Post by Vulgar on Feb 18, 2016 18:25:27 GMT -5
The smell is something akin to a set of corpse breasts being charred in a paint thinner fire. Biologically speaking, it SHOULD be impossible for a human to emanate such an odor, irrespective of whatever noxious matter he somehow put into his body without dying. Before ex-UFC fighter and WWF wrestler Geza Kalman had birthed his malodorous kraken-child, the Charlie Brown's Steakhouse bathroom harbored only the mildly off-putting stench of Rooto ammonia. But now... The restroom is a virtual Auschwitz death chamber.
“Hello everybody,” wheezes the formidably obese Kalman. “Welcome to another episode of Go or No-Go!”
Draped in a wrestling singlet adorned with the Canadian Maple Leaf, Kalman aims his Zenith compact VHS camcorder down into the abyssal, brown-caked bowl he had just unloaded his excreta in not moments ago. The behemoth, pulsating loaf is still sitting there, not a single particle having broken off from its diamond-hard body. It crouches at the bottom of the porcelain almost as if possessing consciousness, like a predator biding its time to lash out at the throat of some unwary passerby.
“This one took me the whole afternoon to pull out,” dribbles the rapist-eyed ex-wrestler. “Let’s see if it’s willing to go down in one shot.”
With beefy, feces-stained fingers, Kalman clumsily presses down on the toilet lever and unleashes an industrial-strength barrage of water onto his puce leviathan. Like a black civil rights protestor being blasted by riot hoses, the mass of waste can do nothing but wallow on the ground as the downpour unyieldingly hammers its frame. For twenty solid seconds, The Great Deluge beats the throbbing mound of feces with enough force to disintegrate the flesh off a tortoise. NOTHING birthed of mundane, tri-dimensional reality could survive this avalanche of water completely intact.
And yet, when the foam clears… Kalman’s son is no worse for wear than before he attempted to flush it.
“Boy, oh boy. Looks like I’m going to be here until dinner,” puffs Kalman.
With steadfast patience fostered through years of dealing with public facilities too puny and ineffectual to handle his power, Kalman waits for the latrine to recharge so he can try once again to purge his excrement. This is the tedious part of science, the monotonous labor and toil one doesn’t get to experience reading factlets and memes on pseudo-intellectual websites. Kalman doesn’t know how many attempts he’ll have to make before finally being able to defeat his effluvium-dispersing colon spawn, but what he is certain of is that he can’t move from this particular stall until the job is done. Science requires unremitting passion and dedication from its disciples; a scientician’s job may often be a thankless one, but there needs to be people in the world willing to do the incessantly mundane work necessary to push civilization forward.
The mammoth wrestler waits intently next to the putrid bowl, almost as if in a trance. Just the thought of trying to flush his excreta again nearly makes him sexually aroused, much akin Dan Severn catching the sight of man ass. At the exact split second when the tank has fully refilled, however… A very disconcerting knock at the stall completely shatters his rapture like a Jenga tower being blasted by a pitching machine.
“Sir, I apologize, but you have to get out of there and leave the restaurant now,” sharply whispers the exacerbated Charlie Brown’s Steakhouse manager. “The smell is creeping into the smoking section. People are complaining about it more than the cigarettes.”
In an instant, Kalman’s countenance shifts from an expression of sheer elation to a contortment of unmitigated fury. This has to be something in the realm of the fourth time this asshole has harassed him tonight. The Canadian steadfastly ignores the manager’s plea and prepares to push down on the tank lever a second time.
“Welcome back to Go or No-Go,” hisses Kalman through gritted teeth. “Take two for-“
The manager bashes on the door again.
“Sir, I don’t know what your problem is, but this is private property,” whines the manager. “You can’t just stay here and do… Whatever the Hell it is that you’re doing.”
“Maybe he has cancer,” says a withered second voice. “Chemotherapy shits are even worse than milk shits. I would imagine a person with both lactose intolerance and colorectal cancer has to spend most of his day in the head.”
