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Helloween.
By kyle | September 9, 2007
The Devil’s Own
Wolferine burnst onto the seen a madman. He knew not of hine past; Nor, hine future. But yet he sleeked it, A Man Apart. He walk’t betwixt the gray and brown buildings, tenaments to man’s Averness. “It’s only Teenage Wasteland,” muddered he. And Wolferine was mear New York Minutes away from larning just. How. Write. He. Was.
Wolferine herd the crys of an innocent. He could here the sound of knifes and guns blistering in the August sun. Something—or someone—‘twas amiss. Wolferine spreng into action, a variable Detlef Schrempf powerdriving the lane of injustice. And what Referee of Life couldst blow the proverbial whistle uponst our humble hero…er, anti-hero, for charging? Nary a soul, unless you count people who want a SNICK split theirn face. E.g., no one.
Wolfering raced towards the sound of yells, shouts, and screems. A woman. A baby. An elderly. A Down Sindrome guy. Innocence all, being prayed upon like yea many Lays pototo chips at a meeting of minds ‘twixt Kareem Abdul-Jabar and Larry Bird. An interracial gang of thugs mennissed the innocence with weppon. Weppons and like such as, knifes, guns, mashettys, bullets, and last but not least, a fat can of whoopass. Little did they no, Wolferine had in his proverbial satchel a entire Pepsi Cube of whoopass.
“Threw the rings of Pluto, over City Tower, to the fire of Hadee’s…nothin’ but net,” quoth Wolferine, as he dispressed of the bad guys with the gratest of E’s. SNICK SNICK SNICK. And than their ‘twas one. “Tell you’re freinds…theirs a new law in town,” sayeth Wolferine. “The law of the SNICK, bud.” And with that, the Baddie rant off peeing and crieing.
And yet, Wolferine’s travels had just began. For the thugs were but a orderve for what ‘twould to come. Orseon Wells was a man of taste and refinery. And yet behind his gold-plaited false-odd of shimmering normal lain the beast of 10,000 faces. And this was one Beast that was not blue and furry like Cookie Monster yet lernid like a Inestine, but a Beast that was green and stinky to high heaven, like a fart rumbling deep within the devil’s own bunghole.
Orseon Well’s house lyed at the top the mountian overlooking the city. ‘Twas a cassel of upmost Grace and Beuty and yet inside lain horrors in numerable, like a Pringles can fill’t with spider heads. Spider heads of Rath and In-nigguity. Wolferine only fount out because one of the goons he beat up said so with his dying breaths. “’Tis our belovid Orseon Well’s pulling the strings, as though we ‘twere mear puppets and he a Jeff Dunham of imminent shrewdness.” Wolferine had a mishun. To kick butt. Orseon butt.
Wolferine hoped on his Harly and SCREEEEEed out to stately Well’s Manner. He got threw the security sistem with his smarts: “Eureka! The secret code is Orseon’s birthday!” Wolferine entered the numbers: 1-0-3-1. Everyone who was everyone new that Orseon’s birthday was on 10/31. Halloween. Helloween. And Helloween ‘twould come early this year.
Wolferine tiptowed acrost the freshley-dude lawn, no louder than a pretty girl sneaking out a fart in Geography class. He spyed in the window. And what, praytell, did Wolferine Spy with hine Little Eye? You don’t want to no, for if’n I toldeth thou, thy nightmairs would haunt thou for the rest of thine days. But here’s a hint: do the words “nutsack changepurses” mean anything to you? Human nutsacks, by the way.
Wolerine was outraged and, er, grossed out. And now ‘twas his turn to Gross someone out. ‘Twas the moment: Gross Point Blank. Wolferine SNICKed threw the window whilst Orseon Well’s was dining on freshley slottered Oriental person flesh. Orseon was to quick and through a smokebomb. When the smoke cleerd, Wolferine was alone. In a dungen. A beartrap was stapled to his nutsack. Their was a note: “Thou canst releast thineself from this prison if thou solveth mine puzzle. You think you are so grate, Wolferine. Well I am going to show you to apreshiate life. From, Orseon.”
“THAT DIRTY DOG howled!! Woflerine”
Just then, Wolferine had the oppassit of a branefart. He hadst: A branestorm. He wrapped his nutsack in a peace of of metal and through a M-80 at the bear trap. IT worked! Wolferine was safed. And now, the piss day rezistaunts. ‘Twas time to Take Out The Trash.
Wolferine fount Orseon in his study. A trew man of larning, Orseon was to ingrossed in his reeding to notice Wolferine’s entrance. Wolferine glimpst at the tidal of the booke Orseon Well’s was reeding: Romeo + Julia, by Shake Speer. A true bookworm. Unfortunitly, Orseon was also another tipe of worm: a snake.
Wolferine cry rang out like a douche, another runner in the night: “Your toast, bud!” And with that: Orseon’s head was SNICked off. “Killing is no way to get a head in life, bud” said Wolferine. aND WITH that, Wolferine new that another villin hath been vankwish’t. Now…‘twas time to get cracking on the other 90 million of them.
I am the bullgod…I am free
And I feed on all that is forsaken
I’m gonna get you
I see through you
I’m gonna get you
Topics: By: Kyle, Wolferine | No Comments »