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Board Writing :: Rumbl-o-Rama: In Vengeance :: Page 1


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Posted by
MadGoblin
on
May 5, 2009

Edited on
May 5, 2009


A rag wearing wretch tumbled across the mist laden floor. He raised his purple topped head to cast a menacing glare from under his brim. A jagged grimace was his only word to his foe.

"Accept it, old timer. You have been bested," contested the foe, a floating being who beamed with light. "For the first time in many a Rumblon, the Legendary Dairy shall not fall to your unworthy hands." It clenched a webbed, clawed, gloved fist to symbolize seizing victory.

"'Ey now, da Very Airy Berry ain't chosen a Rumblah as a winnah just yet," hissed the freak. "So dun be countin' yer human traffics before da cops show up, Mega-Arctic Cheese-Vermin Swamp-Feline Handy-Lupine."

"Foolish Mortal! Get with the times," scoffed the glowing demi-god, glowing not because of its immense power but its fluorescent accessories and LED display jewelry. "That hasn't been my name for, like, five minutes. I've ingested six more Rumblers since then."

"Well, dey may have gone down easy, but I'd like ta see ya fit dis down yer throat!" Tearing off his jacket, the scraggly fiend revealed a muscle bound, ripped set of pecs. The ample chest masked the lower half of his face with no explanation to how it fit under his garments or how the rest of his body remained unchanged from this enlargement. Letting out a ferocious roar, the two titans leaped at one another to have their final battle.

"An' den we clashed in da air wit' a huge 'splosion, bam!" He smacked his hands together to add to his story telling. It failed to pique anyone's interest in the drunken rambling. "Clear knocked out all da smoke in da enchanted palace. Dat's when Amalgoon threw me down ta da floor. He was 'bout ready ta add me ta da menu when dat floaterin' berry whizzed by. It choose me on account o' m' awesome physique an' gave me da full powah o' its Lengendairy." Bogg smugly brushed his dirty knuckle against his dirtier collar as he patted the prize he had placed at his side. "So, long story short," and it was in deed a long story, "dat's how I came ta win da Rumbl-o-Rama fer da third time in a row. Oh, an' den I shacked up wit' da princess o' da castle 'cuz dey do dat."

"... Wow, that had to be the biggest load of shit that I've ever heard." Bimblesnaff was thrown back by the sudden outburst.

"Whoa, someone was listenin' ta dat all?"

"Listening? I've been spending the last three hours trying to block out that nonsense," fumed the man with his head planted on the bar. "I don't even know where to begin with what was wrong with that atrocity." The man in gray sprung from his stool and feverously counted down the errors. "You did not take down a swarm of helicopters that were, for some reason, supported by strings. There were no robot she-bots that tried to enslave you, which in itself is redundant, disgusting, and unlikely. There were no armies of marshmallow bunnies, which I don't even know what that had to do with the story. It seemed like an inserted promotion."

"Once m' drunken babbles get so long, I can sell ad space in 'em."

"Fantastic," flatly responded the spectacled man. "More over, the Very Airy Berry does not reside in the 'Citadel of Misty'. It, in fact, makes its home in a condo on a sandy beach in Ref. Plus, every Rumbler was not eaten by some power hoarding monster to form some kind of supreme being. That's just things made up to scare kids and newbies. Isn't that right, Mega-Arctic Cheese-Felovermin Handynerd Lupofrog Knight I Mean Not All That I Have A Mustache?"

"... Yes," confirmed the fake facial hair sporting super freak, "that is my name and the truth."

"Now, all of stupidities together don't discredit your tale, Gobbo," continued the drab guy, "but there are these three tidbits you might find of interest: First, you never won any Rumbl-o-Rama. Two, there never was a third Rumbl-o-Rama. And, lastly, that's not cheese!" A bandaged up finger was aimed straight to the bounty the imp was currently munching on.

Petrified with fear, he barely managed to squeak out, "It's disgusting!" before continuing his feasting.

That, it is, boomed an unseen voice, the part about the cheese and the other great injustice. Too long has it been since the great adventure was declared. For this, I cannot standeth. That is why I declareth the start of Rumbl-o-Rama: In Vengeance. At this point, the tavern wenteth ape shit.

"... No, no, we're pretty content at the moment," countered a random patron. "Once it gets going, then, maybe, we'll care more."

Ape shit, I sayeth!

