____________________________________
- August 8, 2570 -
- New Memphis, Sovereignty world Zigon-5 -
____________________________________
It was midnight, John Baylor was lying on his bed, worn out after a long session of lustful lovemaking. Lying (cuddling?) on top of him was Selphie, also exhausted after a night’s worth of hot, sweaty and passionate intimacy.
Stroking Selphie’s shoulder-length chestnut locks, John gazed into her beautiful face, pale and ornamented with two sparkling turquoise eyes. They were both naked, and John could feel her soft, medium-sized breasts and their perky nipples pressing against his bare chest. In fact, John could feel her entire body sensually rubbing against his own. With that thought in mind, John moved his free hand down to her buttocks, caressing the rest of her backside as he did so. Selphie moaned silently in pleasure and he proceeded to grope her deliciously smooth butt.
“I missed you,” she mewed, snuggling her head on his not-so muscular chest.
I probably need to work out more, almost didn’t last that long, John thought. “I’ve gotten used to us doing this everyday…felt really bad when you left.”
“Yeah…I had trouble sleeping,” she tried not to squirm too much as John groped her more intimate regions.
“Me too…” John suddenly smiled as his mind wandered off into something totally unrelated to the matter at hand.
“What’s so funny?”
“Hey...remember that time when we were in Klanton? On the way to Tim’s place. The car broke down and we were stuck there for the night?”
“Yeah…?”
“And this sheriff finds out we were having sex and then…and then he, yeah, catches us and cock blocks us?” John was now snickering and Selphie, who now knew what the hell he was talking about, was beginning to giggle.
“Yeah, the redneck cop! And he barged in-”
“And you had to cover yourself up in my underpants!” both of them were now laughing.
“Then he says we’re trespassing and that he was gonna have to arrest us!”
“But he would let us off if you’d screw-”
“Actually, I think he was talking to you when he said that,” Selphie interrupted. “Anyway, you ended up punching him after jumping out of the car while you were naked and almost got shot, and we ended up stealing his car and going to Tim’s.”
“I think he was a Klansman,” John said as he resumed groping Selphie’s butt. “Man, that was great! And you were pretty scared when I jumped out of the car, butt naked, to defend your honor.”
“Good thing you didn’t get shot. That was pretty stupid.”
“And fun!” John said with a big grin on his face. “That was awesome.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Tim gave me some MREs and stuff when we left him, you know?” John finally said after an awkward half-minute’s silence. “That’s all I ate when you were gone. Not as good as your meatloaf, but the taste brought back old memories.”
“Like punching a police officer’s lights out while being butt naked?”
“Yeah…something like that.” Tired with the pointless conversing, John nuzzled Selphie and then locked lips with her. Taking the cue, she wrapped her legs around him and placed her arms around his neck just as he placed his around her waist. Thanks to their rekindled sensualities, they would continue on like this for another hour.
Shroomie's Shorts: Epiphany
Moderator: LadyTevar
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Shroom Man 777
- FUCKING DICK-STABBER!
- Posts: 21222
- Joined: 2003-05-11 08:39am
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Last edited by Shroom Man 777 on 2005-05-21 05:45am, edited 1 time in total.
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!
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Crazedwraith
- Emperor's Hand
- Posts: 11924
- Joined: 2003-04-10 03:45pm
- Location: Cheshire, England
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Shroom Man 777
- FUCKING DICK-STABBER!
- Posts: 21222
- Joined: 2003-05-11 08:39am
- Location: Bleeding breasts and stabbing dicks since 2003
- Contact:
Well, it didn't add to the plot so I decided to make it a snapshot.
@ Kuj:
The characters there are from The Runaway Apexai. Ya might wanna check it out, since it's something I consider my masterpiece, so if ya like these shorties, you might enjoy TRA.
@ Kuj:
The characters there are from The Runaway Apexai. Ya might wanna check it out, since it's something I consider my masterpiece, so if ya like these shorties, you might enjoy TRA.
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!
-
Einhander Sn0m4n
- Insane Railgunner
- Posts: 18630
- Joined: 2002-10-01 05:51am
- Location: Louisiana... or Dagobah. You know, where Yoda lives.
-
Shroom Man 777
- FUCKING DICK-STABBER!
- Posts: 21222
- Joined: 2003-05-11 08:39am
- Location: Bleeding breasts and stabbing dicks since 2003
- Contact:
Yeah, I know you wished you were there instead of Selphie...which would be bad since I envision myself as John Baylor...very bad... 
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!
-
Shroom Man 777
- FUCKING DICK-STABBER!
- Posts: 21222
- Joined: 2003-05-11 08:39am
- Location: Bleeding breasts and stabbing dicks since 2003
- Contact:
____________________________________
- November 22, 2566 -
- Ehime City, Federation world Akihabara -
____________________________________
The best bounty hunter in the galaxy, Aurigan Bob, the Duke of Death, surveyed the street for ground cars and LARCs that would be coming in at hundreds of kilometers per hour. Finding the road to be safe, he nonchalantly crossed to the other side.
He had unfinished business to attend to. Half a year ago, he had received an invitation, a challenge, from a samurai dojo renowned for producing some of the deadliest swordsmen in the Federation. The dojo master, a samurai named Kenshin Himura, wanted to see who was the better warrior. But when the challenge was issued, the Duke was thousands of lightyears away, in Bragulan space, busy chasing down a dissident Imperial official. Just two weeks ago, he had managed to track the fugitive to a forest world in Wild Space, so he met up with the guy and killed him by setting the entire jungle he was hiding in on fire. Then he went to the nearest Imperial commissar and got his bounty, an assworth of gold bullion worthless to Bragulans but priceless to humans and Zigonians. Upon arriving back to Terran space, he checked his phone for messages and found that some two-bit samurai had demanded a honorable duel to the death. Since his work-schedule was empty, he decided to have himself a little fun.
In short, the Duke of Death was going pro bono.
As he approached the dojo, he compared it to the descriptions given to him by his sources. It was rather inconspicuous, with the cheap plastic-y look typical with Federation corporate construction – see, they didn’t bother to beautify things for the employees and wage slaves who comprised the bulk of their population. The building had several large glass windows and signs that identified it for what it was, a training ground for warriors-for-hire. The place’s name was written on some of the signs in plain English, but on the others were weird archaic and oriental symbols the Duke could not decipher, despite being fluent in all standard galactic languages. However, he wasn’t interested in names and weirdo symbolisms, he was interested in the windows. See, he could see right through their reflective covering, and he could see all the samurai performing their repetitive training routines – training routines that did not involve playing sticks, but fully sharpened swords. From what he could see, he could ascertain that there were probably a hundred of them. Maybe more, but the Duke always prepared for the worst case scenario, which explained why he was bringing no less than four Imperial-issue grenades. Two of them fragmentary and the other two thermobaric.
He pulled one out of the jacket and looked at it. See, unlike Terran grenades, Bragulan ones were shaped in a way that would allow more explosives to be crammed into them. A Bragulan grenade had a shaft-shaped handle that was topped with a can-shaped part that held the bulk of the explosive. At the top of the ‘can’ was a dial where the user could adjust the time it took for the detonation. Squeezing the handle also delayed the detonation. And at the base of the handle was a pin that would initiate the countdown.
The Duke pulled the pin off with a gloved finger and threw it at one of the windows without even bothering to set the time. The steel-encased explosive smashed a hole through the glass and Duke could hear it drop to the far side of the room, he could also hear the surprised mumbling of the practicing samurai. Not for long, however, as the entire room was consumed in a massive earth-shaking explosion whose shockwave shattered all of the remaining windows and whose shrapnel killed everything beyond its blast radius.
Continuing his little stroll, the Duke made his way to another window. This one was blasted open, which saved the Duke the effort of smashing through it. He simply lobbed a second grenade in, walked out of range, and waited for the explosion to hurl debris – either blown up concrete or chunks of human flesh – towards his general direction.
For good measure, the Duke chucked in a third grenade, a pocket thermobaric warhead, and watched as the clouds of smoke were replaced with a giant ball of yellow flame that illuminated everything beyond its destructive radius – which sadly did not include the poor people inside the dojo. While whistling a favorite oldie, the Duke realized that he wouldn’t even find a single mutilated corpse once he entered the building. They were all probably vaporized. But since the Duke did not become the galaxy’s best bounty hunter by being careless, he kept his last hand grenade just in case a few samurai might have survived the immolation.
Entering the desecrated dojo, the Duke found himself in the middle of a scene of silent carnage. Charred bodies lay on the ground steaming, filling the room with a repulsive odor all too familiar to the Duke. It was a grisly sight, a scene from hell. Molten plastic walls, half-combusted corpses strewn all over the floor, still clutching their weapons and looking like as if they were screaming out silent screams of agony as their vocal cords were instantly transmuted into embers –
The Duke decided to spare himself the poetry. He had a job to do.