“Eddie, I- It doesn’t matter what his issue is. He just has to get the fuck out, now,” whispers the manager while massaging his temples.
Kalman continues to ignore him. His body practically immobilized by pure rage, he forces the lever down and unleashes the geyser a second time.
“Is he done?” says Eddie.
The manager tentatively waits for his girthy patron to step out of the stall and FINALLY leave the establishment. Apparently, the lumbering man in the ludicrous wrestling outfit came into the Steakhouse (On 222 Plainfield Road in Edison, New Jersey) some time around noon and was allowed to use the restroom without buying anything by a novice waitress. Locking himself inside a stall, he spent the next several hours grunting and wheezing so heinously that people could actually hear him out on the main floor; one elderly woman was so repulsed by the vulgar sounds that she vomited up her Mrs. Brown’s Meatloaf onto another diner’s table. Starting his shift at 3:30 P.M., the manager had no idea what he was walking into. He had just stepped onto the main floor when the fucking smell hit him like a toddler getting gored in the temple by an elk.
“Oh God, I hope this is it,” gasps the manager. “I probably would’ve called the police on him by now if every cop in the state wasn’t fighting Emmanuel Yarborough’s army in Rahway. If he’s done right now, though, I guess I’ll just let him go without cutting his nose off with a steak knife.”
On that note, an ominous bubbling sound begins emanating from behind the stall and causes the manager to freeze up where he stands. He doesn’t have a second to process the noise before a river of off-white tinted water starts to soak his pleather dress shoes from behind the door. The manager’s eyes open wide as he watches tiny flakes of brown caress the edges of his soles like snowflakes sliding off a child’s nose.
“Damn,” croaks Kalman. “It looks like Turdzilla’s winning this fight.”
Every man has a breaking point. For the unnamed Charlie Brown’s Steakhouse manager, this was his.
“Son of a bitch! GET! OUT!”
His forehead throbbing with such vascular intensity that it looks like it’s about to explode, the manager begins furiously trying to rip the door off its hinges by the handle. Eddie, seeing that the shit is about to hit the fan (Metaphorically and, potentially, physically), hollers something incomprehensible and waddles off as fast as his old legs will carry him. The manager doesn’t notice that his companion has abandoned him; all he can think of is forcing the scatologically-obsessed retard behind the door face first into the toilet bowl and shoving a bar of soap up his ass. He wants to rip the Canadian apart so bad that his dick is practically grinding its teeth.
When he finally breaks the lock and gets to see Kalman for the first time, however, the manager freezes in utter shock. The singlet-clad wrestler, his brow furrowed in abject hatred, slowly turns around and looks upon his diminutive aggressor. The manager had no idea just how… Bestial the Canadian looks.
“Friend…” Kalman heaves. “You just bought yourself a one-way ticket to Ass Rape City.”
The blond, bespectacled manager doesn’t have a fraction of the reflex speed necessary to brace himself for the oncoming backfist, let alone dodge it. After a starburst of white and a brief swoon of black, the manager abruptly finds himself covered in glass and splayed across the sink about eight feet away from where Kalman is standing in the stall. His head pounding harder than any conscious man has ever had to endure in human history, he blearily gazes upon his mammoth assailant and tries to wrap his mind around just how it was physically possible for the Canadian to launch his body this far with just a single blow. The profusely bleeding manager doesn’t have the time or the capacity to fully grasp the situation, however, before the bear-man hybrid is barreling down on him again for a second attack.
“You people… You scientifically-illiterate Neanderthals,” bellows Kalman as he hoists the manager above his own head by his neck and testicles. “You think you know more than those who have spent their entire lives studying the natural world! You want to stop progress for no other reason than because you’re afraid of the evolving planet!”
Like a medieval catapult, Kalman furiously hurls his flaccidly helpless victim twelve feet straight into the tile wall behind the last urinal. The manager’s body begins going into shock immediately upon impact; the sheer force of the throw had practically left a cartoon indent into the shattered tiles.
