BIGGER BADDER THICKER: The Poonlantis Chronicles Part I

[Odin Balfore]

RP 1

A JOINT THICK-NI PRODUCTION


BIGGER BADDER THICKER: The Poonlantis Chronicles Part I





Chapter I: "Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy"



MEAN WHILE! BACK IN THE LEGION OF DOOM!!

Lost within the deep consuming waves of his madness, The Odin Balfore from an alternate universe, more commonly known just as “MAVERICK,” sits in his large padded swivel chair, overlooking a bank of wall mounted flat screen monitors. He rests his folded knuckles on his chin, contemplating his next scheme as each TV plays different news casts from all across the globe. They hum and haw in garbles of gunshots, explosions, sarcastic and half hearted laughter. MAVERICK gently puckers his lips together and perks them slightly before closing his eyes to try and visualize the drawing points of each broadcast. His genius intellect starts absorbing the blips of news as they pass through his ears and into his brain.

:: STATIC :: “National healthcare reform takes another step by adding Twitter to its growing pains of signing up for the government service.” :: STATIC ::

:: STATIC :: “Gun shots echo throughout the Red Grove Mall in Cape Town, South Africa. Rebel forces have invaded just days after the death of Nelson Mandela. Fifty reported dead, dozens more injured.“ :: STATIC ::

:: STATIC :: “Five hundred thousand dollar bounty for any team that can take the tag team titles off of Bobby Cairo and Odin Balfore, Scott Savage announces to WCF.com in the wake of S-PAC's unsuccessful attempt to regain the belts.“ :: STATIC ::

MAVERICK looks up and around towards the direction of the newscast and wags his finger at it.

MAVERICK: That's it! That's exactly what I need. Half a million dollars is just enough to kick MAVERICK MAD INC. back into business. Stupid moon, stupid war sharks. Although that eugenics program wasn't half bad. HA! Who am I kidding; that was the greatest thing to ever grace the DNA of mankind! And the best part of all is that Scott Savage is going to pay me to kill myself. I don't know who's a bigger idiot; him or that Nordic ignoramus!?

MAVERICK strokes his chin to ponder the answer.

MAVERICK: Most definitely Scott Savage. Only he would pay half a mill for something that just about anyone who's met Odin would do for free. But I- I found a loophole in his logic. He never said suicide was a way out. When I kill my Asgardian doppelganger, Bobby Cairo will have to drop the belts to the next team in line. Then I can create a usurper team. The greatest team of all time! A Dream Team!

MAVERICK ponders again.

MAVERICK: Hmm, but what? Scotch Korean? Pigmy Shaq?

MAVERICK snaps his fingers.

MAVERICK: AHA! I got it! Negro, effeminate Jew! The best part of all, it's completely original! Original and PERFECT!

MAVERICK laughs ominously as lightning strikes and thunder claps in the background. The camera pans out wide and slowly fades to black.


Chapter II: "Poonglourious Basterds"

Location: New Poon-Arctica, Downtown Poontown, People's Republic of Poon Guinea. The Thickness sit at their personal table in their personal club, smoking the good weed and laughing uproariously amongst themselves. They are surrounded by a throng of topless dancing bitches with busty forms who shake their fun bags as a means of scoring more rock and of course keeping their lives. These are brutal times for bitches. Just brutal. The Thickness's takeover of the global sex trade in the wake of their defeat of Hitler's Angels some months ago has created enormous competition among the whores of the trade. If all you're doing is shaking your ass and stripping off your bra and panties, how are you really going to compete with the bitches who are sucking the thickness off or taking the thickness up their ass crack? It ain't even a thang, boo. It's like amateur hour at the Apollo. You gotta go all the way or you're nothing at all. And while you're thinking about that, think about this: How are you gonna get ahead of the game when you're looking like the plain bitch from next door with decent tits and an OK ass and they're looking like Jessica Alba and Scarlett Johansson? You're done, bitch. You're just done. Walk on by.

And they do. And they get paid, but it's sub-minimum wage. Poon Guinea is a Communist country by its nature, but you still need them rubles in your pocket if you want to get by. Ain't no free way to make a living if you can't pull your weight. So we get to hear the bemoans and generalized grievances of the waitress as she brings Cairo and Balfore their usual case of malt liquor, but Odin shakes his head and waves her off. Odin wasn't even listening to the ranting and raving from the bitch- it was the subpar quality of the brew that drew his ire.