"'In Vengeance'?" pondered the goblin. "O' what?"

Why, Rumbl-o-Rama III, of course.

"I thought that didn't happen?" challenged the gray garbed guy.

Exactly.

"Wait a sec, how can we be havin' a Rumblo at dis time o' da year?" The green fiend pulled out a reference book to call foul against the scheduling error. "Ah, he'e we go. The trusty Tome o' Ref, Ror, an' Othah Three Lettah Acronyms Dat Staht Wit' R." The book really wasn't that trusty, especially since its title alone had seven typos in it. "M' book has nevah steered me wrong before." He stressed his possession of it as he carelessly brushed away the hacked off hands that had clung to it with all their might. "Pried from 'em, in deed." The lunatic leafed through the guide with a tiny pair of sophisticated glasses on and hummed while he scanned through the data. "Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm. I fergot I can't read."

"Gimme that!" ordered the man of sense. Tearing away the upside-down tome, he told the trivia. "'A Rumblo shall be held once a Rumblon, which is the passing of a year, month, week, and day from the start of the previous.' 'Fraid he's got ya, Gary. Bimblesnaff just outsmarted you. We'll all understand if you want to kill yourself and support it."

Normally, yes, I would have to toaster my tub, but, in this case, it be a Leap Rumblon, so 'tis all good.

"Oh, dat makes sense," accepted the drunken maniac, which did nothing for the statement's credibility. "... Why is dat, now?"

We leapeth over Rumblo 3.

"We get it, okay? You're all emo over the time off," snapped out the man in glasses. "Go cry about in your blog, pansy."

I already haveth, but I refuseth to grant thou my screen name to preventeth any from leaving a negative commentary on my posting.

"Excuse me, Mr. Booming Voice," spoke up the previous random occupant, random on account of his pulling from the lot and not because he said stupid non-sequitur nonsense that his friends thought were totally hilarious. Although, he was that, too. "It's getting close to last call, and most of us have wives we don't want to face or tabs to skip out on, so that Rumblo is looking mighty fine. Any chance you could get that thing going soon? ... Lampshade." A nearby slew of fools moronically chuckled. "Where are you, anyways?"

I cannot be found as I am beyond comprehension to your mortal mind yet understood by the merest of child folk. The in particular Rumbler to-be shifted his eyes to the left, your left, to see an odd fellow seated at a table with a less than spectacular sign draped around his neck reading "GARY" and his hand over his eyes. No where and everywhere. Here and there. To and Frodo. Again, the choir of chumps started up. Ack, terrible!

That aside, this Rumblo shall not pass with as much ease as the previous ye hath known. This time, I maketh the rules as the Legendairy to which I am Guardian to is on the line.

"What splendor will dis year bring?" drooled the pointy, purple weirdo. "We had cheddah, den shahp cheddah, and den supposedly extra shahp cheddah. Could we be seein' a new, mythical, double extra shahp cheddah?"

Nay! It be mine own Dull Cheddar Legendairy! With a lackluster plop, a lumpy brick of dreary dairy was dropped on display. There were no "oohs" or "aahs" but a few "eews" and "wfts". At this point, the bar went ape shit.

"Quit saying we're doing what we aren't," insisted the man in gray who had way too much face time to be a passing background character.

Never! And with this Dull Cheddar placed as the prize in mine own abode, the Taffy Log Cabin, this Rumblo shall hence forth commence under proper T.L.C. rules, which art simply this: kill everyone. The tavern was frozen. None had expected a sudden rule change and were already printing up their matching "Rumbl-o-Rama '08 Team" T-shirts. No longer shall ye cohort and mingle as a team. This be a hardcore, last man standing, Royal Rumbl- ... Rumblo. Royal Rumblo. Yes. That all clear, lawyers? A near by swarm of suits sternly nodded. Good. Then, alloweth me to sayeth: Hear ye, hear ye! The Grand Quest for the Legendary Cheese is Upon Thou All!

"Hm, a knock down, drag out, fight ta da end? Well, I've said it before, but," the goblin began and never finished. His murky eyes rolled back into his head and his putrid tongue dropped out of his mouth. The lunatic fell to one knee as his claws feebly scratched at the air. Trails of blood made themselves known down his face, and he finally keeled over.