The man who incurred the wrath of the Duke of Death was probably in a backroom somewhere, the Duke thought. He knew there was some sort of indoor garden inside the building, for meditation or something. That was where this ‘Kenshin Himura’ was probably at. Probably had a few friends with him as well.
A door at the end of the room slid open and out came a swordsman dressed in an oriental fighting robe of some kind. He unsheathed his katana.
“You call that a knife?” the Duke asked rhetorically. The swordsman cocked his head, confused. “This is a knife.”
In a blur, the Duke whipped out a Bragulan combat knife and the samurai soon found the foot-long piece of sharpened Bragulan Steel imbedded in his throat. He fell to the ground, gurgling and chocking, while the Duke of Death simply strode over his dying form to conclude his business.
Walking through several winding corridors, the Duke finally found the samurai-cult building’s indoor garden. He kicked the wooden door open and entered it.
The room was large; there were a few genetically altered pygmy-trees, some orchids, and even a tiny artificial stream. There were carps in them. The floor was composed of smoothened pebbles, and there were several lanterns hanging from the ceiling. The ceiling also had a sunroof that enabled natural light to enter the room, probably to ensure the healthy growth of the bonsai plants. It looked nice, but it was going to get pretty messy pretty soon, the Duke mused. At the other end of the room was his challenger, the samurai known as Kenshin Himura. He was wearing a much more ornate version of the fighting robe worn by the other dead man. He also had a sword, a katana, sheathed in a rather intricate and expensive looking scabbard.
“Bob, I have asked for your presence six months ago and you only show yourself now,” Himura had an accent the Duke couldn’t place. It was also odd that he was being referred to as ‘Bob’, as in ‘Aurigan Bob’, one of the other names he went by. He was usually known as The Duke of Death, ever since that book of his was published… “I was beginning to think you were too spineless and dishonorable to show yourself. With what you have done to my dojo, to my students, that is almost certainly the case. Pick up the sword, Aurigan Bob. I challenge you!”
Looking to his side, the Duke noticed that there was an unsheathed katana propped against the wall. He picked it up with his left hand. He noticed Himura smirk at that. Probably some swordfight-samurai rule about only using the right hand. He tested the weight of the sword and found it to be of good quality. He turned to Himura and said, “You’re pretty spry for a dead man.”
“Enough talking, gaijin,” Himura said. He had an angry tone in his voice that went with his odd accent. “Only one of us will be leaving this room alive. Prepare to engage in honorable combat, ready yourself, Bob!”
“You know Kinjo, that ninja guy? He practically said the same thing,” the Duke said just as Himura assumed a fighting stance. He estimated the distance between them to be around ten meters. “You know what happened to him?”
Not even bothering to acknowledge what the Duke had said, Himura shifted his footing and charged at the Duke of Death. He gave out a battle cry and positioned his sword for an overhead slash that would bisect the burly leather-clad death dealer’s head like a watermelon.
Just as Himura halved the distance between them, the Duke looked at the blade he was holding in his left hand and threw it away in disgust. Then he pulled out his Colt M2411 handgun, deactivated the safety and fired from his hips.
In the Coalition’s Frontier, where the names ‘the Duke of Death’ and ‘Aurigan Bob’ were originated, the Duke was described as being like ‘Jesus with a pistol’. Whoever Jesus was, it was generally implied that the Duke was practically godlike with a pistola. A revolver, a semiautomatic pistol, a personal defense weapon, even a sawn-off shotgun, if it could be held in one hand, the Duke could use it to blow the wings out of a fly from a hundred meters away. Or so legend said. The Colt M2411 was the descendant of the Colt M1911, which was among the first semiautomatic pistols and perhaps the most effective – being still in use more than a hundred years after its invention. That was half a millennia ago, and the Colt M2411, another antique weapon, was a special pistol made by Colt to commemorate one of its finest and most popular designs. The company went through great pains to make the 2411 the finest weapon in the galaxy, with accuracy and stopping power that would make it even better than handheld laser guns. The Duke used the Colt M2411, a special customized variant, and legend said that he was able to murder a village full of outlaws with just a 2411 and five clips. Some of them said that the Duke’s Jesus-like abilities, whatever a Jesus was, was because of his special century-old 2411. That with it he was able to blow the wings off flies from a hundred yards away. Or so legend said.
Whatever legend and myth and hearsay and rumor said, the Duke knew for a fact that he could blow off the kneecaps of a screaming sword-totting cultist from just fifteen feet away. And that’s precisely what he did. Gunshots filled the air as two caseless rounds were ignited and sent towards the legs of the charging samurai. And screams filled the air as the explosive bullets turned the honorable Kenshin Himura into an amputee. Oh sure, his legs were still intact because of a few strands of flesh – but that didn’t change the fact that mister Kenshin Himura would be needing cloned limbs or cybernetic prosthetics, as well as a blood transfusion.
Kenshin Himura fell face first to the gravel, writhing in pain and moaning all sorts of profanities in whatever archaic language he was using. He screamed: “You dishonorable gaijin! How dare you! You spineless coward! You have no honor at all, none whatsoever-”
“Didn’t answer the question, bub,” the Duke said nonchalantly as he walked over to the fallen master swordsman. He picked up Himura’s intricate and finely crafted sword and examined it finely. “This is a very nice sword!”
Himura didn’t bother responding to the Duke’s taunts. He had much better things to do, like bleeding.
“Do you know what happened to Kinjo?”
After a half-minute’s worth of agonizing wailing, writhing and bleeding, Himura finally replied: “NO!”
The Duke chuckled. First time in years. He aimed his pistol for Himura’s head. “I put two between his eyes.”
“No! I don’t deserve to die like this, in disgrace, after being dishonored by such a spineless gaijin coward! I should die with dignity, in honorable combat!” Himura groaned.
“Wrong.”
Bang bang.
- November 22, 2566 -
- Ehime City, Federation world Akihabara -
____________________________________
The best bounty hunter in the galaxy, Aurigan Bob, the Duke of Death, surveyed the street for ground cars and LARCs that would be coming in at hundreds of kilometers per hour. Finding the road to be safe, he nonchalantly crossed to the other side.
He had unfinished business to attend to. Half a year ago, he had received an invitation, a challenge, from a samurai dojo renowned for producing some of the deadliest swordsmen in the Federation. The dojo master, a samurai named Kenshin Himura, wanted to see who was the better warrior. But when the challenge was issued, the Duke was thousands of lightyears away, in Bragulan space, busy chasing down a dissident Imperial official. Just two weeks ago, he had managed to track the fugitive to a forest world in Wild Space, so he met up with the guy and killed him by setting the entire jungle he was hiding in on fire. Then he went to the nearest Imperial commissar and got his bounty, an assworth of gold bullion worthless to Bragulans but priceless to humans and Zigonians. Upon arriving back to Terran space, he checked his phone for messages and found that some two-bit samurai had demanded a honorable duel to the death. Since his work-schedule was empty, he decided to have himself a little fun.
In short, the Duke of Death was going pro bono.
As he approached the dojo, he compared it to the descriptions given to him by his sources. It was rather inconspicuous, with the cheap plastic-y look typical with Federation corporate construction – see, they didn’t bother to beautify things for the employees and wage slaves who comprised the bulk of their population. The building had several large glass windows and signs that identified it for what it was, a training ground for warriors-for-hire. The place’s name was written on some of the signs in plain English, but on the others were weird archaic and oriental symbols the Duke could not decipher, despite being fluent in all standard galactic languages. However, he wasn’t interested in names and weirdo symbolisms, he was interested in the windows. See, he could see right through their reflective covering, and he could see all the samurai performing their repetitive training routines – training routines that did not involve playing sticks, but fully sharpened swords. From what he could see, he could ascertain that there were probably a hundred of them. Maybe more, but the Duke always prepared for the worst case scenario, which explained why he was bringing no less than four Imperial-issue grenades. Two of them fragmentary and the other two thermobaric.
He pulled one out of the jacket and looked at it. See, unlike Terran grenades, Bragulan ones were shaped in a way that would allow more explosives to be crammed into them. A Bragulan grenade had a shaft-shaped handle that was topped with a can-shaped part that held the bulk of the explosive. At the top of the ‘can’ was a dial where the user could adjust the time it took for the detonation. Squeezing the handle also delayed the detonation. And at the base of the handle was a pin that would initiate the countdown.
The Duke pulled the pin off with a gloved finger and threw it at one of the windows without even bothering to set the time. The steel-encased explosive smashed a hole through the glass and Duke could hear it drop to the far side of the room, he could also hear the surprised mumbling of the practicing samurai. Not for long, however, as the entire room was consumed in a massive earth-shaking explosion whose shockwave shattered all of the remaining windows and whose shrapnel killed everything beyond its blast radius.
