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Ten men, ten stories
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Spamdini
Joined: 22 Jan 2007
Posts: 1322
(Fri Nov 30, 2007 2:10 pm)
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Post     Ten men, ten stories

Story 1: Macho Man Randy Savage

A year ago, two years after America came to an end. The streets are littered with corpses and blood. Buildings are ablaze and only the most insane and violent roam the streets. One lone figure walks alone, shrouded in a cape that was patched together from the clothing of the dead. Three bald goons with serial numbers tattooed onto their eyeballs lick their short, blunt weapons as they prepare to attack the lone warrior.

“We’s gonna pulverize ya!”

“Ya gonna scream like a baby!”

They chuckle to themselves, not knowing what is about to occur.

”OH YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

Macho Man jumps off a building and elbow drops the guy wearing the cape, collapsing his skull! The goons clap happily and squeal in delight.

“Thanks Macho Man! That asshole kept firebombing women on the streets! None of us could beat him because he was so strong and evil.”

“Yeah, you can’t rape them in they’re all burned up!”

”For helping us out like that, you can have this!”

The three goons hand Macho Man a paper bag, filled with a kilogram of pure cocaine. Flexing his improbably big muscles (bigger than the ones he had in Spider-Man), Randy Savage charges all the way back to his dilapidated little shack that he calls home. Once there, he shuts all the blinds and dims the lights. He fidgets and paces back and forth across the room, contemplating the life he know leads.

“OH YEAAAAAAAAAAH! What have I become?! Killing for coke. Fellating for coke. Hawking Slim Jims for coke. I’m everything I used to hate! I’m sorry Puff Ryder, I’ve failed you.”

“You are not a failure, young man,” a mysterious voice calls out.

“OH YEAAAAAAAAAH?! Who’s there?”

A ghostly figure hovers before Macho Man, sporting long wild dreads and a beard that could never be tamed.

“It is I, Ricky Williams. Or rather, I once was before I left this mortal coil to achieve enlightenment.”

Macho Man bows down. “The master himself! It’s an honor to meet you, sir!”

But Ricky Williams shakes his head. “My son, did my protégé teach you nothing in the time you spent with him? Cocaine is the refuge of the weak. It provides nothing but a quick and fleeting sense of enjoyment at the expense of the spirit. Continue down your path and you will end up wandering limbo for eternity like Michael Irvin.”

“But…the world has gone to shit! What else can I do?!”

“Simple!” Ricky answers. “Restore the green to this tired land!”

And with that, Puff Ryder’s Power Bong descends through the ceiling and presents itself to Macho Man.

“Inhale deep and powerfully, my son.”

Macho Man takes a hit from the mystical paraphernalia, absorbing its centuries of wisdom and wonders.

“OH YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! I can see the truth now! Thank you Ricky Williams! I’ll get rid of this coke and I’ll help spread your wise, wise ways! What is it you wish for me to do first?”

“In order to bring back the light required for these gentle plants to grow big and strong,” says Williams in his shy, soothing voice, “you must first seek out the savior. That white powder you hold within your grasp can be a curse…but it can also be a blessing! Remember how your body was restored after being reduced to just a head?”

“OH YEAAAAAAAAH, I do!”

“Deliver it to the savior. I shall light the way!”

With that, Ricky Williams in spirit form tokes up a massive blunt and the smoke he exhales shines brightly with every color of the rainbow, flowing down the countryside and leading a path straight to Branson, Nouveau-Richonia.

Months later, within FTUW Tower, several security guards walk back and forth lazily. The heavily controlled streets of Branson are just about the safest place in all of America and as such there are few foolish enough to even attempt a break-in on von Toity’s stronghold.

Suddenly, a thick fog begins to roll in through the air vents.

“Shit!” one of the guards shouts, lifting his arm mounted a Freeza-goon laser and pointing it all around him. “Is it poison? Are we under attack?!”

“No!” shouts another guard. “It’s…POT SMOKE!”

Their arms become limp as all the passion and ambition leaves their bodies. As they all collapse into a pile, a figure walks out of the mist with a massive pompadour flapping through the air. He passes by the security cameras and destroys each and every one of them, but not before letting them record his silhouette blurred by the smoke. Removing the Saketumi mask, Macho Man changes out of the Japanese high school uniform and into his own clothes. His flamboyant sunglasses and sequined poncho with neon streamers stick out even in this dense fog. He moves past the incapacitated guards and into the chamber they were guarding. Sitting on a platform is a human head, still alive through technologies inspired by Futurama. This is the head of Hoity von Toity (the good one).

“Wh-who are you?! Stop with the experiments, please!”

“OHHHHHHHHH YEAAAAAAAAAH, I’m not gonna hurt you little guy! I’m here to save you!”

“Save me? Why?”

“Cause you’re the savior, brother! You’re gonna help all the little macho boys and girls grow up in an America where the grass is green and healthy!”

”Wait, aren’t you Macho Man Randy Savage? The wrestler?!”

“OH YEAAAAAAAAAAAH, you know it! Here, take this stuff!”

Macho Man empties the entire kilo of coke on the table where the von Toity jar is sitting.

“Um, what do you want me to do with this?”

“Use the coke to grow a new body, brother!”

“What?! That doesn’t make sense!”

“SNORT THAT BITCH!”

Macho Man buries Hoity’s dead in the cocaine, forcing him to inhale or drown. Though the powers of magic and science, Hoity von Toity somehow grows a new body!

“LET’S BUST OUTTA HERE!”

Macho Man takes a massive hit from the Power Bong and transforms into a flying cloud, carrying Hoity out of FTUW Tower and off into the horizon.
Big Fagot
Alpha ape
Joined: 09 Jan 2007
Posts: 10544
(Tue Dec 11, 2007 6:30 pm)
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Post     Re: Ten men, ten stories

The dark figure was super evil and was brutally killed.
Yogurtman
Odin
Joined: 03 Jan 2007
Posts: 2248
(Tue Dec 11, 2007 7:11 pm)
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Post     Re: Ten men, ten stories

Macho Man was affiliated with Sella Phayne, not Puff Ryder.

Oh well, real wrestling does the same things.
Magic Juan
Joined: 10 Jan 2007
Posts: 8709
(Tue Dec 11, 2007 7:14 pm)
Reply

Post     Re: Ten men, ten stories

No! After Sella Phayne died, Macho Man went over to Puff Ryder. God, don't you remember how he helped Puff Ryder climactically end Hemp For President's reign over the Hemp Circuit?
Yogurtman
Odin
Joined: 03 Jan 2007
Posts: 2248
(Tue Dec 11, 2007 9:06 pm)
Reply

Post     Re: Ten men, ten stories

Shit!
Ryoko's Biatch
Joined: 04 Jan 2007
Posts: 9255
(Tue Dec 11, 2007 11:01 pm)
Reply

Post     Re: Ten men, ten stories

I thought you knew everything!

I'm completely disillusioned.
Spamdini
Joined: 22 Jan 2007
Posts: 1322
(Tue Dec 11, 2007 11:05 pm)
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Post     Re: Ten men, ten stories

It was Puff Ryder who taught him the evils of coke and the purity and goodness of *WEED*
Spamdini
Joined: 22 Jan 2007
Posts: 1322
(Fri Jan 04, 2008 1:19 am)
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Post     Re: Ten men, ten stories

Story 2: Sinclair Mohammad

Branson, Nouveau-Richonia is a getaway for all the richest and classiest of the upper crust left in the cesspool that is America, but it also contains the seediest and most infamous of red-light districts as well. Brothels, strip clubs and rapetoriums (establishments serving the needs of goons who are not satisfied with the pleasures of consensual fornication) are lined up for miles on end, with every possible female imaginable. Brown, yellow, black, red, big, small, fat, immense, waif, deformed, four tits, a dick or two; the whole kit and kaboodle! And Sinclair Mohammad not only oversees them all, he has also fucked them all!