"Well, that's stupid," repeated the frigid warrior William. "I'm gonna go on my own adventure, which is to claim the Legendairy... in this Rumblo... which is actually this adventure... I just needed an in." The icy Aisucard stepped back from the growing pool of blood. He wasn't worried about stepping in spilled vitals, but this particular puddle bubbled and reeked of week old garbage and sautéed infant. "Is... is he dead?"

"No, of course not," blew off the glasses wearing man. "He always gets clobbered and keeps on- ... Sweet Sally Sawmill, he is dead!" His head turned to the aforementioned maiden who shrugged to the news.

And so, officially decreed Nary Wary Gary, the lunatic Bimblesnaff Bogg cameth to expire, hereby forfeiting is eligibility in the Rumbl-o-Rama as well as his claim to the five bucks I owed him for lunch on yester Tuesday. Personally, I am most relieved. I dareth to say that I scarcely could decipher a word that poured from yonder urchin's filth-filled mouth.

"You bunch of pussies, standing around like you've never seen a corpse before," a bold voice broke through the solemn air.

"I have," corrected the glacial gladiator, "twice."

"Does it count if it was our own?" questioned the gray man.

"Pfft, you two won't be any competition," scoffed the bald man as he slung a bloody crowbar over his shoulder. "I don't even have to worry about knocking you off early."

"You! You killed off Bogg? You... You!" the reluctant Rumbler choked on his words. "Wait, are we angry that he killed off the goblin or that he doesn't see us as threats because I'm certain it isn't both."

"Oh, that wasn't to get rid of competition. He just annoyed the hell out of me. I was chillin' the most back in the taverns VIP lounge when I hear this ass jacker spelling my name wrong," explained Gno Whun.

"Spelled wrong? But... it was told!" pointed out the drab man. The killer did not notice the words against his reason. A distraction was provided by his previously pristine white pants now showing sanguine splatters.

"Hm, I should've went with the razor wire," mused the man. "This bar splashed too much." A pair of snaps sounded from his lifted hand. "Someone?" he beckoned, as though it did not matter. The overseer of the Rumblo himself came dashing out into the bar pushing a cart with a television set atop it. Speedily, he connected the wires and got the somehow recorded play rolling. The screen showed how, as Bogg made his tired proclamation, a metal noose quickly ended his mission and life as a cascade of blood spilled out specifically onto Whun's pants alone.

"Yeesh, that's no where near cleaner," frowned the murderer. "How about with a chainsaw?"

"Oh, now how would that be any better?" protested anyone. After the tapes were switched out, Gary had the display showing yet another round of goblinocide with a blood bath so mighty that it actually dripped out of the set.

"Hm... think I'm gonna stick with the crowbar and not rewrite time," Gno finally settled.

"You can do that?" blurted the drab man. "Play with destiny?"

"Oh, me an' Destiny go back." Turning, Whun shot a wink to very voluptuous vixen seated at the bar.

"Wait, is that a stripper-skank or a force of fate?"

"You talk too much!" roared the bald one. He quickly put the footage to the test and went Texas chainsaw on his naysayer. "That wasn't nearly as gruesome as I'd expect a cold blooded murder to go." He peered over his shades to see William covered in a fresh coat of crimson. "Well, the important thing is that guy is dead now."

"... no, I'm not," weakly groaned the butchered. "How could you not kill someone with a chainsaw? Were you aiming to make me suffer?"

"A-duh."

"Wait wait wait wait! Back up a minute," halted the frozen fighter. "... I didn't know this bar had a VIP area."

"And you never will, square," shot the suave stud. "It's kept hidden from lame wads like you." The air behind the murderer swung open to reveal a doorway in nothingness. Flashing lights, techno music, and gorgeous people raved within. Two lovely lasses with champagne glasses leaned out of the portal.

"C'mon, Gno. We're waiting," they singsongly sung.

"Just the two of you? Pfft!" the bald man blew off. "I don't really feel like a light night. I'm goin' for the cheese."

"You're horrible!" menaced the gray man from the floor.

"What? My womanizing? My brash nature? My indifference to human life? My attempted murder of you? Narrow it down for me a little."

"No, everyone tries that last one," he countered, "at least once. I'm talking about how you're spoiled!"

"Hey, what can I say? Or," Gno started. With a snap of his fingers, the lights blacked out except for a spotlight on him, "sing!" Funky beats filled the room as he busted out some fly moves.


