Hey, I'm Dwayne Prophet. I'm a long time writer for about 5 years so far. I like writing in the sci-fi and fantasy but sometimes dip my toes into comedy. Shocked to find artists looking for writer as on any other platform it's the opposite. Here's a sample hopes it good enough.
The elevator landed as soft as a cat on a pillow. Holt toggled a switch above his eyes, lighting the path ahead in a stark white beam. Holt's breathing hissed through the filter. Glistening tiles reflected his light in oblong shapes. A constant stream flowed under a metal walkway in the sewers. His weight made it creak as he strode its length. It was a tale tell sign whether a company moved about the sewers.
Hundreds of companies, five men each, roamed the sewers. Each recognized only by their Foremen; standouts among the Steam/Sewage Guild, and true leaders. They kept their men on task and mentored as well.
Equipment rooms spread throughout the sewers double served as break rooms. Holt's company preferred a room under Mercator Street. Fredrich Merde, A first generation Steam Worker, claimed it. Any who stood at unseating him had already died or retired. Rumor spread that he built the system singlehandedly and had the entire sewer mapped out on his back.
Holt grasp the thick rust colored door marked, 'Mercator St. And Sybil E-Room.' in yellow paint. He pulled it open, unsealing the raucous laughter within.
"Boss, Guilds’ not going let anyone bury you here."
"It's in my will, it is," Fredrich protested, perched upon a wooden stool with a backrest welded to it. "I live here and I'll die here. Haven't been topside in a month."
They say Fredrich is like furniture; stubborn and hard to move. A pale round man with a blonde/gray handlebar mustache and a tuft of hair on a knob between his shoulders most recognized as his head. A great man whose belly protrudes past his knees.
Legends say Fredrich stood twice in a day: Once to get out of bed and once again for lunch. It was an effort worth of print, that drew a sweat on Fredrich's brow. He hobbled on tiny legs with an oompah rhythm towards a blackboard already scrawled with today's job.
"Gang's all here!" A man close to the door announced as Holt removed his mask.
"Mah boy!" Fredrich guffawed.
Holt smiled. The four full-fledged workers greeted him as well before he leaned against the door with mask in hand.
An investigation took up their afternoon. A pressure drop in Pipe #117. Central Valve Control reported through a page, or any kid who knew the streets, and wanted fifteen coppers. A company paid upon delivery then went to work.
Ten feet plodded in single file down the walkway; a staccato beat, a footfall, a creak, then a footfall, echoed from the solid walls. Holt followed like a puppy, close and quietly, though carrying a great spanner. The same great, as found in greatsword or greathammer. It spanned three feet with a head as large as a melon. He held it over his shoulder like a rifle. Holt also carried, a stiff leather duffel bag which held a roll of sheet brass.
"Ya hear that, Holt."
He listened for a moment. "I don't. What is it?"
"There's a hiss. Give it a few years an' you'll hear everything else but the stream."
The lead crewman, second to Merde, Zachary Olson hollered back. "We're getting closer."
An acrid fog shrouded their ankles.
"Saints above!" Holt coughed. "What reeks?"
"A bad break, I bet. Steam boils the waste water." Olson gagged. "Even the masks can't cover that up."
"Do we have flux?" Olson asked.
"Always," Holt answered. "A fresh can, too."
They marched on in silence until an audible hiss made the men tense up.
"You fighting tonight, Holt?" Olson broke the silence.
Holt perked up. "Yes, I am. It's not at Sutton Square, though. There was another raid."
"Aww, man, My meat pie still'd be hot when I'd get to Sutton."
"Geirhart wants a cut. That tyrant."
Holt shrunk a bit. He'd met Abel Geirhart when he and Abby were young. He's kind; he gave them treats and let them play in the hedge maze. "But the fights still on. The organizers said they'll drop the location an hour before the card."
"I'll find out and I'll grab you guys. We gotta cheer for 'Holt the Basher'!"
"Yeah. Basher! Basher! Basher!" They cheered. For a moment, the thundering rush of steam ahead was drowned out.
I have tons of ideas.. some my own and a grasp of storytelling. Feel free to contact me here or on twitter @thaprophet516