He had to find the man in red. Through him, he could find his venerial counter-part, who I have so longed to reach. Damn, I want Green Testicles. If the Man in Red had a base of operations, it would have three proporties inheirently: 1) it would be square, 2) it would be red and 3) it would be spattered in the blood of Spatula Man. BWA HA HA HA! A moment of silence for the flat guy...
Strange... The wind is different here... smells like... Olives?
Suddenly he realized his mistake. He turned to the smell. It was Gil Bates. He raised his eyebrow, and glanced at his watch. Nope; it wasn't quite time for Gil to die again, so instead he began a ruthless interogation. "Talk, ya pansy arse mother!" he screamed at Mr. Bates with a scottish accent. "Where be the Man in Red!?" Bates replied "A-a-at t-the C-c-coco Cabana Cafe." in a stuttering nasal voice. He immediately pulled out his whallop stick and killed Gil. Who cared about the damn time anyway?
Billy the talking olive due to some chemical reaction in the air of chicago an ordinary person was turned into a free thinking olive . After a small talk bebble found from billy that the man in red was turning helpless people into olives in a grand scheme to turn chicago into a giant hors d'oeuvre dish.
Immediately our main character (whoever he may be) sprang into action by, as fate would have it, spring into action. Literally. To be more specific, he robbed a pet store, and was about to make a get away, when this puppy caught his eye. He just had to get it, but before he could police sirens came around the corners with the cars and policemen right behind. Our thief did the only thing he could think of.
He jumped into a cage, and started barking like wild. Which would be a smart thing in a story like this, except that the cage he was in was an iguana cage. It looked like our hero was doomed.
But the sirens and cars with the men in them kept going past the store! Our hero peeked out to see where they were going, and saw them beating on some background character for jaywalking (On the door of one of the cars, it said "We treat you like a king" he wondered what that meant). So, since he got a lucky break, he turned to finish robbing the store, but was once again entrapped by that puppy. It was just so cute that he cuddled up with it and went to sleep. Before the week was out, he and the puppy had been purchased by Paco, a now famous producer of the hit TV show with Kareem abdul jabaar and a burrito fighting crime toghether. Paco, who in this chapter was evil, kept the puppy, and gave our man to the Man in Red. Sadly, as a quirk of fate, our nameless dog-man ate Billy the talking olive on his way to Paco's house.
Meanwhile, in a completely unrelated, but thoroughly cheerful fact, is that my sex life has tripled with the help of "SEXMAKER 6, for men", that new kit, which helps men become sexier. It gives great advice, such as "Be yourself", "Know your date", and "Always wear clean underwear because if you're suddenly run over by a car and die, you'd hate to have people know you weren't wearing clean underwear." Now available int- *click*
"Ba!" shouted the obese, slobbering Man in Red. "It es a not er 'tupid comercial!. He always shouted. It didn't help that he was uglier then you, sloppier then anything (not including you), and seemed to have either a speech impediment or something, like a baby whale, or your mom, or several dozen jars of olives or something shoved down his throat. But most likely, it was all three. He was always watching TV, waiting till the news started reporting about HIM, since HE was the one planing to turn everyone into olives.
Okay, somebody hasn't been following. Paco and the Burrito ARE Los Testiculos Verdes, you idiot! They're the ENEMIES!! They are especially the enimies of THE MAN IN RED!!! Your face looks like the face of a SCRAWNY OLD WOMAN!!! I need a time out.
But as it was, the main charachter (Beeble, who disemboweled and devouered that damn puppy) was taken into the custody of one Man in Red. He was given to him by an iguana, Chuckie. Chuckie the Iguana. Chuckie did a little dance. Chuckie took it the extreme streets of Broadway! He went on tour with "Bring in da Noise, Bring in da Funk," developed a nicotine habit, and began a bitter and vomit-filled descent into poverty. In the end, he is insignifigant. He is nothing. A bug, as it were, beneath my heel.
Beeble sat now, face to face with the Fat, slovenly Man in Red. "Why'd you bring me here, fat man?" said Beeble. Dusty was good for one-liners and one night stands. "I'm bleeding," said the fat man. "Are you ma'am?" "What? Sure." "That's some good nylon. I suppose you are the Man in Red?" "And I suppose you are a dumb shmuck. What da mothafuck."
The Man In Red grinned, a fat, slovenly grin. He drooled some. Beeble drooled too, but in a very noir detective way. His world was high contrast black-and-white pulp comics. "Have you ever been to the Utah river? Once I saw an abandoned gardenia plantation. It was as if Heaven had fallen to Earth in the form of gardenias. Do you know what I could do to you? You wouldn't DREAM of what I could do to you." "I dream big."
Meanwhile, Harold the Parasite (this is not mr. microscope, this is Harold the SOCIAL Parasite, brother of Jonas the Parasite.) At the gates to Chicago, he paced back and forth. However, H the SP was not any normal social parasite: he was an
Beeble unzipped his fly. He realized he wasn't wearing any pants. He got very worried. "Do you have a tourniquet? Maybe a napkin? I've just got a little mess here to clean up," Beeble said in short quick breaths. He tried to ignore the pain. A screechy old woman selling flowers leapt out: "I'm bleeding?" Beeble corrected: "No, I'm bleeding. I need a napkin... tourniquet? Just throwing out ideas here... shut up, go drink your Windex!" With that, he violated her. ALOT! "Now you're bleeding bitch! What do you think now?! When I'm done, you're ass is gonna need a drawstring! I'm gonna pop you like an egg in a microwave!" "thankyou," said the old lady. The Man in Red was confused.
He yelled in. "HEY!!!" A member of the elite Chicagan Guard outfit crushed his dreams: "What do you want, you God freak?" "I'm nat a gad freak!" said Harold, immediately adapting the Chicago accent and patois. "I'm a, uh, one of those guys with the plague, like in the Omega Man." "OK, fine, come in," begrudged the guard.
When he got in, he laid low fo a while. Maybe someone can bring him back when they need a mystery for Beeble or Donny or Horshack or Epstein or Scooby or Shaggy to solve.
"Get outta there, Cologne! We know what ya doin' in there, and you gonna get nailed! Give yourself up while ya still can!!!" So cried a man who was pointing a .357 Magnum at his own heart. "If you don't come out, I swear, Cologne, I'll fuckin' kill myself!!!" "Good, den maybe you'll get off my goddamn case, ya lousy coppa!" "Alright, dat's it."
The Man in Red pulled Beeble off of the old woman and sat him down. "Beeble, I brought you here for a reason. It is my understanding that you have been looking for Los Testiculos Verdes, and that you seek to take away the Thimble of Doom. It makes me giggle. But I've had better giggles. None the less, my compliments, this is a wonderful scheme. Now let me tell you mine." He burped and bleched in his slovenly stupor. "I plan to turn this town into a salad bar! A great dish of hors' de ouvres! And you can be a part of that... a big vegitable. Maybe a cauliflower. Anything you wish! All the Parsnipples you'll need!" "Man I got the parsnipples. I'm rolling in parsnipples." Beebel mocked him with his voice. "Or you could be a milkshake... you've always wanted that haven't you?" Beeble Thought 'gee, I've always wanted to be a milkshake.'