  Player, that's my game.
  I love any dame.
    Got no time for name.
    They're all the same.
      Don't call it a shame,
      And don't say I'm lame.
        You can't blame.
        I'm too much to tame.

The graceful steps subsided as he slid over to where Sally Sawmill sat to continue his show. "Hey, girl, I see you looking at me, an' I know what you're thinking, and I just gotta say it's alright. I got some timber for you, baby. Just take my hand and I'll show you to- the back of the line. It won't take long. I take 'em three or four at a time." Sliding back out to the dance floor, he continued his groove with extra emphasis on suggestive thrusts.

"Damn he's cool," admitted the one originally offended, now sporting a frosty pick in his back.

"Even I want him after that." Necks slowly craned towards Aisucard. "Is what a gay man would say."

"Later, losers," Whun bid farewell after toweling off the sweat from his rockin' routine. "I got some mad cheese to claim. Peace." His retreat was blocked by the gaunt, gray guy. "Oh, what? You're gonna stand in my way? Who the hell even are you? I don't think I've ever seen you before."

"Oh?" The stranger cracked a sly smile. "I've been around."

Mr. Jed, aka Dead Man Jed. A drab individual devoid of any color and what should be life. His thin, sickly face is covered by hanging strands of hair and his oversized spectacles. His dingy button shirt and slacks are hidden beneath a long, worn coat. A noose adorns his neck like a tie. It and the several bandages attest to the number of times he should have died but refused. The bastard!

Gno Whun, the player. Calm and calculating, he is above the inane nonsense that has a stranglehold over most Reffers and strictly obeys the nonsense that passes him off as cooler. Ladies just dig his chrome dome. And what woman wouldn't be wooed with fingerless gloves? Wrap this recipe for bad ass up in a scarlet jacket and bake in a preheated oven at 400° for an hour and get yourself some cookies. Awesome cookies!

Nary Wary Gary, Guardian of the Fourth Legendairy. A timeless being who precedes over the competition known as Rumbl-o-Rama. He dictates the rules and announces various ongoings with his ever audible vocals. As with all higher beings, he is personified as a thin male wearing a red T-shirt and blue pants, not jeans, and a name tag strung around his neck.

Bimblesnaff Bogg, MySpace screen name Sk8rBoi13reallyIam. Wanted in several countries for unsavory acts ranging from drunkenness to transplant organ theft, which he then drank. Stole, puréed, and drank. He currently is lying dead in a pool of his own slowly leaking vitals, so a corpse will not be covered any more than it has been already.

"Someone care to explain what that was about?" asked Aisucard.

Don't looketh at me. That wasn't my narrating.

"No, not that it happened," whined the reluctant Rumbler. "Why wasn't I introduced?"

"Probably 'cuz you're gonna quit in five seconds."

"Uh-uh! Gah! You're stupid. Screw this. I'm going on my own adventure without you guys."

"Five seconds," Jed restated, pointing at his watch. "What did I say? On the money. Pay up, bitches!" He passed along is open, bloody hand to the surrounding in hopes that they wouldn't realize that they never made any monetary promises regarding the event or that the hand was not attached.

"Quit your bragging, Dead Man. Anyone could have seen that coming," passed off Gno.

"Somebody call for me?" asked a large man in black emerging from some mysterious smoke.

"Er, sorry. Not you, 'Taker. I meant that dead man," apologized the hairless killer. "But, hey, we might be needing you to go Old School on somebody, so, who knows?"

"'Sall good." The lights dropped dark at the toll of a bell. When they relit, the phantom figure had departed.

"Oh, that's just always great," geeked out Jed prior to fainting. That, or blood loss.

William Aisucard, the quitter. He is a battle ready warrior in the wussiest of baby blue threads. He hails from the frozen wastelands where folk are cool as ice. Thermally, not figuratively. In that respect, he's as popular and happening as wet socks dampened by anything but water. Currently seeking his own escapades in an alleyway outside the bar, he fails to realize what is offered is not the same type of "adventure" he is soliciting. That will certainly lead to quite the quest.

Randall, the spontaneously chosen bar patron who-

"There it goes again!" yelled the noosed, springing back conscious. "What the hell is that?"

"It was I," proclaimed a red armored ruffian. He stepped out from the mundane masses gathered in the facility and begged the questioned how he ever blended in with the lot in the first place. "I was providing participant information to better inform those Rumbling this year."

"... You're not from these parts, are you, big guy?" easily guessed the corpse in glasses.

