The Way of the Gun.
By jon | May 23, 2008
Jonothon Voit chased the mutt down and threw him against an old getto wall 105 times. The uncough man had done enough evil deeds to make a minister barf. It was a Dark Night in the Land of the Hard, and this night, Jonothon Voit stirred the stew. This freaking creep was a pea or carrot.
The creep lay on his butt like Tony Parker after a Fool’s Elbow from the likes of Rambis. He prayed his precious prayer’s to Jesus and God; however; neither lendt an ear. Waiting for dearth.
Jonothon Voit took out the gun from his manifold. The creep shuttered.
“You know how a gun works?”
The creep was confused, because it was wierd to have conversation right now.
“Well let me shine some light on the Way of the Gun. See this hear? This is the handle. You just put a bullet in the handle…like this.”
A click echoed throughout the alley. The creep jumped, because he was scared because the gun made a sound. The gun that would soon snitch his life.
“Then this is what happens. The bullet sit’s in the handle. Waiting like a gumball in the Death Machine. A kid will eat it and blow bubble’s. You will eat it and Blow You Away.
“Then I do this.” Voit spun the round thing in the middle of his gun incredibly fast. “This is the primer. Get’s the juice’s flowing.
“You see, the Science of the Gun has been invented by Science. Its an evolution, like you or me. All the same in this freewheeling world. Its’ but a keg in the machine. The world is a freaking unicycle that goes nowhere because there impossible to ride.
“Lucky for me…training wheel’s.” “Jonothon Voit hit a piece on the back of the gun and it made a sound.” “Now I did that thing, and the bullet is in the chamber. Its begging to be shot. Begging fore a ride. Like a junk-yard dog. Choking on his collar by his chain. The bullet is a dog.”
This is important because the creep, Timothy, started his Evil long ago by throwing rocks at a dog. Timothy begg’d refuge from the Pain Train about to roll over him at 50 M.P.H.
“Oh. Almost forgot. The safety.” Jonothon didn’t really forget; it was Theater. Jonothon unscrewed the lid from the barrel of the gun. “Now your dead. Tell the Lord God he owe’s me a sole.”
Timothy grifted his teeth. Then: the science. Bullet. Gun. Gunpowder. Trigger. Bullet. All working together like a League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.
The bullet fire’s.
Timothy checks his head. Its still there. Jonothon Voit smiled, the safety clench’d in his teeth.
“Yore life starts now. Go be a freaking doctor. Go into the Telecom field. Do whatever the freak you want, but get out of these streets, my fine feathered friend. Their going to swallow you up and crap you out. Fightclub
It was an awkwardly randome night.
Topics: By: Jon | 1 Comment »
A Miner Threat
By justin | January 8, 2008
Private Pete was a private in the U.S.A. Army of America. It was his first day in the army and he was doing his best to make a good first impression. He was a minesweeper. He made a lot of friends because he was a cool guy with a hot girlfriend (supermodel Kathy Ireland) and an awesome car (a 1986 Ferrari Testarossa). The day was almost over when he heard his name called over the intrecom instructing him to go to the head office. His boss at the army, General Patton Q. Howitzer, called him into his office and told him it was his job to sweep the battlefield for mines before the big war. “The big war is tomorrow, private,’ said the General, “and we need the batlefield swept for mines so that our soldiers don’t get blown to smithereens!”
“But sir,” said Pete, “this is my first day in the Army! Shouldn’t this operation be left for someone with more experience?”
“What is your major malfunction, maggot,” barked the General. “If I wanted to answer questions I would have challenged you to a round of Trivial Pursuit! Do I make myself clear, Private?”
“Sir, yes sir,” saluted Pete.
Pete gathered up his minesweeping supplies and headed toward the battlefield. The cool night breeze whipped through his flowing blonde hair like a bunch of hip urban youths performing a high-speed supercharged Tokyo drift around an inner-city street corner. “This place is a mess,” riffed Pete. “Time to sweep it up.”
With the grace of an eagle and the majesty of a faster, smarter, cooler eagle, Pete set to work. He was spitting out flags and marking territory much like a pitbull with a hyperactive bladder. No soldiers were going to die on his watch. He took a minute to reflect upon the horrors of war.
From far off in the distance, Pete heard the faint notes of the Army’s marching song, Rollin’ by Limp Bizkit. As he struggled to hold back the tears of respect for all it represented he knew there was still one more mine out there. But oh no! He was all out of flags… except for one. The mother of all flags, Old Glory herself. Pete pulled the flag from his satchel and thinking back upon former American heroes like George Washington, Hulk Hogan, Mick Jagger and Most Xtreme Primate, deftly hurled it across the battlefield. It punctured the dirt like a hot needle puncturing the scarred face of a socially awkward 14-year old. At just that moment the rest of the Army showed up to fight the war. Pete breathed a sigh of relief. Democracy had been saved.
That night after the war had ended, the other soldiers threw Pete a big party and told him how cool he was. Then the phone rang! Pete picked it up and it was none other than the President! The President of America! “Bang up job, Pete! Or should I say General Pete?”
“What do you mean, sir,” questioned Pete.
“In light of your recent accolades I have decided to promote you to General of the Army,” juristicted the President. “Effective immediately!”
Pete turned and faced the soldiers who were giving him a rousing ovation of respect similar to that received by Keenan Ivory Wayans whenever he’d appear on the Arsenio Hall show. “As my first order as General of the army,” speeched Pete, “I’m commanding all of you to eat pizza and ice cream! And remember, that’s an order! Oh, and Private Howitzer, I’ve got a special assignment for you.”
