My name is Max. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
theroadwarrior) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
driftfleet2017-04-02 12:58 am
theroadwarrior) wrote in driftfleet2017-04-02 12:58 am
Entry tags:
Video/Action. SPONSOR DROPS AREN'T SO BAD I GUESS.
Who: Max Rockatansky
Broadcast: Fleetwide
Action: SS Starstruck
When: Sometime during the event, probs today, w/e w/e.
[Max is sitting casually in a chair with a messily opened sponsor drop box next to him; he's growing a considerable beard now, looks like. Easily five inches by now. Someone please make him shave it. Anyway, he's sitting very relaxed with a paper in his hands -- a postcard that some of you may inexplicably find left for you, courtesy of the rumor mill and the Atroma. You'll find it reads the following:
He doesn't read it outloud, but Max doesn't seem too bothered by this revealing of rumors, however. He's chewing on god knows what, rubbing his chin, something bright and colorful sitting in his lap that is not quite visible enough to be identified.]
... F'you got some postcard about me...
Mmm. S'all true. [He SHRUGS.] ... Stole only two chickens, though.
[Oh, someone's coming into the cargo bay of the SS Starstruck.
Excuse him, he's lifting up his sponsor gift -- what appears to be something titled BERF GUN on the side.
The feed ends, but beware, people who enter the cargo bay of the Starstruck may very well be shot by Max Rockatansky.
By one of these.
... It's, uh. Training. For you. Yes, training you for reflexes, and not because he wants to shoot you with foam darts.
And yes, the whole place will be littered with the those squishy foam bullets. LITTERED.
He's so fucking happy to be off that water planet, guys.]
Broadcast: Fleetwide
Action: SS Starstruck
When: Sometime during the event, probs today, w/e w/e.
[Max is sitting casually in a chair with a messily opened sponsor drop box next to him; he's growing a considerable beard now, looks like. Easily five inches by now. Someone please make him shave it. Anyway, he's sitting very relaxed with a paper in his hands -- a postcard that some of you may inexplicably find left for you, courtesy of the rumor mill and the Atroma. You'll find it reads the following:
He doesn't read it outloud, but Max doesn't seem too bothered by this revealing of rumors, however. He's chewing on god knows what, rubbing his chin, something bright and colorful sitting in his lap that is not quite visible enough to be identified.]
... F'you got some postcard about me...
Mmm. S'all true. [He SHRUGS.] ... Stole only two chickens, though.
[Oh, someone's coming into the cargo bay of the SS Starstruck.
Excuse him, he's lifting up his sponsor gift -- what appears to be something titled BERF GUN on the side.
The feed ends, but beware, people who enter the cargo bay of the Starstruck may very well be shot by Max Rockatansky.
By one of these.
... It's, uh. Training. For you. Yes, training you for reflexes, and not because he wants to shoot you with foam darts.
And yes, the whole place will be littered with the those squishy foam bullets. LITTERED.
He's so fucking happy to be off that water planet, guys.]