The gunshot echoed loudly inside the old warehouse, where the stench of stale liquor hung heavily in the air, like a helicopter out of gas. This place was the main manufacturing plant of Pal Cologne, another of Chicago's mad gangstas. He'd been hunted for years for suspected charges of illegal alcohol production. But there was no proof, and all the cops who'd been sent against him had either been bribed or had shot themselves. Some were trying to nail him for tax fraud, but these charges couldn't be confirmed, as Cologne never DID his taxes.
Donny sat in the plush, leathery office, having listened to the previous exchange and the last half hour's proposition with interest and incredulity. "So, what you're saying is that if I work for you, I can be Vice President, and get 20 percent of your profits. Nice. Why, though?" "Because," said Pal, "I like the cut of your jib." "I like it," said Donnie, "but WHAT THE SAM HELL IS A JIB? HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I HEARD PEOPLE SAY THIS WITHOUT EXPLANATION? RRGH!!"
"That's exactly the jib I'm referring to, which is to say jibe. You and I jibe, and we got a vibe." Donny reflected on the duality of the English language, where Gangsta and Gangster mean such different things, but Pal had just interchanged them personality-wise. "I'll join on one condition: I get a really cool '20's car." "SOLD!" said Pal. "I'm supposed to say that," said Donny. "There's another thing," said Pal, "you're a lot smarter than me."
"I appreciate the offer, but a good knuckle sandwich beats a pig in a blanket any day." This made The Man in Red very angrey. "Take him...To the pit!!" With this, a small army of endtables and loveseats leapt up and dragged Beeble to a large cicular platform, which really didn't resemble a pit at all, and threw him on top. It was twenty feet high. It made Beeble throw up like a fire-hose. Spikes portuded from it's surface, and from each of four hydrolic columns. The columns were connected by hinged rods. An albatros chirped from a nest in one of the corners. Underneath, there was a basin full of ravenous sheep. The snapped angrily. Beeble stood up as the platform started swaying. Blades and llamas spun violently around the sides. He was dazed, volitile, and in no condition for a 700 pound, ten foot tall dinky toy. Fortunately, he got Barry the Sloppy Sloth instead.
Beeble apologized for not checking before placing his paragraph three paragraphs after the last one.
Beeble, atop the swaying platform, watched as his big, hairy nemesis drew closer. He became angry with the three unrelated paragraphs, but what could he do? He didn't not like the paragraphs, but they got in his way. He decided to cool off, and fight the sloth when Gage came back later tonight. The other gangsta could now carry on uninterupted
The sloth sat in his cage, warming himself up for the big prize fight with Beeble. His trainer stood behind him, mechanically massaging his shoulders. Much to the sloth's displeasure, his trainer had decided to put the soundtrack for "Rocky" on the eight-track player in the training room. "Turn that off!" the sloth grunted. "I can't stand that fruit Stallone." The trainer gave him a blank look and switched the album to "The Bee-Gee's Smash Hits To Hum". The sloth sat back, satisfied, and started to hum.
Meanwhile, Beeble heard the album playing down below in the cage. He too sat back and started to hum.
The cage, a dull rusty iron, was rolled right up to the base of the platform. The Bee-Gees were loud... like a death knell. Beeble tied leather straps around his hands and feet. Despite this, he still occasionally nicked himself on the rusty metal. His trench coat flared in the wind generated by the movement of the platform. Searching his pockets, he found a sincere lack of gun. Peering over the edge, the sloth could now be clearly seen scaling the side.
The trainer, still in the cage, watched. He knew his job, and he knew his sloth. Almost instinctively, he popped in a new album: Abba Gold. As the Abba swelled, and the sloth drooled higher and higher, the trainer could smell a climactic moment begin to drift in.
Beeble looked out across the arena. 'Fatmans got a nice house,' he thought. He looked at the audience, chanting for sloth. He looked at the Man in Red, flatulent as ever. He looked at the walls, bleeding like crazy. That was abnormal. He threw his head back, and felt blood trickle down his neck from where he was biting his lip. 'to hunt, to kill... this is what I was born for. He Tore off his trenchcoat. As the sloth reached the top, he knew something that made him cringe... This wasn't just Beeble the Kumquat anymore... this was a ballerina.
The Man in Red's flatulence was peaking today. Having emitted a long series of low SBDs, he knew that he was building up to the mother of all farts. He sighed, let a faint grin creep across his ugly features, and let go. The fart was like a howitzer blast. It shook the whole arena. The revolving stage Beeble and the sloth stood on swayed as the fart reverberated off the metal pipes on the ceiling. The 8 track player skipped momentarily.
Beeble the Ballerina (formerly Kumquat) and the sloth paused as they heard the blast. They both glared at the Man in Red, saying to themselves "How dare you interrupt our death match!". Slowly they turned back to each other. But Beeble the Ballerina knew somthing about the sloth: the sloth's sensitive sense of smell. He grinned at the sloth and winked. The emotion drained from the sloth's face as the smell overpowered him. He toppled backwards off of the revolving stage.
But understand, if you may, that our hero, Donny Jones, has been made the top hitman of Pal Cologne, cool 20's car and all.
There's only one catch: they've been ordered to destroy Los Testiculos Verdes.
And The Man in Red. Under normal circumstances, none of this would be terribly hard, Donny and Alice would have only to barge right in and blow their brains out with their highly technologically advanced Tommy Guns. But they can't, they are reduced to using wimpy old...
Tommy Guns.
But they can't begin their great adventure quite yet, because they have a far more pressing matter at hand: Harold The Social Parasite.
As far as they knew, though, it was simply a loose cannon minister, out for revenge. Donny had already killed the idiot Chicagan guard who had let him enter. The man's name was Brent Hardcheese. He'd had a wife and six hundred and seventy-two children, each of them named for current and former members of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. There were enough names to cover them all. In any case, all of this had made it much more fun for them to kill him and feed his carcass to the many ravens circling above.
The first raven whose mane was Grock, turned to his neighbor to comment on the evening's meal, Hardcheese du jour. "Mmm...tastes like chicken!" Grock remarked casually. "Shut yer beak!" his neighbor snapped.
Donny woke up in his shoddy hotel room. He looked at his clock: 4:27 a.m. He climbed out of bed and started to get dressed. "It's not the right day of the week to shower," he muttered. "Only on thursdays." After he had put on his shoes (aligator slippers today) he picked up his gun and walked out the door.
Donny stuffed the gun in his left pants pocket as he stepped into the elevator. Anyone who happened to get on the elevator at this time would see Danny dressed in a sharp two-piece designer suit, a black tie, sunglasses, an obvious bulge in his pants pocket, and aligator slippers. Dressed to kill.
The writer would like to apologize for calling the hero "Danny" instead of "Donny" in the previous paragraph. With apologies from Armageddeon T. Thunderbird, writer, actor, and poet laureate of Albania.
