BangoSkank

Feature Request Thread

At the bottom of threads, where it shows the usernames of the people currently viewing that thread perhaps it could be arranged so that when you mouse over a user's name it indicates if that user is currently posting.

Hello ^_^

We've got a pretty busy 1x1 section and plenty of group RPs in Advanced or Casual. There's really not much of a difference between the two, so feel free to write in either. They still haven't kicked me out of Advanced so you should be good.

Welcome!

It aint perfect but I haven't found a better forum for RPing yet.

Perchance! A Persistently Preposterous Perfidy of Petulant Pugilism : Moldovan Masked and Mustachioed Muscle Man from Mount Magora MEETS MOLE-MAN!!!!!

Cartwheels. Very strict form. Very intimidating cartwheels. Crisp as fuck.

Military Precision. Fully tactical. Operationally Efficient and Utterly and Entirely Serious.

Cartwheels, all the way down to the ring.

When he reaches the ring, mid-cartwheel, General Shenanigans bounces against it and falls on his ass. He then squeezes his own nose twice making a loud honking noise. You have never heard a more ferocious nose honk.

Inside the ring Tequila Sunrise is alternating between pounding the fuck out of the ring with his chair and looking from the still Fully Fucked Danger, Danger Fontaine to the Miles Away Multi-Dimensional Planes of Existence Exploring Probably Gonna Have a Hell of a Hangover Mole Man MOLE-MAN. He's stuck in a goofy loop. Or maybe he just doesn't want to get charged with First Degree Murder if he whacks the fuck out of either of These Two Thoroughly Fuckled Fighters. That's like 20 to Life. Even with the current DA. He can't do hard time. They don't have Tequila in Prison, Probably.

Back outside the ring General Shenanigans is now rocking back and forth honking his nose. It's no longer making a noise. The water level around him is growing. He's now splashing in a puddle basically. Like a small child. Basically. These honks aren't making a noise because the continuing Sprinkling of the Sprinklers, imagine that, Sprinklers Sprinkle. Who ever would have thought? Anyway. The Sprinklers have blown out the Speakers. The Speakers no longer Speak due to the Sprinkler's Sprinkling.

The Clown Patriot, General Shenanigans, perhaps realizing that this whole exercise is quickly circling the drain, stands up very suddenly and comes to perfect attention. Like a lighting rod from God he knows what must be done. It is his Duty and he will Definitely Dutifully fulfill his Duty.

He stares hard into the ring, catching Tequila Sunrise's attention. They lock eyes. Not in a sexual way. Not like they're gonna make out. In a wrestling way. Not in that kind of wrestling way. Like an actual fighting way. Like they're gonna fight. Tequila Sunrise drops the chair and moves toward the center of the ring. Gently pushing MOLE-MANAGER away with his foot.

MOLE-MANAGER continuing to Violently Vomit all the while until his head was under the ropes so he could puke on the floor outside the ring.

General Shenanigans hops in the ring, staring daggers at Tequila Sunrise. Tequila Sunrise stares daggers back at him too. I can't think of a better analogy for giving someone a hard ass look ok? Staring daggers is the best you get. Fucking deal with it. Ungrateful.

THE STAGE IS SET

SHIT IS HAPPENING PROBABLY MAYBE

A NEW CHAPTER OF WHATEVER THE FUCK THIS IS IS ABOUT TO BEGIN

HOPEFULLY THEY DONT CUT TO COMMERCIALS

LIKE RIGHT NOW

LIKE RIGHT RIGHT NOW

THATS YOUR CUE YOU FUCK

CUT TO COMMERCIALS NOW

FUCK IT WE'LL DO IT LIVE

As we return from commercials the stage is set and stuff. Everything is exactly as it should be. The plan is coming to fruition. All is right in the world for this brief moment.

Aotriamus and Guretrenzo are making out in the rain, like in all those romantic ass movies where folks make out in the rain. Granted normally in those movies the two folks making out in the rain are not supposed to be, oh I don't know, Announcing The Fucking Match. They're not paying attention though. They're just fucking going at it now. Let's make sure we don't film this. It would just be weird.

MOLE-ANNOUNCER and MOLE-TRANSLATOR have taken it upon themselves to provide a Soundtrack, now that the Sprinkler System's Sprinkling has Seriously fucked off the Speaker System. They don't know the words to all of The Ultimate Showdown. It's hard to remember them without the video to watch and spark your memory. Even harder when one of you is supposed to be pretending to have a MOLE-MAN accent when he actually lost that accent years ago so he could put food on the table and feed his dear sweet MOLE-FAMILY. They're just singing "Final Countdown" now. Mole Translator is doing the instrumental part with his mouth.

Doo Doo - Doo da Doo Doo Doo - Doo da Doo Doo - Doo da Doo Doo Doo - Doo da Doo - Doo da Doo Doo Doo Doo Dooooooooooooo!