Odin: Let it be known that I cannot do this. This no longer whets my palette for the intoxicating nectar.

Cairo arches his brow while lobbing a fistful of unshelled M&M's into his mouth.

Cairo: What did you just say? Odin Balfore, too good for the malt?

Odin licks his lips and chuckles a bit. He gestures big with his arms then pulls them in tight, hugging the atmosphere, squeezing it to death. Making it weigh immensely heavy on all who surround him. The bitches drop to their knees for Balfore. Of course this is a most common gesture for them.

Odin: Bobby, you misunderstand me. The big picture escapes you.

Odin turns his attention to that same beer wench, who now crouches under Balfore's heady weight. Oh yes, she will be getting slipped the thickness later on tonight.

Odin: My dear, bring us two Poonglourious Basterds.

The wench bows her head to the mighty Asgardian War God and disappears back into the bustling crowd of scantily clad bitches.

Cairo: Poonglourious Basterd? What is that? Some mixed drink? Don't tell me it's a fuckin Zombie Bomb. That shit ain't human.

Odin waves off the suggestion, dismissing it as nonsense.

Odin: No, no. It's something even better. Take a gallon and a half bottle of our own Poon Guinean malt blend. Fifteen percent alcohol. Add a few Poon Honey Coke rocks for added “sweetness.” Shit goes down smooth.

Cairo: When did you have time to create that?

Odin shrugs his broad shoulders, the shoulders that carry a world upon them.

Odin: When did you have the time to run for Mayor of NYC? I didn’t even get a campaign button.

Cairo: Technically I didn't. My brother Roger did all of my campaigning for me. I see your point though.

The wench comes back with two large glass jugs topped with flip cork stoppers. She sets her jugs on the table. Odin slaps her on the ass and sends her on her way. Cairo pops a cork and takes a swig. He nods in approval of the metaphysical vise grip now encompassing his head.

Cairo: Damn. This is good shit. In fact, you know what? This is the only beverage worthy of the Poon Guinea name. Well, this and Poon-Cola Classic.

Odin: Damn right.

Cairo: Fuckin Corey Black and his taste for Diet Poon.

Cairo scowls in the general direction of Denmark and contemplates pushing the button that would launch a nuclear missile strike at the Scandinavian nation. Cairo ultimately shakes his head of the notion. He does not push the button, but then again he does not remove his finger from it either.

Cairo: Anyway, I propose a toast.

Odin: A toast.

Cairo: To killing it at ONE! To entering that battle royal ourselves, waxing the field in a matter of systematic annihilation and retaining the most prestigious championships in all of wrestling!

Odin: To fuckin it!

CLINK!

…... …

…............ …

KABOOM

The building is shaken to its core with an explosion. Patrons scramble and run for their lives. The big-titted dancing bitches begin to flee but are ordered to halt in their tracks by Cairo and Odin. The bitches do not move so much as a titty muscle without permission from The Thickness and The Thickness has not granted its permission. The dust hangs thick and heavy in the air, but the faint outline of a large, muscular man can be seen standing in the threshold of the new emergency exit hole that's been created in the wall some yards removed from where The Thickness is seated. The shadowy figure holds what appears to be a grenade launcher in his hands.

Cairo: What the fuck? Motha fuckas are going to pay for interrupting my beer.

Cairo shoves another fistful of unshelled M&M's into his mouth and scowls.



Chapter III: "It's Alive!"

MEAN WHILE! BACK IN THE LEGION OF DOOM!!

MAVERICK stands over a surgery table. The outline of a body covered by a white sheet lies on the table. MAVERICK is in full mad scientist mode. His hair stands straight on his head, lifted into a Slim Jim like crown by the static electricity generated from the palpable bass stylings of “Insidious Affair”, the newest sensation from the newest genre of metal. Dubbed "M87" by its supporters, this newly founded genre is named for the galaxy that houses the largest black hole in the entire universe. So metal, so brutal- it cannot be heard by human ears alone but by the invention of MAVERICK- the Cranial Met-tonimer. The Met-tonimer is a brain implant that allows one to hear the voice of the voiceless- the very essence of objects being ripped into oblivion by the black hole. MAVERICK flips a switch on the wall next to him that raises the table up as two Tesla coils shock the table with lightning strikes. MAVERICK once again laughs ominously as he flips another switch, causing the lightning to stop and the table to descend back to its original position. MAVERICK lifts the sheet covering the body on the table and peers beneath it.

