Post by Deleted on May 13, 2011 4:38:43 GMT -5
Your vision is distorted and perverted by the faint flailing of night skies. You stumble while searching for a foothold in the darkness. Your ignorance overwhelms you in this moment. You are sad. You sit down upon what feels at first like a tree stump, but it begins crawling while under your ass. You reason that it must be a Galapagos tortoise. How ever did such a creature find its way here, and, by the way, where ever on heaven and earth are you? You conclude that the answers to these questions may never be known. You resign yourself to an uncertain fate as you start thinking about the girl that you loved in high school. The Puerto Rican chica with the breasts and the ass and the fiery demeanor. Oh she was a handful but she would never let you have a handful of her. You admired her from afar because you were flush in the face, a white boy with an attitude that could not be quelled, but admire her you did. You would have taken her SAT exam for her if it would have brought you closer to her poon. This is especially remarkable because you were a young lad who hated those kinds of biased, brain-washing, standardized tests. You never did get the girl, but still... those were fun times. You smile while reminiscing as the Galapagos tortoise or whatever it is carries you away to God only knows where. It's not as if it really matters where you're going because life... life never really turned out the way that you wanted it to. You couldn't even manage to land that sales position at Lady Foot Locker, your purported "Dream Job" that requires only a high school or GED diploma.
Suddenly illumination, ILLUMINATION comes calling. Oh my, there is no pie in the sky but your vision has jumped to life. Oh yes, you can see it all now under a pseudo-candlelight glow. Bandits are scheming in the night, scheming to defraud the good people of this fair land of all that they have justly acquired through hard work and perseverance. Does this remind you of a certain wrestling match at XIII? No, of course not. You have no time for wrestling nonsense. Wrestling nonsense means precisely nothing to you. Night has fallen upon this fair valley, but you can see it all and what you see is not all bad. Sure, some will scheme while others are dreaming in their bed, a sign of both evil and cowardice on the part of these schemers with God complexes, but not all is so dastardly and corrupt in the valley. In the distance, oh so far in that vast and poignant distance, you spot a horseman who is strung out. He's not met by ropes and cadavers, but rather you see him in the forest among tree branches that act as whips upon the backsides of the horseman and his fair lady.
The horseman is vibrant and throbbing in the heat of intense passion. As you spy upon him you observe that he is receiving a blowjob from a princess, a princess who has pancakes for lips. Her lips are not literal pancakes, of course, but they're so fat and fleshy that they could well be. Both of the engaged parties are buck naked for Lord and Empire to see, but it appears that you are the only one observing the sexual proclivities that are transpiring. You are more than willing to partake of the good shit as the Galapagos tortoise slows his pace to rest and you rise to your feet upon steady soil. The princess sucks the horseman's love banana with her pancake lips, and you reach down to pleasure yourself, stroking your Johnson as if it were a magic wand that could grant you three wishes, including one winning $350 million dollar Powerball ticket. You feel a rush of pleasure in your groin as you begin to stroke your previously flaccid manhood to an upright state. The concentration of flesh and stimuli is taking its toll. Thoughts of that hateful little statist troll Harry Reid exit your brain and only the thought of pancake princess lips on rock-hard horseman cock resides amongst your brain modules.
You let out moaning sounds, though they are not loud enough for so much as the schemers to overhear you, much less the princess and the horseman in their distant throne of passion. You would rather pretend that the masturbation procedure in which you are participating is a handjob from the princess rather than the culmination of failures from your own Teutonic ancestry. You wouldn't be jerkin' your own gherkin if you had defeated that man in fisticuffs all those years ago.
Yeah... that World War II was a sad turn of events. You went from being a high-ranking officer in the youth service to being a turnip farmer in Argentina. Oh well... c'est la vie. Life's a bitch and then God murders you.
You're just about to achieve a most powerful orgasm from stroking "it" when the sound of a shovel thudding against solid earth draws your attention away from the distant eroticism. To further mount the circumstances against you, a rather pungent smell hits your nose. "What is that?" you ask yourself while crinkling your nasal sensories. You peer around so far as your visual companions, your eyes, will carry you, until you find the unspoken culprit. Your line of vision stumbles upon the haunting specter of WCF Hardcore Champion Phillip Baines with a shovel in hand. Phillip is forcing his will upon a plot of dirt as he digs a grave in the fertile earth surface. Phil's uncharacteristic nocturnal activity is being spotlighted by a combination of moonlight glow and a sturdy, economical halogen lantern. The scornful scent of fresh dirt strikes your person, smelling as if thousands upon thousands of earthworms are fucking inside of your nose. You put forward a motion for vomiting, but your empty stomach preceded by a poor man's diet allows only for spittle to be emitted. This is truly fucking crazy in your estimation.