He walked out of the elevator. Through the lobby, past the flatulent fat man at the desk. "Flatulent fat man," Donny said to himself, and something about it bothered him. He couldn't tell what it was about that fatulent flat man--no, no, that matulent fat flan--damn. He shrugged and walked out into the street. He stood outside the doors for a moment, and inhaled a long whiff of the city air. "Exhaust", he thought, and coughed. Suddenly, a ghostly figure appeared in front of him. It was Jim Morrison. "Jim Morrison!", exclaimed our hero, "I love you! Don't look at me like that, I don't mean it that way... Wow! I thought you were dead!" "I am", the spirit said. "Haven't you read any of this story yet?" "No", replied Donny, "it cramps my style to read what has happened. I kind of like to just drift where the tides of the author's creativity take me. Ebb and flow, ebb and flow, ya know what I'm gettin' at? Ebb and fl-" "No, quite frankly I don't understand a word of what your saying", said the ghost. "However, I am only a ghost, and I've come to show you you're destiny." "You spelled 'your' wrong, Jim. When you are talking about a possesive, it doesn't have an apostrophe or an 'e'." "Thanks", said the ghost. "I'll remember that next time. Now come, time is short. TO INFINITY, AND BEYOND!"
Beeble slowly climbed down off of the platform and onto the sloth. Sitting on his felled enemy, he slowly unlaced his slippers. He pulled his trenchcoat back on and lit a cigar. Slowly, he stood up and extended his hairy primate arm towards the revolting pile of matted sloth fur. A swift twist-snap-ping, and the head of the beast was in his hand. It felt good. The slow trickle of blood down his throat made him ooze with all sorts of happy fluids. It was kinda sticky. He looked around the room with a loud snort, and walked over to the Man in Red, obese, sweating, and puss-filled as ever. He remembered the day... yes, he remembered the day! An era gone by of space mutants and gangsters; and now pansy fat men in tinkerbell costumes. Beeble took of his Tutu and wrapped it around the bulbous man's jiggling neck. An endtable tried to stop him, then a loveseat, but Beeble turned them away like so many pieces of... furnature.
Beeble smelled the sweet fear evaporating of the Man in Red like it was coming out of an exauhst pipe. But slobbering crys soon turned to laughter. Beeble picked up his .45 magnum and wondered what this red man found so amusing. Was it the gun barrel he was looking down? Was it the heaving angrey monkey that had him in a death stare? Or was it the 300 POUND ZORKELSNATT LURCHING UP BEHIND THEM?!? It was the zorklesnatt.
The Zorklesnatt, having a particularly weasely grin on, picked up Beeble and tossed him aside like a flea. The Man in Red soon became just Red, as the Zorklesnatt tore him limb from limb with his lefternmost gyrating appendage. People would be washing Man in Red out of there clothes for months. Little specks of him dripped down the walls. Beeble fire off a few rounds, but it did no good. His only hope now was... Topo the sissy boy.
Topo the sissy boy sprinted out of the bathroom as he heard the Man in Red being torn to pieces. he grumbled a little at not being able to finish the cover article of this month's "Vanity Fair", but pulled up his tights and tutu and srinted out the door.
Topo the chipmunk hunter burst out of the foyer like an atomic bomb. While his face said "radiation poisoning," his fists said "nuclear halocaust." He landed on the Zorkelsnatt with two-hundred pounds of fury, and he didn't let up until the mighty Zorkelsnatt lay helpless and wounded like a lame horse on an inspection table. That is not to say that the Zorklesnatt did not put up a fight; Topo tolerated many a lung-like node to the face, and quite a few whirling nostril-thingies to his lower extremities. But Topo hit a homerun when his throbbing manhood landed blisteringly on the Zorkelsnatt's limp mandible.
Topo rushed up to the arena to confront the Zorklesnatt, who at this point was inches away from disembowling Beeble (who was now back to his kumquat stage) and dancing with his (Beeble's) entrails draped around his head. Topo shouted "Halt! You shall not lay a hand on that there kumquat! I am Topo the sissy boy, and you will have to smack me around first before you can get to him!" At this, the Zarglesnatt started to laugh histerically. "Ha!" it snorted "Look at those tights! That lovely pink tutu! It even matches the kumquat's!" The Zarglesnatt kept laughing until it fell over. Unfortunately, it fell backwards onto Beeble. Beeble died with a loud squelching sound, like a sledgehammer striking an overripe fruit. The Zarglesnatt kept laughing, much amused by Topo the sissy boy. Topo looked at Beeble, sighed, and went back to finish the article in "Vanity Fair".
Excuse me... I'm sorry... Topo's throbbing manhood stayed right inside his pants where it belonged. I meant to say "fist," and I hope you'll forgive me.
Oops. Didn't know the section about Toto's throbbing manhood had been added. With apologies from Armageddeon T. Thunderbird, writer, actor, and poet laureate of Albania.
Beeble, still too cool to notice silly things like being squished by a three-hundred pound Zorklesnatt, laughed at Topo. "Ha ha, Topo killed a chipmunk!! Ha Ha! Look at the sissy run now!" Topo ran of to cry his worries away under a bottle of tequilla in some anonymous dark ally.
Mr. A.T. Thunderbird etc. is the author of the sections with "Vanity Fair" (where he is a contributing editor) just so you little kiddies know.
Thunderbird. You have done nothing that hasn't been done by millions throughout the ages. I feel your pain so you don't have to.
Ah, Topo... alone, froofy... who was he to turn to? This cruel bottle was a small comfort in the cold, raining city of Chicago... But what was this? A man? A man, clad in green, with a small burritto-sized box? What could he want? "Gringo... could I have a seep of you're Tequilla?" he asked, in a deep Los Angelino Mexican accent... he seemed to say "Que sera, sera Topo,"
YOUR tequilla... damnit, I hate that.
"YOUR tequilla," suggested Topo to the strange green man, "and yes, I don't want it anymore." Topo was drunk off his wazoo.
"YOUR tequilla," suggested Topo to the strange green man, "and yes, I don't want it anymore." Topo was drunk off his wazoo.
Topo was so drunk he even made the narrator repeat himself. The green man sat down next to Topo ans spoke softly to him, though maintaining his heavy Mexican accent. "Once I killed a chipmunk too," he said, "He was an Italian chimpunk, Anthony I called him... anyway, he was sleeping with my wife. Would you like to come back to my place, have some nachos? Maybe a Fajita?" Topo threw up on his new green freind, and reluctantly went with him.
When they got to the Mexican's Mansion, Topo couldn't help but be in awe. Not of the mansion, but he hadn't noticed how well groomed the green man's toenails were. It made Topo drool.
Inside, the Topo saw the severed heads of ten thousand chipmunks lining the walls. Topo felt not worthy of his "Chipmunk Slayer," title. Topo, vomiting again, felt the tentacles of a friendly octopus creep up his leg. He vomitted yet again. Soon the sport of vomit Wrestling was discovered, as Topo and the Octopus got it on chipmunk-style. Thooka-thooka-thooka. Makes you wonder what the kids'll look like. Though irrelevent, cephalopods are a great metaphor for the duality of man, and Topo felt like two men tonight. The forrest-colored mexican pulled the two apart... It was disgusting.
