| |
|
|
. . . A-l-r-i-g-h-t-. Thumped out the letters on Simon's keyboard, rounded off with a final clickity clack of button bashing as Simon reluctantly posted in RPC to agree to some sort of Improv RPB with his old mate Dammo.
Before he even knew it he was whipped away from his room and flung through time and space to a strange, strange land!
The disorientation of this trans-dimensional travel made Simon's stomach churn and his head spin worse than a four day drinking session down the Mill, and he crumpled to the floor, holding his guts with a hand and let loose a torrent of vomit from his mouth.
"Ughh..ughhh...****! Arghhhhh"
Began the usual post chunder chorus of whimpers, groans and curses. Then Simon blinked and had to do a double take, shocked as he was.
He'd just flooded a town with puke. Simon stood up slowly, wiping the grit and dirty smear off his jeans that was a short while ago a school until he'd collapsed on it to vomit.
Simon was five hundred foot tall and feeling good. He also noticed his left arm had turned into a huge red cybernetic lobster claw with the letters WMD etched into the meaty bicep section. It was also made in England apparently, and it no doubt had all sorts of secret magic weapons tucked inside it.
He had a good look at himself. Pimp hat, Leather jacket, huge lobster claw arm - so big that there was no sleeve that side of the jacket, just worn and frayed leather, under the jacket a Superman T-shirt and an ammo belt filled with beer cans atop that. And jeans. And Reebok classics.
Simon wondered if in this amazing fantasy world he had the Kryptonian Physiology to accompany his Superman T-shirt. No way of testing right now, but he was sure if he really needed them, lasers would come from his eyes.
With a grin, he had a look around. A town, a small town... God knows where. Lots of small buildings, houses, obviously he was in suburbia, there were a couple of buildings that came up to his hips though, shopping centres, places of business, train stations and the like. Lots of greenery about, fairly hilly sort of place, his puke had flowed down into a valley and formed a lethal and noxious lake that bubbled and gave off deadly poisonous vapours that would no doubt effect local pregnancies and increase the occurrence of down’s syndrome for years to come.
FSSSST!
Simon cracked a can of Kronenbourg 1664 open and had a tender sip of the only French lager a man could reasonably be expected to like.
It was no coincidence that the lager was French. He had a feeling he'd be confronted by a tiny French penguin with a big mouth veeeery soon. |
______________________________________
Bastard
|
|
|
|
|
|
From behind the binoculars, Damien’s smile was twisted. It looked like he was partly constipated and partly psychotic.
On one hand, his plan had worked. He had ported Simon to this world where Damien should have had a huge advantage. That was how he had planned it. What he hadn’t counted on was the fact that Simon’s huge ego, anywhere other than on Earth where it was contained by regular amounts of alcohol, would transmogrify the man into a giant part-crustacean pimp. It even looked like the usually intoxicated artist (is there any other kind?) had nuclear warheads at his disposal.
How could Damien have foreseen this? He was only quarter God after all. He rubbed the side of his face, feeling the beard that had been left from five days of scheming as to how it would be best to trap Simon and erase the only man sexier than he was.
There was only one thing he could do.
He ran behind a tree, quickly threw of all his clothes, affixed a swishing red cape around his neck and a pair of metal underwear (for the man who has nothing to hide but doesn’t like being kicked in the nuts by giant ****s).
He was Super Damien!
And now, he zoomed up into the air and towards his biggest friend and enemy, barely the size of a fly compared to Lob-Simon.
He was beginning to have second thoughts about the genius of this idea, maybe he should have followed the narrative and turned into Pe-Tako… |
______________________________________
100% Creamy Goodness
|
|
|
|
|
|
Out of the corner of his eye, Simon caught a glimpse of a fly buzzing around in his general direction. Then he realised he was ****ing huge and that no fly was that big.
Dammo, you little bastard
He thought to himself as he crushed his can of Kronie in his hand in disgust.
"Oh...so you're not a French Penguin this time are you? Well, Laaaa deeee daaaaa!"
Simon quickly pulled off a nazi salute into tiny Dammo's general direction with his beer can hand, while he flexed his lobster arm and struck an awesome pose, humping the air and gyrating his hips a little. Then in a flamboyant but really cool and manly way, Simon strutted forwards, his nazi salute still going strong, did a fancy little pirouette and whipped the Kronebourg can down, sending waves of lager out in spirals all about his person!
"Last train to London! Just headin out!
Last train to London! Just leavin town!
But I really want tonight to last forever!
I really wanna be with you!
Let the music play on down the line tonight!"
*boogies* |
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Holy Mother of God!" Super Damien thought to himself as he spiralled up and around the air like a pole dancer without a pole, "He's Doing the Berlin Waltz!"
Thousands of droplets of giant beer flew past him so fast he almost wasn't able to slurp some of it up.
Well, being a giant ass was one thing but wasting beer (even if it was French) was another.
Where was the weakness on this gargantuan ego-with-a-person-attached?
The answer almost hit him but luckily for Damien he wasn't hovering too close to Simon's thrusting pelvis at the time.
"Every man is weak down there!" The thought flew mischievously through his head. "I never thought I'd say this but how can I get into that man's pants?"
And then Damien realised he was pretty much in the nude save for the cape and metal jocks. So he flew up close to Simo's eye, where the giant couldn't help but see, and rubbed his own nipples.
Damien figured that since Simon was part French, he might also be part gay and get aroused by this display. And then Damien could attack! |
|
|
|
|
|
|
"uh, what the ****?!"
Simon snapped his head back as something flew up into his eyes and had stopped short of those moist translaters of light! Refocussing he saw it was Little Dammo, doing an erotic dance for him in nothing but his chastity pants and his gimp poncho or "cape", fervently rubbing at his nipples, that glowed bright red with the heat of friction..or the heat of PASSION!