"Why, yes, I am not. I hail from the Reffian Peninsula to the south." The warrior reached into his satchel to produce a parchment. "Would you like to see my character sheet? It lists all my abilities and equipment."

"Ooh, You come from RP, below Ref. Far, far below Ref. That makes sense." To humor the man, Jed took a peek at the sheet. "You're class is a Dark Paladin of Light?"

"Of course! I wanted the cliché anti-hero syndrome associated with a dark version of anything but with standard attributes of a regular paladin. You see, a regular paladin can-"

"Agh! You're boring. Die!" A swift swipe lodged the crowbar into the eye socket of its second victim, and a stiff jerk applied to the lever popped his top and scattered brain bits like candy from a piñata. "Was being killed by me on his character sheet? Huh?" huffed Whun in the rain of bloody bits. To maintain the seriousness of his action, he kicked away the little Mexican kids that flocked to the scene to collect the scattered gray matter.

"Actually... yes," answered Jed with much amazement. "Wow, those RP folk like to have everything predetermined."

"Pfft. Pussies."

"Okay, forget what I said earlier," called the familiar voice of chilly Billy as he returned to the bar. "I want to be in this- ..." His words stopped upon seeing the new exploded body and the swarm of cannibal children. "... I'll come back later."

"What? This is bothering you?" Jed scolded as though the ruptured skull and blood thirsty youth were nothing new.

"No, it's because I'm not bothered by it that I have to step out."

"... Was... was that Destiny out there with him?" Gno shrugged.

"Fate, she's a fickle strumpet.




Posted by
MadGoblin
on
Mar 28, 2010


"Dat she be, mates. Dat she be," agreed the gruesome goblin.

Gno gasped in denial, "No! No! I killed you, killed you dead. You can't just be not dead now. It's just wrong." The fiend, by nature not action, although he fits that description, too. Actually, let's just say the fiend with the crowbar bash in the back of his skull for sake of ease. That one shrugged.

"Dunno what to tell ya, chro' do'. Was dead, but then ya had to go an' give m' death to dat lame lower Reffer." He relayed this information while struggling with a toddler for a piece of brain candy.

"But... that's not how death works," complained Dead Man Jed, who, by title, should be an expert on the subject. "You can't just move it from one person to another. It's not some sort of hot potato to be tossed hand to hand. It's more like herpes -- it spreads and is forever."

"Like you'd know," muttered Whun in a voice that was no where near inaudible. The gray guy wanted to retort but knew he couldn't. "But, seems like you lamers aren't savvy up on this joint's special rules. Shouldn't be surprised."

"Ya mean, da two drink minimum?" offered the imp. Sure enough, all the scavenging children held a full mug in each hand. "Or da rule 'bout not takin' a leak anywhere but in da bathroom?" He blew a raspberry. "Prudes."

"This is why you'll never be invited to the VIP lounge!" Gno pounded into his head. A special sign post was created and was hammered straight into the imbecile's skull.

"Great. How am I s'pposed to read dat? ... assumin' I could..."

"... Shouldn't he, um, be dead? ... er?" wondered random Randall. "Or at least have severe brain damage? Flamingo!"

"Actually, I think he's speaking more proper now than ever," guessed the glasses. He left the obvious "brain damage" comment unsaid as they were all thinking it.

"Hey, do you know what this character is on my shirt? Neither do I! It's so ironic. Lol-"

And so, the uncared for Randall was slain as three Rumblers simultaneously strucketh blows of fist to his head at the same time, collapsing it to shards of bone. No pieces of brain matter were added to the scavenging children's search as there was none to be found in the skull.

"I'm... still alive, Gary."

"He was narrating what he wished had happened again," told the tormented, "him and the rest of us. Wasn't a bad idea." Scrunching his face, he turned to the shade sporting suave. "Weren't you explaining something about why Bogg is still alive?"

"Huh? Oh, that. Yeah, the bar has a special rule where death is transferable. Got a little carried away in the blood sport myself," admitted the bald bruiser, "but it's more about the kill than making dead. So, since that runt's demise was on my 'bar, whacking the other oaf with the same weapon moved his end-of-life. Did that really need explained? Get with it, lamer."

"It has a special rule. The tavern. Over physics and what is possible," clarified the corpse as if trying to convince himself.

"It's the owner's place. You saying he shouldn't be able to make his own rules?" challenged the chairman of chillax.