Continuing his little stroll, the Duke made his way to another window. This one was blasted open, which saved the Duke the effort of smashing through it. He simply lobbed a second grenade in, walked out of range, and waited for the explosion to hurl debris – either blown up concrete or chunks of human flesh – towards his general direction.
For good measure, the Duke chucked in a third grenade, a pocket thermobaric warhead, and watched as the clouds of smoke were replaced with a giant ball of yellow flame that illuminated everything beyond its destructive radius – which sadly did not include the poor people inside the dojo. While whistling a favorite oldie, the Duke realized that he wouldn’t even find a single mutilated corpse once he entered the building. They were all probably vaporized. But since the Duke did not become the galaxy’s best bounty hunter by being careless, he kept his last hand grenade just in case a few samurai might have survived the immolation.
Entering the desecrated dojo, the Duke found himself in the middle of a scene of silent carnage. Charred bodies lay on the ground steaming, filling the room with a repulsive odor all too familiar to the Duke. It was a grisly sight, a scene from hell. Molten plastic walls, half-combusted corpses strewn all over the floor, still clutching their weapons and looking like as if they were screaming out silent screams of agony as their vocal cords were instantly transmuted into embers –
The Duke decided to spare himself the poetry. He had a job to do.
The man who incurred the wrath of the Duke of Death was probably in a backroom somewhere, the Duke thought. He knew there was some sort of indoor garden inside the building, for meditation or something. That was where this ‘Kenshin Himura’ was probably at. Probably had a few friends with him as well.
A door at the end of the room slid open and out came a swordsman dressed in an oriental fighting robe of some kind. He unsheathed his katana.
“You call that a knife?” the Duke asked rhetorically. The swordsman cocked his head, confused. “This is a knife.”
In a blur, the Duke whipped out a Bragulan combat knife and the samurai soon found the foot-long piece of sharpened Bragulan Steel imbedded in his throat. He fell to the ground, gurgling and chocking, while the Duke of Death simply strode over his dying form to conclude his business.
Walking through several winding corridors, the Duke finally found the samurai-cult building’s indoor garden. He kicked the wooden door open and entered it.
The room was large; there were a few genetically altered pygmy-trees, some orchids, and even a tiny artificial stream. There were carps in them. The floor was composed of smoothened pebbles, and there were several lanterns hanging from the ceiling. The ceiling also had a sunroof that enabled natural light to enter the room, probably to ensure the healthy growth of the bonsai plants. It looked nice, but it was going to get pretty messy pretty soon, the Duke mused. At the other end of the room was his challenger, the samurai known as Kenshin Himura. He was wearing a much more ornate version of the fighting robe worn by the other dead man. He also had a sword, a katana, sheathed in a rather intricate and expensive looking scabbard.
“Bob, I have asked for your presence six months ago and you only show yourself now,” Himura had an accent the Duke couldn’t place. It was also odd that he was being referred to as ‘Bob’, as in ‘Aurigan Bob’, one of the other names he went by. He was usually known as The Duke of Death, ever since that book of his was published… “I was beginning to think you were too spineless and dishonorable to show yourself. With what you have done to my dojo, to my students, that is almost certainly the case. Pick up the sword, Aurigan Bob. I challenge you!”
Looking to his side, the Duke noticed that there was an unsheathed katana propped against the wall. He picked it up with his left hand. He noticed Himura smirk at that. Probably some swordfight-samurai rule about only using the right hand. He tested the weight of the sword and found it to be of good quality. He turned to Himura and said, “You’re pretty spry for a dead man.”
“Enough talking, gaijin,” Himura said. He had an angry tone in his voice that went with his odd accent. “Only one of us will be leaving this room alive. Prepare to engage in honorable combat, ready yourself, Bob!”
“You know Kinjo, that ninja guy? He practically said the same thing,” the Duke said just as Himura assumed a fighting stance. He estimated the distance between them to be around ten meters. “You know what happened to him?”
Not even bothering to acknowledge what the Duke had said, Himura shifted his footing and charged at the Duke of Death. He gave out a battle cry and positioned his sword for an overhead slash that would bisect the burly leather-clad death dealer’s head like a watermelon.
Just as Himura halved the distance between them, the Duke looked at the blade he was holding in his left hand and threw it away in disgust. Then he pulled out his Colt M2411 handgun, deactivated the safety and fired from his hips.
In the Coalition’s Frontier, where the names ‘the Duke of Death’ and ‘Aurigan Bob’ were originated, the Duke was described as being like ‘Jesus with a pistol’. Whoever Jesus was, it was generally implied that the Duke was practically godlike with a pistola. A revolver, a semiautomatic pistol, a personal defense weapon, even a sawn-off shotgun, if it could be held in one hand, the Duke could use it to blow the wings out of a fly from a hundred meters away. Or so legend said. The Colt M2411 was the descendant of the Colt M1911, which was among the first semiautomatic pistols and perhaps the most effective – being still in use more than a hundred years after its invention. That was half a millennia ago, and the Colt M2411, another antique weapon, was a special pistol made by Colt to commemorate one of its finest and most popular designs. The company went through great pains to make the 2411 the finest weapon in the galaxy, with accuracy and stopping power that would make it even better than handheld laser guns. The Duke used the Colt M2411, a special customized variant, and legend said that he was able to murder a village full of outlaws with just a 2411 and five clips. Some of them said that the Duke’s Jesus-like abilities, whatever a Jesus was, was because of his special century-old 2411. That with it he was able to blow the wings off flies from a hundred yards away. Or so legend said.
Whatever legend and myth and hearsay and rumor said, the Duke knew for a fact that he could blow off the kneecaps of a screaming sword-totting cultist from just fifteen feet away. And that’s precisely what he did. Gunshots filled the air as two caseless rounds were ignited and sent towards the legs of the charging samurai. And screams filled the air as the explosive bullets turned the honorable Kenshin Himura into an amputee. Oh sure, his legs were still intact because of a few strands of flesh – but that didn’t change the fact that mister Kenshin Himura would be needing cloned limbs or cybernetic prosthetics, as well as a blood transfusion.
Kenshin Himura fell face first to the gravel, writhing in pain and moaning all sorts of profanities in whatever archaic language he was using. He screamed: “You dishonorable gaijin! How dare you! You spineless coward! You have no honor at all, none whatsoever-”
“Didn’t answer the question, bub,” the Duke said nonchalantly as he walked over to the fallen master swordsman. He picked up Himura’s intricate and finely crafted sword and examined it finely. “This is a very nice sword!”
Himura didn’t bother responding to the Duke’s taunts. He had much better things to do, like bleeding.
“Do you know what happened to Kinjo?”
After a half-minute’s worth of agonizing wailing, writhing and bleeding, Himura finally replied: “NO!”
The Duke chuckled. First time in years. He aimed his pistol for Himura’s head. “I put two between his eyes.”
“No! I don’t deserve to die like this, in disgrace, after being dishonored by such a spineless gaijin coward! I should die with dignity, in honorable combat!” Himura groaned.
“Wrong.”
Bang bang.
Last edited by Shroom Man 777 on 2005-05-22 07:26pm, edited 1 time in total.
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!
-
Einhander Sn0m4n
- Insane Railgunner
- Posts: 18630
- Joined: 2002-10-01 05:51am
- Location: Louisiana... or Dagobah. You know, where Yoda lives.
-
Shroom Man 777
- FUCKING DICK-STABBER!
- Posts: 21222
- Joined: 2003-05-11 08:39am
- Location: Bleeding breasts and stabbing dicks since 2003
- Contact:
Oh and note that credit goes to Crazedwraith and his fic 'Best Served Cold'. This is a blatant thinggymajig with his consent and blessing.
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!
-
Crazedwraith
- Emperor's Hand
- Posts: 11924
- Joined: 2003-04-10 03:45pm
- Location: Cheshire, England
-
Shroom Man 777
- FUCKING DICK-STABBER!
- Posts: 21222
- Joined: 2003-05-11 08:39am
- Location: Bleeding breasts and stabbing dicks since 2003
- Contact:
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!
-
Shroom Man 777
- FUCKING DICK-STABBER!
- Posts: 21222
- Joined: 2003-05-11 08:39am
- Location: Bleeding breasts and stabbing dicks since 2003
- Contact:
Just 'cool'?
Come on man, say something aside from just one word!
Come on man, say something aside from just one word!
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!
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Shroom Man 777
- FUCKING DICK-STABBER!
- Posts: 21222
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And with Arnold Schwarzenegger instead of Harrison Ford?
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!
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Einhander Sn0m4n
- Insane Railgunner
- Posts: 18630
- Joined: 2002-10-01 05:51am
- Location: Louisiana... or Dagobah. You know, where Yoda lives.
And the board admin closed guest viewing...Shroom Man 777 wrote:+http://www.rpgdreamersforum.com/index.p ... opic=38220
Hehehehehe, they hate it!
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Shroom Man 777
- FUCKING DICK-STABBER!