Legend has it that his sexual appetite ranges somewhere from insatiable to impossible. It only increased with the foundation of this new utopia that he was essentially given the keys to. Though he was fairly efficient with the business side of his charges (any less would certainly not be tolerated by King von Toity), he was never seen with several female consorts and was known to bang them during business meetings, during FTUW bouts, and even on the street as he strolled about town. And the women were drawn to him magnetically. The whores, strippers and bargirls for certain, but also the girlfriends and slaves of visitors to Branson would throw themselves before his feet.

Most problematic of all was when the wives of aristocrats and goon lords would shed their clothing and fling their massive mammaries at his member and proceed to perform deeds most lascivious upon him, often in the presence of their supposed life partners. For any lesser man this would be followed up by a quick and bloody demise, but Sinclair was abnormal in ways other than his libido. For the more he fucked the stronger he got. He was originally brought on as a bodyguard to King von Toity and his abilities in capoeira mixed a captivating dance with lethal blows. The aristocrats knew enough to stay away and the ganglords who were stupid enough to confront him were carted away in body bags.

Here is an example of a typical Sinclair situation. It was a fairly early day for him: two in the afternoon. Sinclair was taking a rare break for sexual intercourse as he showered and then squatted over a toilet bowl and let a long coiled monster flow forth from the depths of his bowls. His $1,000 silver shirt was undone and he smoked a blunt with the utmost arrogance, admiring the glimmer off his grills in a handheld mirror. His guests from the night before were two smoking hot honies with tits the size of Buicks and asses built like beach balls.

Suddenly, a couple of mohawked gentlemen (ain’t it always the case?) destroyed the door to his room and destroyed the young things before they could even begin to break into hysterics. Women were as plentiful as water to Sinclair so this didn’t bother him terribly. However, it was downright rude to barge in on a man while taking a shit!

“’Ey, what’s you be wantin’ ‘ere mon?” he asked in a stern but not entirely aggravated voice.

“You fucked me Darleen!” the first one screamed, veins popping out of his 24 inch neck.

“And you fucked my Candice!” the other yelled, though with a sense of nervousness in his voice.

“An’ whatchoo be cryin’ ‘bout? Dey is go backs to you, yeah? Seems dey missed dey’s men so dey’s leave yesderday morn’”

The first one, let’s call him Horace, lifts his giant war hammer and smashes it into the floor of the penthouse suite, causing the shag-carpeted floorboards to shatter underneath.

“You think you can fuck with our women and get away with it?! They’re tainted now! We had to kill them to save face with our boss or else we’d look like pussies! Now we’re gonna tear a pussy into your skull!”

Sinclair barely had time to wipe his ass before Horace dove forward and swung his mammoth weapon at him. With a subtle kick, the hammer is redirected so that it takes off the head of goon #2, causing it to fly off, ricochet off the gold-plated chandelier, bounce off the Xbox 360 and collide with Horrace’s head, knocking IT off as well! Goon #2 blinks and looks around before realizing that his skull in now on his friend’s body and for some reason it is perfectly attached!!

“Ha ha ha, now you is got new body! Every time you is jack off now, it like you is giving a ‘andjob to ‘nother dude, faggot! Now, get yer cracka ass outta ‘ere before I is rip yo balls off and use dem for ping pong!” Sinclair shouts. He punts the toilet at the goon, the bowl landing on his head and cracking open, leaving only the tightly coiled turd resting upon his crown. The goon squeals like a 6-year old girl and dashes out the shattered door from whence he came.

“Tssss, I don’ need dis bullshit when I is gotta fight dem ghost fags in tree days!”

Naturally talented in martial arts and as athletically inclined as they come, Sinclair spends the next three days doing what he always does: fucking BITCHES!
Spamdini
Joined: 22 Jan 2007
Posts: 1322
(Mon Jan 07, 2008 7:17 pm)
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Post     Re: Ten men, ten stories

Story 3: Det Jake Callaghan

Branson may be one of the safest cities in post-apocalyptic America, but that’s still relative to the rest of the shithole that was once the world’s most prosperous country. There are still slums and dingy establishments like the Surly Motherfucker Bar on the east side of town, where police and criminals alike go to brawl, drink and waste their nights away. On this particular night, a broad muscular specimen is in the process of laying down a beating on a scrawny police officer.

“Brrraaaawwww!” screams the beast. “You fucking cops! You’re always wagging your dicks around like you’re hot shit! But you’re nothing but scum like us!” He belts the cop again and no one comes to the poor man’s aid. A cloaked man drinking scotch on the rocks at the bar takes a sip of his drink and watches the brawl from the corner of his eye.

“Hey, I thought that this was a cop bar,” the cloaked man mutters to the bartender. “So why is that ugly bastard getting away with that?”

“Tsh, ain’t no cop that wants to help that guy out!” the bartender replies, spitting into the pint glass he’s cleaning with a filthy rag. “His partner just got arrested for killing another cop, and they don’t look too kind on that.”

“Hmph! Guilty by association.”

Just as the cloaked man finishes his drink, the scrawny cop crashes into the bar right in front of him.

”B-Bleeze helb me!” he wheezes through his broken teeth.

“Ain’t my problem, son,” the drinker replies coldly.

The violent goon scratches his hairy stomach and laughs heartily. He twirls the hair on his gut, which is as thick as steel wool but not nearly as clean. “Ha ha, if your cop buddies won’t save your ass, what makes you think that guy will? I know you’re an outcast! Just like your partner was an outcast for being friends with that detective who betrayed von Toity. Callaghan or whatever.”

The cloaked man puts down his drink (which was empty anyways I guess, plus I guess there was no bar to put it down on by this point but whatever).

“What’s the name of this guy’s partner who killed the cop?” asks old cloaky.

“Guy Bouchard! He and his shithead partner here threw me in jail once, so now I’m gonna push his shit in!”

But a mechanical hand catches the goon’s fist before it can connect. No! It’s a mechanical paw! Jake Callaghan then drives his other paw into a big galoot’s face, causing the bar to fill with gasps of surprise.

“Wait a minute! You…you ain’t no normal anthropomorphic dog!” the bartender utters meekly. “You’re that dog detective!”

“Another scotch for me and my friend,” Callaghan says calmly as the goon regains his composure.

“Geh heh, I’ll kill ya and get the bounty on your hairy ass!” the thick, brutish excuse for a human being exclaims as he pulls out nunchucks made by tying two hunting knives together with a chain of razor blades. But Callaghan merely smirks.

“Except I recognize your face, Chop Kill Goonster. You’re wanted for rape, murder and arson.”

“That’s right! I’m gonna rape you, then kill you, then light you on fire! And not necessarily in that order! I might rape you while you’re on fire!”

“Well then, how will you collect a bounty on me? They’ll arrest you the minute you try turn what’s left on my body in.”

The none too nimble-minded Chop Kill Goonster contemplates this for a while. This is Callaghan’s trademark: catching his opponents in logical contradictions and then using their anger against them in order to put them in his trademark Torture Rack! Except that Chop Kill Goonster took so much time to consider the situation that Callaghan just kicked him in the nuts instead.

A few minutes later, Callaghan and the beat up officer are drinking and smoking cigarettes in the cop’s apartment. The whole place in dingy with various empty booze bottles strewn about.

“Fucking assholes!” the host shouts, finishing off a bottle of Canadian (yeah!) whisky. “Who do they think they are?! It’s not as if I did anything wrong!”

Callaghan puts don’t his drink and chains another cigarette. “Hmph, well they don’t look too highly on cop killers. Less so if it was one of their own who did the deed. By the way Detective…um…”

“Feldtman. Tim Feldtman.”

“Detective Feldtman, you’re Guy Bouchard’s partner?”

“Yeah, I heard you two guys were partners when you walked the beat. Me and him made detective at about the same time and they paired us together. I guess this was about a month before they said you were killed.”

“Yeah. So why did he do it? Why did Guy killed another cop?”

Feldtman whips an empty bottle against the wall.

“It’s all your goddamn fault! FUCK YOU CALLAGHAN!”

“?!”

“They set him up! The cop was killed by someone else, but because you were his partner, they made it look like Guy did it and now he’s gonna die!”

