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Rumble in the Jumble
By Daniel | December 30, 2010
Raging Wolferine
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.
Topics: By: Daniel, Wolferine | No Comments »