- Posts: 21222
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Ah fuck them.
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!
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Shroom Man 777
- FUCKING DICK-STABBER!
- Posts: 21222
- Joined: 2003-05-11 08:39am
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____________________________________
- May 21, 2567 -
- Hell Creek City, Coalition frontier world Tombstone -
____________________________________
John Rey just realized who the man at the table in front of him was. Immediately, he sat himself in front of the big, dangerous looking guy.
“You’re Aurigan Bob, right?” John Rey was all jittery and excited.
“Yeah, what about it?” the Duke of Death asked, more interested in his drink than the scrawny fifteen year old who just placed himself in front of him.
Wow, it’s the Duke of Death himself! “Uh… I’m a big fan of yours, even read your book”
The Duke, Bob, grunted in acknowledgement. He was midway through his mug of Tarsonian Ale – cheap, watered down shit distilled into fermented piss.
“So…who did you just kill?” the kid was obviously not discouraged by the Duke’s apparent disinterest, in fact, he was probably ecstatic. “And what’d you use? Grenades? A tac nuke? Your book said you always used ‘em.”
The Duke sipped some more of his fine liquor/urine.
“You’re not going to tell me, huh?” John Rey was disheartened.
The Duke placed down his mug. Only half of the septic fluid was left. “Sorry kid. Bounty hunter non-disclosure clause.”
“But what about your book? Your autobiography?”
“Half of it I just made up,” the Duke said, his cold eyes and impassive face carrying a bit of amusement.
“And the other half?” John Rey looked quite confused, and a bit amused himself.
“Dunno, my publisher did the other half.”
“Heh,” the barkeep placed a mug full of Tarsonian Ale beside John Rey. JR decided he would dare injesting the…drink. He grimaced and almost slammed the mug on the table. He coughed. “You killed my dad, you know?”
“I’m sorry,” the Duke replied, casually and without missing a beat.
“Nah, it’s okay. He was a dick, beat up my mom and my sister, forced me to work so he could get himself more booze.”
The Duke considered this for a while and repeated what he had said. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I believe that a man ought to resolve his own business. Handle his own issues. Make his own decisions, choices and actions.”
“Is that what you do?” to John Rey, that seemed to contradict what the Duke did for a living.
“I just help facilitate that, help solve the problem. But ultimately a man ought to make his own choices, and I don’t interfere with that.” The Duke took another swag, which was less of a swag and more of a sip.
“Not a heavy drinker?”
“No.”
“Not like my dad,” John Rey sighed a bit.
“My pop was like that. Know what I did to him?”
“What?”
“Put two between his eyes,” the Duke took another sip. It was vomit inducing.
“I’m sorry…”
“Don’t be. He deserved it.”
“And that’s why you’re doing what you’re doing?”
“Yes.”
“But don’t you ever wonder if you’re becoming like them by killing all those people? I mean, what gives you the right to judge who deserves to live and who deserves to die? Because from another point of view, you’re the one who deserves to get two between the eyes for killing people who also have friends, who also have families.”
The Duke contemplated this. Then he replied: “Listen. I’m just doing what I think is right, what I’m good at. The only thing I’m good at. The way I see it, there’s an abundance of bad people in many places all over the galaxy and there’s no one to stop them. Like Tombstone, which doesn’t even have any cops. Even when there are coppers, they can’t stop everything. Sometimes, lots of times, they’re even part of the problem.
“In my point of view, I’m just doing what needs to be done, what has to be done. I’m just doing what I think is right. For a bit of cash I whack a sumbitch who deserves it, and I go to great pains to make sure he deserves it. Now to someone else I might be a monster, and if he feels obliged to whack me, then so be it. Though he’s not going to have an easy time doing it…”
John Rey was silent, he considered what the Duke had just said.
“Now that’s just my point of view,” the Duke continued. “But I didn’t come here to talk about this deep stuff. I came to drink me some horrible beer and relax. I also didn’t come here to kill anyone, so don’t make me kill you, boy.”
John Rey smiled. If the book was anything to go by, this was the Duke’s first joke in years.
After two minutes of silence, both of them finally finished their beers – with John Rey finishing his first. Finally, the Duke commented: “First joke in years.”
- May 21, 2567 -
- Hell Creek City, Coalition frontier world Tombstone -
____________________________________
John Rey just realized who the man at the table in front of him was. Immediately, he sat himself in front of the big, dangerous looking guy.
“You’re Aurigan Bob, right?” John Rey was all jittery and excited.
“Yeah, what about it?” the Duke of Death asked, more interested in his drink than the scrawny fifteen year old who just placed himself in front of him.
Wow, it’s the Duke of Death himself! “Uh… I’m a big fan of yours, even read your book”
The Duke, Bob, grunted in acknowledgement. He was midway through his mug of Tarsonian Ale – cheap, watered down shit distilled into fermented piss.
“So…who did you just kill?” the kid was obviously not discouraged by the Duke’s apparent disinterest, in fact, he was probably ecstatic. “And what’d you use? Grenades? A tac nuke? Your book said you always used ‘em.”
The Duke sipped some more of his fine liquor/urine.
“You’re not going to tell me, huh?” John Rey was disheartened.
The Duke placed down his mug. Only half of the septic fluid was left. “Sorry kid. Bounty hunter non-disclosure clause.”
“But what about your book? Your autobiography?”
“Half of it I just made up,” the Duke said, his cold eyes and impassive face carrying a bit of amusement.
“And the other half?” John Rey looked quite confused, and a bit amused himself.
“Dunno, my publisher did the other half.”
“Heh,” the barkeep placed a mug full of Tarsonian Ale beside John Rey. JR decided he would dare injesting the…drink. He grimaced and almost slammed the mug on the table. He coughed. “You killed my dad, you know?”
“I’m sorry,” the Duke replied, casually and without missing a beat.
“Nah, it’s okay. He was a dick, beat up my mom and my sister, forced me to work so he could get himself more booze.”
The Duke considered this for a while and repeated what he had said. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I believe that a man ought to resolve his own business. Handle his own issues. Make his own decisions, choices and actions.”
“Is that what you do?” to John Rey, that seemed to contradict what the Duke did for a living.
“I just help facilitate that, help solve the problem. But ultimately a man ought to make his own choices, and I don’t interfere with that.” The Duke took another swag, which was less of a swag and more of a sip.
“Not a heavy drinker?”
“No.”
“Not like my dad,” John Rey sighed a bit.
“My pop was like that. Know what I did to him?”
“What?”
“Put two between his eyes,” the Duke took another sip. It was vomit inducing.
“I’m sorry…”
“Don’t be. He deserved it.”
“And that’s why you’re doing what you’re doing?”
“Yes.”
“But don’t you ever wonder if you’re becoming like them by killing all those people? I mean, what gives you the right to judge who deserves to live and who deserves to die? Because from another point of view, you’re the one who deserves to get two between the eyes for killing people who also have friends, who also have families.”
The Duke contemplated this. Then he replied: “Listen. I’m just doing what I think is right, what I’m good at. The only thing I’m good at. The way I see it, there’s an abundance of bad people in many places all over the galaxy and there’s no one to stop them. Like Tombstone, which doesn’t even have any cops. Even when there are coppers, they can’t stop everything. Sometimes, lots of times, they’re even part of the problem.
“In my point of view, I’m just doing what needs to be done, what has to be done. I’m just doing what I think is right. For a bit of cash I whack a sumbitch who deserves it, and I go to great pains to make sure he deserves it. Now to someone else I might be a monster, and if he feels obliged to whack me, then so be it. Though he’s not going to have an easy time doing it…”
John Rey was silent, he considered what the Duke had just said.
“Now that’s just my point of view,” the Duke continued. “But I didn’t come here to talk about this deep stuff. I came to drink me some horrible beer and relax. I also didn’t come here to kill anyone, so don’t make me kill you, boy.”
John Rey smiled. If the book was anything to go by, this was the Duke’s first joke in years.
After two minutes of silence, both of them finally finished their beers – with John Rey finishing his first. Finally, the Duke commented: “First joke in years.”
Last edited by Shroom Man 777 on 2005-05-22 07:24pm, edited 1 time in total.
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!
-
Crazedwraith
- Emperor's Hand
- Posts: 11924
- Joined: 2003-04-10 03:45pm
- Location: Cheshire, England
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Shroom Man 777
- FUCKING DICK-STABBER!
- Posts: 21222
- Joined: 2003-05-11 08:39am
- Location: Bleeding breasts and stabbing dicks since 2003
- Contact:
I have Unlimited Power!
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!
-
Shroom Man 777
- FUCKING DICK-STABBER!