“Guy…”

The next afternoon, a courtroom bustles as a despondent Detective Guy Bouchard sits shackled to a steel desk, which is bolted to the floor. An uninterested looking judge looks at his watch impatiently while a snooty prosecutor sneers as his own mahogany desk with a plush Lay-Z-Boy recliner. The defense attorney is crying while masturbating.

“Well now,” the judge begins as the court calms down, “I see no reason to continue this trial any longer. Rather than miss FTUW highlights, I will render my judgment now, even though the trial hasn’t even officially begun. I find the defendant…”

As he’s about to make his announcement, the lights to the courtroom cut out and an explosion goes off in the lobby! The bailiffs run outside to see what’s going on, only to have a large steel shutter slam down, leaving them trapped out in the lobby!

“What the hell?!”

Shutters slam down over the windows just before the lights turn back on. The defense attorney was severed in half as the shutter closed on him while he was attempting to commit suicide by jumping out the window. The top half fell onto the top of an 18-wheeler and subsequently enjoyed a cross-country trip that later became the premise of a popular film.

Sitting in the defense chair now is…JAKE CALLAGHAN!

“I apologize your honor, but the circumstances regarding my fugitive status required that I take this drastic measures.”

The judge slams his gavel angrily. “I say, this is highly irregular! We’re trying to get this trial over with so we can go home!”

Callaghan pulls out a remote. “Yes, but we’ll only be getting out once I open the doors. And I’ll only do that once we’ve had a proper trial and I’ve proven my client’s innocence!”

“Fine, he’s innocent! Now open the doors!”

But Callaghan shakes his paw. “You know that won’t do! How can a man of the law take justice so lightly! Once we’re done here, there will be no doubt that Guy Bouchard killed no one!”

The prosecutor laughs as he rocks in his chair. “I have no objections. I’ve always wanted to engage in a battle of wits with the legendary Detective Callaghan! Let’s dance!”

“Jake, are you sure about this?” Guy asks nervously. “That guy is in von Toity’s pocket. He wants us both dead!”

“Heh heh,” the prosecutor thinks. “I’ve got all this phony evidence on my side! I can delay the trial long enough for the police to bust in here and when they do they’ll shoot Callaghan dead! King von Toity will reward me for taking out one of his opponents before his match! Geh heh heh!”

Outside the large steel shutter, SWAT teams stand armed to the teeth as their specialists begin using acetylene torches to try and bust in.

To be continued…
Spamdini
Joined: 22 Jan 2007
Posts: 1322
(Fri Jan 11, 2008 10:40 pm)
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Post     Re: Ten men, ten stories

Story 3: Det. Jake Callaghan, part 2

The prosecutor, Myron Spittington, sits lazily at his desk, filing his nails while glancing over the stack of papers on his desk.

“OBJECTION!” Callaghan shouts. “The prosecution is delaying the trial! Time is of the essence here your honor and if justice is going to be served then we must hurry things up and stop this childishness!”

But Spittington barely moves from his chair. “Tsh, the defense holds us hostage in this courtroom and then has the audacity to rush this most important ceremony of justice. Fie on you, Jake Callaghan you ruffian!”

“Be that as it may,” the statuesque judge states from atop his tower of a bench, “the Nouveau-Richonian constitution does give the accused the right to a speedy trial. And once I’m free from this room, I’d like to get home as quickly as possible and make sweet love to my many wives. Mr. Spittington, do get on with the prosecution’s case.”

“Tch, very well your honor! The prosecution has all it needs to send that wicked excuse for police officer to the gallows for his vicious acts against our beloved police force! He is the vilest specimen to walk the Earth since Jake Callaghan! On the night of the crime, last Wednesday evening, the defendant Det. Guy Bouchard decapitated the victim, Officer Russ T. Trombone in cold blood to take out the rage from seeing his ex-partner become a national criminal! It was a cowardly display the likes of which I hope to never see again in my lifetime!

“I’d like to present me first witness, Officer Hank Whistler.”

No one comes forth. The judge blinks and looks around the courtroom. “Is Officer Whistler here?”

“No your honor,” says the bailiff. “He was waiting outside. He figured that this trial would be over without the need to use him so he went out for a smoke.”

“Send him in, dammit!” yells Spittington. Then it dawns on him. “URK! This isn’t fair! This trial’s been rigged by that cursed mutt!”

“Rules of justice say that all witnesses must be ready for trial or else they will not be allowed!” Callaghan retorts. “It the witness can’t be produced, then the trial must continue regardless!”

“You should have had your witness ready and in the courtroom, Mr. Spittington,” says the judge. “How about another one for the time being?”

“They’re…all outside the courtroom.”

Det. Callaghan shakes his head and breathes a sigh of relief. “Man,” he thinks to himself, “am I ever lucky that this guy took this case so half-assedly. We might be done in record time this way!”

But Spittington isn’t done yet! “I don’t need a witness in person anyways! I brought along an affidavit that Officer Whistler signed last week! It states everything that he saw at the scene of the crime! Here we go:

“’It was late at night, the same night as that fateful Wednesday Night Whackoff where the Ultimate Survivor Series match was set. There was a terrible rainstorm that night so all of the blood and other physical evidence were washed away. But I saw it clearly! There were two police officers standing in the dark alley and one of them was screaming. Before I could go over and see what was going on, one of the officers…WAS IN TWO PIECES! I swear it was like watching a fish flopping out of water, and I vomited right there and then. Before dying, the officer grabbed his killed by the leg and said ‘But…we’re supposed to be family’ and then he croaked. I ran back and got help and when I came back, Det. Bouchard was there kneeling over the body dumbstruck when he finally noticed us and tried to flee the scene. My partner and I restrained and arrested him on the spot.’

“The murder weapon was recovered at the scene of the crime. It was this bone saw. Additionally, the prosecution presents this newspaper article regarding the murder to the court. It contains pictures and statements by the coroner that corroborate the statements in the affidavit. And that is that!”

“Very well,” the judge says once the testimony is through. “Is there anything the defense would like to say in rebuttal?”

Callaghan slams his metal paw on the table. “This is an outrage! How can we accept this affidavit as testimony without the witness present so that I can cross-examine them! It should be thrown out right now!”

But Spittington sneers and shakes his head. “Now now, don’t be so petty Mr. Callaghan. Weren’t you the one who just said that we must continue of regardless of whether or not the witness is here?”

“Mr. Spittington is correct,” says the judge. “You can cross-examine the statement to the best of your efforts, but that’s all you can do.”

“Damn,” Callaghan mutters. “Maybe I should have thought this through better. Ahem…anyways, there’s a key contradiction I’d like to bring to light!”

Everyone in the court murmurs amongst themselves, causing the judge to slam his gavel. “Order!” he bellows. “What is this contradiction, Mr. Callaghan?”

“The witness saw two police officers fighting each other and recognized their uniforms. However, GUY BOUCHARD IS A DETECTIVE! He’s a plainclothes cop! The witness couldn’t have seen him as the one committing the murder!”

“Ha ha ha!” Spittington laughs. “You’re so pathetic that it makes my ribs hurt!”

“W-what?!”

“That evening was Wednesday Night Whackoff. Von Toity was gravely concerned that you and your little goon squad would invade the show so he had as many officers as possible on duty that night around the arena. They had to bring in detectives and other higher ranked policemen to act as protection that night. Guy Bouchard was wearing a police uniform that evening! I supervised the operation and saw this for myself.”

“URK! W-well, that still makes the crime impossible! The crime took place over a mile from the arena! How could he have killed Officer Trombone while he guarding the arena?”

“But Mr. Callaghan,” says the judge before Spittington can even speak, “the murder took place hours after the event was over. He could have easily done both, right?”

“I, um, guess. Well…the witness didn’t see my client’s face until after he left and came back! Someone could have come, killed Officer Trombone and then left before my client got there! Or perhaps the witness himself did it!”

”Yes, that is possible,” the judge admits.