“Well it’s time for a revolution,” seethes the red-faced Kalman. “It’s time for the academics of the world to overthrow the anti-intellectual ruling class and establish a new order! This will be the first strike in a brutal and protracted struggle to decide who shall truly inherit the Earth! Are you ready for it?”
The manager just sort of twitches and seizures against the wall while blood pours out from his body like a waterfall.
“Very well,” grunts Kalman. “BAAAAAAAAAAAAAANZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-“
Like a runaway frate trane careening off its tracks full speed into a foundry, Kalman unleashes a guttural, inhuman roar and charges at the manager as fast as his pork-log legs will carry him. This will be the body splash of all body splashes, the blow that kills this pasty-faced manager at least fifty times over. With his girth and momentum, it’s quite possible he’ll rip a hole straight through the wall and end up bursting into the parking lot amidst a hail of blood and human offal. Depending on the sturdiness of the building, the entire restaurant might even sway over and collapse. It’ll be an awe-inspiring spectacle that will make every witness have to pop anti-depressants for years upon years after the fact.
“AAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIII- Ah, fuck!”
Before he can discharge his fury into his opponent’s body, however, Kalman abruptly slips on the puddle of toilet water and falls straight back into the stall where he had birthed Turdzilla. Crashing mouth-first on the edge of the overflowing toilet, Kalman gurgles up several teeth before passing out in a river of his own shit freckles.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
It’s more than freezing out here. The air’s so cold your scrotum would turn necrotic and fall off in a matter of seconds if you weren’t wearing at least twelve layers of long johns. A person would have to be retarded and completely lack a sense of touch to even think about coming out to this Hell-blessed place. This entire island is a virtual dead-zone, a wasteland where not but the most adamantine extremophile can survive for long.
And yet here I am, anyway, pacing around the borderline-glacial plateaus and archipelagos with ninety pounds of gear strapped to my back and absolutely no food. Right now I have the good fortune to be swaddled in a cocoon of warmth, a flexible exoskeleton that makes me feel like I’m only walking around in an ordinary, temperate January afternoon. But soon my fuel will run out, and I’ll be just as exposed to the elements as any other poor bastard would be out here. Then it will only be a matter of time before the blood vessels in my brain freeze and rupture, leaving me to progressively wither away in the ice-hardened dunes like some kind of aborted taxidermy project.
All of that only applies if I don’t complete my objective in time, of course. And, let me tell you, that is something I will NOT let happen. I’ve chased this son of a bitch to the ends of the Earth and back. I’ve plowed through gunfire, pestilence, and the most rabid beasts ever spawned of nature just to keep from giving his ass a break. His biggest mistake was thinking I wouldn’t keep up my hunt here. Right now I’m hauling a riot gun packed to the brim with enough tranquilizer darts to take out an entire county fair in one fell swoop. After I knock him out and drag him back to the plane, I’ll show that bastard a fate worse than death… At least fifty times over.
My dick is practically grinding its teeth.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
God knows how much time passes. When the haze finally clears and Kalman is able to pick his face off the porcelain lid, the first thing to meet his ears is the sound of... Sirens?
"Wah?" Kalman mumbles.
The beefy Cambadian attempts to wipe the blood and feces off his chin, but inadvertently only spreads more of it around his face because his hands are covered in both. His swirling, effervescent mind is at a loss to form a solid answer about why he's hearing police sirens outside despite the fact that every cop in the state is tied-up in a never ending war with the Black Karate Federation and the escaped criminals of Rahway State Prison. He groggily attempts to get to his feet, but his equilibrium is too shot for him to move properly. Resigning just to crawl, he manages to roll out of the stall and shakily pull himself up at the sink.
Looking over to the urinals, he observes with pride that the manager is still writhing in the corner and nearly dead from the trauma his body had absorbed, failed body splash notwithstanding. The blaring sirens still disconcert him, however, and he wonders what they could possibly be. New Jersey doesn't have hospitals or fire departments anymore; Dan Severn took those all over and converted them to Drencrom dens and all-male Real Doll brothels. Kalman figures he'll probably just have to go out and ask what's up.