- Posts: 21222
- Joined: 2003-05-11 08:39am
- Location: Bleeding breasts and stabbing dicks since 2003
- Contact:
____________________________________
- February 5, 2567 -
- the Stygian Tartarus, somewhere in T3 space -
____________________________________
Surrounding Aurius was an infernal edifice of steel, an electrified cage adorned with vicious fishhooks and barbs - a sadistic construction designed to keep those unfortunate souls inside it from escaping; designed to inflict pain. Its blasphemous presence was there solely for the amusement of the degenerate spectators, those outside the cage’s vile confines who came to heckle and lavish at the sight of tormented men battling and breaking one another.
This was MetaBrawl.
In front of Aurius was a goliath; a deformed monster of a man, white-eyed and drooling, bleeding from numerous cuts on his huge glob-like chest. Guro. A metahuman - a seven-foot tall muscle bound mutant with four monstrous arms strong enough to break lesser men into two.
Aurius himself was less than half of Guro’s size. Standing at five foot eleven and weighing in at two hundred pounds of lean un-altered muscle and latent psionic energy. Whereas his rival combatant was a mountain of muscle and rage, he was calm, collected, and as fast as lightning.
Guro roared, spreading his arms in challenge. The crowd cheered. Aurius obliged and leapt in, bringing himself within two feet of Guro’s sweaty and bloody torso, too close for Guro to batter him with anything but his elbows.
Guro was slow and dumb; his deficient eyes could only track motion – like a frog - and if it was too fast, he couldn’t catch it.
Before the dull man-beast could comprehend what had just happened, Aurius let out a barrage of open-palm thrusts, pummeling Guro’s already wounded chest with a dozen rapid fire strikes. The blows, enhanced by the psionic energy that coursed through Aurius’ anatomy, hammered into the giant’s sternum and caused him to scream out in rage and pain. He feebly swung three of his tree trunk-sized arms but Aurius swiftly ducked out of the way, and as soon as Guro exposed himself again, Aurius immediately got up to deliver three crackling chops. They were so hard that they lacerated Guro’s thick leathery hide, carving bloody ‘trenches’ in it. The crowd applauded at the painful snapping noise, and at the droplets of sweat and blood that came spraying out of Guro’s chest.
They loved it. Every second of it. Aurius’ swift offensive, his brutally efficient moves, Guro’s pained wails, and the contorted expression of his face as his mind comprehended the few concepts it could – pain, rage.
This was why Aurius was in MetaBrawl. And this was why he would become the MetaChampion.
Continuing his offensive, Aurius spun on one leg and used the momentum to drive his other foot onto Guro’s chin. However, unlike the other blows, this one actually sent Guro reeling, causing him to spit out blood and broken teeth. He roared, opening his bloody maw and revealing his imperfect set of half-rotten teeth…fangs. Finishing his pirouette, Aurius again used his momentum to hammer Guro’s chest with both of his fists. Guro was sent staggering backwards - his blubbery torso reverberated at the impact - but now distance had been established and the angry giant countered by slamming his fist into Aurius’ solar plexus, driving it in with such a force that it threatened to punch a hole through Aurius’ relatively puny frame, sending him airborne.
With the air knocked out of him, and the taste of blood in his mouth, Aurius recovered by somersaulting and landing back on his feet. He was now out of range from Guro’s massive fists, but the damage had been done.
The crowd outside the satanic cage was now ecstatic. They didn’t really care who emerged victorious; they just wanted the gladiators to try their best in killing each other.
Aurius coughed out a disgusting mixture of phlegm and blood and wiped it with his hand. He would not be denied.
Running towards Guro with inhuman speed, Aurius feigned to the right, then to the left, then again to the right, and again to the left. With each feint, Guro attempted to crush Aurius’ skull with his ham-sized fists, and with each feint, Guro struck only air. Taking advantage of Guro’s lost balance, Aurius then launched himself to the air and sent the heel of his foot down to the crown of Guro’s malformed skull. Despite the euphoric effect of the psionic energy that coursed his body, Aurius could feel the impact though it was only logical that Guro took the brunt of the damage. Not giving Guro any time to recover, Aurius landed on his feet and launched a series of rapid-fire kicks aimed at Guro’s face. They all met their mark and Aurius decided to repeat the roundhouse kick he did before, but somehow, Guro managed to block the kick with one of his over-muscled limbs. Not waiting for the inevitable counterattack, Aurius allowed the leg he was standing on to buckle, causing him to drop the floor and dodge, albeit awkwardly, a thunderous right hook by Guro.
He could feel the fist, which was as large as his face, pass right over him as he fell, but he did not anticipate that Guro would follow up his right hook with a lower-right jab. Such were the complexities of fighting a four armed opponent. The jab glanced the side of Aurius head as he rolled out of the way with catlike agility, but despite just being a glancing blow, Aurius could already feel the bruise forming on the side of his head.
Rolling out of the way of Guro’s punches, Aurius tried to get himself up for a sidekick to the giant’s kidneys but soon found himself knocked backwards by a backhand strike. It wasn’t much of a blow, but with each of Guro’s attacks being strong enough to crack concrete walls, even the glances were enough to batter the fittest of men. If it weren’t for his being a latent psi-adept, Aurius’ entire body would’ve been black and blue by now. Guro was slow, Guro was dumb, but he wasn’t a contender for the MetaChampionship for nothing. He had broken and utterly destroyed his fare share of opponents, sometimes with just mere glancing blows.
With that in mind, Aurius got himself up and found himself right in front of the charging, four armed giant. At a loss of what to do, he simply dodged every one of Guro’s attacks, performing an intricate dance of sidesteps and ducks and feints and all other forms of complicated footwork. Struggling to keep up, Guro nearly tripped on himself as he tried to follow up with one of Aurius’ sidesteps. Sensing an opening, Aurius struck fast and hard with a roundhouse kick to the shoulder. Then he followed it up with a kick to the face and then using the momentum of both kicks to execute a third roundhouse across the chest. The psionic energy that coursed through Aurius’ physique imparted itself onto Guro’s torso, and much like the previous chops, caused a crackling hissing noise and a massive bloody gash.
Guro wailed, in genuine rage, and tried to annihilate Aurius with a haymaker. But Aurius ducked and brought himself right in front of him and executed another series of open-palmed blows. This time Aurius hammered him with nearly three dozen times in a span of just five seconds – filling the entire arena with the noise of impacts and causing the bloodthirsty crowd to go wild.
As the shock of the rapid-fire strikes nearly caused Guro to fall backwards, Aurius capitalized with a series of crackling chops, whiplashes that sliced through Guro’s epidermis and sent tiny chunks of bloody flesh flying everywhere.
The crowd screamed for more.
Aurius knew he was winning and delivered the coup de grace - a double open-palmed strike to Guro’s sternum. He could feel his telekinetic force impact against the hard bone – which was as tough as concrete – of Guro’s ribs. Even if the telekinetic slam did not defeat Guro’s inhuman anatomy, he would be sent flying backwards and would hopefully slam against the cage, where he would get snared by the sadistic fishhooks and barbs and be fried by the electricity that coursed through the sick mesh of barbed wire.
Then, without warning, a massive fist a foot in diameter landed itself on Aurius’ left ear at terminal velocity. The raw kinetic force the blow imparted went off like a bomb and Aurius could feel the shockwave reverberate through his cranial cavity – not only that, he could also see the explosion of sweat and blood the impact created. Then his vision became blurry while his hearing started to fail; sounds became unfocused and diluted, diffused. He knew he was blocking out, but he knew that he would recover from this and win – just like always. Then a second fist slammed into the right side of his head like a freight train. It was from a lower vector, and it met the side of his jaw, causing a sick and wet snapping sound typical of broken or dislocated bone to vibrate into his skull. He couldn’t hear it, but he could feel it. Likewise, he could feel the momentum and kinetic energy of the second strike go against the first, and he could feel his head snap to the opposite direction of where it was previously going. Vision failed him, as did his perception of sound. But somehow he could see the sweat and blood flying from the point of impact. He could also feel hard solid pebbly things come out of his mouth. They were his teeth.
Then a third blow came directly from below and Aurius could feel his lower jaw, its bone structure, give way to the unadulterated power imparted by the rock-hard fist. Blood exploded from Aurius mouth like a crimson fountain while a dozen teeth flew out to supplement the violent display. And as Aurius was suspended midair by the blow, temporarily defying gravity, he also felt inside his jaw the jagged edges of shattered bone going against bruised flesh - flesh that was bleeding internally. He could feel these jagged edges pierce through the flesh and penetrate his skin from the inside out; he could feel the enormous quantities of blood flow from his pulverized mouth.
Guro’s coup de grace was eerily similar to Aurius’ own attempt at knockdown. Two of his lower arms collided onto the center point of Aurius’ chest and Aurius could feel his ribs, already bruised by the previous batterings, surrender to the sledgehammers and cave in. They shattered, just like his mandible, and he could feel their broken tips punch into his lungs.