But Spittington shakes his head again and chuckles. “Except that myself and dozens of officers were in the area patrolling for the Ghosts of von Toity. Everyone was paired off and Trombone and Bouchard were paired off together. Officer Whistler was another officer who claims he only left his side for five seconds before he witnessed the crime and sought help. No one saw any other people in the area. That means that either Whistler cut off Trombone’s head while he struggled in five seconds with a saw or Bouchard did it. Needless to saw, only one of those situations is plausible.”

“He could have killed him in five seconds easily!” Callaghan proudly states.

Everyone goes “!!!”

“Special police officers are all outfitted with Freeza-goon cannons and Lightsabers. A lightsaber could have easily cut off an unsuspecting man’s head in a matter of a couple seconds. The bone saw was clearly a bluff! Just look at the “murder weapon”!

Callaghan lifts the saw up.

“How could this thing have committed grisly murder…WHEN THERE’S NO BLOOD ON IT!”

The court is filled with shocks and gasps.

Spittington hangs his head. “Calllaghan…you disappoint me.”

“?!”

“Don’t you remember the affidavit? There was a rainstorm that night. All the blood on the saw was washed off and that’s why it’s clean! You’ll also notice the chipped teeth here and here on the saw. During the autopsy, we found bits of metal stuck in the victim’s flesh. THEY’RE PIECES OF THIS VERY SAW! THERE IS NO DOUBT IT KILLED THE VICTIM!”

Callaghan nearly falls out of his seat in shock. “URK! Then…the contradiction is…it lies in…um…”

“Ha ha ha!” laughs Spittington. “Naïve little puppy! You thought you could fight me! You may be a valiant detective but you’re no courtroom hero! In a matter of minutes, you’ll be 0-2 in court and the SWAT team will come in an murder you!”

Just as Spittington asserted, the SWAT team stands outside the room with automatic weapons locked and loaded. The door is very nearly cut through and they prepare to charge in and subdue the terrorist dog that took the courtroom hostage.

Back inside, Callaghan can do nothing but hang his head in despair. “I was…careless. I assumed there would be too many loose ends since von Toity was setting him up for an obvious fall. But…this was a trap all along wasn’t it? To get me in this courtroom? There’s no way for me to win, is there?”

Spittington laughs again. “Or maybe your ex-partner really is a murderer and you’re not a terrible lawyer, just a kind of crummy one. Whichever makes you happier.”

“OBJECTION!”

Everyone looks around before finally setting their eyes on Guy Bouchard!

“Jake! I know you can do this! I’m innocent and I know you can prove it! You’re better than any lawyer! You protected the people of Branson with your brilliant mind and knowledge of the law for years and now you’ll protect an innocent man again! I just know you will!”

“Forget it you fool!” Spittington berates the defendant. “Callaghan is a fish out of water here! He’ll never win!”

Suddenly, Callaghan’s head pops up. “Fish…out of water? WAIT A MINUTE!” Grabbing the affidavit, he reads it carefully before focusing on a certain section. “It says here that the victim writhed around like a fish out of water once he was divided in two.”

“That’s right,” replies Spittington. “Headless bodies have been known to spasm before rigor mortis sets in.”

“But it says here that the victim grabbed the murderer’s leg. How can a headless body,” he says slamming his hands down, “GRAB A MAN’S LEG!”

“ERK!”

The crowd murmurs again and the judge slams his gavel down. “Mr. Callaghan, how do you explain this?”

“Well you honor, I…” And then Callaghan stops. “Damn, I have no idea!” he thinks to himself. “What should I say? I have to say something.”

“Well Mr. Callaghan?”

“Maybe,” Det. Callaghan says out loud, “there were…um…two victims?”

Silence.

“Wait,” Callaghan thinks to himself. “Maybe that’s not so far fetched after all! Lemme look at that newspaper again!” Upon second reading of the newspaper, it all comes into focus. “I’ve solved the crime,” Callaghan says out loud.

“WHAT?!” Spittington ejaculates.

“All right, Jake!” Det. Bouchard cheers. “I knew you’d figure something out!”

“On page B5, it says that the body of a stripper was found cut in half that night in the dumpster behind her work. She was severed at the stomach!”

“And you think this is the murder the witness saw?” the judge asks.

“The victim was known to strip in a police uniform, even though she was naked when found. This is consistent with the witness seeing two officers. And look at the name of the stripper! Her stage name is Whore Knee Cunt but her real name is JENNIFER TROMBONE!”

Everyone in the court gasps.

“The victim’s statement seemed odd to me,” Callaghan continues. “About being family. It’s something used to refer to the brotherhood of police officers which I know well. However, this time it had a much more literal meaning! Russ T. Trombone killed his stripper sister!”

“That would have been quite the scandal for an uptight family man like Officer Trombone,” says Spittington stoically. “But then you’re saying…that Officer Trombone is the murderer?!”

“Exactly!”

“Then who killed Officer Trombone? And how did the sister’s body end up miles away without anyone noticing?”

“It would only be possible for the person controlling the investigation to do that,” says Callaghan with a stern tone. “For example, the prosecutor at the scene! You, Mr. Spittington!”

“!!!”

“You surprised the victim and caught him in the throat with a bone saw that was lying about. You threw the sister’s body in the dumpster nearby, but saw Officer Whistler running for backup! You knew he’d report that he saw someone cut in half and they’d wonder why Officer Trombone was in one piece. So you purposely distracted the police and sent them elsewhere while you sawed off Trombone’s head! You had to cut off the head because you already embedded the saw in his throat! Then you had Detective Bouchard be the first one at the scene so you could pin the blame on him! Sound familiar?”

Spittington looks like he’s about to explode, but then regains his composure. “Funny story, Callaghan, but it’s just that. You’ve got no proof to back up your wild stories.”

“But I do!”

“WHAT?!”

”I’ve noticed that you’re wearing a mask over your face in the form of Archduke Franz Ferdinand. I don’t think that’s just a fashion statement! I’m sure the victim must have inflicted some sort of wound on your face during the struggle. I’m sure if we examine your face,” he says as he slams the desk, “WE’LL SEE THE VICTIM’S SIGNATURE CARVED INTO HIS FACE WITH AN X-ACTO KNIFE!”

Spittington sighs. “I guess the game’s over.”

The judge is astonished. “Mr. Spittington, you…killed him?”

“Yes. The brute killed his own flesh and blood in that alley to cover up his family shame. I knew something was wrong when Detective Bouchard said his partner told him to fuck off and went off on his own. When I found the two siblings in the alley, they were fighting and Officer Trombone had his lightsaber brandished. Then in an instant, she was sliced in half. I couldn’t hold back my rage so I picked up the nearest weapon I could find and jammed it in his throat. Everything else is just like Callaghan said. I set up Bouchard because he was the only reasonable suspect and because I knew I could get in King von Toity’s good graces. I wanted so hard to be the Head Prosecutor one day so I could rid Nouveau-Richonia of scum like you, Callaghan! But…it is I who is true scum.

Blood trickles from under Spittington’s mask.

“Mr. Spittington,” the judge exclaims, “your wound!”

Spittington feels the blood flowing with his finger. Then he screams “OH NO I’M HAVING A BRAIN ANEURYSM!” before trashing about and dying.

The judge blinks blindly then clears his throat. “Well, I guess I’ve got to find the defendant…”

N O T G U I L T Y!

Much cheering is had.

Bouchard jumps from his chair, the corpse-like look in his face gone and brimming with joy. “You did it Jake! You saved me!” But before he can hug his friend, a banging is heard at the door. The SWAT team has penetrated the shutter and are now ramming the door down! Det. Callaghan pulls out a remote that opens one of the shutters over the window and jumps outside, flying away with what looks like Inspector Gadget’s hat helicopter.

“I’m glad I could help Lady Justice and a good friend today,” Callaghan says with a smile. “I’ve got a feeling that I’m never going to have that chance again…”
Spamdini
Joined: 22 Jan 2007
Posts: 1322
(Sat Jan 12, 2008 9:23 pm)
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Post     Re: Ten men, ten stories

Story 4: Wilson P. Hickenbottom

Wilson opens his wrist videophone and makes a call.