MAVERICK: It is a perfect replica of the PERFECT killing machine..

I bet it's El Mustachio. There ain't no other killin machine like that hard ass motha fucka. Ooh. Time to find out. MAVERICK rips the sheet off of the table, revealing a cyborg likeness of himself and long time comedic companion, Gilligan the Raccoon. So it's not El Mustachio? What the fuck is this shit? You can't strike fear into the hearts of your enemies with a woodland creature. Bambi ain't scary, motha fucker! The duo arise from the table as thunder and lightning crack in the background.

MAVERICK: That half a million will be mine! The world will regret the day they gave Michael H. Curtis half a million dollars to fund his nefarious schemes!

MAVERICK goes into pondering mode again for a moment before snapping his fingers.

MAVERICK: I got it! I'll acquire the rights to both Marvel AND Star Wars! Then I'll make a prequel where some fruity rabbit thing takes a big shit on the franchise- and- and I'll have deliciously bad acting and bad CGI and the world will hate it- but they'll continue to go see it- making me millions upon millions... IT'S PERFECT! Now go! Go kill Odin Balfore so I can reap the rewards!

MWAUAHAHA... MAWAHAHA

Nig, that's Disney evil.


Chapter IV: "Poontown Hustle"

Back at New Poon-Arctica, dust and smoke fill the air following the most callous interruption of The Thickness's leisure time by an unknown and unwelcome stranger. Cairo picks shrapnel from his perfectly coiffed mane of linguini like hair. Odin rolls his neck, causing it to pop voluminously, before chugging down his gallon and a half of Poonglourious Basterd. He seems wholly unconcerned with the attack on New Poon-Arctica. Cairo seems to be far more perturbed by it. The Godfather rises to his feet and approaches the specter of the man who wields the grenade launcher. Cairo straightens his custom tailored grey suit and raps his leather loafers on the floor. He clears his throat. He thrusts his meaty index finger in the direction of the intruder. He still contemplates pushing that button to launch those nuclear missiles toward Denmark.

Cairo: Intruder. Identify yourself. Who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you want?

An emotionless almost robotic sounding male voice responds to Cairo's line of interrogation.

"I'm a cybernetic organism. Living tissue over a metal endoskeleton. My CPU is a neural net processor, a learning computer."

Cairo: Knock off that jibber jabber, fool. What's your name and what do you want? You've destroyed a large portion of this privately owned sex establishment. You're going to pay to repair the damage.

The unnamed stranger steps out from his cloak of dust and smoke. His appearance is striking. So striking that it causes Bobby Cairo's jaw to drop. Cairo falls silent. This is indeed a rare feat that has been achieved by the hulking intruder.

Cairo: H-h-holy shit. This guy looks like you, Odin. You if you were ten years younger, had blond hair instead of white, and your man-boobs were firmer. This is fucking eerie.

Odin remains unimpressed and uninterested, gesturing for the waitress to bring him another Poonglourious Basterd and what the hell- a Zombie Bomb while she's at it. After learning of the depressing news that The Thickness would be deprived of their rightful opportunity to once again emasculate S-PAC in front of a worldwide audience at ONE, the Nordic Tank is drinking his burdens away. And who can blame him? Few things in life provide the television viewer with a more profound and striking image than watching Odin Balfore and Bobby Cairo drop the members of S-PAC on their heads like the worthless, scum sucking jobbers that they are.