Right before he gets to the door, however, a sudden thought blasts his mind like a flare gun erupting in a scented oil shop. Police don't dwell in this part of the state anymore... But PitFighters still do.
“Hello everybody,” wheezes the formidably obese Kalman. “Welcome to another episode of Go or No-Go!”
Draped in a wrestling singlet adorned with the Canadian Maple Leaf, Kalman aims his Zenith compact VHS camcorder down into the abyssal, brown-caked bowl he had just unloaded his excreta in not moments ago. The behemoth, pulsating loaf is still sitting there, not a single particle having broken off from its diamond-hard body. It crouches at the bottom of the porcelain almost as if possessing consciousness, like a predator biding its time to lash out at the throat of some unwary passerby.
“This one took me the whole afternoon to pull out,” dribbles the rapist-eyed ex-wrestler. “Let’s see if it’s willing to go down in one shot.”
With beefy, feces-stained fingers, Kalman clumsily presses down on the toilet lever and unleashes an industrial-strength barrage of water onto his puce leviathan. Like a black civil rights protestor being blasted by riot hoses, the mass of waste can do nothing but wallow on the ground as the downpour unyieldingly hammers its frame. For twenty solid seconds, The Great Deluge beats the throbbing mound of feces with enough force to disintegrate the flesh off a tortoise. NOTHING birthed of mundane, tri-dimensional reality could survive this avalanche of water completely intact.
And yet, when the foam clears… Kalman’s son is no worse for wear than before he attempted to flush it.
“Boy, oh boy. Looks like I’m going to be here until dinner,” puffs Kalman.
With steadfast patience fostered through years of dealing with public facilities too puny and ineffectual to handle his power, Kalman waits for the latrine to recharge so he can try once again to purge his excrement. This is the tedious part of science, the monotonous labor and toil one doesn’t get to experience reading factlets and memes on pseudo-intellectual websites. Kalman doesn’t know how many attempts he’ll have to make before finally being able to defeat his effluvium-dispersing colon spawn, but what he is certain of is that he can’t move from this particular stall until the job is done. Science requires unremitting passion and dedication from its disciples; a scientician’s job may often be a thankless one, but there needs to be people in the world willing to do the incessantly mundane work necessary to push civilization forward.
The mammoth wrestler waits intently next to the putrid bowl, almost as if in a trance. Just the thought of trying to flush his excreta again nearly makes him sexually aroused, much akin Dan Severn catching the sight of man ass. At the exact split second when the tank has fully refilled, however… A very disconcerting knock at the stall completely shatters his rapture like a Jenga tower being blasted by a pitching machine.
“Sir, I apologize, but you have to get out of there and leave the restaurant now,” sharply whispers the exacerbated Charlie Brown’s Steakhouse manager. “The smell is creeping into the smoking section. People are complaining about it more than the cigarettes.”
In an instant, Kalman’s countenance shifts from an expression of sheer elation to a contortment of unmitigated fury. This has to be something in the realm of the fourth time this asshole has harassed him tonight. The Canadian steadfastly ignores the manager’s plea and prepares to push down on the tank lever a second time.
“Welcome back to Go or No-Go,” hisses Kalman through gritted teeth. “Take two for-“
The manager bashes on the door again.
“Sir, I don’t know what your problem is, but this is private property,” whines the manager. “You can’t just stay here and do… Whatever the Hell it is that you’re doing.”
“Maybe he has cancer,” says a withered second voice. “Chemotherapy shits are even worse than milk shits. I would imagine a person with both lactose intolerance and colorectal cancer has to spend most of his day in the head.”
“Eddie, I- It doesn’t matter what his issue is. He just has to get the fuck out, now,” whispers the manager while massaging his temples.
Kalman continues to ignore him. His body practically immobilized by pure rage, he forces the lever down and unleashes the geyser a second time.
“Is he done?” says Eddie.