Finnally the man sat down. "Topo," he said, "I suppose you are a drunken baboon. If you weren't You would have figured out de most basic of things... That I am Los Testiculos Verdes." Topo choked on his vomit, but quickly regained his composure. "Topo, I wish you to bear me a son. Topo, I know what ju are tinking... I'm sorry, would you like some salsa? Anyway, ju are tinking 'Why did I get so slobbering drunk that this man is sayink that I am a baboon?' Well Topo, I can't answer that. But I hear you are good on those cold nights, and I need some luvin'. Are ju sure you would not like some salsa?" His box hopped towards him. "I told you to knock it off with the salsa! Do you want more punishment?!" At this, the green mexican jumped a bit, and opened the burritto-sized, burritto-shaped box. It was labeled "Burritto" He spoke soothingly to whatever was inside.
Topo was sure he couldn't do as this man requested. After all, he was a marmaset wasn't he? Maybe he was just drunk off his ass. Somewhere, Beeble smoked a cigar.
Donny did too.
I don't know what the fuck the shoe was doing, but I'm sure It was unpleasant. Anyway, burritto say: "Paco, enough with all this quasi-maniacal psycho-babble! You must get the drunkard into your room, at which point you inject him with the syrum, slice open his belly, and give me a new host!! Or else I shall chain you to the was and lash you untill you are saying 'stop eet! stop eet! I just wanted to have some chocolately pudding snacks!' And then the walls weel bleed! Poop-face. Ha-ha, I kickted eet, I kickted eet, I kickted de boll! Oh mother, stop touching me with the prod!" The burritto was clearly delussional.
The walls were delusional too, since instead of bleeding they had started dripping yellow mustard. "Stop it! we already have enough salsa to keep us alive if there is a nuclear holocaust, we dont need no stinking mustard!" Cried Paco as he sat down with a package of franks and went crazy with the mustard.
The Burrito went salsafied. "You call yourself a generic mexican! You, eating yellow mustard! Gain control of yourself! The mustard has gone to your brain!" With this the Burrito flung itself unto the air as only a pastry filled with meaty goodness could do. Upon smacking Paco directly into the face, the Burrito started shaving Pacos Cheech-Like mustache off.
"AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!" Cried Paco, coming out of his mustard crazed stupor, "geet off of my face you flatuleent bastard!" Paco screamed as the burrito attacked his face with a rusty blade that looked like it was once used to shave bigfoots big feet. "You can have your stinking new host!" Donny, still drunk as a lamppost, sat by and marvelled as to how the mustard, once it hit the floor, resembled flowing canaries.
Der... Topo? ...Topo, Still drunk as a lamppost... Yeah, sounds good
Topo, being so drunk as to believe his name is Donny, sat back, droolling profusely, as Paco stumbled over in his generic mexican gait. "hey gringo, you lika de juice eh?" "Yes, mr. mexican man!" "Come, gringo, lets go take a tequila bath, you stupid wussy boy, im going to slice you open like a bag of crack."
Topo, being so drunk as to believe his name is Donny, sat back, droolling profusely, as Paco stumbled over in his generic mexican gait. "hey gringo, you lika de juice eh?" "Yes, mr. mexican man!" "Come, gringo, lets go take a tequila bath, you stupid wussy boy, im going to slice you open like a bag of crack."
Accidentaly pressing the reload button on their way to the bathroom, they repeated themselves like copies of someones fat ass sputing out of a copying machine.
"Mmmmm...," thought topo, "A bag of crack... Tequilla... worms...," He was floating on ascetate, and the man in the goat suit was calling the shots. So into the tequilla (rat vomit) he went, and his belly became quickly perforated. The Burito hopped close to the tub. Hopping up to the counter, he leapt out of his box iand into the tub with Topo. "tonight, I feast on bile!"
Mmmm... Fat ass...
"Stop Dave, im afriad Dave. Dave, my mind is going, I can feel it." screamed Topo as his putrid personality floated away like gas passed under water.
Burrito plunged deeper and deeper, burying himself deep within the inner workings of what once was Topos testiculos, which abruptly turned green.
The burrito plunged into darkness... A new sense kicked in. He could not see, but he found his way to the young indians supple liver. 'boy,' he thought, 'this guy's liver tastes like chipmunk. Fat chipmunk... three foot tall fat chipmunk... Theodore? Hmmm... no matter.' The burritto's gills opened wide, and his ventral nodes enlongated, as if calling the organs it requested to them. He wrapped his crunchy flaggelum around Topo's inviting liver. Topo should be happy! After all, this was no ordinary burritto. It was Paco's burritto.
Paco's Burrito! Scourge of the seven organs, tamer of the great bowel cancer, eater of the magnificent kidney stones OF DOOM! And now he is whole again, for he has outreached the realms of an ordinary burrito, he has become what once was a sissy boy. He is now the more powerfull Chimechanga! Able to eat small 10 foot chimpmunks in a single bound! Alvin? NO MATTER! He is OMNI-PHALLIC!
And with his new found powers he would CRUSH Chicago. The salads, the bunyons, nothing could stop him now! HE WAS INVINCIBLE!!! Quickly he stood up, dripping with tequilla and bile. "Paco, you fool, get me some scotch tape! I must secure my belly!" Paco, no longer the boss, ran quivering for adhesion. "Ha," laughed Topochonga, as his and his host's memories intertwined, "who runs like a sissy now?
"
Topochonga felt mighty! Topochonga felt powerfull. He raised his hands in the air in an act of triumph! Topochonga is STUPID! "Whoopsie" His new monstrous form slips on his own entrails as they spill out, like a dumbass who slips on a bar of soap in the shower. Down his bulk went, down into a trampoline of blue viscera that were his yet once belonged to a wimpy sissy boy.
Snort, snort. A jib is the front sail on a triangular-sail boat.
"I weell save you el macho Topochonga" Paco flew through the air as only a dead brick could do, his pneumatic staple gun flashing in the bile stenched air. "I weell close you!"
As Paco fumbled with the salsarific giant's innards the city did not lay quite. Donny picked the hair out of his teeth. He was looking over the dead and rather foetid carcass of the Man in Red. "What ever happened here must have come out of this guy's anus like a howitzer," He said. Alice crept back slinkily. Her hand perched on her hip, she nursed on a ciggarette. "Sometimes, Byzantium just isn't enough." Donny looked at Alice, and wondered why she was so wierd all the time.
He couldnt stop himself, the words flew from his mouth like creamed spinach and apricots from a babies mouth. "Why are you so wierd Alice?"
As Alice thought about this, Beeble stumbled out of the hall, clutching himself in all sorts of strange ways. Any fool could tell that a Zorklesnatt had fallen on him. "Where's Frank?" he asked, "I thought you guys had taken him." He slowly began reassembling his cool, collected exterior. "No, these days if he isn't bartending, he's bar hopping," responded Donny. A sobbing Alice added, "Just like that dame in Morrocco." Donny remained confused.
And I think the saying goes "Like creamed spinach and apricots from a babies Anus."
Harold knew why Alice was wierd. He, being a social parasite, wanted to stand out in amazing perverted ways. Too bad he had infested Alice, he regrets....profusely. Creamed spinach and apricots, thats how he escaped the baby that was his last host. Boy, did he want to leave Alice. It was that time of the month, hunting season.
And only Gazzelles stood a chance of leaving Alice's Anus. "Boy those Gazzelles sure tickle!" She said. Beeble slapped the hell out of her, and Donny just stood and stared
71 pages, and counting by the way.
"Alice's Anus!" someone said. He was promptly eliminated.