“Hello?” A snooty looking butler in Denmark has picked up the phone and holds it daintily in his hand.

“Good afternoon, father,” Wilson says to the butler.

“Ah, Wilson my boy! Is it the first Sunday of the month already? My how time flies! How is your charge in America faring?”

“Could be better. King von Toity’s businesses are showing record profits as a result of successful marketing and goon lords having wonderful looting years. However, a group of ruffians is threatening to steal away FTUW from him.”

“My word, that does sound like quite the pickle! Hold on a moment, if you may!”

Wilson’s father dusts an immense dining room for half an hour before returning to the phone.

“I do hate to leave work undone.”

”I concur,” Wilson replies. “I took the opportunity to book a deathmatch between Tito Ortiz’s clone and Mutant Zombie Strom Thurmond. I imagine the revenue will be considerable for King von Toity’s empire.”

“Good show! Well now, you were saying something regarding some ruffians trying to steal FTUW?”

“Yes, I’m afraid I may be killed in the ensuing battle for control.”

“Heavens, that’s terrible! Well, I must be off. If I do not hear from you in a month’s time then I shall know that you met your end. Best of luck, son!”

“Thank you father. Farewell!”

And Wilson hangs up. He takes a quick moment to reflect upon his childhood and his family. His father has been the butler of the Danish Royal Family since he was 18, just as his father had been and his father before him. His mother is the personal bodyguard of General Ku’queel Bqtalvaaa of the Ivory Coast and as such never saw her son after his birth. In fact, she had all her female organs removed following his birth so that such an incident would never keep her from her work again. She keeps in touch with her husband and son through correspondence.

When Wilson was 14, he was shipped off to Nouveau-Richonia to work for the von Toity family, including a then 13 year old Hoity von Toity. Denmark always had a close relationship with Richonia and thus the von Toity family was more than willing to take a boy of such wonderful pedigree into their employ for a sort of servitude internship.

Over 20 years later, Wilson Hickenbottom is stranded in a post-apocalyptic cesspool in North America, but he still performs his all his tasks with the utmost care and efficiency. It is arguable that without him, Nouveau-Richonia would have never come to be and would crumble in his absence. If he dies, it would be almost as devastating as King von Toity’s demise for the kingdom. Should he participate in the Ultimate Survivor Series match?

The answer is yes and he has no doubts about it. FTUW means more than anything in the world to King von Toity. If he allows the match to be lost, then he would be letting his master down. More important, Wilson Hickenbottom does he job and never questions it because that’s what he was born to do!

Far off in Denmark, Wilson’s father coughs blood into his handkerchief. “My word,” he says. “I forgot to tell Wilson of my fatal illness. Well, no need to worry him at this moment. I’ll let him survive his deathmatch first. Then I’ll tell him that his services are required here upon my passing.”


Last edited by Spamdini on Fri Sep 19, 2008 5:34 pm; edited 1 time in total
Spamdini
Joined: 22 Jan 2007
Posts: 1322
(Tue Feb 05, 2008 7:00 pm)
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Post     Re: Ten men, ten stories

Story 5: Reverend Zeebo Sykes

Gray dust and pollution hover above a war torn village just south of the Nouveau-Richonian border. The streets, once paved and well-maintained, are now so dilapidated that no vehicle could drive on them. Just as well though since no aid would ever be delivered here. Those who aren’t dead are sick and malnourished, skeletons of what they were a mere few years ago. And yet, there still lingers hope! Hope in a savior from the heavens who will end their plight!

Zeebo Sykes stands tall in a ramshackle video store that he now uses as a church. This city, forgotten by the outside world, now serves as a sanctuary from the Nouveau-Richonian forces that actively seek him and his cohorts. In return, he uses his holy power to bring joy and healing to the sad citizens of this dystopia. At this moment, a poor unfortunate cripple comes to him in order to seek his help. His torso torn off by an errant tomahawk, he now consists of just a head, arms and legs, resembling something akin to a human starfish.

“Reverend Sykes,” he asks in a weak shivering voice, “will you fix me?”

Sykes smiles and places his hand on the disfigured freak’s cheek. “My son, what is a torso? Nothing but a vessel for internal organs and genitals. Compared to the human soul it is fragile and useless.”

“But…I can’t breathe or bone!”

“Is breathing and boning that important?”

“I…suppose not.”

The reverend imparts a warm hug on the freak and waves off his follower to go out and seek spiritual enlightenment. And so the starfish man walks outside content, where he subsequently expires.

Next to come in is a little girl no older than 8, her eyes full of innocence because the eyeballs themselves had since been raped out of her skull by her great grandfather moments before he died of a heart attack. She sits on the gentle preacher’s lap and asks him to tell her the story of his heroic survival at the hands of Uncle Slam again.

And so he recounts the tale:

That stormy night, Sykes had his traitorous former partner in the Holy Driver when something most unexpected happened: Uncle Slam shot him in the shoulder with a pistol!

“AND NOW FOR MY HOLIEST DRIVER!” Slam screamed.

He broke out of the Holy Driver and used a headbutt to knock Sykes down. Stunned, he wasn’t able to retaliate as SLAM PILEDRIVED HIM ONTO A STEEL CHAIR!! “BAH GAWWWWWWWWWD!” shouted Uncle Slam, providing his own commentary. “HE KILLED HIM! HE KILLED HIM! DAMN THAT UNCLE SLAM!” In order to make the attack seem more impressive, he then buried Reverend Sykes in the dirt so that only his feet stuck out, making it look like he had been slammed into the earth. After making his call to the “president”, he hoops and hollers and rapes a donkey or something.

Hours later, Hoity von Toity (the good one) flies in on his Macho Man Flying Nimbus cloud and picks Sykes up out of the ground.

“And that my child,” Sykes says in the present, “is how divine providence saved this poor soul from meeting our Lord before his time. And now I must strike down the wicked sinner who has left poor villages like yours in disrepair! Remember that agony on this Earth may seem torturous, but you shall all be rewarded in the next life!”

And so Reverend Sykes runs off towards glory while the roofs on all the houses in the city collapse and crush their inhabitants. Roving dogs finish off what’s left.
Spamdini
Joined: 22 Jan 2007
Posts: 1322
(Wed Apr 16, 2008 7:34 pm)
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Post     Re: Ten men, ten stories

Story 6: Charles Artemis

“20!”

The barbell clanks into place as King Hoity von Toity’s perspires heavily, soaking the gym bench thoroughly. A ponytailed asshole with a ponytail gives a thumbs-up and grins in a manner that clearly eats shit as his own fake-tanned muscles gleam. “Great job, King von Toity!” the sycophantic trainer exclaims.

But von Toity backhands him and grunts “Shut up you brown-nosing side of human refuse! Wilson, why is it that I have to put up with this useless eyesore instead of training with Artemis as I usually do?”

”I already explained sir. Mr. Artemis left a note saying that he would be away on business for a couple of days in Metalrapia.”

“Business my behind!” King von Toity spits on the floor, his eyes squinting with a mix of rage and worry. “Time is running out before our big match-up with the other von Toity’s team. What could he possibly have to do at a time like this?”

Miles away in an abandoned boxing gym, Charles Artemis leans against a set of worn ring ropes lazily. He stares at his watch and lets out a sigh. “You’d think that man could at the very least keep an appointment…”

“Well boo fucking hoo!” a voice from the door bellows. “I’m a busy man and your message came rather out of the blue. Frankly, I didn’t think you’d want to meet me so very soon.”

“Given the state of our country,” Artemis replies, “nothing should be put off for too long. Any of us could die at any time.”

“Is that the real reason you wanted to fight me right away? Or is it that you have a particular reason to think that you won’t be alive much longer?”

Getting off of the ropes, Artemis begins to stretch and warm up in the ring. “For years, I’ve been living as a ring warrior and as a servant of Hoity von Toity. However, I realize that I can’t live this double-life any longer. I need to settle the past right now!”

