By Daniel | December 30, 2010
The hammuck breezed back ‘n fourth in the winds like a fat child unable to work a swingset. It was Lazy Sunday and Wolferine was lazing about with various exotic fruits and shrimps shishkabobbed on each of his adamantium claws. His murder weapons justsupposed into a picture of domestic bliss. Acoustic guitars plucked angelic in the background; Six Pants None the Richard, Wolferine’s favorite. A Normal Rockwell painting wainting to happen.
Suddenly and without warning; his ringtone. Guns and Roses. Rocking’ bassriffs. Shred slashing’ on his Flying V. Alex Rose screeching like a wierd Led Zepplen. Wolferine basked in his ringtone before finally: he answered the cellphone.
“You have one week to train for boxing in the square-circle. George Forearm has a raptured disk in his back and can’t fight.”
Wolferine checked his caller Id. It read: Mystery. It was akin to the 1999 film The Matrix wherein Morfus calls Keanu Reeves on the phone and Keanu Reeves doesn’t noe whom is calling him but he does what Morfus says anyway.
“We’ve forged a George Forearm mask that you will ware atop your normal Wolferine-head. Millions will be tricked. You shall become the Orson Well of boxing. But the cause is more than entertain: If you’re opponent wins it spells doom for all of New York city.”
Wolferine sat ramrod in his hammuck. “Whose my opponent?” asked he.
“The Heavywait champion: Martin Luther Vandrose.” The man hung up rudely and Wolferine descended from his hammuck. He redacted his claws slowly, fruits and shrimps tumbled to the lawn, uneaten. It was Training Day.
Wolferine ran in snow. Wolferine pulled Ford Focus cars out of ditches. Wolferine drank smoothies of salad and stake. Wolferine did alot of pullups in a old barn. Wolferine ate uncooked eggs. Wolferine punched dead cow bodies. Wolferine ate a energy bar. He was in such a muscular shape that even geometry was left befuddled, scratching its’ nerdy head. Beleive it or not, but his muscles got even ripley’er.
The George Forearm mask fit like a glove, as also did his boxing gloves. He stood in the corner hopping around like a boxer. In the other corner stood an Adonis in purple shorts. His muscles bespoke training montages set to heavy-metal music such as Slayer, Fear Factor, and Panera. His hair was wylde and ravenous in a manner befitting of Jesse Camp. His Undertaker eyes betrayed no fear.
A wierd poet stood in the middle of the ring quoting the lyrics to Billy Coragon’s magma opus, Bullet With Butterfly Wang:
“The world is a vampire, sent to box
Secret boxers, hold you up to the flames
And what do I get, for my boxing?
Betrayed desires, and a piece of the games!!”
The crowd rored like a bunch of Langoliers.
“Sharpen your pens and dip your pencils in your finest oils, feast on your eyes uponst the Rumble in the Jumble!” proclaimed the filthy vagabond.
It was New Years Eve. 11:00 at night. In one hour the ball would drop. Heads would role.
The guy hit the bell with the little hammer. The jumble rumbled. Martin Luther Vandrose had abs of marbles and a head like an oxen, immovable but graceful in it’s way. Wolferine had been pounded like a well-aged stake which was being prepared for someone famous like Baraka Obama. The bell dinged and donged.
As Wolferine sauntered back to his corner for a drink of Vitamen Water his eyes spied a desirable lady in the crowd. Her eyes spied him also as well; She was caught in the crossfire of his Male Gaze; a mesquito frozen in Amber. She sat betwixt too greasy guidos whom Wolferine knew to be members of Mafioso. She looked like Vivica A. Foxx circa Booty Call (1997; Maltin’s Movie Guide). Her eyes shone bright like the M on a brown-coloured M&M candy morsel. She was a Denzel in da stress.
11:58 in the night. Ding dong, ding dong. It was round twelve and Martin Luther Vandrose was winning handly. The beautiful Vivica A. Foxx-ian lady looked on in distress. Vandrose circled his pray like a vulture on the shoulder of a dead animal. He combo punched. Wolferine had cuts on his eyebrows making him look sort of like Christian Slater. Vandrose punched more and he punched harder. Punch punch punch punch punch punch punch punch. But each punch only awoken the animal spirits residing within Wolferine’s ample bosom. He punched back. Punch punch punch punch punch punch, he punched.
The greasy guidos could smell what was coming next. They stood up with guns in there hands. The beautiful lady stood and screamed at Wolferine, “Bend him like Becker!!”
Wolferine punched Vandrose in the stomach, doubling him over; then suddenly and without warning SNICKT his claws were unfurled and in the blink of an Undertaker eye Wolferine uppercutted Martin Luther Vandrose’s head off his neck. It twirled in the air like a coin flipping heads or tales. It landed in time with the New Year’s Eve ball, hitting the mat squishily at 12:00 midnight. Heads. The crowd erupted like Mount Killamanjero, trampling underfood the guidos and there guns. His adamantium had caused a pandamontium.