The manager tentatively waits for his girthy patron to step out of the stall and FINALLY leave the establishment. Apparently, the lumbering man in the ludicrous wrestling outfit came into the Steakhouse (On 222 Plainfield Road in Edison, New Jersey) some time around noon and was allowed to use the restroom without buying anything by a novice waitress. Locking himself inside a stall, he spent the next several hours grunting and wheezing so heinously that people could actually hear him out on the main floor; one elderly woman was so repulsed by the vulgar sounds that she vomited up her Mrs. Brown’s Meatloaf onto another diner’s table. Starting his shift at 3:30 P.M., the manager had no idea what he was walking into. He had just stepped onto the main floor when the fucking smell hit him like a toddler getting gored in the temple by an elk.
“Oh God, I hope this is it,” gasps the manager. “I probably would’ve called the police on him by now if every cop in the state wasn’t fighting Emmanuel Yarborough’s army in Rahway. If he’s done right now, though, I guess I’ll just let him go without cutting his nose off with a steak knife.”
On that note, an ominous bubbling sound begins emanating from behind the stall and causes the manager to freeze up where he stands. He doesn’t have a second to process the noise before a river of off-white tinted water starts to soak his pleather dress shoes from behind the door. The manager’s eyes open wide as he watches tiny flakes of brown caress the edges of his soles like snowflakes sliding off a child’s nose.
“Damn,” croaks Kalman. “It looks like Turdzilla’s winning this fight.”
Every man has a breaking point. For the unnamed Charlie Brown’s Steakhouse manager, this was his.
“Son of a bitch! GET! OUT!”
His forehead throbbing with such vascular intensity that it looks like it’s about to explode, the manager begins furiously trying to rip the door off its hinges by the handle. Eddie, seeing that the shit is about to hit the fan (Metaphorically and, potentially, physically), hollers something incomprehensible and waddles off as fast as his old legs will carry him. The manager doesn’t notice that his companion has abandoned him; all he can think of is forcing the scatologically-obsessed retard behind the door face first into the toilet bowl and shoving a bar of soap up his ass. He wants to rip the Canadian apart so bad that his dick is practically grinding its teeth.
When he finally breaks the lock and gets to see Kalman for the first time, however, the manager freezes in utter shock. The singlet-clad wrestler, his brow furrowed in abject hatred, slowly turns around and looks upon his diminutive aggressor. The manager had no idea just how… Bestial the Canadian looks.
“Friend…” Kalman heaves. “You just bought yourself a one-way ticket to Ass Rape City.”
The blond, bespectacled manager doesn’t have a fraction of the reflex speed necessary to brace himself for the oncoming backfist, let alone dodge it. After a starburst of white and a brief swoon of black, the manager abruptly finds himself covered in glass and splayed across the sink about eight feet away from where Kalman is standing in the stall. His head pounding harder than any conscious man has ever had to endure in human history, he blearily gazes upon his mammoth assailant and tries to wrap his mind around just how it was physically possible for the Canadian to launch his body this far with just a single blow. The profusely bleeding manager doesn’t have the time or the capacity to fully grasp the situation, however, before the bear-man hybrid is barreling down on him again for a second attack.
“You people… You scientifically-illiterate Neanderthals,” bellows Kalman as he hoists the manager above his own head by his neck and testicles. “You think you know more than those who have spent their entire lives studying the natural world! You want to stop progress for no other reason than because you’re afraid of the evolving planet!”
Like a medieval catapult, Kalman furiously hurls his flaccidly helpless victim twelve feet straight into the tile wall behind the last urinal. The manager’s body begins going into shock immediately upon impact; the sheer force of the throw had practically left a cartoon indent into the shattered tiles.
“Well it’s time for a revolution,” seethes the red-faced Kalman. “It’s time for the academics of the world to overthrow the anti-intellectual ruling class and establish a new order! This will be the first strike in a brutal and protracted struggle to decide who shall truly inherit the Earth! Are you ready for it?”