But it wasn't meant to be. Waylon Cash bitched and cried- tucked his tail between his legs and begged off his contractually guaranteed rematch with The Thickness so that he might embark upon a randomized and totally pointless conflict with D-Day, a war of attrition that succeeds only in further delegitimizing the already waning careers of both men. Fans have taken to social media to dub the Career versus S-PAC bout at ONE as the "battle of who gives a flying fuck about either of these irrelevant assholes?" John Gable opted to go a different route than his brother in arms. He went and got himself "injured" during a throwaway six man tag on SLAM, some mid card filler BS, thus conveniently making him "unavailable" to compete at ONE against The Thickness. The other guy Atreyu was too busy having nightmares about getting molested by a wrestling ring to come up with an excuse for why he's ducking Balfore and Cairo.

Of course Sarah Twilight, for her part, had to realize that booking the Thickness/S-PAC rematch at ONE was an exercise in futility from the very beginning. How are you going to dethrone The Thickness by booking them against the very team that they destroyed to claim their championships in the first place? It's crackhead logic. In fact, no. Crackheads have more sense than to think S-PAC could ever defeat The Thickness. So Sarah Twilight scratches her noggin and fingers her anti-poon and picks her nose with those same fingers and then picks her ass and then picks her nose some more, and she contemplates various schemes and notions for dethroning The Thickness. She could strip them of their titles, remove them from television, send them home without pay. The problem with this option is that it would result in a full-scale Thick-ni Army invasion of WCF Headquarters in Modesto, California, and Sarah Twilight ain't down with that. Hell, she hates getting called to Modesto by Dub See Eff corporate, and in response to an invasion by the Thick-ni Army, no less? This would equate to pure hell in the prissy and unthick world of Sarah Twilight.

No. It's an intolerable outcome. We must perish the thought. We must not strip The Thickness of their belts. This is what Sarah Twilight is thinking. Sarah is racking her brain like The Thickness racks poon and suddenly she is struck with an epiphany: Battle royal. Clusterfuck style. Anybody who walks in off the street can enter. Anybody dumb enough to step into the ring with The Thickness can enter. And oh yeah- let's throw Chase Michaels and Cormack MacNeill in there cuz they ain't doin a damn thing with their careers right now. Yeah that's the ticket. Uh. No, Sarah. That's just dumb. That's just desperate. That's just sad. It's understood that The Thickness has run roughshod over the tag team division, defeating, denigrating and debilitating all opponents who have stepped in their path. But baby girl Sarah, you gotta come up with a better plan than this. Even if you find a diamond in the rough with one of these new guys, and even if Michaels or MacNeill get a fire lit under their ass, how is some mishmashed duo of first time tag team partners going to dethrone the most dominant tag team in the last three years of this company? Goddamn, woman. Lay off the pipe and get some sense in your head.

This is what Odin Balfore is thinking. This is why he's blue. This is why he's sucking down that Zombie Bomb after chugging another gallon and a half of Poonglourious Basterd. What exactly is a Zombie Bomb? It varies from region to region but the most common version calls for two parts kerosene, one part windshield wiper fluid and one part vaginal blood from a BBW MILF poon. Odin tackles the harrowing concoction while Cairo debates the expense of repairing the club's devastated wall with the Balfore cyborg- the Odinator.

Cairo: Listen, pal, you're giving me the money or I'm busting your kneecaps.

Odinator: That would be unwise. I am not here for you. I am here for your friend. Move out of my way.

Cairo: What the fuck is wrong with you? Why do you sound like you're strung out on Poon Guinean black tar? You don't look like a typical dope fiend.

Cairo scratches his balls while eying the Odinator with suspicion.

Cairo: Well what's it going to be, buddy? Pay up or get fucked up. I got bitches to feed. Jizz to spurt. Jobbers to drop like they they were seven hundred dollar crispy golden chicken gettin dropped into my personal Fryalator.

Odinator: Fuck you, asshole.

The Thickness-800 Model Odinator lifts the grenade launcher into the air and sticks it in Cairo's face. Angered by this act of aggression, Cairo thwacks the grenade launcher from the Odinator's grasp with a firm swat from his big right clobbering paw and follows with a back elbow to the Thickness-800's cranium. The impact from the mighty blow knocks the fleshy human eyeball out of the Odinator's socket and exposes the red, laser-guided, robotic eye beneath.

Cairo: What the fuck? Is you on that krokodil shit, nig? That flesh eating junk? You're nuts, my man.