“W…what’s that sir,” toadied the former General.
“Lick. My. Boots.”
Then Kathy Ireland gave Pete a blowjob in his Ferrari while they flew to Paris for a romantic triste (the car could fly too).
Topics: By: Justin | No Comments »
Into oblivious.
By Daniel | January 8, 2008
How The West Was Lost
The sky cracked open like nuts and down fell the biggest and the wettest nut-stuff this world hast seen: Rain. Rain reigning over this world… Zoid reigning over this City. People, née, Zoid-Heads, roamed this city like leperously cancerous saskwatches, eyes blaizing out a yellow colour so red that they look like a thumb-nail painting of Hell’s Kitchen. Hunger brewed, mouthes gaped and watered like Frenche toílettes, blood-vanes pumped and pumped: ready for that hit… that oneway ticket to the Zoid Zone.
The ticket-master sat in a chair of the finest leathers and red twine. Laughing like a jakyll-hyena half-breed of the ages. Rivers of shivers flow thru all whom hear his name. His name a noose to cook a goose and any other beauty-bird. His name: Angelo.
Its’ going to take an epic Man to topple this toldem-pole of discusting naredowelling. Epic like a mothers’ love. Epic like Gods’ Green earth. Epic like Dragonhart, as voiced by Shawn Connery.
—
Epic like SNICKT.
Wolferine stood atop his motourcycle with binoculers to his eye. The situation was d’yer. He had to make it strait.
“This is a Turd City situation” said he to the night airs.
Wolferine untyed his beards and felt fury like eagles fly thru his being. He came down from whenst perch he came and mounted his motourbike. Pedal to the medal.
—
But the Zoid-Heads clogged the streets like a Yokozuna-artery. No room to breath; no room for elbow grease; no room for a man to sit and enjoy eating apple. Wolferine put down his head and attempted to wheelie thru these living zombies but the Zoidians were to numourous, to plentiful. Each one grabing and clawing like a monster with grabing claws. SNICKT!! Out come the claws and off go the heads.
He puts his right claw in; he puts his right claw out; he puts his right claw in and kills them all about. One Zoid-Head remain’d on the street. He lumbered tall and bulked like so many Frankestine’s passed. He looked at Wolferine and said “Yur deghd an I vill be breengy deth uponst yu.” His accent was one of smashed potatos.
Wolferine lept and crash’d down upunst the Zoidian. He pumbled him. Into oblivious.
Wolferine said “forget it Bud, your done for” said Wolferine
—
Angelo sat in his leather’d chair and overlooked to the dismembered street b’low. His brows furrowed further and farther down his Mutumbo-like face. He stood quick and rapidly and ascended to his armory closet. Guns; safety off. Bullettes ready and willing to tear flesh like Slash tears thru “Sweet Children of Mind”. A gun in his green-snake leather boots; a gun in his fated ‘Guitar Done’ t-shirt; a silverbulleted gun for each of his bone-infested fists. “The only thing better then a gun is a better gun” said Angelo to hisself as he stood unafraid, awaiting for his Future.
—
Wolferine burst thru the door of Angelo and Angelo ansered thusly with a raining of bullets so unmagnanimous that the nightbirds stopped there hooping and hollaring in a showing of beautful respects. Wolferine was shot once many time. To many times. Three many times. For many times. He was was riddled and knew not the anser.
Angelo laughed his jackyll-hyena laugh and called upon his butler. His night of dag-nasty violence and blood smattering needed a soundtract. He commanded his boombox be turned on with the BassBoost turned to the furthest right.
“Make it jam; make it groove like Roseanne’s Theme” declared Angelo. The butler responded in kind as Semisonic’s hit single “Closing Time” came snaking its’ way thru the speaker holes like a genie to grant three death-wishes.
But as the guitars distortioned and the drums hit the back-beat with a whallop Wolferine was uponst his feet and disheading the butler! The butlers’ body was in shock and stayed standing on it’s feet untill Wolferine Johnny-Caged it into fatality.
Wolferine stood, butler-head in hand. “I killed him; he got away” Wolferine philosophised. “No near-mortal hasth the brain powers to comprehand these terrifying horrers I am to unleash on thou.”
Angelo walked calm and collective to Wolferine. “You fancy you’reself a man of honor and peace. You’re vanity and self-esteem stinks of the ancient fart. I kill, you kill; wheres’ the diffrence? I demon, you demon, all of us: demon.”
“Your breath scents of cow demure” scoweled Wolferine as he chest-punched Angelo in the stomache. He planted a boot to Angelos’ face but Angelo layed calm still.
“We’re talking about you’re soul here, Wolferine” intoned Angelo.
“I don’t give a dang about that thang” barked Wolferine!!! as he SNICKT his claws thru Angelos’ two eyes. “The Dead Store called. Your dead. No refunds. Cash only. No shirt, no shoes: your dead.”
Wolferine had mission accomplished his goal but yet Angelos’ words haunted in his mind. What is man? Why do he do the things he do? Is there “good” and “evil”? Wolferine had no ansers imperticular. He looked back at Angelos’ deadened body as he exited: Angelos’ LA Gear jumpsuit shimmered like dimons under the Northern Lights. Transcendent. “Beauty in ugly situations” wandered Wolferine to himself.
He had won but what was lost? He had not the ansers.
He walked home with his butt between his legs.
Topics: By: Daniel, Wolferine | No Comments »