Everyone looked up. Who said that? No one knew. "It must have been someone stupid who isnt waiting and instead is killing everything Brenden is trying to say." Said Donny. "Speaking of killing, we either have to get out of here, or slaughter us some gazelles before we drown in them." So, after Beeble sloughtered countless numbers of them, the three swam through the tide of gazelles, which was high at the moment, and out onto the sticky streets of Chicago.
"Chicago. Shit. Were still in Chicago." As the three mounted their patrol boat and rode down the river, they looked through Los Testiculos Verdes' file. The more the knew, the more they admired the man. He was a family man. Untill he snapped. At this point, he and the burritto aquired the thimble of doom, and a small tribe of followers in Laos. What they were doing here was the real mystery.
Well, shit. And all three collapsed into a stupor.
Beeble appended, "I think the narrator meant 'river of gazzelle guts.'" Beeble was right.
Shutup bitch! Time to go away!
As Brenden implied his departure (I think) Beeble yawned and complained, "it's past midnight Gage! Go to sleep!" I laughed, and continued to write. Well, no I didn't, But someone somwhere did something. I don't know. ZZZZzzzzzz....
Bravo Gage .
remember Gage your sleeping outside tonight.
They came to a stop when they saw The Shoe on the bank. "Hello! Over here!" he yelled. It was his first speaking part since his introduction in chapter 8. Dolenz, who was with him, opened his mouth to speak, but was hit by a train. We all cried. But not much. The Shoe hopped on, dripping of stagnant Italian mafia penach, and asked about mangos. He seemed very dissapointed to find that there weren't any on the boat either. He sat on the edge of the boat and dangled his feet in the gazzelle guts..
The Shoe looked at the banks longingly. Donny sat down beside him, inspecting his face and looking out at the banks. The shoe pounded his fist on the rail;"Fuck it," he said, "I'm gonna go get me some mangos."
Stopping the bost, Shoe and Donny went off into the thick jungle of Chicago. "So you see, I'm a saucer." said Shoe. "Don't you mean 'sauceia?" Donny returned. "No," Shoe replied, "people put teacups on my head. Anyway, there I was, in Saucer College, and they had all this beautiful tea, the good stuff, imported from India. They stuck it all into this big tea cup and damn it, it started turnin' grey. It was supposed to be Citrus Surprize! It went all Earl Grey on us! Thats some crazy shit there."
Donny continues hacking through the underbrush ahead. In the shadows, there was a sudden twitching. It couldn't be made out, too dark, too vague... but clearly in a Plasti-coated safti-pak. Sort of jar shaped... Donny had seen this before, back in Cambodia... a lunge forword and it was in full light. "FUCKIN' MAYO!!" cried shoe in panic, at the two ran to the boat.
The jar of Mayonaisse had not been seen by Alice or Beeble, and when our two screaming comrades clambered aboard, they naturally assumed a Viet Cong ambush. Alice mounted her Gattling gun and fired blindly into the thicket. Beeble got out his Colt .45 and shot of countless round of un-fettered cool before Donny calmed the boat down. "It's... nothing..." he paused to catch his breath, "Just a jar of Mayonaisse... no Testicles here..." Shoe kept yelling, though, and would not be calmed for several hours. "Fuckin' Mayonaisse..." he'd say, "I didn't get out of the eighth grade for this shit."
Suddenly, and with the nonexistent sort of warning system that sudden events are usually instilled with, the gelatinous mass beneath Shoe's feet began to sway and pucker. The air seethed with the misbegotten mating calls of a thousand massacred gazelles. And as Shoe's beady little eyes widened with the subitaneous realization of his awkward surroundings, the jellied coagulate beneath him arched gracefully, fifty feet in the air to form the slender embodiment of wild gazelle wrath. "Grrrrr..." growled Gazellera, Wreaker of Mass Destruction. "GRrrRRrr..." Shoe quickly weighed his odds of survival against the vengeful beast, using the fine brass scale that he had been conveniently storing in his pocket., and decided that the situation was indeed grim.
"Gawdammit, Gage! You type too frickin' fast!!!" A heavenly voice boomed from the stars.
Whipping out his Z-caliber Frappo-missle spray gun, he aime for the heavens. He wondered how this would help get our charichters any closer to Los Testiculos Verdes. He thought about going back and reading some of this chapter. Maybe from the sloth fight on, but who really cares?
A "d" congealed on Beeble's forehead.
it flew up and affixed itself to the tenth woord in the preceding paragraph.
meanwhile, "o"s fell from the skys like happless bananas.
Meanwhile, Gazellera, Beast to Whom Time and Continuity Mean Nothing realized her faux pas, and quietly gurgled back to the death bed of her comrades. High above, The gods began to vent their celestial embarassment by raining Kim-chi and lotion embalmed Sweet Tarts own upon Chicago's motley collection of naughty dogs. She smiles knowingly, and takes her leave.
"d" number two congealed upon beeble's forehead, and with a mighty swooshing, not unlike the pendulous oscillation of Max's nads, affixed itself upon the fifteenth to last word in the above paragraph.
"Gurgle," proclaimed Alice "I was gearing up for an innard fight too. It was just as good as any other option we had on this dang boat!" Beeble leapt on an elderly woman and had his way with her.
"Wait," Alice screamed while dancing a spirited jig. "That's no elderly woman!!!" Regurgitating his dinner in horror, Beeble slid the fermented face mask from the body beneath him. Beeble gasped. "A Gazelle!!!" Alice immediately clapped her hands over her anus.
Pressure built up inside one narrator's tiny brain... beats of anticipation formed on his glistening brow...
"That's right.... I AM a gazelle," the hot figure replied, still unable to calm his ecstatic love twitches, "And I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren't for you meddling kids!!!"
A writhing mass of bile-glue and elk intestine wrapped around Beeble's leg. He was to cool to get upset, even by the sudden species change. Slowly, he reached into his trench coat and brought out a plunger. 'Time for some needless slurping noises,' he thought.
Alice corked her fearful sphincter, and geared up for battle.
She ripped open her shirt, and yodled the war cry of her ancestors.
Alice's bare, heaving bosom spelled lust-inducing perfection... incorrectly. She set her glock aside and whipped out a dictionary.
Shoe fluidly pulled his copy of "The Crisis In Keynesian Economics" by Sir John Hicks from his loins. "damn!" he emmollated, "That's not even remotely what I was looking for!" Continuing his search, he found Jerry S. Kelly's "Arrow Impossibility Theorems," He tossed it aside to. "Damn," he ignited. Finnally, He molested a Chicken.
"Wait," Alice screamed while singing the bare-boobied blues, "That's no chicken!"
"No, hold on. My bad. Hey, where's my shirt?"
"That's it!" Proclaimed Beeble. He ran to his cellar and found himself a nice big chicken outfit. After an all too brief encounter with Shoe, he armed his standard chicken-issue photon neutralizer. Tonight he would taste the sweet drops of gazzelle on his pallette.
Donny felt pretty silly hanging from the cieling with no one to play with. So he played with himself. Geysers erupted.
... all the way in Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming. "Ahhh," breathed Donnie, his nubile fingers groping merrily.