Cairo confidently launches a further barrage of punches to the Odinator's noggin but they only slightly stagger the cyborg.

Cairo: You're no selling my shit? Nobody no sells Bobby Cairo, motherfucker. Imma take you to that ghetto university, son.

Cairo unleashes a prolific string of European uppercuts to the Odinator's dome and drops the borg through a table with a lightning quick rolling cutter. Cairo returns to his feet and brushes the dirt off his shoulder like the pimp that he is, a look of supreme fulfillment plastered on his mug.

Cairo: This mothafucka thought he could front on Bobby Cairo? Perpetrating junkie scumbag. The Godfather put that worthless piece of trash in his place.

Unbeknownst to Cairo, Odinator does the Undertaker zombie style sit-up and gets to its feet behind Bobby. Odinator taps Cairo on the shoulder.

Cairo: Bitch, I told you don't move a muscle until I tell you--

Cairo turns around and gets blasted with a straight right hand from the Thickness-800 that lifts his entire Godfather frame off the ground and flings him into the wall, damaging it badly. Well, damaging the wall AND Bobby's body badly. Cairo winces, coughs and groans. His ribs are cracked, blood drips from his cranium, his entire body feels as though it just went through a meat grinder. His head aches immensely. He needs a drink.

Cairo: Where's my Poonglourious Basterd? I need booze. Bitch, get me booze!

The beer wench brings Cairo his PGB (that's the abbreviated name, for brevity's purpose). Cairo downs the easygoing concoction and his body is suddenly restored to its original Godfather state, rather than the wimpy broken down shit that he was feeling after his assault. He kips up and runs at the T-800, sending the futuristic assassin crashing through yet another wall of the club, planting its robot ass on the grassy knoll outside. Zapruder is filming the clash, though the footage of his film is a bit grainy, drawing skepticism from YouTube commenters as to the veracity of this supposed battle between Bobby Cairo and a killer Odin Balfore cyborg from the future.

Cairo: Why are you doing this? Who sent you? Answer me, damn it!

Cairo mounts the Odinator and delivers a torrent of punishing blows, but the Odinator grabs Cairo by his throat and shrugs him off. Odinator punches Cairo in the ear and kicks him square in the ass, knocking him into a receptacle bin.

Cairo: Oh shit, my ear. That motha fucka.

With Cairo incapacitated, Odinator turns its sights on Odin. The All-Father is chugging a PGB the size of a bathtub and bouncing a dozen or so whores on his thickness, their expansive bottoms puttin in work and gettin paid for it. That's more bang for the buck. Odinator stalks toward Odin's table in the architecturally devastated though still functional night club. Odin raises his head, uncorks his shotty and fires three blasts at the Odinator. Pie plates appear on Odinator's chest with each blast from the shotty and its robotic body reels from the impact. Odinator staggers backwards and grabs two bitches and a kilo of coke before taking its leave- "I'll be back!"- and barreling through the fourth wall and into your living room with a bitch on each shoulder and the kilo of blow clenched in its teeth. The Odinator theme blares on your home entertainment system, that pounding, militaristic drumbeat conjoined with the triumphant almost regal synthesizer melody.

A haggard looking Governor Cairo stumbles into the nightclub under the influence of obvious pain and disorientation, puffing a Newport between his lips, carrying two fistfuls of unshelled M&M's.

Odin: What happened to you?

Cairo: Motherfucka punched me in the ear. My ears are my livelihood, Odin. Without my ears I'm nothing- might as well go back to workin at the dock.

Odin examines his tag partner for serious bodily harm.

Odin: You'll be OK. The ear drum isn't damaged. Listen to Amon Amarth and perform an hour's worth of windmill headbanging exercises. You'll be fine.

Cairo: He'll be back, you know. This time he took a couple of bitches and some blow. Next time he'll take more. And the time after that even more. He's not here for bitches and blow though. Not in the long run. It's you that he wants. I think he's trying to collect the bounty. But why? What does an Odin Balfore cyborg from the future need with half a mill?

Odin stops chugging his bath tub brew long enough to contemplate the question. The answer comes to him almost immediately.

Odin: MAVERICK. He's the only one brilliant and nefarious enough to conceive of such a dastardly plot.