Phillip Baines speaks in solemn verses between tossing shovelfuls of dirt over his fearsome left shoulder.
Phil: I am breaking bread for an honest man's living. Omega Greenfever has challenged my right to exist and I plan on splitting his cranium into multiple fractures. I will impugn upon his will to live. Greenfever has never frightened me. For the least of which, Greenfever is a small, girlish figure of a man. Greenfever is built like an emo child, a European boy or furthermore a teenage girl who has been afflicted with anorexia nervosa. Greenfever has attempted to frighten me with repeated images of gore and bombast, but his character flaws are telling. I grew up in the sort of neighborhood that a good old country boy like Omega Redneckfever would shudder to consider. I will concede that I do not have the experience in killing and doing the Devil's work that Redneckfever has most obviously accumulated, but so what? So nothing. Sew buttons.
Phil grunts as further soil is fragmented, splintered and air-lifted by his primitive instrument of choice, the blood-thirsty and awe-inspiring mud shovel.
Phil: I can feel it in the tips of my fingers and all the way down to the soles of my feet. I will defeat Greenfever because I am the only man in this company who simply refuses to accept the supposed inevitably of death. Greenfever consorts and purports himself to a position of deity, but what does this really mean? It means that his ideology constitutes the faded remnants of a failed totalitarian religion known as Christianity. I, Phillip Baines, rise above these amateurish brainwashing schemes. If there ever was a God then he is now dead and resting in this very soil that I am preparing for Greenfever, the heir to His disgustipated throne. Greenfever is really and truly nothing more than fresh flesh for my feast. I am certainly aware that I have been counted down and out, discounted by those who follow a carefully calculated system of infantile and utterly repugnant beliefs, but that means nothing to me. They say that Baines cannot defeat Greenfever at his own game, in a match that Greenfever created, but they overlook the fact that I have already defeated Greenfever in the hardcore environment that he had supposedly mastered.
Phil shrugs the brunt of his heaving shoulders and wipes his brow upon his forest green button-up shirt. Sweat, dirt and grime permeate Phil's brow, but they don't fluctuate the man himself. Phil's face looks like something that could kill a man on its own merits, even without the considerable brains and brawn that embody the remainder of Phil's person.
Phil: Greenfever likes to play with imagery and words, the pale images of a man who is goddamn strapped for true creativity. I laugh at you, Greenfever. You are the Fred Flintstone to my Charles Manson. Oh, uh, pardon me... it's time for a YouTube transmission.
Phil: Greenie, you're the punk-ass little virgin teenager who watches too many horror movies while I'm the balls-hanging-out-from-too-much-banging, street smart, world weary motherfucker who will slit your throat if you get too close. Get too close to me at XIII, you cracker ass honky bitch, and see what happens. I dare you. I double dog dare you, motherfucker. Give me the chance to slit your throat and make you bleed like a stuck pig on Creeping Death's fresh, new, specially designed for XIII ring canvas. I want to splatter your blood on the mat like it's a Jackson Pollock painting, you backwoods Caucasian fucktard. You use words like faggot as if they mean something to me. They mean nothing, you warped little homo-revved pervoid. I don't care which side of your bread you get buttered upon, nor should you give a fuck about who or what is buttering mine. It shouldn't matter to you whether it's Gina De Carlo sucking my dick or whether it's the Hot Dog Mascot. Yet it does, Greenie. Yet it motherfucking does.
Phil hocks a loogie into a dozen or so translucent meters of open field before returning to his grave-digging commitments.
Phil: I used to give you credit and respect, Greenie. I used to think that you were an innovator, an influence on how to throw the tried and supposedly true techniques of how to build a successful WCF career out the window and mark your own path. I thought that you were someone who hated the system like me, like Chad Evans, like Bobby Cairo, like Rage Against the Machine, like anarcho-punk rockers Amebix. Then I discovered through transcendental warfare and hopped-up Novocaine bliss that you're only successful in a hardcore environment because you rely upon the delusion of multiplicity. You cannot win a wrestling match against a man of my considerable and altogether unsettling stature on fair grounds, so you hide your agenda throughout the week, stack your promos at the eleventh hour and then cross your fingers and hope that I'll be too bedazzled to respond.