"But, it's defying all logic and reason!" the drab man continued to whine as a door opened from nothingness to let in a trio of well dressed hotties. "It is logic and reason, comparatively."

Wert thou expectant of Gary to foresee such an undesirable event? Since the Rumblo was to the death, one could merely unload a large explosive in the midst of the gathered participants, and we all knoweth how poorly that would go for the tale. I feareth that the murderous mayhem cannot truly begin until you part from this establishment.

And now, I shall leaveth this place to go to my abode. Beware the many dangers that lurk betwixt here and my confectionery cabin, including the dizzying Plaid Plains, the stunning yet pointy Fork-tress, the delectable Cantaloupe Canyon, and the Road of Ruined Writes.

"That third one doesn't sound that bad," objectively stated Rand- "Hockey stick." Dammit!

It may, agreed the Nary Wary while heading towards the door with the lackluster loot overhead, but none of the melons art ripe!

"Still not that-"

And they're man-eaters, shouted the eternal force of Rumblo through the flapping doors.

"There we go," the satiated sullen sap accepted. "Well, sir, now that we know what we're getting into, why don't we all get going?" Jed veered his path from the exit. "I just need to make a stop at the little boys' room first."

"Do you now?" hissed Gno. He matched his steps with the living dead. "You sure you just don't want me to have my back to you for an easy kill?"

The gray gent dismissed the accusation, "Think I'm gonna kill you just 'cuz I have a two-by-four with bent nails on the end? When has one of these killed anyone?" The pair circled one another for a good number of rounds, neither backing down.

"Guys, guys, pies," reasoned the kobold while yanking the sign post from his head. To Randy, it was an A-class joke, which is why the sign was disposed of in his face. "We can't be killin' each other off just yet. If yer as 'fraid o' forks as I am, we're gonna need each other later on. Then we can back stab and traitor." They still stared sternly at one another.

"Okay, I gets it," the gnome negotiated further. "Ya wanna kill someone to make yerselves feel better. But, don't think ya can do in each other. Pick an easy target like, oh, chilly boy." He craned his neck around, first ninety degrees, then four-fifty the other way. "Were is that joke anyhoo?"

"That goober stepped outside to 'clear his head' with Destiny," recalled the red wrapped ruffian. "No doubt he's..." The color drained from his face as the two came to the same conclusion. The same would have happened to Jed's if it had started with any.

"The twerp's getting a head start!"

"The twerp's getting hea -- start!" the spectacled poorly tried to match up their realizations.

Putting aside the awkwardness and their attempted murderings, the group made a mad dash to the door. Expecting to find their associated arctic adversary on the distant horizon of red and black stitching, his body laid bound just outside the exit.

"He's here," stated Captain Obvious upon emerging from the bar. "I haven't been introduced before. This is very confusing to the reader. I am leaving now... I'm walking away. My voice is growing fainter..."

"I don't get it," ignored the noosed. "Was Aisucard tied up by Destiny?"

"Not her style," the dude-meister dismissed. "These bonds are yarn."

"Wait, binding isn't her style or binding with yarn-" Jed's curious interruption was, itself, interrupted.

"Destiny wouldn't have done this, but it was who we thought was her. It had to be the work of-"

Melanie Crim, a real doll. Really. Yarn, stitches, and button eyes make up this trouble maker. Her sewn characteristics are normally well disguised under the numerous identities she can assume. In seconds, the fluff filled female can have onlookers looking on a new face altogether, if not someone else's. Her charm and demeanor are just as deceptive as the masks she dons as she is nothing near neat and sweet.

The crimson cutthroat wedged his broad shoulders through the narrow tavern doors. Pausing, he tipped the top of his skull to the two other Rumblers before continuing on his way. Daggers shot from the dead man to the default blame for the resurrection.

"Oh, so I got bored when Gary was doin' all that explaining," confessed the chrome dome. "Trust me, I don't think the parents are going to miss a kid with those 'tastes'."

"Well, crap!" cursed the corpse. "This means that Crim has quite the lead on us. And, most everyone else, it would seem." The addition came upon looking into the bar and seeing it completely abandoned. "Well, at least there's still the three of us. Right, Gobbo?" With no need to look, a distinct, maddening "whooping" sound could be heard running across the lumberjack looking lands. "Er, that is, the two of us-" Whun had, of course, moved on to more happening places. "Can I at least have Randall?" Meanwhile, overhead, drifted by a cow-shaped balloon.

