DON'T YOU PEOPLE WORRY ONE BIT ABOUT WHO KILLS WHO. INFINITE RESPAWNS HAVE BEEN TURNED ON FOR EVERYONE.
SepticGentleman
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𝙼𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎
STATUS: I like the night liiiiife, I like to ɮ օ օ ɢ ɨ ɛ 4 yrs ago
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I like the night liiiiife, I like to ɮ օ օ ɢ ɨ ɛ
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𝕊 𝕢 𝕦 𝕖 𝕖 𝕖 𝕖 𝕖 𝕫 𝕖
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I feel a tremble in my temple
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He’s mastered the art of Simp Mode
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Jace haunts me dreams, blesses me nightmares, ye
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SIMON THE BARTENDER WRAPS UP BEATING THE TROOPERS INTO SUBMISSION. HE DROPS THE COMMANDER, BLOODIED AND WEAK, ONTO THE FLOOR. HE STOPS AND LOOKS AROUND, WATCHING THE CHAOS AROUND HIM UNFOLD. PEOPLE FROM ALL CORNERS OF THE UNIVERSE COMING TOGETHER TO BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF EACH OTHER IN A MASSIVE, DRUNKEN FURY. BIONIC LIZARD-MEN, TROLLS FROM THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA, MEN IN RUBBER ANIMAL MASKS, AND AT LEAST ONE MARVEL CHARACTER. THEM, AND MANY MORE, ALL HERE, ALL FIGHTING.
THIS USED TO BE A NICE PLACE, REALLY.
SIMON SNAPS OUT OF HIS MOMENT OF MID-BATTLE ZEN, TURNING HIS HEAD TOWARDS THE BAR ENTRANCE AS A MAN DRESSED AS UNCLE SAM BURSTS THROUGH THE DOOR, TWO BALD EAGLES PERCHED ON HIS SHOULDERS. GLORIOUS, HEAVENLY LIGHT ILLUMINATES HIM FROM BEHIND.
EVERYONE STOPS FIGHTING FOR A MOMENT, TURNING THEIR ATTENTION TOWARDS HIM.
HE SCANS THE CROWD, AND THEN HOLDS OUT HIS HAND. AN INTACT COLD BEER FLIES FROM OUT OF NOWHERE INTO HIS GRASP. ONE OF THE EAGLES PRIES THE CAP OFF WITH ITS BEAK, AND UNCLE SAM TAKES A SWIG OF THE GOLDEN BREW. HE FINISHES, NODS, AND CALMLY SETS THE BEER ON THE NEAREST TABLE THAT HASN’T BEEN OVERTURNED.
AN EXPRESSION OF PURE ANGER OVERCOMES HIM, AND HE RIPS OFF HIS JACKET AND SHIRT. THE EAGLES FLY AWAY FROM HIM AND SCREECH, AND HE LETS OUT A PATRIOTIC WAR CRY. HE CHARGES THE NEAREST LIVING THING AND TACKLES IT THROUGH A WALL.
EVERYONE YELLS, AND THE FIGHTING RECOMMENCES.
THIS USED TO BE A NICE PLACE, REALLY.
SIMON SNAPS OUT OF HIS MOMENT OF MID-BATTLE ZEN, TURNING HIS HEAD TOWARDS THE BAR ENTRANCE AS A MAN DRESSED AS UNCLE SAM BURSTS THROUGH THE DOOR, TWO BALD EAGLES PERCHED ON HIS SHOULDERS. GLORIOUS, HEAVENLY LIGHT ILLUMINATES HIM FROM BEHIND.
EVERYONE STOPS FIGHTING FOR A MOMENT, TURNING THEIR ATTENTION TOWARDS HIM.
HE SCANS THE CROWD, AND THEN HOLDS OUT HIS HAND. AN INTACT COLD BEER FLIES FROM OUT OF NOWHERE INTO HIS GRASP. ONE OF THE EAGLES PRIES THE CAP OFF WITH ITS BEAK, AND UNCLE SAM TAKES A SWIG OF THE GOLDEN BREW. HE FINISHES, NODS, AND CALMLY SETS THE BEER ON THE NEAREST TABLE THAT HASN’T BEEN OVERTURNED.
