Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-26062370-20160201002342/@comment-26062370-20160218050322

Meanwhile, Mark Twain gently shut his back door, clambered down some steps, nearly tripped over one of his prized cats, and continued onward down the steps until he reached the sidewalk. He had decided to escape the cigar-smoke filled party that was currently taking over his abode with the sounds of raucous laughter, drunken slurs, vile jokes, clinking whiskey glasses, and clattering billiard balls. Not that he minded these things. No, no, the wily old intellectual, that snarky old codger with a heart and mind of gold (and a body like that of sticks capped with snow) - why, he loved friendship and laughter and happiness - these things he held as the most important things in his life. All the same, he had wanted some fresh air and communion with his other friends - God, nature, and the wildlife that peppered the various trees that lined the entrance to the park. The old man ambled along, a bit of pep in his step, humming some tune from those ancient days of his childhood.

"Yes, I'd listen to the cabs going down the street, listen to the clattering of those four equine feet - I'd hear the horse's whinny as he mired in the muck, and that mis-er-a-ble pilot could only mutter-"

It was here that Twain found himself sprawled on the ground, having collided into a park bench.

(Sorry if this is super long, but Mark Twain's a fun character to write, and I haven't done him in nearly two months.)