Phil grunts and does a triumphant Karate shout that would make Lyoto Machida proud while obliterating a particularly stubborn combination of soil and rock under the blade of his shovel.
Phil: Don't get me wrong because I am disappointed in you, oh Greenest of Fevers. I thought you had more fortitude than that, but I am also flattered. You were so desperate to get past the insurmountable challenge that I, the Phillest of Baines, present that you resorted to a desperate coward's tactics. I am here to school your brain and tease your schlong, Greenie. You might be "Green" right now, but you will have blue balls before this morning is over. Then, AND THEN, you will just be blue when night fall rises in Des Moines, Iowa. Blue balls will turn to a wholly blue skin pigmentation when I suffocate your previously life-affirming breaths. See? Greedfever tried to have his cake and eat it too, but all he will end up with is crow in his shit-talking yap. Then, AND THEN, those crows will populate his gravesite when I lay him down to rest here in Parts Unknown. Crow's feet will tread upon the soil that covers his permanent resting place. Where are we though? I'm sure that inquiring minds want to know. Is this Des Moines? Is it Pine Bluff? Is it a budget plot up in Canada, or perhaps even down south of the border in México? Who knows... who cares. Greenfever will be one dead, defeated motherfucker before this day is done. That's all that matters.
Phil jumps into the deep grave that he has dug, with shovel in hand, and continues his important work of preparing a permanent resting spot for Greenfever's remains.
Phil: It is almost done now, Greenie. Your home is just about ready. Oh this is exciting, isn't it? If I were a woman and I had tits they would be titillated. Of course that wouldn't make you cum, or even hard for that matter, but some of us appreciate the erotic sight of perfectly pert female funbags.
Phil slings one final slab of soil over his shoulder and plants the shovel upright in the dirt. He wipes his brow on the sleeve of his shirt and then climbs out of the grave that he has prepared for his arch-rival.
Phil: Oh yes, your resting place has been completed, Greenfever. This is where your earthly remains will reside after I have implemented my graceful, innovative, solar-powered will against your stodgy, conformist, sociopathic hide. Am I feeling an erection at the very thought of the brutal exhibition that awaits us? Indeed, my thumper is growing plumper by the milli-second.
Phil moans like a whore and then twists and contorts his head in a full, 360º rotation that defies all known human physical possibilities. You suddenly feel faint and then an aneurysm of fireworks explodes inside of your brain and you fall to the earth. The right side of your head, including your ear, lies flat upon the earth as you observe Phil unzipping his pants and partaking of a stroking motion akin to his manhood. Phil lets out a grizzly-esque grunt as your vision fades to black and you slip into a thousand universes of eternal coma.
Suddenly illumination, ILLUMINATION comes calling. Oh my, there is no pie in the sky but your vision has jumped to life. Oh yes, you can see it all now under a pseudo-candlelight glow. Bandits are scheming in the night, scheming to defraud the good people of this fair land of all that they have justly acquired through hard work and perseverance. Does this remind you of a certain wrestling match at XIII? No, of course not. You have no time for wrestling nonsense. Wrestling nonsense means precisely nothing to you. Night has fallen upon this fair valley, but you can see it all and what you see is not all bad. Sure, some will scheme while others are dreaming in their bed, a sign of both evil and cowardice on the part of these schemers with God complexes, but not all is so dastardly and corrupt in the valley. In the distance, oh so far in that vast and poignant distance, you spot a horseman who is strung out. He's not met by ropes and cadavers, but rather you see him in the forest among tree branches that act as whips upon the backsides of the horseman and his fair lady.
The horseman is vibrant and throbbing in the heat of intense passion. As you spy upon him you observe that he is receiving a blowjob from a princess, a princess who has pancakes for lips. Her lips are not literal pancakes, of course, but they're so fat and fleshy that they could well be. Both of the engaged parties are buck naked for Lord and Empire to see, but it appears that you are the only one observing the sexual proclivities that are transpiring. You are more than willing to partake of the good shit as the Galapagos tortoise slows his pace to rest and you rise to your feet upon steady soil. The princess sucks the horseman's love banana with her pancake lips, and you reach down to pleasure yourself, stroking your Johnson as if it were a magic wand that could grant you three wishes, including one winning $350 million dollar Powerball ticket. You feel a rush of pleasure in your groin as you begin to stroke your previously flaccid manhood to an upright state. The concentration of flesh and stimuli is taking its toll. Thoughts of that hateful little statist troll Harry Reid exit your brain and only the thought of pancake princess lips on rock-hard horseman cock resides amongst your brain modules.