AN EXPRESSION OF PURE ANGER OVERCOMES HIM, AND HE RIPS OFF HIS JACKET AND SHIRT. THE EAGLES FLY AWAY FROM HIM AND SCREECH, AND HE LETS OUT A PATRIOTIC WAR CRY. HE CHARGES THE NEAREST LIVING THING AND TACKLES IT THROUGH A WALL.
EVERYONE YELLS, AND THE FIGHTING RECOMMENCES.
DO YOU SMELL IT.
THE MEN’S BATHROOM DOOR, SOURCE OF ALL THINGS TRULY BEAUTIFUL IN THIS WORLD, SWUNG OPEN NOT ONCE, NOT TWICE, BUT FOUR TIMES AGAIN, WITH EACH SWING RELEASING A MAN DRESSED FOR A BARBERSHOP QUARTET - RED STRIPED SUITS AND SHORT-BRIM HATS ALL. AND THEY WERE ALREADY HARD AT WORK ON THEIR ACT.
“OOOOOOOOHHHH, ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR-FIRE’S IN YOUR EYE-HE-EYYYYYYES,
AND THIS CHAOS, IT DEFIES IMAGINATIOOOOON,
OOOOHH, FIVE-SIX-SEVEN-EIGHT-MINUS NINE LIIIIII-HE-IIIIIVES,
YOU’VE ARRIVED AT PANIC STATIOOOOOOOOOON…”
UNBEFITTING TUNE IN REGARDS TO THEIR GETUP, BUT THEY NAILED THE SOUND REGARDLESS. HOWEVER, THEY WERE SINGING INSTEAD OF FIGHTING, AND THAT WAS JUST PLAIN UNACCEPTABLE.
A SHOGUN WARRIOR FINISHED CUTTING DOWN A SENTIENT LAWNMOWER, AND TURNED TOWARDS THE QUARTET. HE CHARGED FORTH, BLADE RAISED, ONLY TO TRIP OVER A STRAY TAIL. HE TUMBLED FORWARD, AND HIS THROAT WAS SNATCHED BY ONE OF THE QUARTET, WHO PROMPTLY RIPPED OFF HIS HELMETED HEAD IN ONE SWIFT MANEUVER. THE SHOGUN’S BODY FELL TO THE FLOOR, AND HIS HEAD WAS HELD UP HIGH.
THE QUARTET JOINED TOGETHER AND SIMULTANEOUSLY LET OUT A CATCHY, “MMMMMM-HMMMMM.” THE SHOGUN’S HEAD WAS TOSSED ASIDE, AND THE QUARTET FORMED A SIDE-TO-SIDE SQUARE FORMATION, READY FOR MORE BLOODSHED, HUMMING A TUNE ALL THE WHILE.
“OOOOOOOOHHHH, ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR-FIRE’S IN YOUR EYE-HE-EYYYYYYES,
AND THIS CHAOS, IT DEFIES IMAGINATIOOOOON,
OOOOHH, FIVE-SIX-SEVEN-EIGHT-MINUS NINE LIIIIII-HE-IIIIIVES,
YOU’VE ARRIVED AT PANIC STATIOOOOOOOOOON…”
UNBEFITTING TUNE IN REGARDS TO THEIR GETUP, BUT THEY NAILED THE SOUND REGARDLESS. HOWEVER, THEY WERE SINGING INSTEAD OF FIGHTING, AND THAT WAS JUST PLAIN UNACCEPTABLE.
A SHOGUN WARRIOR FINISHED CUTTING DOWN A SENTIENT LAWNMOWER, AND TURNED TOWARDS THE QUARTET. HE CHARGED FORTH, BLADE RAISED, ONLY TO TRIP OVER A STRAY TAIL. HE TUMBLED FORWARD, AND HIS THROAT WAS SNATCHED BY ONE OF THE QUARTET, WHO PROMPTLY RIPPED OFF HIS HELMETED HEAD IN ONE SWIFT MANEUVER. THE SHOGUN’S BODY FELL TO THE FLOOR, AND HIS HEAD WAS HELD UP HIGH.
THE QUARTET JOINED TOGETHER AND SIMULTANEOUSLY LET OUT A CATCHY, “MMMMMM-HMMMMM.” THE SHOGUN’S HEAD WAS TOSSED ASIDE, AND THE QUARTET FORMED A SIDE-TO-SIDE SQUARE FORMATION, READY FOR MORE BLOODSHED, HUMMING A TUNE ALL THE WHILE.