“Feh! You’re so full of shit, boy!”

“I don’t care what you think of me…AWESOME FUCK!!!”

Since old FTUW was exploded by ezBoard, here’s a recap. Charles Artemis was once a famous kickboxer who got tired of beating up on weaklings. AWESOME FUCK!!!, an underground arena champion and promoter, helped get Artemis into more dangerous and decidedly illegal fights. AWESOME FUCK!!! was undefeated in his entire tenure as a fighter there and retired shortly after beating Charles Artemis.

During FTUW Phase 1, Charles Artemis met up with AWESOME FUCK!!! again when the latter called him out. Artemis was forced to do battle with Lil’ Nigger Redding, a former underground arena opponent who tore out Artemis’ left eye and the only other man to have defeated him. After killing Redding, AWESOME FUCK!!! fled, thus leaving their shit unresolved.


“Ah, this place brings back memories!” says AWESOME FUCK!!! as he stares at the building around him. “I had my first Underworld fight in this very building. It’s really a shame things got so big and we had to move elsewhere.”

“I figured this would be a nice grave for you!”

Before AWESOME FUCK!!! can even react, Artemis drives a knee between two of his ribs, snapping them like twigs and sending his careening into one of the dilapidated walls.

“WAAAAAAAH!” AWESOME FUCK!!! cries. “Why did you have you ruin my beautiful memorieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees! Now you have to die horribly!”

Moving even quicker than Sinclair Mohammad, AWESOME FUCK!!! dives within an inch of Artemis and with a sharp 90 degree change of direction sends both fists flying straight up, double uppercutting him into the air!

“Shit!,” Artemis thinks to himself. “This old man is still as incredible as he ever was!”

“Go to hell in peace, boy!” AWESOME FUCK!!! appears right behind Artemis, who is still suspended in mid-air, and begins to powerbomb him onto the steel ring post.”

“Sorry but…more like…HELL 2 U!” At the last second, Artemis uses his hands to brace the impact by handstanding on the ring post! Using the split second of disbelief this made, he rips out the post and knocks AWESOME FUCK!!! upside the temple. With his badly concussed brain shaking around inside of his skull, AWESOME FUCK!!! is not able to react as Aretmis put his entire body weight behind a single punch that caves in the ex-champion’s chest. Blood flies out all of his orifices, including bloody piss and shit, as organs are punctured and turned to hamburger meat.

“If only I could have fought you in your prime,” says Artemis with a tear in his remaining eye.

“Guh…huh…heh! You think bitching about things you can’t change is going to accomplish anything? Instead of worrying about me and carrying on my gay ass legacy, why don’t you make your own legacy?”

“My own legacy…” Artemis mutters to himself. Then he suddenly remembers a conversation he had with a man many years ago. A man who he considered a protégé and a friend. “Rudy…”

“Hey faggot!”

“?!”

AWESOME FUCK!!! puts Artemis in a bearhug and begins crushing him!

“I ain’t dead yet, you limp-wristed nancy boy! Your legacy is gonna be dying here with this old man! Ha ha ha!”

To be concluded…
Spamdini
Joined: 22 Jan 2007
Posts: 1322
(Fri Apr 18, 2008 12:49 pm)
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Post     Re: Ten men, ten stories

Story 6: Charles Artemis, part 2

Eight years ago...

Charles Artemis and a young Rudy do battle in a boxing ring. Their fists are gloved and worried trainers look on in each corner. A couple of well-placed and timed punches are brushed off by Artemis who counters with a kick to the solar plexus, followed by a hook to the chin which floors the young warrior. Before Rudy's face even hits the mat, the trainers leap into the ring to catch him.

Within a couple of minutes, Rudy has already regained consciousness and sits up with a look of disappointment on his face. "Darn, I lost again."

"You got some nerve, kid!" Artemis grunts. "A twerp like you already fights like a veteran and forces me go full-out! Plus you made the conditions of the fight in my favor! Instead of kickboxing, why don't we let you use your usual weird-ass style?"

"No," Rudy answers. "A gentleman must be able to use fisticuffs if need be. Mr. Artemis sir, I ask that you please let this humble man sitting before you fight you again."

For years, these two men would spar whenever their busy schedules as bodyguards for Hoity von Toity would allow them. Three years later, however...

"What?!" Artemis exclaims. "What do you mean he's gone?!"

"It is exactly like I have told you," Wilson replies. "That man is no longer under Mr. von Toity's employ. I doubt he still lives, but if he does he is no longer welcome in Nouveau-Richonia.

"That bastard! He dares repay all these years I've spent teaching him by betraying us?!"

It would be months before Artemis would see Rudy again, this time on the streets of New York City.

"I was told that you were hanging around here," says Artemis as he cracks his knuckles. "I had such high hopes for you, but now I've got orders to waste you!"

But Rudy merely bows honorably. "I am sorry, Mr. Artemis, but I have yet to master my gentlemanly fighting style. I would not be a worthy match for you at this moment."

"Fuck you!" Artemis begins attacking his former protégé, but to his surprise all his punches and kicks are evaded. In fact, Rudy was even able to connect with some well timed counter-punches. In his rage, Artemis yanks a manhole cover off the ground and smashes Rudy upside the head with it, causing him to pass out. However, he forgoes finishing him off and walks away.

"Gentlemen are faggots who can't fight. Master your shitty style so I can kill you another day!"

Present day...

AWESOME FUCK!!!, in spite of bleeding internally, continues to crush Artemis with a bearhug using all of his might. His silver hair and sunk-in yellow eyes shine as his wrinkly muscles continue to contract. But Artemis just sighs.

"Old man...YOUR TIME IS LONG OVER!"

And with that Artemis punches both arms right off of AWESOME FUCK!!!'s body!

"I REALLY LIKED THOSE ARMS! I HATE YOU SO MUCH!"

Without any reason left in his body, AWESOME FUCK!!! launches himself headfirst towards Artemis like a human missile! But this is just an ideal setup for the picture-perfect punch that Artemis developed over his decades of training! The punch connects with AWESOME FUCK!!!'s skull, the shockwave from the impact causing his entire skeleton to explode into dust!

"GAY YOU FACE!" the now gelatinous AWESOME FUCK!!! screams as wraps his entire body around Artemis' face in order to suffocate him. "HA HA HA! With my bones and organs gone, I'm just muscle now! How will you defeat PURE MUSCLE?!"

"LIKE THIS!!"

And so Artemis begins to eat AWESOME FUCK!!!! He chews a hole big enough to make room for air, and then devours the rest of the formerly undefeated champ until there is nothing left of him on Earth. By the time he's done, Artemis' muscles bulge and shine in the light streaming in the broken windows of the boxing gym. "Become part of me and rejoice! I have taken your legacy into me!"

With his past finally settled, Artemis begins to leave the gym when he catches a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror. "Hmph, I'm starting to get rather wrinkly myself, aren't I? I guess I am pushing 50, after all. Am I gonna end up like that old asshole one day? Feh, I sure as hell hope not. Maybe...I can pass my legacy on to you? Are you ready for a real fight yet, Rudy?"
Roy
Joined: 28 Jan 2007
Posts: 1605
(Mon Apr 21, 2008 10:39 am)
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Post     Re: Ten men, ten stories

I'm sad that AWESOME FUCK!!! is dead. I liked his hot blooded dialogue despite having all of his internal organs and bones crushed to dust and other hardships.
Spamdini
Joined: 22 Jan 2007
Posts: 1322
(Mon Apr 21, 2008 9:58 pm)
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Post     Re: Ten men, ten stories

Story 7: Rudy A. Washington

Ten years ago in Richonia...

"Lord von Toity!"

In one of many private lounges of Castle Toitula, Baron Hoity von Toity rests upon a bed composed of nubile teenage girls sticking their hands into each other's various orifices to create a stable piece of living human furniture. It should be noted that these women are employed by von Toity and they willfully perform this duty for monumental amounts of cash. Women is hos!