"Table milkshake!




Posted by
MadGoblin
on
Dec 24, 2010


"Uuugh-gah! This is boring," groaned no one.

"No I didn't!" protested the crimson coat.

Quiet, you! You're not even in this scene, and you shouldn't be able to hear anonymous third person narrations anywise.

What about when they art dictateth by thy truly?

Don't even get me started on that separate and equally frustrating nightmare, you faceless weirdo.

At least I haveth a head, thou non-being clod.

That's it! It is so on.

And so, the two narrative forces clashed in a battle that transcended the very plain of existence ... since one of the combatants did not. Physically. Additionally, it didn't really transcend anything, as much as both of them tried to. Since neither really had a grasp on theoretical dimensional travel, they were stuck at a stalemate.

That's redundant phrasing, new guy!

Thou art not aiding our situation any. Wilst someone just finisheth this segment already? We haveth stretched it out too long already.

"This is boring," restated the individual from before the dictated scuffle, his words truer now more than before. "This Rumblon just started, and I'm already bored with it."

"Well," chimed in Jed, the only other man who physically was on location, "actually it started two years-"

Addressing it art not helping, cut off Nary Wary Gary. Leave it be.

"See? This is what I'm talking about," spoke the wing wearing whiner. "No one cares about this sort of stuff. It's not interesting."

"You mean, comically addressing literary devices?" the dead man challenged. His brows raised upon realizing just how lame his proposal was. He pondered between standing his ground or cutting his losses and joining the new guy.

"Precisely! No one cares about that crap," confirmed bird boy. "What they want is ... magic!" The accompanying jazz hands were no where close to such.

"What do you mean 'magic'," questioned the corpse, "and how do you know what other people want when I don't even believe you know what you're talking about?" I also would have accepted, "when the friends you make up don't even want to be around you."

"Man," he stressed saying for some reason, "all you gotta know is this: magic! Of different classes and different elements. Everyone likes elements, right?"

"One, I thought you knew what others wanted?" challenged Jed. "And two, magic? Is this a story or an RPG?"

'Tis real life, chimed in Gary. Now stop breaching the fourth wall. Saddened, the gray guy put away his hammer and left what remained of the structure standing by the three piles of rubble. I didn't mean the literal walls, corrected the less-than-friendly narrator. I paid you to knock those down.

"... and the battle-centric Warrior Magic stands apart from the supportive Spirit Magic by-" droned on the feathered fellow to deaf ears. "Hey! Are you guys even paying attention to me?"

"No one is," groaned the glasses. "We're being entertaining. Or, attempting to, at least. So, you can either give it the same 26% effort that I'm dishing out or ship off outta here, punk! Least you invoke the bad side of my pipe." Reaching into a pocket, he produced said tiny instrument in his hand. "Aww, did you have to phrase it so suggestively insulting?" In deed I did. Sucker.

Not taking any threat from the miniscule flute, a tweet was sounded on it, striking a sour note that curdled ears. It was not music that Jed aimed to play, however, as he was making a call. A blaze burst forth from the ground before him, and as the flame died down, a burning beast sat upon the cinders. Its fiery fur gleamed brightly except for the burnt, blackened ends as the majestic hound spread its long limbs into a menacing stance. Coal-like eyes stared down the dork-omancer while it bared dripping fangs. Then, the atmosphere was shattered as mud bubbled from a nearby formed puddle. Out from the mire rose a long, cylindrical, writhing form like that of a fish, finned and scaled, but with short stubby legs and some other canine features. It flexed and wiggled around while emitting low, comical barking noises not too different from that of a seal. In the circus. Being imitated by a man. Poorly trained in mimicking animal sounds.

"What is this? Some sort of Summoning Magic?" feverishly focused bird boy. He began to search through a collection of unbound papers for what he had fabricated on the subject, but the stack was smacked out of his greasy hands by bandaged ones.

"Don't be a moron," the man instructed. "Pfft. 'Magic'. I've never heard of something so stupid! This is is a good ol' fashioned daemonic pact." He chuckled lightly despite the gravity of his statement. "Heh. You'd be surprised what you can sell your soul for," Dead Man Jed told. "Then, they want to squelch on the deal and offer you another one to take it back!" He grimaced. "I guess I shoulda checked out the second barter a little better." The sausage-shaped sea dog honked heinously at seemingly nothing and everything.