The momentum imparted by the dual-blows sent him sailing through the air and he was soon stopped abruptly. Then he felt a cold, painful sensation on his back. The cage. The barbs and the hooks had buried themselves into his back, through his meat and muscle, anchoring their serrated edges into his flesh. He had been crucified, with his arms spread out and his legs limp, his head dipping down and with a stream of blood and teeth and quite possibly also bone flowing out of his mouth. He couldn’t feel pain anymore; it was impossible. And yet he writhed as if he were in agony, but that was just because the cage was electrocuting what was left of him, and caused involuntary spasms and twitches.
The crowd gave a standing ovation; they had gotten way more than their money’s worth.
Then the announcer got a microphone and proclaimed: The winner, and the New Intergalactic MetaChampion….GURO!!!
- February 5, 2567 -
- the Stygian Tartarus, somewhere in T3 space -
____________________________________
Surrounding Aurius was an infernal edifice of steel, an electrified cage adorned with vicious fishhooks and barbs - a sadistic construction designed to keep those unfortunate souls inside it from escaping; designed to inflict pain. Its blasphemous presence was there solely for the amusement of the degenerate spectators, those outside the cage’s vile confines who came to heckle and lavish at the sight of tormented men battling and breaking one another.
This was MetaBrawl.
In front of Aurius was a goliath; a deformed monster of a man, white-eyed and drooling, bleeding from numerous cuts on his huge glob-like chest. Guro. A metahuman - a seven-foot tall muscle bound mutant with four monstrous arms strong enough to break lesser men into two.
Aurius himself was less than half of Guro’s size. Standing at five foot eleven and weighing in at two hundred pounds of lean un-altered muscle and latent psionic energy. Whereas his rival combatant was a mountain of muscle and rage, he was calm, collected, and as fast as lightning.
Guro roared, spreading his arms in challenge. The crowd cheered. Aurius obliged and leapt in, bringing himself within two feet of Guro’s sweaty and bloody torso, too close for Guro to batter him with anything but his elbows.
Guro was slow and dumb; his deficient eyes could only track motion – like a frog - and if it was too fast, he couldn’t catch it.
Before the dull man-beast could comprehend what had just happened, Aurius let out a barrage of open-palm thrusts, pummeling Guro’s already wounded chest with a dozen rapid fire strikes. The blows, enhanced by the psionic energy that coursed through Aurius’ anatomy, hammered into the giant’s sternum and caused him to scream out in rage and pain. He feebly swung three of his tree trunk-sized arms but Aurius swiftly ducked out of the way, and as soon as Guro exposed himself again, Aurius immediately got up to deliver three crackling chops. They were so hard that they lacerated Guro’s thick leathery hide, carving bloody ‘trenches’ in it. The crowd applauded at the painful snapping noise, and at the droplets of sweat and blood that came spraying out of Guro’s chest.
They loved it. Every second of it. Aurius’ swift offensive, his brutally efficient moves, Guro’s pained wails, and the contorted expression of his face as his mind comprehended the few concepts it could – pain, rage.
This was why Aurius was in MetaBrawl. And this was why he would become the MetaChampion.
Continuing his offensive, Aurius spun on one leg and used the momentum to drive his other foot onto Guro’s chin. However, unlike the other blows, this one actually sent Guro reeling, causing him to spit out blood and broken teeth. He roared, opening his bloody maw and revealing his imperfect set of half-rotten teeth…fangs. Finishing his pirouette, Aurius again used his momentum to hammer Guro’s chest with both of his fists. Guro was sent staggering backwards - his blubbery torso reverberated at the impact - but now distance had been established and the angry giant countered by slamming his fist into Aurius’ solar plexus, driving it in with such a force that it threatened to punch a hole through Aurius’ relatively puny frame, sending him airborne.
With the air knocked out of him, and the taste of blood in his mouth, Aurius recovered by somersaulting and landing back on his feet. He was now out of range from Guro’s massive fists, but the damage had been done.
The crowd outside the satanic cage was now ecstatic. They didn’t really care who emerged victorious; they just wanted the gladiators to try their best in killing each other.
Aurius coughed out a disgusting mixture of phlegm and blood and wiped it with his hand. He would not be denied.
Running towards Guro with inhuman speed, Aurius feigned to the right, then to the left, then again to the right, and again to the left. With each feint, Guro attempted to crush Aurius’ skull with his ham-sized fists, and with each feint, Guro struck only air. Taking advantage of Guro’s lost balance, Aurius then launched himself to the air and sent the heel of his foot down to the crown of Guro’s malformed skull. Despite the euphoric effect of the psionic energy that coursed his body, Aurius could feel the impact though it was only logical that Guro took the brunt of the damage. Not giving Guro any time to recover, Aurius landed on his feet and launched a series of rapid-fire kicks aimed at Guro’s face. They all met their mark and Aurius decided to repeat the roundhouse kick he did before, but somehow, Guro managed to block the kick with one of his over-muscled limbs. Not waiting for the inevitable counterattack, Aurius allowed the leg he was standing on to buckle, causing him to drop the floor and dodge, albeit awkwardly, a thunderous right hook by Guro.
He could feel the fist, which was as large as his face, pass right over him as he fell, but he did not anticipate that Guro would follow up his right hook with a lower-right jab. Such were the complexities of fighting a four armed opponent. The jab glanced the side of Aurius head as he rolled out of the way with catlike agility, but despite just being a glancing blow, Aurius could already feel the bruise forming on the side of his head.
Rolling out of the way of Guro’s punches, Aurius tried to get himself up for a sidekick to the giant’s kidneys but soon found himself knocked backwards by a backhand strike. It wasn’t much of a blow, but with each of Guro’s attacks being strong enough to crack concrete walls, even the glances were enough to batter the fittest of men. If it weren’t for his being a latent psi-adept, Aurius’ entire body would’ve been black and blue by now. Guro was slow, Guro was dumb, but he wasn’t a contender for the MetaChampionship for nothing. He had broken and utterly destroyed his fare share of opponents, sometimes with just mere glancing blows.
With that in mind, Aurius got himself up and found himself right in front of the charging, four armed giant. At a loss of what to do, he simply dodged every one of Guro’s attacks, performing an intricate dance of sidesteps and ducks and feints and all other forms of complicated footwork. Struggling to keep up, Guro nearly tripped on himself as he tried to follow up with one of Aurius’ sidesteps. Sensing an opening, Aurius struck fast and hard with a roundhouse kick to the shoulder. Then he followed it up with a kick to the face and then using the momentum of both kicks to execute a third roundhouse across the chest. The psionic energy that coursed through Aurius’ physique imparted itself onto Guro’s torso, and much like the previous chops, caused a crackling hissing noise and a massive bloody gash.
Guro wailed, in genuine rage, and tried to annihilate Aurius with a haymaker. But Aurius ducked and brought himself right in front of him and executed another series of open-palmed blows. This time Aurius hammered him with nearly three dozen times in a span of just five seconds – filling the entire arena with the noise of impacts and causing the bloodthirsty crowd to go wild.
As the shock of the rapid-fire strikes nearly caused Guro to fall backwards, Aurius capitalized with a series of crackling chops, whiplashes that sliced through Guro’s epidermis and sent tiny chunks of bloody flesh flying everywhere.
The crowd screamed for more.
Aurius knew he was winning and delivered the coup de grace - a double open-palmed strike to Guro’s sternum. He could feel his telekinetic force impact against the hard bone – which was as tough as concrete – of Guro’s ribs. Even if the telekinetic slam did not defeat Guro’s inhuman anatomy, he would be sent flying backwards and would hopefully slam against the cage, where he would get snared by the sadistic fishhooks and barbs and be fried by the electricity that coursed through the sick mesh of barbed wire.
Then, without warning, a massive fist a foot in diameter landed itself on Aurius’ left ear at terminal velocity. The raw kinetic force the blow imparted went off like a bomb and Aurius could feel the shockwave reverberate through his cranial cavity – not only that, he could also see the explosion of sweat and blood the impact created. Then his vision became blurry while his hearing started to fail; sounds became unfocused and diluted, diffused. He knew he was blocking out, but he knew that he would recover from this and win – just like always. Then a second fist slammed into the right side of his head like a freight train. It was from a lower vector, and it met the side of his jaw, causing a sick and wet snapping sound typical of broken or dislocated bone to vibrate into his skull. He couldn’t hear it, but he could feel it. Likewise, he could feel the momentum and kinetic energy of the second strike go against the first, and he could feel his head snap to the opposite direction of where it was previously going. Vision failed him, as did his perception of sound. But somehow he could see the sweat and blood flying from the point of impact. He could also feel hard solid pebbly things come out of his mouth. They were his teeth.
Then a third blow came directly from below and Aurius could feel his lower jaw, its bone structure, give way to the unadulterated power imparted by the rock-hard fist. Blood exploded from Aurius mouth like a crimson fountain while a dozen teeth flew out to supplement the violent display. And as Aurius was suspended midair by the blow, temporarily defying gravity, he also felt inside his jaw the jagged edges of shattered bone going against bruised flesh - flesh that was bleeding internally. He could feel these jagged edges pierce through the flesh and penetrate his skin from the inside out; he could feel the enormous quantities of blood flow from his pulverized mouth.
