did you guess? |
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//pinning his now Jack O' Lantered head to the wood panelling behind.// |
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Edit: pinning his now Jack O' Lantered head to the *replaceable, substainably harvested* wood panelling behind. |
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Sigh. Such insubordination. *reaches for button* |
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Perhaps this desk could be accompanied by some form of revolving office facade, allowing the impaled individual to be spun from the view of the plutocrat, allowing the obsequious lackeys to retrieve the trident from the wall at their leisure. The lank form of the unfortunate employee, their face a visceral mask of horror, deskewered from the wall, crumples to the floor in the full view of the assembled clerical staff, serving to starkly remind them of their rightful place within this dusty and venerable organisation. |
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Look, I know this is all just a funny little idea to you all but we have to maintain that we have a responsibility to keep Mother Earth healthy and alive. That begins with using responsible materials. Remember: Reuse, Recycle, Regurgitate! If we don't <THUNK> |
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This is the real reason the office is oval. The early prototype had an experimental targeting system which could not very well account for changes in distance to target. |
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