"Old Faithful knows the feeling well." With his free hnd, Donny saluted the ejaculate that Mother Earth had bequeathed to the U.S. government.
"Your hand is missing something essential," whispered Alice, and handed Donny the dictionary.
Donny found the missing "a," and flexed his digits in relief.
"Enough of this!" Donny Cried. "Well, just a little more..." By the time donny finished, he had painted himself with the tribal paints that few had lived through. Now the second buck naked combatant, he leapt on the writhing mass of guts. It felt good as it squished around his wiggly prong. But now Beeble couldn't get a clean shot! And Worse yet, a horde of winged ninga rootabegas decended on our hereos like locusts in dingies. "cannon fodder," murmered Beeble.
"Omawarisan! Chikan o tsukamaete," lisped the dark ninja, his prehensile roots flexing dangerously.
"Omawarisan! Chikan o tsukamaete," lisped the dark ninja, his prehensile roots flexing dangerously.
"Wow, that was scary," beeble shook his head. Twice.
**Subtitle: Omawarisan... blah, blah means, "police! Arrest this pervert!" in japanese.**
And elswhere, a young girl is reprimanded by her parents for loudly cursing while banging on her keyboard keys during their movie.
reluctantly, she reaches for the power button on her computer. "Goodnight Gage. Call me when you can..."
The boat pitched up as it was overwhelmed by the fury of ten thousand angrey legumes (with a thousand more, unorganized, but ready to fight). A heady whiff of gazzelle stench drifted across the foredeck. A right merry mellee was being had here. It looked like our friends were in a a prickly predicament here... But whats this... A fat man with a baseball bat? Wearing an Apron? "Frank!" called Alice, soothing her nipples. "Frank!" echoed Donny, voilating that organ-mass with quick decisive thrusts. "Dolt! Dolomite!" cheered Beeble, also with quick desicive thrusts. Shoe smacked the hell out of him before he realized that Beeble was only refering to another set of newcomers to the fight. Yeah... it was easy to smack a monkey in chicken suit, But later Shoe'd see another side of Beeble. The backside of his hand.
Dolomite whipped out his autographed copy of the Fug's First Album, and flung it into the fray. Over and over again. That was all he was good for anyway. Beeble kicked him senseless. "You worthless pile of buffalo feces!!" Yeah, it was easy for a guy in a chicken suit to kick the hell out of a scratch-and-mix DJ. Of course, nothing would come of it.
Brenden whipped out his story control and hit pause, cause gage, on one of his writing forays, left mo time for anyone else to write anything, he was promptly beaten to a gelatin like pulp.
Anyways, feeling a lot more...wussy like, Topochunga heaved his stapled ass up out of the bathroom and into the hall. "Paco you bitch, rev up the car, my bellys achin for some corn pops."
"Yees my macho grande." The lowrider was bouncin' 10 feet in the air when Topochunga finally wobbled out of the stucco building.
As photon neutralizer beams spewed radioactive death and chunks o' Fugs split ninjas like melons, Frank began busily smearing a fine layer of rootabega pudding across the deck with his baseball bat. Alice, Beeble, and Shoe all supplied a fair share of carnage as well, felling more salad than cheez-its on a pimpernil. Donny continued his conquest of gazzelle. But it was Dolt who supplied the most insidious blow for justice: 201 spanish verbs. "Faltaba" he read aloud, "faltabas, faltaba; faltabamos, faltabais, faltabon." The villianous garden rejects cringed in terror.
GARRR!! ablood vessel popped in gages head when he saw the more recent installments. Pummling commenced.
"eh, I hear spanish verbs on the wind, and the smell of..chunks o'Fugs! Quickly Paco, ride the winds of death!"
And the winds of death were ripe that day, for as the lowride surfed across the tide of gazzelley goo, our gang began slowly losing their glorious battle. Worse, Donny went limp.
'R' said paco refering to the car.
"," said the omnipotent stork, refering to the grammar.
A cheer erupted from something. Finally all the main characters have diverged into a glorious spasm of sugary goodness.
Goodness!
What could save our... Pals... from imminent doom at the hands of ravenous vegitables and a sea of innards?Our freinds out numbered, out upholstered, and out zuzaphoned, It seemed hopeless. Donny was phlacid with dismay. "I've got an idea!" quipped some guy. "Shut up, mutton-mouth!" retorted Frank. "ċĊċĊċ" noted a small cockerspaniel. Beeble brought four-hundred pounds of chicken suit down on the dog and squished it like a bug. Then there was a pause. A break in the action, like the calm before a storm. The Innards, the ninjas, all fled screaming. Left in awe, the group became aware of a gently growing latin beat. It was Topochonga.
With that, a narrator fell head first onto his keyboard.
puddles of drool
i like french fries
Pondering this, Beeble leapt onto the nearest Burger King and bit it. It was the taste that beat McDonald's french fries.
Happy New Year. I'm looking for porn.
Topochonga and Paco climbed out of the lowrider, a sleek mustard yellow car. A gentle breeze passed by causing their dusters to flair. It tingled on Donny's genitals as the last reminants of gazzelle innards dripped off of them. Beeble stood tall dressed as a chicken, cold magnum in hand. Donny's tingling genitals swayed in the breeze. Alice spoke: "I wish that my colon was as clean as the streets od Denmark." God, Beeble wanted to smack her. Just, POW, right in the pattoot. But now was not the time. To smack her now would mangle the phillipinos. Whatever that meant, it was bad. As the seconds ticked away, the climax grew more and more imminant. Whatever happened, Beeble hoped it would involve the word "smitherines."
"Fazool," remarked Donny, "Do you see how I twitch and throb and pulsate? Fazool." Beeble couldn't hold back this time. He let fly with a hard bop on the snoot. Donny wouldn't do anything about it. They had long since lost their rockers. "I can't find my rockette," said Alice. POW! Beeble was finding restraint harder to hold on to these days.
Beeble spoke now, in slow, solemn, Bogart tones. "Topo?" he asked. A multi-tonal voice responded "You may refer to me as TOPOCHONGA these days, monkey." "Topochoga the chipmunk hunter, you mean," retorted Beeble, "You still run like a sissy." Topochonga held back his anger. "Paco! Bring me the brief case," he said. "Smitherines!" came the reply. "Shut up! You are nothing but a stupid donkey-lover! If I could figure out what stereotype I am, I would scalp you for that!" Topochonga opened the briefcase brought to him by Paco, revealing 20,000,000 hard core hundred dollar bills. "And there are a thousand more, unmarked, but ready to spend. They can be your's, all of you silly prostate people. Just leave me alone. All I ask is that my syndacate, my thimble be left to our own devices." Beeble violated an old woman in consideration. She was very frail, and once her walker gave wway, she fell over. "I'm bleeding?" she asked. "I'll make you squeal like a pig in a clocktower!" "Thankyou." She exploded with glee.
But glee wasn't nearly enough to save the frail little granny from Beeble's ravenous appetite. The product of his twisted perversion spewed forth in a fetid eruption of repugnance. Beeble grinned the grin of one whos sense of morality has been pummeled obtusely awry. Alice tip-toed over and tapped him inbetween his muscular shoulder blades. "Why is it," she began as she dug in her left nostril, "why is it that you only seem to copulate with helpless old women?" Alice danced a victory jig as she noted the large, flubbery mass that was now perched precariously on the tip of her finger. Beeble stood and sighed, vital organs springing free of the tangled mess of flesh and walker beneath him. He pondered the question carefully...