Guro’s coup de grace was eerily similar to Aurius’ own attempt at knockdown. Two of his lower arms collided onto the center point of Aurius’ chest and Aurius could feel his ribs, already bruised by the previous batterings, surrender to the sledgehammers and cave in. They shattered, just like his mandible, and he could feel their broken tips punch into his lungs.
The momentum imparted by the dual-blows sent him sailing through the air and he was soon stopped abruptly. Then he felt a cold, painful sensation on his back. The cage. The barbs and the hooks had buried themselves into his back, through his meat and muscle, anchoring their serrated edges into his flesh. He had been crucified, with his arms spread out and his legs limp, his head dipping down and with a stream of blood and teeth and quite possibly also bone flowing out of his mouth. He couldn’t feel pain anymore; it was impossible. And yet he writhed as if he were in agony, but that was just because the cage was electrocuting what was left of him, and caused involuntary spasms and twitches.
The crowd gave a standing ovation; they had gotten way more than their money’s worth.
Then the announcer got a microphone and proclaimed: The winner, and the New Intergalactic MetaChampion….GURO!!!
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!
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JointStrikeFighter
- Worthless Trolling Palm-Fucker
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Shroom Man 777
- FUCKING DICK-STABBER!
- Posts: 21222
- Joined: 2003-05-11 08:39am
- Location: Bleeding breasts and stabbing dicks since 2003
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*bows*
Ah yeah. I recieved some flak because of the "tragic dark knight" angle I was giving the Duke, so I made a revised edition...a Special Revised Collector's Ultimate Platinum Edition Triology Box Set DVDs...complete with autographs.
I just sliced off a bit of the "boohoo, woe is me" dialogue.
____________________________________
- May 21, 2567 -
- Hell Creek City, Coalition frontier world Tombstone -
____________________________________
John Rey just realized who the man at the table in front of him was. Immediately, he sat himself in front of the big, dangerous looking guy.
“You’re Aurigan Bob, right?” John Rey was all jittery and excited.
“Yeah, what about it?” the Duke of Death asked, more interested in his drink than the scrawny fifteen year old who just placed himself in front of him.
Wow, it’s the Duke of Death himself! “Uh… I’m a big fan of yours, even read your book”
The Duke, Bob, grunted in acknowledgement. He was midway through his mug of Tarsonian Ale – cheap, watered down shit distilled into fermented piss.
“So…who did you just kill?” the kid was obviously not discouraged by the Duke’s apparent disinterest, in fact, he was probably ecstatic. “And what’d you use? Grenades? A tac nuke? Your book said you always used ‘em.”
The Duke sipped some more of his fine liquor/urine.
“You’re not going to tell me, huh?” John Rey was disheartened.
The Duke placed down his mug. Only half of the septic fluid was left. “Sorry kid. Bounty hunter non-disclosure clause.”
“But what about your book? Your autobiography?”
“Half of it I just made up,” the Duke said, his cold eyes and impassive face carrying a bit of amusement.
“And the other half?” John Rey looked quite confused, and a bit amused himself.
“Dunno, my publisher did the other half.”
“Heh,” the barkeep placed a mug full of Tarsonian Ale beside John Rey. JR decided he would dare injesting the…drink. He grimaced and almost slammed the mug on the table. He coughed. “You killed my dad, you know?”
“I’m sorry,” the Duke replied, casually and without missing a beat.
“Nah, it’s okay. He was a dick, beat up my mom and my sister, forced me to work so he could get himself more booze.”
The Duke considered this for a while and repeated what he had said. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For not giving you a chance to resolve your own issues.”
“Is that what you do?” to John Rey, that seemed to contradict what the Duke did for a living.
“I just help facilitate that, help solve the problem. But ultimately a man ought to make his own choices, and I don’t interfere with that.” The Duke took another swag, which was less of a swag and more of a sip.
“And that’s why you’re doing what you’re doing?”
“Yes.”
“But don’t you ever wonder if you’re becoming like them by killing all those people? I mean, what gives you the right to judge who deserves to live and who deserves to die? Because from another point of view, you’re the one who deserves to get two between the eyes for killing people who also have friends, who also have families.”
The Duke contemplated this. Then he replied: “Listen. I’m just doing what I’m good at. The only thing I’m good at. The way I see it, there’s an abundance of bad people and there’s no one to balance that. Like Tombstone, which doesn’t even have any cops. And when there are coppers, they can’t stop everything. Lots of times they’re part of the problem.”
He paused to take another drink. It was vomit inducing. “In my point of view, I’m just doing what needs to be done, what has to be done. I’m just balancing the food chain. For a bit of cash I whack a sumbitch who deserves it. Now to someone else I might be a monster, and if he feels obliged to whack me, then so be it. Though he’s not going to have an easy time doing it…”
John Rey was silent, he considered what the Duke had just said. To him, it didn’t really make any sense, but considering that the Duke was a mass murdering psychopath who obviously enjoyed his job, it didn’t really matter.
“Now that’s just my point of view,” the Duke continued. “But I didn’t come here to talk about this deep stuff. I came to drink me some horrible beer and relax. I also didn’t come here to kill anyone, so don’t make me kill you, boy.”
John Rey smiled. If the book was anything to go by, this was the Duke’s first joke in years.
After two minutes of silence, both of them finally finished their beers – with John Rey finishing his first. Finally, the Duke commented: “First joke in years.”
Ah yeah. I recieved some flak because of the "tragic dark knight" angle I was giving the Duke, so I made a revised edition...a Special Revised Collector's Ultimate Platinum Edition Triology Box Set DVDs...complete with autographs.
I just sliced off a bit of the "boohoo, woe is me" dialogue.
____________________________________
- May 21, 2567 -
- Hell Creek City, Coalition frontier world Tombstone -
____________________________________
John Rey just realized who the man at the table in front of him was. Immediately, he sat himself in front of the big, dangerous looking guy.
“You’re Aurigan Bob, right?” John Rey was all jittery and excited.
“Yeah, what about it?” the Duke of Death asked, more interested in his drink than the scrawny fifteen year old who just placed himself in front of him.
Wow, it’s the Duke of Death himself! “Uh… I’m a big fan of yours, even read your book”
The Duke, Bob, grunted in acknowledgement. He was midway through his mug of Tarsonian Ale – cheap, watered down shit distilled into fermented piss.
“So…who did you just kill?” the kid was obviously not discouraged by the Duke’s apparent disinterest, in fact, he was probably ecstatic. “And what’d you use? Grenades? A tac nuke? Your book said you always used ‘em.”
The Duke sipped some more of his fine liquor/urine.
“You’re not going to tell me, huh?” John Rey was disheartened.
The Duke placed down his mug. Only half of the septic fluid was left. “Sorry kid. Bounty hunter non-disclosure clause.”
“But what about your book? Your autobiography?”
“Half of it I just made up,” the Duke said, his cold eyes and impassive face carrying a bit of amusement.
“And the other half?” John Rey looked quite confused, and a bit amused himself.
“Dunno, my publisher did the other half.”
“Heh,” the barkeep placed a mug full of Tarsonian Ale beside John Rey. JR decided he would dare injesting the…drink. He grimaced and almost slammed the mug on the table. He coughed. “You killed my dad, you know?”
“I’m sorry,” the Duke replied, casually and without missing a beat.
“Nah, it’s okay. He was a dick, beat up my mom and my sister, forced me to work so he could get himself more booze.”
The Duke considered this for a while and repeated what he had said. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For not giving you a chance to resolve your own issues.”
“Is that what you do?” to John Rey, that seemed to contradict what the Duke did for a living.
“I just help facilitate that, help solve the problem. But ultimately a man ought to make his own choices, and I don’t interfere with that.” The Duke took another swag, which was less of a swag and more of a sip.
“And that’s why you’re doing what you’re doing?”
“Yes.”
“But don’t you ever wonder if you’re becoming like them by killing all those people? I mean, what gives you the right to judge who deserves to live and who deserves to die? Because from another point of view, you’re the one who deserves to get two between the eyes for killing people who also have friends, who also have families.”
The Duke contemplated this. Then he replied: “Listen. I’m just doing what I’m good at. The only thing I’m good at. The way I see it, there’s an abundance of bad people and there’s no one to balance that. Like Tombstone, which doesn’t even have any cops. And when there are coppers, they can’t stop everything. Lots of times they’re part of the problem.”