You let out moaning sounds, though they are not loud enough for so much as the schemers to overhear you, much less the princess and the horseman in their distant throne of passion. You would rather pretend that the masturbation procedure in which you are participating is a handjob from the princess rather than the culmination of failures from your own Teutonic ancestry. You wouldn't be jerkin' your own gherkin if you had defeated that man in fisticuffs all those years ago.
Yeah... that World War II was a sad turn of events. You went from being a high-ranking officer in the youth service to being a turnip farmer in Argentina. Oh well... c'est la vie. Life's a bitch and then God murders you.
You're just about to achieve a most powerful orgasm from stroking "it" when the sound of a shovel thudding against solid earth draws your attention away from the distant eroticism. To further mount the circumstances against you, a rather pungent smell hits your nose. "What is that?" you ask yourself while crinkling your nasal sensories. You peer around so far as your visual companions, your eyes, will carry you, until you find the unspoken culprit. Your line of vision stumbles upon the haunting specter of WCF Hardcore Champion Phillip Baines with a shovel in hand. Phillip is forcing his will upon a plot of dirt as he digs a grave in the fertile earth surface. Phil's uncharacteristic nocturnal activity is being spotlighted by a combination of moonlight glow and a sturdy, economical halogen lantern. The scornful scent of fresh dirt strikes your person, smelling as if thousands upon thousands of earthworms are fucking inside of your nose. You put forward a motion for vomiting, but your empty stomach preceded by a poor man's diet allows only for spittle to be emitted. This is truly fucking crazy in your estimation.
Phillip Baines speaks in solemn verses between tossing shovelfuls of dirt over his fearsome left shoulder.
Phil: I am breaking bread for an honest man's living. Omega Greenfever has challenged my right to exist and I plan on splitting his cranium into multiple fractures. I will impugn upon his will to live. Greenfever has never frightened me. For the least of which, Greenfever is a small, girlish figure of a man. Greenfever is built like an emo child, a European boy or furthermore a teenage girl who has been afflicted with anorexia nervosa. Greenfever has attempted to frighten me with repeated images of gore and bombast, but his character flaws are telling. I grew up in the sort of neighborhood that a good old country boy like Omega Redneckfever would shudder to consider. I will concede that I do not have the experience in killing and doing the Devil's work that Redneckfever has most obviously accumulated, but so what? So nothing. Sew buttons.
Phil grunts as further soil is fragmented, splintered and air-lifted by his primitive instrument of choice, the blood-thirsty and awe-inspiring mud shovel.
Phil: I can feel it in the tips of my fingers and all the way down to the soles of my feet. I will defeat Greenfever because I am the only man in this company who simply refuses to accept the supposed inevitably of death. Greenfever consorts and purports himself to a position of deity, but what does this really mean? It means that his ideology constitutes the faded remnants of a failed totalitarian religion known as Christianity. I, Phillip Baines, rise above these amateurish brainwashing schemes. If there ever was a God then he is now dead and resting in this very soil that I am preparing for Greenfever, the heir to His disgustipated throne. Greenfever is really and truly nothing more than fresh flesh for my feast. I am certainly aware that I have been counted down and out, discounted by those who follow a carefully calculated system of infantile and utterly repugnant beliefs, but that means nothing to me. They say that Baines cannot defeat Greenfever at his own game, in a match that Greenfever created, but they overlook the fact that I have already defeated Greenfever in the hardcore environment that he had supposedly mastered.
Phil shrugs the brunt of his heaving shoulders and wipes his brow upon his forest green button-up shirt. Sweat, dirt and grime permeate Phil's brow, but they don't fluctuate the man himself. Phil's face looks like something that could kill a man on its own merits, even without the considerable brains and brawn that embody the remainder of Phil's person.
Phil: Greenfever likes to play with imagery and words, the pale images of a man who is goddamn strapped for true creativity. I laugh at you, Greenfever. You are the Fred Flintstone to my Charles Manson. Oh, uh, pardon me... it's time for a YouTube transmission.