"Well, what do you expect for free? I got this watch for free, and the hands are just painted on." He glanced down at his ... whatever you'd call that and exclaimed, "Eegads! I've been wasting too much time with this nonsense when there's other nonsense to be had out there!"

He quickly asked the other his name. "Why, it's Eli. So you do care about me?"

"Naw, I just needed to know what to have written on your tombstone." Pointing a warped finger, his beasts were sicked upon the fresh prey.

"But I didn't have time to ready one of my spells," is what the victim could not say as he had no throat from which to speak in the matter of moments since the attack began, unless someone with very acute hearing had their ears bled into. That probably wouldn't work, however.

"Make sure not to swallow anything," warned the wrapped wight. "Don't want you two to risk catching ... whatever that guy has.




Posted by
MadGoblin
on
Jan 22, 2012


"All this plaid is really hurtin' my brain," groaned the goblin, "an' I need to conserve what little I gots left." Pausing in his trek over the flannel fields, he stooped over to set down a glass jar.

"No, you fool! Do not put me closer to it," commanded the contained cerebellum. "My one true bane -- plaid! Aaarrg!" The gray matter festered and boiled till only a puddle was left.

"Just great," huffed the freak, "now I'll never know who that belonged to. Or why it could talk. Or why I had it in the first place. Had to be some reason..." Already forgetting what it was that he had just done, he spotted the container anew. "Whoa! Free field goo? Jackpot!"

"I wouldn't worry about it," squeaked into his ear. "You have much greater matters to attend to."

"Oh no," gasped the green skin while spewing out some of his drink, "that Chinese food vampire ghost is back to haunt me!" All real.

"No, you imbeci- I mean, friend," corrected the voice.

"'You friend'?"

"It's me, your, uh, blue toad pal?"

"I believe 'tis pronounced tadpole." Even the fiend was shocked that he had said something intelligent. "Hey, that sign in my head did make me more smart! I should stick more things in my brain. ... Nope, that undid it."

"Maybe I shouldn't have even bothered with a disguise?" mused Melanie from beneath the amphibious alter ego. "I could probably have just said I was anyone dressed up as anyone else, and he'd buy it."

"Whatzat?" The imp finally faced the faker, fully donning a sloppy smock of stitched fabric squares and an over-sized, cartoonish head that could belong to a bird let alone a frog. Frog-man? Fen freak? Whatever he is. "Say, didja get new cloths? Musta stole 'em off some who was only recently homeless."

"He looks worse than these rags? The hell!?" the living doll exasperated until she remembered she was trying to dupe the dope. "Er, standard inane non-sequitur?" screamed Crim, back in her false falsetto which, for some reason, she thought made her match her intended imitation better.

"Heh heh, yeah. Good ol' blue. Haven't changed a bit."



"Hey! That's my shtick," an outraged oaf orated from overhead. Randall produced a bow and swordfish from his pant pockets to shoot a hole through his bovine balloon and land his airborne craft. He was riding in that, if you recall. "Easel! The verbal mash-ups are my thing. I claimed them. See?" Sticking out his tongue, a small flag was planted in it laying out that very claim. "I knew I did that for a reason. Left angle!"

"I dun think ya get," pointed out the putrid punk, "that a li'l tongue flag has no affect on anythin'." Showing his, the writing read, "For Dakota Fanning", only a line scratched out the first name and replaced it with an L.

"I think it needs to be in your tongue and not... a severed? Rutabaga!" It's clear who said that.

"But that would hurt," yelped the maniac, "her."

"I could kill them both now and save myself a lot of headache," considered the disguised doll, deeply. "If only yarn could kill."

"Hey, dun be dissin' yarn. It messed me up." The wretch recalled, "Once, I ate a whooole bundle o' it, on account o' 'cuz, an' had it comin' out my mouth an' arse at the same time."

"Epic!" quoth the unoriginal lame and fat ass. "Oh, the three of us are going to be best of friends!"

"But, you came down here since you were mad... We're not supposed to be..." She struggled with her words. "We're enemies, competing. I don't think you understand that."

"I don't think you understand the awesomeness of Papa Roach," the tubby tangler countered.

"... Where did that come from?"

"Rrrandom!






**** This story is still being written. You, too, can contribute to it by writing the next installment. ****


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