Dirty little bastard, he's coming on to me!
"****'s sake Dammo, I know it's been a long time but seriously, get your clothes back on"
HRUUUGHHHK
Simon hocked up a hefty glob of plegmn and deftly positioned it, nestled in his tongue near the front of his mouth, and with the look of rage only a man who's heterosexuality has been assaulted could muster, Simon arched his head back and snapped it forwards! Gobbing a mighty mouthful at the little perv!
"HURRRRRGJJJJHHHAAAAAR, matey! 'ave at thee" |
|
|
|
|
|
|
"YEARRRRRRGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HHHHHHHHHHHHHH"
And Damien was sent soaring along with the phlegm, feeling the sickish substance stick to his most hairy arms and legs which had nothing to cover them but a lack of modesty.
Holding his breath, he struggled with the horrid by-product of Simon's lungs. For a minute he struggled and he knew if he didn't get out soon he would be made to hit the ground at a velocity not even he could survive.
This was going to disgust him, but he would have to do it... He began taking bites of the phlegm and swallowing. And he kept on doing this until he broke free but now he felt heavy on the inside and he was sure he might get AIDS. Because everyone knew AIDS was the work of the snail eaters didn’t they?
But he could not lament long on this fact, what was done was done. So he flew up, phlegm still heavy within, and began to zoom quickly towards Simon’s manly thigh.
He was going to destroy the man from within, starting with ripping open a Damien-sized hole in his skin! |
|
|
|
|
|
|
Simon watched, satisfied as his phlegm leapt a good kilometre through the air and demolished an orphanage.
That'll learn him
Content to just kick abck and relax now that his enemy was clearly defeated, something Simon assumed to be so definitely true it wasn't even worth taking a few steps to cross the town and investigate, that he sat back, stretched out over some train tracks and a bowling alley, ripped out another beer and cracked it open.
"Carlsberg Export. Is there anything better?"
He said to himself, NONCHALANTLY.
BAM!
"Ahhhh!"
Tears welled in Simon's eyes and he had to bite at his lip to stop from crying or spilling his beer. SOMETHING HAD ATTACKED HIS LEG!
It had torn through his ****ing jeans! And upon closer inspection, Simon spotted a raise lump on the inside of his thigh, sore and pussy...like an insect bite...or..
"ohhhhh, you little bastard, in my blood stream eh?"
Well I know how to counter that!
Simon eyed up his ammo belt of lagers and ales. It would be a shame to down some of them, Special Brew was something to be savoured. But desperate times call for desperate measures.
And so an alcoholic bing had begun. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
Damien’s first thoughts were “Haha! I’m in him!”
His second thoughts were “Eww! I’m in him!”
But now was too late a time to be a little girl about blood because he was pretty much swimming in it. Swimming upstream in it too.
He had decided that, while twisting the man’s love tubes from within would be painfully fun and humiliating for the booze-hound, it would be better to attack the heart and incapacitate the bastard. Knowing a few things about Simon’s health, or lack thereof, indicated that was probably his weak spot.
Slowly he made his way up the tubes. He was lucky he was part-super or else he would have died from asphyxiation a long while back. The times when he felt his legs giving out he dug his fingers into the delicate tubing around him puncturing holes in them that he could hang onto while he recuperated. It was also hopefully causing a *****ling sensation all the way from Simon’s leg to where he was right now.
About a quarter of the way up, Dammo heard a distant sound that resembled a waterfall but decided to ignore it. It couldn’t be very important could it? Anyway, according to the irregular beating that could be heard from above now, he was slowly nearing the heart.
After making some more way up he realised it getting hot. It had been hot before; Simo wasn’t the cold-blooded **** he made himself out to be after all. But now it was getting worse. The air itself, whenever Damien could take a breath of it, was drier than before and he felt his own lungs struggling as a result.
He knew it was the result of something Simo had done from the outside. Some foreign substance, perhaps injected, into the body. But what? Beer? But hadn’t he wasted that French stuff attacking him? It didn’t matter, the almost tribal beat of the man’s heart felt close enough to touch.
Things were getting blurry now, Damien’s eyes flickered between black and patches of blinding white light. The air was getting too hot to breath properly. But there! The heart was now directly above him, thundering a wheezy throb that hurt his ears.
And now he was beside it.
He brought his fist back as far as he could and launched it as hard as he could at the organic drum.
And his eyesight gave out.
It was now up to whatever effect hitting the heart had to save Damien now. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
UGGGHHHK...HOOOOOORRRR....GRRUuuttttrrrrrrrgleleee uuuuuuuu..
Simon's chest vaulted up, he jerked around frantically clutching at his chest!
Surely not a heart attack! Oh ****! So soon!
He thought to himself, as he panicked, gasping and clawing at the air, he wasn't due a heart attack until around the age of 36!
Rolling and thrashing around, he spilled the last of his beer cans over, he was relieved to see it was only a quarter full, but still somewhat disconcerted with the way everything...was...going...black.
THUMP, his head slammed into the ground, and Simon, his heart still, fell unconscious. What was to become of him now? Surely his drinking had finally caught up with him?
....
........
Deep. Deep inside of Simon, something stirred. His heart moved, not of it's own volition, something inside of it was assserting itself, something in his bloodstream.
The alcohol!
Simon had been drinking lots of beer that day, beer or different breweries, of different nations and different regions, some of a time long past. And now, in Simon's bloodstream, they began to show their individuality, forming militant hordes of angry danish Carlsberg men, the 70 man street football crew from that Carling advert, an angry mod of Budvar Czechs and a 10 strong army of ex-service men of the ale drinking variety.
They lined up and formed rank, ready to fight for Simon's life, while a small contingent of medics worked to massage Simon's heart back into life. | | | |