Phil: Greenie, you're the punk-ass little virgin teenager who watches too many horror movies while I'm the balls-hanging-out-from-too-much-banging, street smart, world weary motherfucker who will slit your throat if you get too close. Get too close to me at XIII, you cracker ass honky bitch, and see what happens. I dare you. I double dog dare you, motherfucker. Give me the chance to slit your throat and make you bleed like a stuck pig on Creeping Death's fresh, new, specially designed for XIII ring canvas. I want to splatter your blood on the mat like it's a Jackson Pollock painting, you backwoods Caucasian fucktard. You use words like faggot as if they mean something to me. They mean nothing, you warped little homo-revved pervoid. I don't care which side of your bread you get buttered upon, nor should you give a fuck about who or what is buttering mine. It shouldn't matter to you whether it's Gina De Carlo sucking my dick or whether it's the Hot Dog Mascot. Yet it does, Greenie. Yet it motherfucking does.
Phil hocks a loogie into a dozen or so translucent meters of open field before returning to his grave-digging commitments.
Phil: I used to give you credit and respect, Greenie. I used to think that you were an innovator, an influence on how to throw the tried and supposedly true techniques of how to build a successful WCF career out the window and mark your own path. I thought that you were someone who hated the system like me, like Chad Evans, like Bobby Cairo, like Rage Against the Machine, like anarcho-punk rockers Amebix. Then I discovered through transcendental warfare and hopped-up Novocaine bliss that you're only successful in a hardcore environment because you rely upon the delusion of multiplicity. You cannot win a wrestling match against a man of my considerable and altogether unsettling stature on fair grounds, so you hide your agenda throughout the week, stack your promos at the eleventh hour and then cross your fingers and hope that I'll be too bedazzled to respond.
Phil grunts and does a triumphant Karate shout that would make Lyoto Machida proud while obliterating a particularly stubborn combination of soil and rock under the blade of his shovel.
Phil: Don't get me wrong because I am disappointed in you, oh Greenest of Fevers. I thought you had more fortitude than that, but I am also flattered. You were so desperate to get past the insurmountable challenge that I, the Phillest of Baines, present that you resorted to a desperate coward's tactics. I am here to school your brain and tease your schlong, Greenie. You might be "Green" right now, but you will have blue balls before this morning is over. Then, AND THEN, you will just be blue when night fall rises in Des Moines, Iowa. Blue balls will turn to a wholly blue skin pigmentation when I suffocate your previously life-affirming breaths. See? Greedfever tried to have his cake and eat it too, but all he will end up with is crow in his shit-talking yap. Then, AND THEN, those crows will populate his gravesite when I lay him down to rest here in Parts Unknown. Crow's feet will tread upon the soil that covers his permanent resting place. Where are we though? I'm sure that inquiring minds want to know. Is this Des Moines? Is it Pine Bluff? Is it a budget plot up in Canada, or perhaps even down south of the border in México? Who knows... who cares. Greenfever will be one dead, defeated motherfucker before this day is done. That's all that matters.
Phil jumps into the deep grave that he has dug, with shovel in hand, and continues his important work of preparing a permanent resting spot for Greenfever's remains.
Phil: It is almost done now, Greenie. Your home is just about ready. Oh this is exciting, isn't it? If I were a woman and I had tits they would be titillated. Of course that wouldn't make you cum, or even hard for that matter, but some of us appreciate the erotic sight of perfectly pert female funbags.
Phil slings one final slab of soil over his shoulder and plants the shovel upright in the dirt. He wipes his brow on the sleeve of his shirt and then climbs out of the grave that he has prepared for his arch-rival.
Phil: Oh yes, your resting place has been completed, Greenfever. This is where your earthly remains will reside after I have implemented my graceful, innovative, solar-powered will against your stodgy, conformist, sociopathic hide. Am I feeling an erection at the very thought of the brutal exhibition that awaits us? Indeed, my thumper is growing plumper by the milli-second.
Phil moans like a whore and then twists and contorts his head in a full, 360º rotation that defies all known human physical possibilities. You suddenly feel faint and then an aneurysm of fireworks explodes inside of your brain and you fall to the earth. The right side of your head, including your ear, lies flat upon the earth as you observe Phil unzipping his pants and partaking of a stroking motion akin to his manhood. Phil lets out a grizzly-esque grunt as your vision fades to black and you slip into a thousand universes of eternal coma.