The beautiful lady climed into the ring and rapped her finely toned body around Wolferine like an anaconda snake. Wolferine tore off his George Forearm mask and revealed his true identity to her. “My name isnt George Forearm,” said he, “It’s Wolferine.”
The beautiful lady smiled wantonly. “Hello Wolferine, my name is Dawn King.”
Wolferine kissed her crazily, sexily, coolly.
By Daniel | January 18, 2010
Wolferine sat perched atop his motourbike like a frog on a lilypad of the utmost chrome and sexuality. Echoes of winds and quiete desperation of this lonely town flowed thru his hairs like a song from the Blair Witch 2: Book Of Shadows Official Soundtrack (Jive Records). Beneathe his Oakleys his eyes squinted like a modern-day Clint Eastwould as he chooed on a lightly-minted toothpick from Applebees Fine Dinery. He wheelied subtly and deaftly past Town Hall and the neckhairs on his arm stood up in goosepimple fashion as he sensed something Not Quit Right in the air up there. Something bad – dare I say, Erroneous – was about to happen and Wolferine was desperate to put a stopping to it.
All was quiete in this idealic small town where apple pies cost a nickle and a can of soda coke mearly a dime. Not a peep nor a weep but yet the tenchon was as thick as a peanutbutter and gel sandwhich. Wolferine stepped gently as if on the shells of eggs thru the allyways of downtown. Little did he know that things were about to get noir like Gwar.
He visioned a wearhouse of broken windows and gray as slowly picked its lock with his know-how. When he peaked his hawk-like eyes around the corner things went gloomy as if in a music video by critically acclaimed shock-rockers Linkin Park. Left to right, bottom to top; bodies of ruggedly handsome hardworking blue-collered gentlemen and they’re moderately attactiv wives stacked like pancakes with blood oozing and goozing like Aunt Gemini’s maple syrup (but red). He was transmogrified at the sight. They weren’t dead; someone was toying with they’re emotions – someone one crayon short of a Happy Meal.
Wolferine pulled out his Iphone and tried calling the ambulance but it was all for not; Verizon hath let him down again. He thru his Iphone into anger at a far-distanced, well-shadowed wall. There came back no resounding thud of impact, only but a gargoyl of a man lurching slowly and cock-shure. He had Wolferines’ Iphone pressed against his ear just so.
“Yes I would like to order a sized large pizza of sausage and meat and also a sized large Mountain Dew with a crazy straw delivered to the spooky wearhouse” he spake as he ordered a pizza from the local pizzeria. The straw wasnt the only thing crazy ’round these quarters; so was the man who was about to be torn asunder to shreds by Wolferine.
The man stepped into a sliver of lite and said these words verbotem: “Nothing like a good Piece-a-Pie and a Dew to wash down the heart of an adversary in the pail moonlite.” Wolferine was unimpressed by this villains way with words. He spit a luigi to the ground.
“My name is Sammy Soda. I come to America to harvest organs to sail on the black market (no racist). These farm-fed, ample-fleshed country pumpkins bring home the most bacon. And by bacon I speak in simile of money. To quothe the Ma$e / Puff Diddy rap hit of 1998, “mo money, mo money”.”
Wolferines’ eyebrows converged in a show of anger. “I’m about to beat the he’ll out of you”. His words were bold; like the slanted words in magazine articles.
To which Sammy Soda tisked a “tsk tsk”. “Don’t go chasing waterfalls, young one” he intoned to Wolferine as he opened up his tranch-cote to reveal guns of various sizes and caliber. Wolferine was mad at this because, much like cars are illegal in Canada, guns were outlaw’d in this small God-fearing village of humble townsfolk. Before Sammy Soda could know what hit him Wolferine had lept and desended uponst him as hot and heavy as a lovers’ breadth. Soda mearly smiled the smile of a man with something up his sleave; he was sneaky like a small child stealing cookie jars. He pulled a gun from whenst it came (his sleave) and gunshot Wolverine squire in the stomac.
As Wolferine lay without motions on the ground there came a nock-nock on the door and it was a pizza delivery for Sammy Soda. He took the pizza and Mountain Dew and coldly paid in exact change; leaving no tip. Soda smirk’d at the seemingly-dead Wolferine and sprinkled the Dew on his piece-a-pie; he was kinky like that. He turn’t toward a window to enjoi his forth-meal in the stealy moonlite. This was, it gos without say, a Big Misteak. He stepped like a goose slowly and shurely and tapped Sammy Soda on the shoulder and thusly spake Wolferine as to say “Boom yah”. Wolferine had sliced and diced Sammy Soda head cleanoff like an uninterested child might do a pencil eraser in History class. Soda’s head landed with a thud and his tongue poked out grossly, wavering like the finger of Motombo.