Cairo takes a seat at the table and lets out a heavy, burdened sigh. He sips of Mongolian tequila. Nasty, nasty shit. Noxious too. 140 proof. But it helps the Poon Guinean leader think during times of duress.

Cairo: Odin, this is now a national security issue. MAVERICK is Poon Guinea's most wanted man. I'll alert our Director of Security John Stamos.

Odin: Why don't you let me handle this, Bobby? We don't need to call in the military for one lousy cyborg. ZMAC has his own title defense to worry about against Valintine. He doesn't need to concern himself with such silliness as time traveling cyborgs.

The bitches bounce on Odin's thickness and they chitter and they coo and they melt like those two fistfuls of unshelled M&M's that now reside inside of Governor Cairo's mouth.

Cairo: You think this is the end of it, Odin? This is merely the beginning. You know MAVERICK better than I do. And yet I know him well enough to say this following statement as fact: He will stop at nothing to achieve his objectives. I might be the leader of this great nation but you're my lieutenant, my second in command. Without you Poon Guinea loses its spiritual center, its very essence of thickness. And without you, my friend, I will have no tag team partner, forced to fend for myself against the tag team of the week. That's precisely what MAVERICK wants.

Odin massages the weary and protruding temples of his head. He concedes a point to Bobby Cairo.

Odin: This is... not the end, Bobby. Much like Sarah Twilight, MAVERICK will stop at nothing to see us dethroned. Sarah throws a pot luck battle royal at us, fools desperate to cash in that half a mill bounty, willing to risk their lives. MAVERICK? He eschews the battle royal route and opts for the cyborg assassin. Different approach, same conclusion: Death and destruction for all who oppose The Thickness.

Cairo: No disqualifications in the ring. No disqualifications in this life, in this war, in this quest for righteousness through the purity of thickness. We hear about bounties. We hear about year-end awards. We hear about nominations and the debates that such theoretical topics entail. I say fuck winning Tag Team of the Year. The Thickness is better than that, better than some fleeting award for a year that's almost over. The Thickness is eternal. You can't quantify this in terms of the Greco-Roman calender. You can't even quantify this in terms of Judeo-Christian morality. What we stand for is relentless, unflinching and irrefutable.

Odin: We face these challengers, these foes, the enemies of The Thickness and we take them head on. They will stop at nothing to dethrone us? We won't even stop at nothing. We'll go beyond that in our methods to crush them under our boots like the pathetic insects that they are.

Odin and Cairo raise their blackstone mugs in celebration, for one night ignoring the destruction to their private club. They'll deal with that damage in the morning, rectify the wrong, turn back the challenge. It's no different than their defiant approach toward a field of challengers both known and unknown at ONE. It's no different than their approach to the cuntyrant Sarah Twilight. It's no different than their approach to MAVERICK and his Odinator. You can't front on this Thickness tip. You either shit or your get off of the pot. You either spit your shit or you shut your mouth. You either get out of that ring or you get hurt. Doesn't matter if you're a contender in the pot luck battle royal or whether you're Jonny Fly himself. The Thickness only makes allegiance with other thickness. Jonny Fly thought he got a good ride on SLAM, working with The Thickness to achieve his objective. The Thickness don't give a fuck about Jonny Fly or his objective. The Thickness don't give a fuck about Steve Orbit. Just two more chumps who couldn't hang, bit the dust and got shipped out to a third world garbage heap. The only truth is thickness. The only reality is thickness. Thickness is salvation for humankind.



Chapter V: "Only The Beginning"

MEAN WHILE! BACK IN THE LEGION OF DOOM!!

“Son of a whore!“ MAVERICK curses in rage as he throws a chemistry set across his lab, Bunsen burners crashing and shattering on the floor. He turns around to gaze upon his creation, mangled by The Thickness. The Odinator stands there expressionless as MAVERICK looks him over.

MAVERICK: How could you fuck this up? You're perfect! You're me – you're him.. well.. not so much him- but you're me! M.E. Damn it! What happened out there?

Odinator: My Magnetic Core CPU was compromised. Mission failure would have been imminent. A tactical retreat in order to repair damages was calculated to be the best option.

MAVERICK: Then explain the hooker and blow? Not that I'm complaining.