Danger, Danger Fontaine is still knocked the fuck out. Lucky he landed on his back so he didn't drown in a shallow puddle. Stupid Magnificent Masked and Mustachioed Mother Fucker. I swear to God. He's so stupid.

MOLE-MAN is just Messed up. That poor little bastard probably got sucked up into the Metaverse or some shit. Out there talking with the self-transforming-machine-elves and Mark Zuckerberg. May God have mercy on his soul.

Tequila Sunrise and General Shenanigans are staring...staring...fuck it they're still both STARING DAGGERS at each other.

In the constant rain of the Shitty Speaker fucking up Sprinklers, with the sounds of MOLE-ANNOUNCER and MOLE-TRANSLATOR doing a Delightful Duet of "Final Countdown," standing over the fallen bodies of our beloved champions Danger, Danger Fontaine and MOLE-MAN

oh yeah and over in the corner MOLE-MANAGER is still just ABSOLUTELY heaving his fucking guts out. Just Projectile Puking like a MadMole. Dude is just absolutely Drenching the floor with whatever the fuck he's been eating. Goddam. It's ridiculous.

With all that shit going on, and Jesus Christ it's a lot of shit going on, Tequila Sunrise and General Shenanigans know what they must do.

They meet in the center of the ring, the puke/mole hole in between them, and begin to perform a long Choreographed and Certainly Completely Cool series of movements. Like a Kata. Or a Dance. Or a Haka. Some shit like that. They do it in Perfect Precise unity. Then they speed up a little bit. Then they speed up a little bit. Then they speed up an even more little bit.

As it builds up, as the sprinkler water begins to circle them instead of just falling to the ground, as lightning starts striking everywhere somehow but doesn't electrocute anyone somehow because that would immediately kill them all and end this RP, only one participant sees what's coming. Only MOLE-MANAGER.

Wiping the puke from his mouth and climbing up to his knees he looks at the blur created by the impossibly fast impossibly coordinated movements of Tequila Sunrise and General Shenanigans. He knows. Somehow MOLE-MANAGER knows. This could only be one thing.

Taking a deep breath. Probably questioning every decision he's made that would bring him here in this exact moment. Realizing now for sure that there is no God and that we are all truly desperately hopelessly alone in this life. He lets it all go. For once in his Momentarily Monumentally Miserable MOLE-MANAGER life he just lets go and screams into the night.

_ahh

ahh

ahhhh

ahhhhhh

Ahhhhhhhhh

AHHHHHHHHHHHH

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

FUUUUUSSSSIOOOONNNNNNNNNNN!

Marvel Comics: Dawn of X

Stormy night. Moderate rain. Dark road. All helpful.

Good night to pick. Krakoa is drawing a lot of attention from just about everywhere. Definitely keeping these dipshits distracted.

Pulled the old Corolla up their long driveway. Seatbelt off. Just in case. Compound wasn't far ahead. Target was in the Compound somewhere.

Checkpoint up ahead. Two guards manning it. Might be a problem normally. Just meant the fun was going to kick off a little sooner than expected. Feel myself coming to life. Mundanity of day to day dealings melted off. Today was to be a big day and it was all about to be in motion. The anticipation. The subtle movements that would lead to slow movements which would soon lead to controlled chaos. Just how I liked it.

"Who goes there?" one of the Guards called out, like a character in an old movie. Maybe a Stormtrooper in Star Wars, or a Nazi in Indiana Jones, or some dumb college kid in a slasher movie. His partner calls something out too. Barely hear it. Doesn't really matter. Dumb move. Let's me know exactly where he is. In the checkpoint booth.

They're idiots. Unprepared. Casual. They do not know what they are doing. Unfortunately for their families I know exactly what I am doing. I get out shooting. Who Goes There goes down in a sudden tangle of confused limbs and I riddle the checkpoint booth. Wait a second and put a few more rounds into the bottom of the booth. Insurance.

Check them both. Who Goes There is fading but conscious. Ensure they're both neutralized.

Back to the car. Ate the salt and Tajin, drank the lime juice. Grabbed the Pabst.

Stripped one of the corpses and slipped into it's clothes. Set both on fire before I headed in.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Slipped right on in. Got a little attention. Wore my own skin. Bigger than most of them. Worth the risk. Feels good to be seen. They don't ask too many questions anyway, I got PBRs. They like those. Makes them feel tough. It's piss. They're intoxicated already. Several sitting around dumpy couches watching the television. A few at a table looking over maps and talking about a plan. One over in the kitchen is watching some livestream, engrossed.

Don't know what plan precisely. Not sure what they found out. They found out something JANUS don't like. Planning something JANUS don't like. That's probably enough. Involvement of the mutie is definitely enough. Pyro type. Not well controlled. Creates a window, a window I am here to close permanently.