Wolferine turned toward the stacked bodies of the village people and shuttered to his adamantium covered bones. He kissed a young child on the fourhead and told him to Keep Strong Help Is On Its Way. He stepped out of the wearhouse. The horrors of the wearhouse had ravaged his mind and now he saw things in different lite. Trees lost there shine and the sky was weird; It was a living-breathing biological Twilite Zone of upside down ferns and founts. Wolferine shook his head and ran. He ran.
By kyle | October 19, 2009
Mother Nighte fell hard and lose over Capitol D.C. Newswright Zackery Palin sat tap-tap-tapping at his Compaq Presario model 7AP140. He had a dead line. “Finish you’re dead line or you’ll be lyin’ dead.” had been the word from ‘pon High. Dr. Maxx Hardcore, the Editer And Cheaf of the Capitol Poast, was the guy who said that thing (about dead line).
So now Zackery was cought ‘twist two hard thing’s. The paper was hot on the Press’s. It just needed Zackery’s page 1 section A artical to be done, but write now, that was zilch nada zip. Zackery did some stuff that showed how he knew not what to right stuff such as, Surfing the Information Superhighway, rittering this way and thine whilst blasting the song that goes “I’m riding around in my automobile”, and Nerf.
Finally: A Lastidge Effert. “This otta be good…” said Zackery in the instrouviant manner of a Chandler Binge. He opened the Male Bag. “Into my bag of Trix…” he continued. He shuffled a few letters about. Finally: the Mother Load! Nay. The Greasy Greasy Grandma Load. He red:
“Deare Womb It May Concert:
You don’t know me, but I’m a Yes Man (Jim Cary. Little joke their.) fore Precedent Borat Abamo. You didn’t hear this from me, but Follow the Money. Jerry McGwire? Nay. Real Life.
Fill Hardman, age 42
Los Chulopos (this is the city that is like Las Angelos in the story)”
So Zackery hoped on his Hogge and sped into the tumescent night. He broak a traffic law. Suddenly, he followed the Money. It brung him write to the White House. Or should I say, Black House, for’n this was one presedant whom was darker than Roc on BET. “I prefer One Night at McCool’s on Comedy Central” quiped Zackery.
Zackery Palin pushed the button at the gate. “Whom shalt seak entrée?” came the reply. The voice? ‘Twas downright Lurchian. Zackery shuttered all the way down into his FILA sock’s and Soap brand shoe’s. But Zaq was cleaver. Thou he urg’d to retart “I’m Bart Simson, whom the hell are you!” he bit his tounge, like Drabble biting on a donot. “It’s the Male Man,” he scuttered. “I have a special delivory for Mr. Prez.”
“Come right in!” Mr. Male Man said Larch.
Zackery trodden the path to the front dore. He knock’d, a rein of paradiddle’s ‘pon the whorey gates. The dore opened like Star Track. Inside? Oprah music as far as the ear could ‘ear. “Mozark,” mused Zackery. Learnéd.
Suddenly, “presidant” Borat Ben Ladin Abamo appeared. “Who are your?” he said.
“That’s not importent. I followed the money. I have prove your a Muslin and a Socialest. Go back to Africa. I’m not rasist.”
Precedent Abaomo shot him a 48-tooth Patrick Ewing Smile. “Who would beleave you? Your just a insignifigint Flee. I’m a Big Dog on the poarch. Stay of the poarch.”
Zackery declared: “Your a mad man! You’ll never get away with this!” He floamed at the mouth.
But Abomo looked at him with rath. In hine rage, he looked just like Mike Myer—and I ain’t talkin’ Austin P!
“Bedtime for Bono,” quod he. The room fill’t with green gas. Zackery thought “How appropriant,” remembering the “Hoof arted” novelty T he was spoarting that day. Then he hit the hey.
Zackery woak up in a dumster. His cloth’s were replace with Rag. He had black crap smear’d across his face like Hulk Hogan’s bierd when he was Hollywood Hogan. On his head, a crampled hat. On his hand’s? Fingerless glofes. Their trying to make me look like a Crank Pot, a mear harmless homeless! he relized.
But what They didn’t no? He had used his Tigre Talkboy to recoard the hole convorsation with Obomo. “Hell hath no furry…” thought Zakk.
The storey hit the head lines the next day. Abamo didn’t have a berth cert, so he was sent to the middal of the ocean to live and work in a cave. Zackery Palin won the Noble Price for his stoary. Moreover, the mayor of Capitol D.C. made him the new precedent. His first law was, No Socialest. “Wierd stuff.”-Johnnie Carsen