"I dunno..." Beeble slowly mouthed each contemplative syllable with a look of earnest sobriety on his handsome countenence. "I guess older women appeal to me... because... because..." Alice dribbled, "Yes, Beeble? You prefer elderly women because..." A light of deep mortification slowly registered in Beeble's milky, slightly offset eyes. "Elderly women?!? What the hell are you talking about, you crazy bitch?!?" He picked up the largest blunt object handy, which, in this case, happened to be his blissful love-log, and proceded to bludgeon the impudence out of Alice.
(Gage, the longer this continues, the more pronographic it seems to become. And now I have become entangled in its web of literary smut!)
Ol' Granny magee was giggling with Joy. "Smitherines!" she cried as she bounced off of Alice's scent glands. Despite multiple hip fractures, the euphoric old woman remained rigid throughout this merciless pelting. Beeble frantically countinued his assault, frothing at the mouth, untill finally, exhausted, he dropped to his knees. "Elderly women..." he sighed climbing back onto the shivering mound of wrinkles (he did this in order to contemplate the question). At last, an epiphany. "I think..." he said, slowly, carfully... "I think that whenever Gage can't think of what to say next... He has me violate an old woman. I think the twisted pervert is amused by that." Beeble leapt out of the screen, leaving geriatric joy behind, and violated me. "I'm bleeding?" I asked.
Ah, but 'tis the blood of ignorance no longer...
(Wait a sec... is this G or B?)
I felt as limp as a rag doll by the time he finished with me, after he had torn me several new orifaces. They all ached in symphonic rapture, dripping with fermented rat speutem shipped from Beeble's spa in New Dehli. He jumped back into the monitor and sat down. He was disgusted. That whole ordeal was disgusting. The old woman, still confused, hit Beeble with her purse. Beeble smacked the old woman, and she erupted with frivolity. As Beeble wiped off the 107 year old chunks of fun, his attention turned once again to Topochonga. "No Deal!" he said. Topochonga had long since forgotten what was going on, and went back to read the preceding chapter. Finnaly, he responded: "Why don't you come back to the mansion, and we'll talk." The party begrudgingly complied. --G
With Beeble temporarily out of the way, Alice saw her chance. She quickly clawed her way to the top of a nearby building, and cackled from on high to the pathetic peasants below.
Gorb? Gorbi! Yipe, yipe, yipee!
A narrator wannabe pounds her head into a bloody pulp with the glass of orange juice at her side. "Why do I even bother?? I'm too lazy to read the other chapters, and you type at the most inopportune times! Blarrgh!"
I mean, Beeble didn't have to go back into the monitor. He could still be voilating me.
"I think this story is better suited to the likes of you and Brenden. I suck at writing anyway. My stuff doesn't fit in at all. So there."
if you want. please? I'm BLEEDING?!?
"But thanks for thinking of me." Sniffing, the pathetic little scrub of a girl retreats, for the better.
Ooo! Look at Beeble! See? He's Violating me! Look at all my neato new orifaces! And Topochonga? He didn't read the earlier chapters! We still love him! "Hi there! I'm perfectly valid," reminded Topochonga, with a big cheery smile.
Forget it, Gage! Thanks, but it's okay. I'm still gonna suck, regardless of how much you coddle me.
Yeah. And that's all I have to say about that.
Uhmm, Gage? Where'd you go?
I kind of wanted you to coddle me some more.
Alright, now I'm REALLY angry.
Damn. This degenerates into an online chat if you're not careful.
Naw, I wouldn't call it degeneration, just the hopeless ramblings of a lone wolf.
Topochonga twisted and contorted in front of the cluster of anti-heroes. His deranged physique became the psychotic beginings of an unnatural metamorphosis, as his pulsating figure grew to thrice his already large frame. His eyes glowed with fury, and he stood, frothing at the mouth, in his festive poncho and straw sombraro/ cerimonial indian headgear combination. His massive figure was reflected in all the puddles on the streets.
Enraged, he tossed the briefcase of money aside. "I have had it with you gringo bastards! You would have had a place in my empire, the Great Mexican Empire, but you defy me! I have no choice but to send for my mariachi band of DOOM! Sanchez! Juan! Jose! Carlos! Come hither! Your insidious destructive powers are needed!" The mariachi band leapt up in a furious wrath. Mariachi death throbbed in the ears and tears form in the eyes of the beloved company. Donny knew what had to be done, and so did Beeble, and so did Alice. The only person who didn't was Dolomite. What a dumbass.
Struggling, underneath the force of four men in sequened outfits struming guitars and singing in unison, the collective cry drained out of our companions: "Dolo..Dolomite! We.. need you... to... Dolomite the turn tables... Scratch and Mix!!" Dolomite struggled to his feet, to his waiting turn tables. With wrists that had performed this manuver a thousand times, he swiftly remixed the deathly mexican lullaby. He remixed harder than he had evewr remixed before, and though the new funk mariachi was almost twice as perverted, it knocked the guitar wielding terror to kalamazoo. "Smitherines!" yelped a bleeding old woman.
At this, Topochonga clung to his buttocks with fury, and opened his mouth wide, spewing forth a river of flaming salsa. He reached for his tomohawk, careful not to forget that he was two stereotypes in one body, and charged. "Bleah!!!" said a passing gnat. "Bleah, Bleah, Bleaah!" Beeble saw the gnat, old and decrepit, with a little gnat walker and little gnat wrinkles. He violated it. "I'm bleeding?" it seemed to ask, buzzing annoyingly. Beeble, a monkey in a chicken suit, flapped onto the thrice enlarged Topochonga, tears swelling as he remembered all the good times he had had with the Topo half. Topo remembered too... he remembered running like a sissy! "Who hunts chimpunks NOW monkey?!?" He tossed the Chicken aside like a rag doll.
The group was suddenly made aware of Alice, who began messily convulsing amongst the shadows. Beeble, bruised and bleeding from his girlish defeat at the hands of the masculine Topochonga, hauled his broken carcass to a somewhat erect position. Topochonga, oscillating with hearty guffaws, kicked Beeble like the aerodynamic little puss he was. Beeble landed in a nearby tree, cursing and spitting like a demented sailor. Alice spoke, empty eye sockets glowing. "H...Hhhhalitosis..." She collapsed as the menfolk shriveled like impotent old men before the rank pungence that seeped from inside her pretty little oral cavity. "Hey, Gage," sputtered Beeble from above, "Call Ellaree!"
Alice spewed blood like a firehose. Ha Ha Ha. She began to resemble hamburger pulp. Ha Ha Ha. That's when out of yonder blue oblivion SPACE MOSES appeared and split the pavement like a bannana. The parting of Redd Street. every one gasped and choked on their own vomit, but in a good way. Topochonga convulsed and and pulled his bow and arrow out; he lanced Moses like a festering pustule.