As MAVERICK wipes the nose candy from his upper lip.

MAVERICK: I mean this is really good blow but what the hell?

Odinator: Statistics based on data that you've uploaded into my memory processor would indicate that the targets would follow. Data has proven that they will try and reclaim what was taken from them. Personality analysis would indicate that the probability of them retrieving their stolen property is 80.133 percent.

MAVERICK: Am I going mad or did the words “think,” escape your lips!? You were NOT created for your brains, you hypotonic land mass. When he gets here, Odin Balfore will die. Do you understand?

Odinator: Correction, the combined forces of Thickness now with increased adrenaline and other mind altering effects in the form of water soluble liquids has dropped success rates nearly in half. A new course of action must be taken or else the entire protocol will be jeopardized.

MAVERICK: Look, I don't care what protocol is, what the plan is- what the odds are. NEVER TELL ME THE ODDS! I make the damn odds! DAMN IT! That's why I built that odds predictor machine! If that Asgardian asshole is really on his way over here then it's YOUR job to make sure that he doesn't leave unless it's in a body bag!

Stripper: I agree with Odin Daddy.

MAVERICK: Ah, so the sod decides to speak.

The stripper is passed out in MAVERICK's swivel chair, speaking in subconscious tongues. That bitch ain't really speaking- the words that come out of her mouth are an automated response. Months of being bounced off the thickness and communistic rule have transformed her into one of the mindless skanks that populate Poon Guinea. She just knows that if she disagrees with Odin Balfore, cyborg or not that she will get her Dominican ass whooped and her poon smashed.

MAVERICK: You? You take their side? Never in my life have I heard such idiotic things! I bet that when they fished you out of the Gulf of Mec-he-cho that you were soo slobbering drunk- you'd suck dicks for a shot of brandy!

MAVERICK turns his attention back to Odinator.

MAVERICK: And Yoouu.. Friendless, brainless.. helpless.. hopeless.. You had one job. One stinking job and you couldn't even get that right!? Do you want me to send you back to where all my failed experiments go? Unemployed.. in Greenland!?

Suddenly the mad man got a whiff of an idea, never the stranger. Never the fear.

MAVERICK: I got it! I got it! That's just what we'll do. Go back to the beginning- go into hiding- keep him away from his bitches and blow. We'll make them exhaust their resources as they try to find us and when they least expect it -

BAM!

MAVERICK: We'll strike them where it hurts. An all out assault on Poon Guinea. Yah that's what we'll do. It's perfect, it's perfect! Oh and then.. and then I'll create a button that just blows all of Denmark- cuz fuck all of those a-holes who live there! Now grab the bitch, you big baboon, there's work to do!

Lightning cracks and thunder booms as MAVERICK storms off to hatch yet another “perfect” idea.



Chapter VI: "Act Of War"

“I don't give a fuck about that poon or a petty kilo of coke. Shit's just not my priorities of things to get back from an Odin Balfore terminator.“

Cairo: But Odin-

Odin: You speak to me? Have you gained feelings for this poon? Do I have to jog your noggin of all things thick and glorious? The poon and the coke? Please Bobby, screw your skull back on tight.

Cairo: This demands a counter attack.

Odin: What it demands is another round of Poonglourious Basterds. All going after them is going to do is show that any fuckin jobber ass cyborg from the future can just up and take some low brow bitch thinking it'll cause us to follow. Then that's it. The whole thing goes out the damn window. Damn it, Bobby, use your head.

Cairo: He invaded Poon Guinea, he destroyed government property. That's an act of war!

Odin: Shit's an act of faggotry by a cyborg with a death wish as well as anyone else who thinks they can just come up here and knock on our door. This ain't Denmark- this ain't no tree huggin hippie parade clubhouse where Corey Black just gets to invite all of his friends so they can play dress up and have a fuckin tea party.

Cairo's finger still intimately traces the outline of the “Denmark Destroy” button.

Odin: Bobby, I will not go down the list and name names of those who are in the battle royal, such Sarah Twilight anti-poon logic is beneath me, getting clobbered by my Thickness.

Cairo: So you see no reason to chase after this guy? After this alternate cyborg you from the future?