I BET YOU SEXUALLY ASSAULT YOUR HAND.
THEY ACTUALLY HAVE A VERY HEALTHY RELATIONSHIP.
<Snipped quote by SepticGentleman>
HA!
I KNEW WHO YOU WERE TALKING ABOUT, YOU PATHETIC LAND DWELLER.
WADE WILSON IS, INDEED, A FEMALE.
DON'T YOU LIE TO ME, URCHIN DIDDLER.
THE EYELESS BEING LIES ON THE FLOOR, DAZED AND BRUISED. HE IS PROMPTLY PICKED UP BY A LUMBERING FIGURE, CLAD IN A HEAP OF METAL PLATING, LOOKING RIGHT OUT OF SOME KIND OF RAIDER-FILLED WASTELAND.
THE METAL BEHEMOTH TAKES THE EYELESS BEING BY HIS LEGS, INTENDING TO USE HIM AND HIS SPIKE-FILLED HEAD AS SOME KIND OF LIVING FLAIL. HE CHARGES TOWARDS A YOUNG, BLACK-HAIRED WOMAN WEARING AN ORNATE RED AND BLACK COAT, FLINGING FIRE FROM HER HANDS AT ANYTHING IN SIGHT. SHE TURNS HER HEAD AND ENGULFS THE ONCOMING JUGGERNAUT IN FLAMES, BUT THE HEAT DOES NOT DETER HIM. HE SLAMS THE EYELESS BEING’S HEAD AGAINST HERS, SENDING HER SOARING OVER THE CROWD.
THE METAL BEHEMOTH SCREAMS, WAVING THE UNCONSCIOUS MAN-FLAIL IN THE AIR, BEFORE TURNING TOWARDS THE TERMINATOR-LIZARD-ABOMINATION @JunkMail AND POINTING AT IT, WITH SERIOUS INTENT TO HARM.
BEHOLD, THE CLASH OF THE TITANS.
THE METAL BEHEMOTH TAKES THE EYELESS BEING BY HIS LEGS, INTENDING TO USE HIM AND HIS SPIKE-FILLED HEAD AS SOME KIND OF LIVING FLAIL. HE CHARGES TOWARDS A YOUNG, BLACK-HAIRED WOMAN WEARING AN ORNATE RED AND BLACK COAT, FLINGING FIRE FROM HER HANDS AT ANYTHING IN SIGHT. SHE TURNS HER HEAD AND ENGULFS THE ONCOMING JUGGERNAUT IN FLAMES, BUT THE HEAT DOES NOT DETER HIM. HE SLAMS THE EYELESS BEING’S HEAD AGAINST HERS, SENDING HER SOARING OVER THE CROWD.
THE METAL BEHEMOTH SCREAMS, WAVING THE UNCONSCIOUS MAN-FLAIL IN THE AIR, BEFORE TURNING TOWARDS THE TERMINATOR-LIZARD-ABOMINATION @JunkMail AND POINTING AT IT, WITH SERIOUS INTENT TO HARM.
BEHOLD, THE CLASH OF THE TITANS.
EXCUSE ME SIR, BUT THE PERSON YOU ARE REFERRING TO IS A FEMALE.
<Snipped quote by SepticGentleman>
I WAS TALKING ABOUT WADE WILSON IN THAT INSTANCE.
NOW YOU'VE PLAYED YOURSELF, SEA-CREATURE.
CONGRATU-FUCKING-LATIONS
HE PLAYED HIMSELF.
WELL-GROOMED MAN IN SUIT STRUTS THROUGH THE COMMOTION. ORC BARBARIAN ATTEMPTS TO PILE DRIVE HIM, SUIT DELIVERS A SWIFT KICK TO THE ORC’S GUT, GRABS HIS FOOT, AND FLIPS HIM OVER. HE WORKS HIS WAY THROUGH THE CROWD UNTIL HE FINDS THE BLOODIED BARTENDER BEATING THE SNOT OUT OF A TROLL WITH HER OWN SEVERED HORN.