"You interrupt my siesta!" von Toity scolds the soldier who had just barged into the lounge. "You had best have a terrific explanation."

"Y-yes sir! In town! There is a man who has converted a pile of pine cones into comfortable and affordable low-income housing!"

"What?! You know that even upper-middle class income housing is banned by Richonian law. Just arrest the fool!"

"He's too strong! We need your elite guard for this one!"

In town, the citizens of Richonia gasp in horror at the modest dwellings this man has created. One woman even faints upon seeing them. Various soldiers, equipped in Freeza-goon armor and lasers, tremble in fear as the man stands there motionless among the corpses of a couple soldiers.

"I don't want to shed any more blood today. Please just let me see Baron Hoity von Toity," says a very young man. However, one brash soldier steps forward and brandishes his wrist-mounted weapon.

"Shut up brat! Insects like you don't even deserve to gaze upon his greatness!"

"Why can't you fools take care of these trifling affairs on your own?" bellows von Toity from his tank-like limousine. Charles Artemis, Wilson P. Hickenbottom and Chief Fisting Falcon stand on both sides and directly on top of the vehicle respectively.

"I'll kill him sir!" shouts the goon who fires his laser. But in a flash the man disappears, leaving the soldier standing there in astonishment. He spins around just as he sees the youthful warrior directly behind him.

"I made this wonderful meatloaf as an apology for what I just did."

"WHAT THE FUCK?!" The soldier cries as blood squirts from the stump where his arm used to be. "IT...IT SMELLS DELICIOUS!" In spite of the fact that he is bleeding to death and that the dish was made from his own ground up arm, the meatloaf is so tasty that he happily eats up every last bit of it. With a smile on his face, the soldier dies happily.

Von Toity's jaw nearly drops to the floor. "What in the world...was that technique?!"

"I call it the art of the gentleman," the man answers with a bow. "Honorable Baron Hoity von Toity, I have come all the way from America to seek your most respectable audience."

"Oh? So this affront to my eyes was just to draw me out?"

"I apologize for insulting you, sir. I did not know that these buildings would be considered such eyesores." Using only his fists, the man methodically smashes down the buildings with a display of pure brute strength that impresses even Chief Fisting Falcon. However, no rubble remains; just a small replica of the Arc de Triomphe.

"Your style is as mighty as it is graceful," says von Toity with a sneer. "Quite remarkable for one as young as yourself."

"Thank you very much sir. I am merely 19 years old, but I seek to obtain the perfect Art of the Gentleman. I began training at the age of 12 after witnessing a life-changing event. It was on the streets of Los Angeles from where I hail. A young woman with her small child were trying to enter a pediatric clinic, but the doors were quite heavy and she was far too frail to manage. I watched from the stoop of my apartment building as all those passing by chose to ignore her plight. I am ashamed to say that I took glee in her misery, that I did. However, that is when I saw him come down the street! The epitome of the perfect gentleman, he was. He let the woman and her child into the clinic and continued holding onto the door until they finished with their appointment and had gone home."

Von Toity looks quizzically at the young man, confused by the story. "I fail to see the big deal."

"The big deal, if you will, is that this was in an extremely dangerous neighborhood, that it was! Muggers came by while waiting for the woman and shot him multiple times in the chest. However, he continued to stand there holding the door, not moving an inch. When the woman left, he merely tipped his hat and never let on that he was fatally wounded! Once she was out of sight, he collapsed on the pavement. I ran to the man and asked why he didn't try to call for an ambulance or at least lie down to conserve his strength. This is the answer he gave me:

"'A true gentleman can never back down from his duties, even if it costs him his life. To expose that woman and her child to the sight of blood would do an injustice to them. Being a gentleman requires being courteous as well as strong. That is the path a man must take!'

"The man passed away upon finishing those words. Ever since then, I have been trying to live up to that ideal and have developed a fighting style that combines the ideals of strength with the ideals of proper gentleman behavior! Lord von Toity, you are the richest man on Earth. You embody all that is high-class and mighty! There is no greater gentleman than yourself! Even if it means working as a lowly busboy or stable hand, please hire me so that I may study under you," the man begs, prostrating himself down so low that his head touches the pavement.

"What is your name young man?" von Toity asks.

"Rudy A. Washington, sir!"

"Hmph, so you'd be something as uncouth as a stable hand in order to study me?" von Toity replies. "You truly do have much to learn! These men around me are ex-fighting champion Charles Artemis, my personal assistant Wilson P. Hickenbottom and my most loyal follower Chief Fisting Falcon. In South America, there is word of a powerful man hailing from the Caribbean islands who combines dance with genius fighting abilities. Come with us to seek this man, Rudy! The five of you will be like the five points of the star on the Richonian flag, protecting the dollar sign in its center that I embody. Join my personal guard and perfect your style!"

"You have my infinite gratitude, my lord!"

To be continued...
Spamdini
Joined: 22 Jan 2007
Posts: 1322
(Mon Jun 23, 2008 11:24 pm)
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Post     Re: Ten men, ten stories

Story 7, Part 2: Rudy A. Washington

And so for the next several years did Rudy work as a member of the fearsome von Toity personal guard. Assassins, miscreants and those foolish enough to disrespect the grand Baron Hoity von Toity were destroyed by these five elite warriors, the most impressive of which was the young man with a completely unique style that was somewhere between fighting and craftsmanship.

On top of acting as a bodyguard, Rudy became a protégé of sorts to Baron von Toity. Wilson P. Hickenbottom taught him all the intricacies of acting proper in high society and the baron himself imparted knowledge of all the finest foods, drinks, art works and sights around the world. In just a few shrot years, Rudy was able to absorb a wealth of information and refinement that he would otherwise not have been subject to.

Five years later

"Sir!" Wilson shouts in a panic as he barges in von Toity's chamber. "An emergency has arisen!"

"How dare you interrupt my Mongolian anal acupuncture!" von Toity chastises his assistant. "You know that I need to be regular in order to be a proper ruler!"

"It is Rudy! He left this note on his bedside table!"

Von Toity quickly glances over the beautiful calligraphy on the intricate paper and quickly realizes this is a farewell letter.

"Damn that boooooy!"

Miles away, Rudy approaches the Richonian border with nothing but the shirt on his back to his name. He takes one last look back at Castle Toitula, stretching towards the heavens and still visible from this great distance, before he presses on forward. However he is quickly stopped when a limousine drills him from behind, sending his crashing into the concrete barrier that separates Richonia from the uncivilized world.

"RUDY YOU RAPSCALLION!" a livid von Toity shouts as he exits the the vehicle and rolls up his sleeves. "How dare you betray me in this manner!"

"Forgive me, my lord," Rudy answers, prostrating himself low to the ground. "I meant no offense. I appreciate the years I have spent with you and I have learned a great deal. I shall never forgive what you have done for me as these have been the best years of my life. In a way, I thought of you as the father I never knew."

"Then why leave?" von Toity asks.

"A true gentleman must find his own path in life. Although I know that you wanted me to represent Richonia in some sort of international competition, I must refuse. My art is still not perfect and I fear that as one of your warriors, I have achieved my limit in terms of growth. If I ever plan on being a true champion, I must be allowed to leave. Please my lord, let this butterfly spread his wings."

But this plea for freedom is met with a sharp kick to the chest by von Toity. It should be noted that at this point von Toity wasn't nearly as built as he would be during his FTUW days and as such this kick did little but injure Rudy emotionally. Von Toity would continue to rain blows down upon Rudy as he remained kneeling on the soft, lustrous earth below. Finally, with tears rolling down his cheek, Rudy stood up and hugged von Toity tight.

"Please, do not make this harder than it already is," sobbed Rudy.

But a spin kick to the skull sends Rudy careening to the soil once more. Sinclair Mohammad picks his teeth with his fingernail and sneers wildly. "'Ey faggot, you don' touch the boss now, hear?"

Rudy stands up and prepares to put up his dukes but suddenly feels his weight shift downwards. Wilson has just tripped him up with a simple Tai Chi maneuver which has sent him off balance. Sinclair capitalizes by launching a dynamite kick up in the air across Rudy's chin as he comes down. Rudy's brain is rocked as he collapses helplessly on the ground.

