He spit a luigi to the ground.
By Daniel | January 18, 2010
Food Fight
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.
Topics: By: Daniel, Wolferine | No Comments »