“SIMON, WHAT THE FUCK?” THE SUIT CALLS OUT. THE BARTENDER, NAME REVEALED TO BE SIMON (TRULY A BITCH MONIKER) TURNS HIS BARE HEAD AND DROPS THE TROLL ON THE FLOOR, AND THEN KICKS HER INTO THE NEAREST WALL.
“WHAT?” SIMON REPLIES, ARMS STRETCHED OUT IN A MOCKING FASHION.
“I’M PAYING YOU TO RUN A BAR, NOT A FIGHT CLUB, YOU FUCKING CHROME DOME.” THE SUIT SAYS ANGRILY.
“WELL FUCK YOU, GUY.” SIMON SHOUTS BACK, POINTING.
THAT DID IT. SUIT CLENCHED HIS FISTS AND BEGAN MAKING HIS WAY TOWARDS SIMON, WHO RAISED HIS FISTS IN PREPARATION FOR A RIGHT TUSSLE. UN/FORTUNATELY, SUIT WAS PROMPTLY GRABBED BY THE TALONS OF A CRAZED HARPY, AND WHISKED UP INTO THE OPEN SPACE ABOVE THE BRAWLING PATRONS. THERE WAS A SURPRISING AMOUNT OF HEIGHT TO THE ESTABLISHMENT’S INTERIOR TO ALLOW FOR SUCH A FEAT.
“THIS ISN’T OVER, SIMON!” THE SUIT CALLS OUT, SHAKING HIS FIST MADLY. SIMON TURNS HIS HEAD TOWARDS A TROOP OF WELL-ARMORED SPACE-FARING TROOPERS, NO DOUBT OFF DUTY, POSSIBLY IN SEARCH OF A GOOD RUCKUS. WELL, THEY CERTAINLY GOT ONE, REGARDLESS.
THEY ALL TURNED TOWARDS SIMON, AND THE TROOP COMMANDER RAISED HIS METAL FINGER. “YOU.” HE CALLED OUT IN THE MOST SERIOUS OF TONES, “THIRTY-NINE BULLETS.”
SIMON DID NOT RESPOND. HE SIMPLY CHARGED FORTH, AND UNLEASHED THE FULL FURY OF A BARTENDER SCORNED.
“SIMON, WHAT THE FUCK?” THE SUIT CALLS OUT. THE BARTENDER, NAME REVEALED TO BE SIMON (TRULY A BITCH MONIKER) TURNS HIS BARE HEAD AND DROPS THE TROLL ON THE FLOOR, AND THEN KICKS HER INTO THE NEAREST WALL.
“WHAT?” SIMON REPLIES, ARMS STRETCHED OUT IN A MOCKING FASHION.
“I’M PAYING YOU TO RUN A BAR, NOT A FIGHT CLUB, YOU FUCKING CHROME DOME.” THE SUIT SAYS ANGRILY.
“WELL FUCK YOU, GUY.” SIMON SHOUTS BACK, POINTING.
THAT DID IT. SUIT CLENCHED HIS FISTS AND BEGAN MAKING HIS WAY TOWARDS SIMON, WHO RAISED HIS FISTS IN PREPARATION FOR A RIGHT TUSSLE. UN/FORTUNATELY, SUIT WAS PROMPTLY GRABBED BY THE TALONS OF A CRAZED HARPY, AND WHISKED UP INTO THE OPEN SPACE ABOVE THE BRAWLING PATRONS. THERE WAS A SURPRISING AMOUNT OF HEIGHT TO THE ESTABLISHMENT’S INTERIOR TO ALLOW FOR SUCH A FEAT.
“THIS ISN’T OVER, SIMON!” THE SUIT CALLS OUT, SHAKING HIS FIST MADLY. SIMON TURNS HIS HEAD TOWARDS A TROOP OF WELL-ARMORED SPACE-FARING TROOPERS, NO DOUBT OFF DUTY, POSSIBLY IN SEARCH OF A GOOD RUCKUS. WELL, THEY CERTAINLY GOT ONE, REGARDLESS.
THEY ALL TURNED TOWARDS SIMON, AND THE TROOP COMMANDER RAISED HIS METAL FINGER. “YOU.” HE CALLED OUT IN THE MOST SERIOUS OF TONES, “THIRTY-NINE BULLETS.”
SIMON DID NOT RESPOND. HE SIMPLY CHARGED FORTH, AND UNLEASHED THE FULL FURY OF A BARTENDER SCORNED.
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