Mad Dog: A Dan Severn Vignette
Feb 20, 2016 9:53:55 GMT -5
Joey Flash, God King Dune, and 2 more like this
Post by Vulgar on Feb 20, 2016 9:53:55 GMT -5
Somewhere deep within the grisly innards of the black realm known in hushed whispers as New Jersey, the deformed Stygian entity called Newark solemnly rests in a puddle of its own filth and bodily secretion. It is the unwanted child, the ill-developed twin spawned in conjunction with New York when the Sun touched hands with the swirling dark mass of Sut'inchapuy all those millennia ago in the shadowland of pre-existence. Half-buried inside its mother's uterine muscle, it was unceremoniously cut out and discarded across the Hudson River with the rest of the birth-mess, its creators hoping the world would forget about the wretched being as it died a slow, lonely death.
But die it did not. Deriving sustenance from his progenitor's rotting placenta, the repulsive creature managed to survive for years and even play host to a few of Terran's more... Lowborn of denizens.
Dan Severn: Davis, where is Kalman? I need him here so he can hold the Ukrainian's face down in a Tupperware of mustard powder and saltwater while I force penetration on him.
Piercing high, high above every other skyscraper jutting out from the city's disease-laden sludge, the Dan Severn Waste Management Tower ominously hangs over Newark like the Eye of Sauron looms over Mordor. Cocooned in a smokey office room at the very pinnacle of this portentous structure is the man himself, Dan Severn, former NWA and UFC champion. He is a bearish man, beefy and mustachioed like an old timey strongman, but with a predatory glint in his eyes that betrays an... Inhuman nature about him. Presently decked out in a baby-blue suit like Pauly from Darkman was wearing before he got thrown off of a building, he addresses his subordinate via a coffee can attached to a string.
Dan Severn: You know perfectly well how fastidious I am when it comes to rape nowadays! This isn't the nineties anymore, I NEED assistance! Don't give me that "unreachable" shit! Just find him and bring him here... Or else.
His muscles nearly immobile from frustration, Severn places the coffee can back down on his debris-strewn desk while Davis stammers out something weak and fawning. It doesn't matter what the little sycophant is mumbling, just that he knows full well that it'll be HIS ass on the cocking block if he doesn't locate Severn's assistant in time. Severn is a man used to getting ANYTHING he wants, no matter the cost. God help anybody who gets in his way.
After a few minutes of quiet seething in unmitigated sexual constipation, Severn abruptly remembers that he has a guest in his presence who should probably be tended to. Glancing up at the Ukrainian mobster bound and caged on the industrial ceiling fan over the center of his office, he takes the initiative to address the concerns his visitor is almost certainly experiencing right now in regards to his fate.
Dan Severn: Don't worry, son. You'll get what's cumming to you soon enough.
But die it did not. Deriving sustenance from his progenitor's rotting placenta, the repulsive creature managed to survive for years and even play host to a few of Terran's more... Lowborn of denizens.
Dan Severn: Davis, where is Kalman? I need him here so he can hold the Ukrainian's face down in a Tupperware of mustard powder and saltwater while I force penetration on him.
Piercing high, high above every other skyscraper jutting out from the city's disease-laden sludge, the Dan Severn Waste Management Tower ominously hangs over Newark like the Eye of Sauron looms over Mordor. Cocooned in a smokey office room at the very pinnacle of this portentous structure is the man himself, Dan Severn, former NWA and UFC champion. He is a bearish man, beefy and mustachioed like an old timey strongman, but with a predatory glint in his eyes that betrays an... Inhuman nature about him. Presently decked out in a baby-blue suit like Pauly from Darkman was wearing before he got thrown off of a building, he addresses his subordinate via a coffee can attached to a string.
Dan Severn: You know perfectly well how fastidious I am when it comes to rape nowadays! This isn't the nineties anymore, I NEED assistance! Don't give me that "unreachable" shit! Just find him and bring him here... Or else.
His muscles nearly immobile from frustration, Severn places the coffee can back down on his debris-strewn desk while Davis stammers out something weak and fawning. It doesn't matter what the little sycophant is mumbling, just that he knows full well that it'll be HIS ass on the cocking block if he doesn't locate Severn's assistant in time. Severn is a man used to getting ANYTHING he wants, no matter the cost. God help anybody who gets in his way.
After a few minutes of quiet seething in unmitigated sexual constipation, Severn abruptly remembers that he has a guest in his presence who should probably be tended to. Glancing up at the Ukrainian mobster bound and caged on the industrial ceiling fan over the center of his office, he takes the initiative to address the concerns his visitor is almost certainly experiencing right now in regards to his fate.
Dan Severn: Don't worry, son. You'll get what's cumming to you soon enough.
Dan Severn: I remember my first UFC fight as clear as the day I was circumcised. At the time I was working for Phyllis "Ma Gnucci" Lee as a low-level enforcer up in Michigan; our entry into the tournament was just a ruse to establish her as a "legitimate pro wrestling agent" to authorities and the public at large. My opponent, taut-fleshed Thai fighter Tony Macias, had a beautiful set of abs that made the blood vessels in my phallus erupt with heavenly warmth as soon as I laid eyes on them. Standing on the other side of the cage with my Bob Backlund thighs and black saran wrap-packaged ass, I couldn't help feeling beneath his league by more than a few fathoms. He was twenty-five, in the sexual prime of his life... And I was just some pasty goon from Delta City, my best days long passed even back then. Once I caught glimpse of the massive "Mad Dog" logo typed across Macias' rock-hard buttocks, however, I lost all semblance of modesty and restraint. I knew this kid had to get sodomized, big time.