The manager just sort of twitches and seizures against the wall while blood pours out from his body like a waterfall.
“Very well,” grunts Kalman. “BAAAAAAAAAAAAAANZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-“
Like a runaway frate trane careening off its tracks full speed into a foundry, Kalman unleashes a guttural, inhuman roar and charges at the manager as fast as his pork-log legs will carry him. This will be the body splash of all body splashes, the blow that kills this pasty-faced manager at least fifty times over. With his girth and momentum, it’s quite possible he’ll rip a hole straight through the wall and end up bursting into the parking lot amidst a hail of blood and human offal. Depending on the sturdiness of the building, the entire restaurant might even sway over and collapse. It’ll be an awe-inspiring spectacle that will make every witness have to pop anti-depressants for years upon years after the fact.
“AAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIII- Ah, fuck!”
Before he can discharge his fury into his opponent’s body, however, Kalman abruptly slips on the puddle of toilet water and falls straight back into the stall where he had birthed Turdzilla. Crashing mouth-first on the edge of the overflowing toilet, Kalman gurgles up several teeth before passing out in a river of his own shit freckles.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
It’s more than freezing out here. The air’s so cold your scrotum would turn necrotic and fall off in a matter of seconds if you weren’t wearing at least twelve layers of long johns. A person would have to be retarded and completely lack a sense of touch to even think about coming out to this Hell-blessed place. This entire island is a virtual dead-zone, a wasteland where not but the most adamantine extremophile can survive for long.
And yet here I am, anyway, pacing around the borderline-glacial plateaus and archipelagos with ninety pounds of gear strapped to my back and absolutely no food. Right now I have the good fortune to be swaddled in a cocoon of warmth, a flexible exoskeleton that makes me feel like I’m only walking around in an ordinary, temperate January afternoon. But soon my fuel will run out, and I’ll be just as exposed to the elements as any other poor bastard would be out here. Then it will only be a matter of time before the blood vessels in my brain freeze and rupture, leaving me to progressively wither away in the ice-hardened dunes like some kind of aborted taxidermy project.
All of that only applies if I don’t complete my objective in time, of course. And, let me tell you, that is something I will NOT let happen. I’ve chased this son of a bitch to the ends of the Earth and back. I’ve plowed through gunfire, pestilence, and the most rabid beasts ever spawned of nature just to keep from giving his ass a break. His biggest mistake was thinking I wouldn’t keep up my hunt here. Right now I’m hauling a riot gun packed to the brim with enough tranquilizer darts to take out an entire county fair in one fell swoop. After I knock him out and drag him back to the plane, I’ll show that bastard a fate worse than death… At least fifty times over.
My dick is practically grinding its teeth.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
God knows how much time passes. When the haze finally clears and Kalman is able to pick his face off the porcelain lid, the first thing to meet his ears is the sound of... Sirens?
"Wah?" Kalman mumbles.
The beefy Cambadian attempts to wipe the blood and feces off his chin, but inadvertently only spreads more of it around his face because his hands are covered in both. His swirling, effervescent mind is at a loss to form a solid answer about why he's hearing police sirens outside despite the fact that every cop in the state is tied-up in a never ending war with the Black Karate Federation and the escaped criminals of Rahway State Prison. He groggily attempts to get to his feet, but his equilibrium is too shot for him to move properly. Resigning just to crawl, he manages to roll out of the stall and shakily pull himself up at the sink.
Looking over to the urinals, he observes with pride that the manager is still writhing in the corner and nearly dead from the trauma his body had absorbed, failed body splash notwithstanding. The blaring sirens still disconcert him, however, and he wonders what they could possibly be. New Jersey doesn't have hospitals or fire departments anymore; Dan Severn took those all over and converted them to Drencrom dens and all-male Real Doll brothels. Kalman figures he'll probably just have to go out and ask what's up.
Right before he gets to the door, however, a sudden thought blasts his mind like a flare gun erupting in a scented oil shop. Police don't dwell in this part of the state anymore... But PitFighters still do.