Odin: Just another jobber. Another guy that's just so damn excited to be competing in not one but perhaps two matches and for tag team gold at that? Only jobbers get excited over jobber things. This shit is just Sarah Twilight back against a fucking wall, hips arched, begging for someone to run up on her and drill her- to satisfy her needs for all things Godfather and All-Father. Sarah Twilight cannot do such things, she cannot ask for such things. All she can do is fantasize about such things. This battle royal is nothing more than a fantasy for Twilight. When anyone who walks through the doors will gain a chance at our belts- it tells you a lot at the confidence that she has in the roster.

Cairo: So what you're saying is currently as it stands is that the biggest threat to us is a cyborg Odin Balfore, created by an evil genius Odin Balfore from an alternate universe who's hell bent on destroying this Odin Balfore who stands before me? For the sole purpose of collecting the S-PAC bounty, all for some technicality that they never said Odin Balfore couldn't kill himself and collect his own bounty?

Odin nods as he pops the cap on his twentieth gallon of Poonglourious Basterd and takes a swig.

Odin: That's correct.

Cairo: Gucci, my man. Fuckin brutal. Even this alternate you is a fucking beast. I never would have thought of that in a million years.

Odin: I thought of it like two weeks ago as a way to screw S-PAC out of a title match. The plan worked part of the way- thanks to S-PAC being a bunch of washed up pussies. Now it's just wait and see on MAVERICK's end. Knowing him he probably went into hiding somewhere to draw us out so he could get the jump on us.

Cairo: How do you know that?

Odin: That was going to be my second plan. Do an inside job on Poon Guinea to spur Poonitism (Patriotism for the uninitiated.) I was gonna call it twelve eleven. Woulda been great. Blamed it on the Jews, Jonny Fly woulda been thrown in Poontanamo Bay- Steve Orbit woulda been framed for some anti-poon extremist. It would have taken out the top two teams in WCF to our belts.

Cairo: Top two?

Odin: The Affirmative Action Wet Dream Team and the other half of The Thickness. Bobby – The world knows that only the Thickness can truly defeat The Thickness. So this attempt of Twilight to get the jump on us won't work. It's already been played out in my mind.

Odin takes another sip of his brew as Cairo pops another handful of M&Ms.

Cairo: This is why you're my lieutenant. You anticipate such disastrous ideas.

Odin: It's not disastrous. Not for us. It just spells the end for everyone who's in the battle royal. You can't pair up two goons to come and scalp the best team in WCF for the last three years. I understand that there are a lot of people who believe that they can. Those people live in a world where The Thickness hasn’t dominated since its inception. Those that do, who think that they can talk hard will find out the hard way how to get down with The Thickness. This is our division. Our Belts. Look at ZMAC- ownin that shit against all comers like a mother fucking O.T.G (Original Thick Gangster). Anyone who runs up in WCF won't know what the fuck they be in for. We be holdin that old school Dub See Eff for hostage, for hire. Combating that Sarah Twilight drawl where she just needs to stroke her ego because she is the worst WCF champion in history. Everyone up in this grim hall of worthless talent needs to stroke themselves because they aren't us. Bobby, it's the same story with everyone. No one in this battle royal is about to step up to us. I'm going to hit Ragnarok on them at ONE and that's going to be that. We'll be back here smashing that Gwyneth Paltrow poon.

Cairo: And what of this Odinator? Just let him on the loose?

Odin: If I go after this cyborg it is because he makes me look like a punk ass bitch. Took three slugs and ran off. No. Not me. The world knows that if you hit Odin Balfore with three shotgun slugs- you better kiss your ass good bye because I'm going to eat you alive. I don't need a seven hundred pound golden chicken. I'll just flash fry your ass and swallow you whole. I've done it before, then I'll make a labyrinth out of coke glasses. you've seen me. This Cyborg will meet the real Odin Balfore and he will know that he's done for.

Cairo stews in hatred, M&M's melting in his mouth not in his hand. Odin gazes stoically upon the carnage that surrounds him, drinking his antiseptic brew. Ganja smoke fills the atmosphere. White lines zigzag upon the table. Bitches grind on that Poon Guinean thickness. Ready or not... here we come.