Paco became very irate. "By all that is Mexican, this is not right!" he exclaimed, leaping on the massive bulk of Topochonga. A dog barked in the distance. Woof. The Burrito was so shocked at this sudden betrayal that he climbed up out of Topo's throat... as Topo's testicles regained their orginal rosy hue, Topo exhaled his last breaths. "At last I can join the spirits and be one with my ancestors," he sighed. The heavens laughed.
Paco threw himslef atop the turigd burrito, flailing wildly, and clubed it with his might sledgehammer of death. He barked like a dog. A herd of poodles plummetted to the earth from condominiums in Bangkok, pelting the combatants with barking terror. OOOOOOO! In the end, however, it was futile. Paco's dull lifeless body was tossed aside like so many cheap whores.
Donny looked at the giant throbbing burrito and was envious. "NOW I WILL TEACH YOU THE TRUE MEANING OF STOICHIOMETRY!!" it cried, hopping forword in a really quite menacing way. But then he fell flat on his face, with the force of a forceful thingie. He oozed lead, and standing behind him was a man in an Italian suit with a tommy gun. It was Pal Cologne.
"I was sick I tell ya, sick of being just another plot point. Well I guess I just had to take matterss into my own hands. You guys did swell, so I'll tell you what. I'll give you three days to vamoose, after that it's hunting season. And just to show you I'm a nice guy, I'll give you this thimble. Take it, I don't want it. Now scram, before I change my mind." With that, our hairy prostate skeedadled, just barely making it to the orphanage in time to save little Timmy, and then ravage him like an animal. To finish things off, Beeble and Donny got married and spent the next several years tying up loose ends (when they weren't tying each other up). Sure, it was easy to marry a monkey in a chicken suit. Frank went back to bartending, until he shaved his scrotum and became an ariel gymnast. Dolt and Dolomite returned to their Zeppelin with the Thimble of doom and righted wrongs. Billy the talking Olive returned to the planet Zoopugna, where he mated with many a supple water buffalo. "ċĊċĊċ?" inquired Alice, as she and a flatened cockerspaniel eloped to Portugal, never to be seen again until later on maybe. Yeah... Alice was ßċ*. Topoİ got copyrighted an ascened into the heavens with his ancestors, who proceded to mercilessly taunt him for running like a sissy and killing chipmunks. Morglewort Hafniff had the white slapped off of him. Pal Cologne of course ruled the city with an iron fist, and in time became great. But that... That is another slortney.
**
JAJAJAJAJAJAJAJAJAAJAJAJAJAJAJAJAJTARJTRNCZBCN NYMNGRDZNB DSBN
Someone was run over by a car and died, and hated having people know that he wasn't wearing clean underware.
**
But now to a different time in a different place: It was June 32, 1666, due east of the islands of the Caribbean. The focus of this narration, of course, is the frigate Domino, the most feared ship of Lichtenstein. Lichtenstein was late in entering the colonial race, and she had certain disadvantages when compared to superpowers such as Spain. The disadvantages were many, such as the fact that Lichtenstein is no bigger than a quarter, is entirely land-locked, and has a population no bigger than a one-person household. But the people of Lichtenstein were determined, they assigned their enire population to the Domino and set out on the high seas.
Led by their leader, Captain Blackbutt, they were searching for the fabled land of El Dorito, but thus far they had not hit land. That's not to say, however, that they hadn't had some degree of success, for they had just defeated the galleon Doomed, returning home from the Americas. She was a fine ship, having recently been commissioned by Andorra, and she was loaded with gold, silver, rations, and gems of every kind. But what's this?! It appears to be land! And on that land, their appears to be a vast, virtually unlimited supply of...
gophers. Oh, they would have fun tonight!
No! No, not gophers... I mean, yeah they had gophers, but they mostly found those little packets of silicate or whatever that come with shoes, you know? Those are fun.
Cap'n Blackbutt exhumed. With a gopher and a package of silicate, no less. "Squeek?" asked the hampster. "No I'm bleeding. I need a napkin... tourniquet? Just throwing out ideas here... shut up, go drink your Windex!" corrected Blackbutt. With that, he violated it. ALOT! "Now you're bleeding bitch! What do you think now?! When I'm done, you're ass is gonna need a drawstring! I'm gonna pop you like an egg in a microwave!" "thankyou," said the Hampster. Blackbutt began noticing a horrid sense of deja' vu, put the hampster down, and went to look for coconuts and grubs.
Scurvy the deckswab sprang of the good frigate Domino with the orce of ten-thousand springie thingies. "Kaboom!" he said, landing on the beach like a thing that frequently makes beach landings. He looked an awful lot like a crab, and Cap'n Blackbutt often thought he was another gopher. 'Mmmm... fresh grubs,' thought Scurvy, 'kaboom.'
Kaboom!!!, speaking of which, a cannonball whizzed past Cpt. Blackbutt, just barely missing his head. "Hey! Whadda think yer doin', ye scury scallawag?!?" He yelled at the Spanish galleon just offshore, they answered back, "Ha, ha! What kind of a wussy pansy insult is that?!!" And then Cpt. Blackbutt made the most daring comeback known to mankind: He ran into the forest and cried.
"Awright, now ya gonna get right in da kisser, you lousy Conquistadores, send this to ya Harnan Cortes!!!" With that Scurvy drew his sword, and emmited a tremendous, primordially vicious roar. All of the gophers then drew their swords and rallied behind Scurvy, emmiting a tremendous, primordially vicious squeak. The Spanish backed off, swearing revenge. But they had forgotten just one thing: their galleon, which, as Cpt. Blackbutt and his comrades are soon to find out, contains tremendous quantities of rum. Oh, we're gonna have fun tonight!!!
*hiccup*
"'Scuse me. And so you see, that Hernan Cortes was killed by a pirate, and not by the Aztecs or the other natives of Central America." Councluded the Proffesor. *ringgg* "And there's the bell! Remember that you have to read pages 134-232
As Beeble and Donny exited the classroom, Alice pulled out a gun, attached a silencer, and shot the Proffesor. No one would discover her crimes for... 4 minutes.
"Arrrrgh, now yer in trouble, ye landlubbers." And with that, Cpt. Blackbeard drew his sword for one last slash at his fate. Meaning, of course, that Donny, Alice, and Beeble were killed for all time, never to be resurrected again. Their burial places are to be unknown and they are never again to be revived. *
Get the message, y'all!!!?
With that business complete, it's time to start a new chapter.
CHAPTER 10:
An axe swung through the wall of the Spanish galleon, and Cpt. Blackbutt's head popped through, saying, "Here's Johnny! He peered about suspiciously, making sure everything was safe. He advanced through, and what he saw at the far side of the room he had entered was astounding, hundreds upon hundreds of kegs of rum and women. He called out for Scurvy to join him and then put on some 70's retro-pop CD's. So he and Scurvy broke out the rum and women and had one helluva good time, with only minimal interruptions from uptight neighbors. What could the neighbors do anyway? They were all the way across the Atlantic!!!
Little did they know neighbors were closer then the thought. Beeble was so cool he stole a boat and sailed out after the writer who decided it would be funny to resurect blackbeards right anus. Alice stood ready with her aka 47 assult rifle ready to gun down the evil clone of blackbeard's right buttcheek. Donny was ready to go buck wild with a 12 gauge shotgun on anyone who only had one anus. Beeble didn't need weapons because he was too cool.
chapter 10
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