"We kill 'im now, eh boss?" Sinclair cackles gleefully.

"I concur that this cannot be left to stand," Wilson adds as he cleans his glasses. "Let us have him drawn and quartered as an example of what it means to betray Richonia and the might Lord von Toity.

But von Toity hesitates. For one of the first times in his life, he lets emotion take precedent over his penchant for money, power and being a dick.

"Just kick him in the balls and throw him over the border," is Baron von Toity's final answer. "That should be enough of a message."

After a swift punt to the groin, Sinclair and Wilson prepare to heave him over the fence when a commanding voice halts them. "ALLOW ME!" It is the voice of Chief Fisting Falcon who rushes out of nowhere, his Invincible Palm extended.

Von Toity tries to halt his most zealous warrior. "No! Wait!"

But before he can say anything else, Fisting Falcon connects full-on with Rudy's chest! The impact send his crashing through the thick concrete barrier and into a far off river that carries his body away to Bulgaria or some other gay Eastern European country.

"My lord," Fisting Falcon shouts in a surprisingly angry tone, "you should not show mercy on these types of fools! You are destined to be the beacon of light that helps save the world from chaos! You must be heartless in order to survive the challenges ahead!"

"H...how dare you order me!" Von Toity wants to be enraged, but he is too surprised by his minion's strong tone and behavior. Instead of chastising Fisting Falcon, von Toity gets back in his limo and drives back to the castle where he drinks a large glass of scotch before smashing the crystal goblet in the fireplace. His sullen mood is interrupted when he looks down a fax on his desk that had come in a day earlier. It was from the desk of James Brock McHarris.

Hey Hoity, how's it going baldy? Remember me? We met at the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona. I was the guy who jumped out of the luxury box and began powerbombing the bulls. Anyways, I remember those niggers and injuns you had hanging out with you and thought one of them would be perfect for my new wrestling league I'm putting together! I especially liked that really young guy who was always doing fairy stuff like making bull testicle tartare. That guy's got spunk, brother! So, like, send him over or whatever.

He'll probably die and I guess you don't need the money, but don't be a fag dude. Don't you want people to know that Richonia makes the best fighters on the god damn planet?!

JBM

PS: Thanks for the tip on the Anal Acupuncture specialist, but her pussy needles couldn't penetrate my iron sphincter so I just fucked her in the ass instead. That's probably ironic or something, right?


Von Toity crushes the letter and is prepared to toss it in the fire when he relents and reads it again.

"You want to see the power of Richonia? Yeah, I'll show the whole world the might of Richonia! Wilson! Have a gym constructed for me! I must be in fighting shape as soon as possible!"

Wilson enters the room with an incredulous look on his face. "S-sir, you can't be serious! Are you thinking of entering FTUW yourself?! They're hiring murderers and spacemen! You'll be killed!"

"Shut the fuck up and get the training facilities started! At this rate I'm going to miss the first event as it is! Send some African slave in my place for the inaugural event!"

Wilson is forced to relent and goes to complete the baron's plans.

"Heh heh, just you see Rudy! I'll take the fast path to being champion and you'll have to lick my boots at a chance at the belt! Gaaaahahahaha!"
Action Hank
Yes, I fart dicks. Dicks actually come out of my anus when I fart.
Joined: 20 Jan 2007
Posts: 8600
(Mon Jun 23, 2008 11:57 pm)
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Post     Re: Ten men, ten stories

RUDY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Spamdini
Joined: 22 Jan 2007
Posts: 1322
(Tue Sep 16, 2008 7:04 pm)
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Post     Re: Ten men, ten stories

Story 8: Chief Fisting Falcon

It is mere days before the final cataclysmic battle between Team King von Toity and Team Hoity von Toity, and Chief Fisting Falcon has returned to his native village of FUCK DAMN SHIT DIE HELL FUCK KILL JAAAAACKED KUNT, otherwise known as FDSDHFKJK. In this strange village, once situated on an Indian reserve in Maine, visitors are not physically mistreated but are often berated until they leave in tears, too emotionally scarred to ever speak of their travels. It is home the most rugged and mighty Native Americans of them all, able to inspire fear and a commanding presence without lifting a single finger.

An example of such occurred just minutes before Fisting Falcon's return. A goon lord with a mohawk as tall as the sky drove into town with his army of pierced and tattooed strongmen. Obviously, he was so large that his footprints indented the solid rock beneath him. That’s the primary criteria for goon lord. One shopkeeper, dealing in wares such as dreamcatchers and cigarettes, stepped forward to confront him. He was nearly as tall as the goon leader and his eyes were glowing solid white. He wore but a tan vest with no shirt underneath so that his ridiculously impossible abs were exposed. Before the goon lord could say a single threatening word, the brawny Indian screamed so loud that the air vibrated around him.

“GET THE FUCK OUT YOU PIECE OF SHIT! I HATE YOU!!! YOU’RE A FAGGOT AND I WANT TO KILL YOU WITH KNIVES AND ROCKS!!! FUCK YOU!!!!”

So distraught was the goon lord that his mohawk wilted off of his skull and he ran away crying like an infantile retard. His soldiers followed, tail between their legs. For the hell of it, Chief Fisting Falcon murdered about ten of them as he entered the village, popping them like grapes with his Invincible Palm and letting himself be bathed in their blood and wearing their intestines like necklaces.

“Brother Falcon, you have returned!” exclaimed the shopkeeper who then embraced the blood-soaked monstrosity of a man. A white-haired muscleman shook his head in disappointment. Though wrinkles in his face and his hair color would betray his true age of 103, Grand Chief Anal-destruction Lynx was as mightily built as any of the humble injuns he guided.

“Why must you use violence so hastily, my son?” the Grand Chief asked as he and Fisting Falcon sat down in his teepee made of excavated dinosaur bones and the skin of polar bears.

“My palm of justice is pure and powerful. I can no longer just rely on my words.” He looks around before asking, “Where is my brother Captain Falcon?”

The Grand Chief exhales from his peace pipe while shaking his head with great displeasure. “He has left the village my son. Wishing to follow his brother’s path, he went off towards destiny and I fear the eagle’s beak holds no fish for him in the future.”

Chief Fisting Falcon sheds not a tear, but his eyes are dramatically shadowed as he stares off. “Brother, your spirit is within me always! May I steal your Falcon Palm for great glory in the future.”

The Grand Chief interrupts him. “My son, are you still certain about your destiny? About the man chosen by the Earth and the Sky as the savior of humanity?”

“That is what I came to ask, Grand Chief. I was certain that Baron Hoity von Toity was the savior that my vision quest showed me. The one that this village has fortold of for centuries. However, it seems as if there are two of them now and they will be doing battle. I…I do not know if I should be supporting either one. Which is the true destined savior?!”

The Grand Chief calmly ashes his peace pipe and sighs loudly. “Then support neither. Perhaps your quest was a waste. How could such an evil and unscrupulous man be a savior anyways?”

“Grand Chief…”

And with that Chief Fisting Falcon explodes the Grand Chief’s skull with his hand, leaving a pair of dangling eyeballs and an exposed lower jaw with tongue as the only remnants of the once proud village leader!!

"Psssssh-ft," went the blood fountain that was once the Grand Chief's head.

“GRAND CHIEF! FUCK YOU! I SHALL FOLLOW MY HEART TO THE END! IF MY SAVIOR IS EVIL THEN I SHALL BE EVIL TOO! LET THE GLORY OF BATTLE SHOW THE TRUE CHOSEN ONE!”

And with that, Chief Fisting Falcon downs a bottle of homemade rum before pulling off donuts on a motorcycle in the middle of the village square.
Action Hank
Yes, I fart dicks. Dicks actually come out of my anus when I fart.
Joined: 20 Jan 2007
Posts: 8600
(Wed Sep 17, 2008 6:32 pm)
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Post     Re: Ten men, ten stories

@_@
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