Hands held high in my signature Adam Baldwin-style fighting stance, I swiftly crept over to meet my sweet Narcissus in the center of the cage as soon as the bell rang. The burning carnal impulses inside me charged every cell of my body with an erotic strength and vigor the likes of which no normal man could tolerate; I was ready to pounce and devour him at any moment. After a few impotent "self-defense" knee kicks on Tony's part, I dove straight forward and made an animalistic lunge for his ass. In that furious moment I was like a wildman, certain that no force on Earth could stop me from tearing Macias' speedo off and impaling his flaccid colon with my pulsating, fleshy lance.
But I was wrong! Somehow, some way... He knew. He knew the first thing I would try to do was go for his ass. The very moment my hands made contact with his impossibly supple flesh, I realized the entire lower half of his body was slathered in baby oil (Author's note: This is fact). Scrambling around on the mats with "Mad Dog" sprawled out on top of me, I needed several moments to regain my composure before I could make my next move. Not in a million years would I have expected him to anticipate my attack.
Using my years of Street-Grappling experience, I was able to get to my feet and wrap my beastly, 22-inch pythons (Arms, not cocks) around Macias' waist. "Ha, you jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire, little man," I thought. At this point my erection was raging so angrily that the head had pretty much almost popped through my saran wrap. Like a fat child who just couldn't wait to unwrap his king size Reese's Fast Break bar before eating it, I was ready as a motherfucker to rape Macias straight through those goddamn Mad Dog shorts. What happened next, though, blew my mind in half like a shotgun.
Leaping backwards like somebody trying to execute a flip, Macias hurled himself clean over my head and dove neck-first to the floor behind me. I was absolutely dumbfounded; this was the SECOND time he had evaded my sexual assault and retained his innocence. In a daze, I tried sodomizing him again but he just pulled off an even MORE extravagant jump that time around. It was absurd; I was like a lion whose prey had vanished from within its very teeth.
At this point Big John was getting suspicious of what I was doing, so I just tried to finish Macias off as quick as I could. After trying to kill him with a half-nelson, I managed to catch the Thai fighter in some kind of throat compression hold that made him tap out. The victory was mine, but I left the cage carrying a heinous set of blue balls that nearly made me keel over outside. In all the years that followed, in my most private moments, I would return to that fight quite often and try to figure out what went wrong. To this day, I still have no idea how he predicted my intent.
Hands held high in my signature Adam Baldwin-style fighting stance, I swiftly crept over to meet my sweet Narcissus in the center of the cage as soon as the bell rang. The burning carnal impulses inside me charged every cell of my body with an erotic strength and vigor the likes of which no normal man could tolerate; I was ready to pounce and devour him at any moment. After a few impotent "self-defense" knee kicks on Tony's part, I dove straight forward and made an animalistic lunge for his ass. In that furious moment I was like a wildman, certain that no force on Earth could stop me from tearing Macias' speedo off and impaling his flaccid colon with my pulsating, fleshy lance.
But I was wrong! Somehow, some way... He knew. He knew the first thing I would try to do was go for his ass. The very moment my hands made contact with his impossibly supple flesh, I realized the entire lower half of his body was slathered in baby oil (Author's note: This is fact). Scrambling around on the mats with "Mad Dog" sprawled out on top of me, I needed several moments to regain my composure before I could make my next move. Not in a million years would I have expected him to anticipate my attack.
Using my years of Street-Grappling experience, I was able to get to my feet and wrap my beastly, 22-inch pythons (Arms, not cocks) around Macias' waist. "Ha, you jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire, little man," I thought. At this point my erection was raging so angrily that the head had pretty much almost popped through my saran wrap. Like a fat child who just couldn't wait to unwrap his king size Reese's Fast Break bar before eating it, I was ready as a motherfucker to rape Macias straight through those goddamn Mad Dog shorts. What happened next, though, blew my mind in half like a shotgun.
Leaping backwards like somebody trying to execute a flip, Macias hurled himself clean over my head and dove neck-first to the floor behind me. I was absolutely dumbfounded; this was the SECOND time he had evaded my sexual assault and retained his innocence. In a daze, I tried sodomizing him again but he just pulled off an even MORE extravagant jump that time around. It was absurd; I was like a lion whose prey had vanished from within its very teeth.
At this point Big John was getting suspicious of what I was doing, so I just tried to finish Macias off as quick as I could. After trying to kill him with a half-nelson, I managed to catch the Thai fighter in some kind of throat compression hold that made him tap out. The victory was mine, but I left the cage carrying a heinous set of blue balls that nearly made me keel over outside. In all the years that followed, in my most private moments, I would return to that fight quite often and try to figure out what went wrong. To this day, I still have no idea how he predicted my intent.