Find the exits, proper and potential. Map out floor plan. Wander around. Lots of guns. Most are armed. Shotguns resting against walls. Cinderblocks stacked up to just below the windows. Tweaker reinforcement. Rare opportunity here.

Glad I ditched that skinny build and it's vague shit tattoos. Should work to distract any investigation, hard to focus on. Red herring. Got the proper tattoos now. Clean lines. Nonsensical comingling of different symbols. Different ideologies. United in a few things. Frustration. Anger. Lack of imagination. Lot of old symbols mixed in with new shit. Very helpful.

Bunch of drunk druggy extremist fucks, eyes probably barely focusing, scan over my arms, chest, neck, they're gonna see a symbol or two they like and a symbol or two they don't like. Makes me fit right in. Let's them acknowledge my presence and simultaneously feel secure that they got a better head on their shoulders than me. Let's them go back to drinking, showing off their weaponry and plotting while I figure out where the pyro is. Process of elimination means it doesn't last too long.

First level is the party. Basement is for storing drugs and people. Several large cages, empty. Several footlockers, full. Pyro must be on the upper level.

I make two plates. Carne Asada. Beans. Rice. Put some Onions and Cilantro on both, on top of the Carne. One of the wastoids nudges me and tells me there are Taquitos in the fridge. I grab four of them and put two on each plate. The wastoid asks me why I'm making two plates. If I want company. I tell her no, and I point upstairs.

"Ohhh," she says, expressing her disappointment by looking down, then back up, then letting out a slight breath.

"That's too bad. Grab him a beer. One of the IPAs. He likes those. I don't, they're gross, they're too-"

I turn back to the fridge and grab two IPAs. When I turn back around she has taken the hint and is flopping back down on one of the couches, shooting me daggers. She won't be upset for long.

Up the stairs. At the door. One plate balanced on left forearm. One plate in left hand. Both beers in my right hand.

"Hey," I say as I kick the door lightly, "Hey man I got you a plate and an IPA. Says it's a Peanut Butter Milk Stout."

I wait a second, then kick again, "Hurry up man my hands are full, I don't wanna drop the grub."

Door opens. Pyro Mutant is walking away again, making room for me to come in. Plopping down in a chair.

"Thanks for the food man," he takes one plate, places it on his desk and reaches out for the beer.

I pass it to him. Put my plate next to his. Open up mine as he pops the tab on his. We clink cans. He takes a sip.

"I was hungry too. Didn't want to go down there right now. Too much noise you know? Hard to concent...wait who are you?"

I take a sip as he begins to stand up. I open up on him.

Exquisite.

Bergeron motions over to the man standing beside him.

He's queued up his three screens and added on a fourth. Their time codes all synched up.

"Discounting the bodies by the checkpoint this is the moment he starts up."

"Top floor right?"

"Yeah."

"You've told me about all this. I want your opinion. I don't need to watch. That's your job. I have many things I could be doing right now."

"I've got timecodes set Mr. Fury. I got my presentation ready. I've got a conclusion ready. But I want to show you. I've got it all queued. Timestamps. Angles. Cameras. We will definitely want to wipe this all when we're done, that's why I asked you to come see it now."

"Well you got me. Get on with it."

Camera 1 is an Outside View looking at the Compound from a distance. Showing several parked cars, the main building, and an open but empty garage filled with gym equipment.

Camera 2 is a view from just above the front door of the Compound, looking in on the party. Couches are to the left. Kitchen is to the right. Dead ahead is a hallway which leads to the stairs.

Camera 3 is a view from the Pyro Mutant's computer looking into the bedroom. The Mutant is visible to the right. Bushwacker is just offscreen to the left.

Camera 4 is a view from a temporary Vibranium implant in Bushwacker's eye. The Mutant has just stood up, looking dead at him. A bewildered expression on his face.

Bergeron looks to Camera 1. Not feeling the need to watch the other cameras again.

On Camera 1 the upstairs windows light up twice in quick succession. The gunshots loud and sharp through cameras 3 and 4. After a few seconds of silence he can hear the commotion from Camera 2.

Bergeron focuses on Camera 1 as the windows blow out violently, flames licking up, out, and onto the roof.

He turns to see what Fury thinks. The man's face doesn't show any emotion, but his eyes are glued to Camera 4.

Regarding Halflings and their Status in Star Wars Canon

Gary Stu, the wee little billion trillion midichlorian, Jedi Master, crack shot, witty ranconteur and dashing rogue, with a heart of gold. Also all the hot aliens want to have the sex with him.

OC, please do not copy.

Also he's like dragonborn or something. Some kind of mysterious space druid, humanalien dealie. Very impressive. One of a kind. An anomaly. When he was born everyone felt a great disturbance in the force, as though billions of voices had just cried out in awe.