He paused to take another drink. It was vomit inducing. “In my point of view, I’m just doing what needs to be done, what has to be done. I’m just balancing the food chain. For a bit of cash I whack a sumbitch who deserves it. Now to someone else I might be a monster, and if he feels obliged to whack me, then so be it. Though he’s not going to have an easy time doing it…”
John Rey was silent, he considered what the Duke had just said. To him, it didn’t really make any sense, but considering that the Duke was a mass murdering psychopath who obviously enjoyed his job, it didn’t really matter.
“Now that’s just my point of view,” the Duke continued. “But I didn’t come here to talk about this deep stuff. I came to drink me some horrible beer and relax. I also didn’t come here to kill anyone, so don’t make me kill you, boy.”
John Rey smiled. If the book was anything to go by, this was the Duke’s first joke in years.
After two minutes of silence, both of them finally finished their beers – with John Rey finishing his first. Finally, the Duke commented: “First joke in years.”
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!
-
Shroom Man 777
- FUCKING DICK-STABBER!
- Posts: 21222
- Joined: 2003-05-11 08:39am
- Location: Bleeding breasts and stabbing dicks since 2003
- Contact:
____________________________________
- April 10, 2555 -
- Purgatorium Primus, the Terran Periphery -
____________________________________
At the furthest reaches of space, inside a desolate rock orbiting a burnt up husk of a sun, deep within the colony’s labyrinth of steel and concrete corridors, Maynard McGinnis walked through a long hallway, shackled and with two men accompanying him.
“Are you sure, Maynard?” asked the squat man to his right, clad in a pair of black pants and a black shirt with a white collar. He was Pastor Francis, Ted Francis. A good man, concerned with the spiritual redemption of the inhabitants of the Purgatorium Penal Colony, particularly those in death row. “You don’t want to accept Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior?”
“Nah,” Maynard replied, unperturbed with his transit from this life to the next. “Could use some more of that asparagus, though.”
“Hmm…” Pastor Francis frowned, deeply disturbed with the man’s obvious disdain for the Lord and of the afterlife.
“Here we are, McGinnis.” Sully, the big black guard, said solemnly. They were in front of the room that held the chamber.
“Ah…too bad it had to end this way,” Maynard’s voice didn’t have any hint of distress, only that of calm resignation. He’d killed nearly ten dozen men and women all over the cosmos, all of them important ones. Traveled the galaxy, earned lots of cash, made love to lots of women, ate good food, killed bad people. It was a good life. Dying painlessly by gas, in the prime of your life, was so much better than stagnating and decomposing as a two hundred year old decrepit cyborg in some retirement home in New Maine, linked to some VR simulation.
“Is everybody here?” yes, it was too bad that it had to end this way. Whereas Ted and Sully were rather nice folks, especially in the weeks prior to his execution, the warden was a real prick – was also real happy that Maynard was going to get gassed. The chamber had been gathering dust…
Slag it, Maynard thought. “Yeah. We’re all here. Glad you made it.”
Right.
“Thanks,” Willis something-something was the warden’s name. Maynard didn’t really care to learn his surname, didn’t really matter, specially when the guy was about as smart as a shot-up cactus from Tombstone. “What’re we all waiting for? Let’s get moving! It’s almost midnight!”
While the previous warden had resigned because of clinical depression, wrought about by seeing nearly ten dozen convicts gassed, Willis was actually ecstatic with his first execution. Probably even had a black mask inside his pocket. Maynard smiled, he knew that the gas the chambers used would kill painlessly and instantly, but afterwards they did some pretty ghoulish stuff to the body, spasms, twitches, all sorts of involuntary stuff that’d make overeager SOBs – like Willis – puke their guts out. That’s why it was standard procedure to restrain the soon-to-be deadmen, but the current penal colony administrator didn’t know that, and that was a good thing, actually. “Right.”
Sully opened the door and they stepped in. He had been silent for the entire day. Ted, on the other hand, looked like he was going to hurl. Old man probably saw too much. Poor guy.
“What the-?” sure, Willis was a moron, but the look on his face was stupider than usual, like a lobotomized mongoloid trying to do his best ‘deer caught in the headlights’ impersonation. Maynard almost laughed out loud.
Inside the chamber’s ‘reception room’ was a skinny man, clad in an expensive looking suite. Coat, tie, shades (Who wore glasses indoors, anyway?), a government-issue Rolex, gelled hair, clean-shaven. A government man, no doubt. CEID. Or maybe someone from the League’s NID. Oh crap.
“What are you doing here? Who are you?” Willis finally blurted out after stuttering for a couple of seconds. What a moron. Then the skinny man calmly, unemotionally, produced a letter and handed it to the warden. The warden glanced at it and he gaped – whatever was in that letter was probably very short, as Willis wasn’t exactly the bookish type. “Release Maynard.”
“What?” Sully had a ‘what the fuck’ look on his face, but he didn’t look quite as dumb as Willis did when they found the G-man. Still, he couldn’t believe it. Ted looked less confused and more pleasantly surprised though.
“Let him go, now!”
- April 10, 2555 -
- Purgatorium Primus, the Terran Periphery -
____________________________________
At the furthest reaches of space, inside a desolate rock orbiting a burnt up husk of a sun, deep within the colony’s labyrinth of steel and concrete corridors, Maynard McGinnis walked through a long hallway, shackled and with two men accompanying him.
“Are you sure, Maynard?” asked the squat man to his right, clad in a pair of black pants and a black shirt with a white collar. He was Pastor Francis, Ted Francis. A good man, concerned with the spiritual redemption of the inhabitants of the Purgatorium Penal Colony, particularly those in death row. “You don’t want to accept Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior?”
“Nah,” Maynard replied, unperturbed with his transit from this life to the next. “Could use some more of that asparagus, though.”
“Hmm…” Pastor Francis frowned, deeply disturbed with the man’s obvious disdain for the Lord and of the afterlife.
“Here we are, McGinnis.” Sully, the big black guard, said solemnly. They were in front of the room that held the chamber.
“Ah…too bad it had to end this way,” Maynard’s voice didn’t have any hint of distress, only that of calm resignation. He’d killed nearly ten dozen men and women all over the cosmos, all of them important ones. Traveled the galaxy, earned lots of cash, made love to lots of women, ate good food, killed bad people. It was a good life. Dying painlessly by gas, in the prime of your life, was so much better than stagnating and decomposing as a two hundred year old decrepit cyborg in some retirement home in New Maine, linked to some VR simulation.
“Is everybody here?” yes, it was too bad that it had to end this way. Whereas Ted and Sully were rather nice folks, especially in the weeks prior to his execution, the warden was a real prick – was also real happy that Maynard was going to get gassed. The chamber had been gathering dust…
Slag it, Maynard thought. “Yeah. We’re all here. Glad you made it.”
Right.
“Thanks,” Willis something-something was the warden’s name. Maynard didn’t really care to learn his surname, didn’t really matter, specially when the guy was about as smart as a shot-up cactus from Tombstone. “What’re we all waiting for? Let’s get moving! It’s almost midnight!”
While the previous warden had resigned because of clinical depression, wrought about by seeing nearly ten dozen convicts gassed, Willis was actually ecstatic with his first execution. Probably even had a black mask inside his pocket. Maynard smiled, he knew that the gas the chambers used would kill painlessly and instantly, but afterwards they did some pretty ghoulish stuff to the body, spasms, twitches, all sorts of involuntary stuff that’d make overeager SOBs – like Willis – puke their guts out. That’s why it was standard procedure to restrain the soon-to-be deadmen, but the current penal colony administrator didn’t know that, and that was a good thing, actually. “Right.”
Sully opened the door and they stepped in. He had been silent for the entire day. Ted, on the other hand, looked like he was going to hurl. Old man probably saw too much. Poor guy.
“What the-?” sure, Willis was a moron, but the look on his face was stupider than usual, like a lobotomized mongoloid trying to do his best ‘deer caught in the headlights’ impersonation. Maynard almost laughed out loud.
Inside the chamber’s ‘reception room’ was a skinny man, clad in an expensive looking suite. Coat, tie, shades (Who wore glasses indoors, anyway?), a government-issue Rolex, gelled hair, clean-shaven. A government man, no doubt. CEID. Or maybe someone from the League’s NID. Oh crap.
“What are you doing here? Who are you?” Willis finally blurted out after stuttering for a couple of seconds. What a moron. Then the skinny man calmly, unemotionally, produced a letter and handed it to the warden. The warden glanced at it and he gaped – whatever was in that letter was probably very short, as Willis wasn’t exactly the bookish type. “Release Maynard.”
“What?” Sully had a ‘what the fuck’ look on his face, but he didn’t look quite as dumb as Willis did when they found the G-man. Still, he couldn’t believe it. Ted looked less confused and more pleasantly surprised though.
“Let him go, now!”
Last edited by Shroom Man 777 on 2005-06-01 12:30pm, edited 1 time in total.
"DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people
- PeZookShroom, I read out the stuff you write about us. You are an endless supply of morale down here. :p - an OWS street medic
Pink Sugar Heart Attack!