In order to be an excellent comic, you have to be patient as the most important thing in comedy is timing, and I've been waiting all day to make sure the joke for the setup is perfect.
My prey has to be alone, as not only can I not pop in when somebody is looking at the space where I want to pop in, but also because the presence of a certain third party would completely ruin the joke.
And not only does he have to be alone, but he has to be occupied with looking at something in front of him for a sustained period of time so I can get into the proper position and look all nice and relaxed like I'd been sitting there forever.
AND he has to be far enough away that he can't just walk up and slug me in the jaw before I get to the punchline.
Masatake Kawamata zips up his fly, flushes the toilet and turns around to see me sitting on the counter of the men's room between two sinks with a hot pink guitar atop my lap. I begin to strum and sing.
I'd never formally learned how to do either, but when you're a magical abomination of several sorts of undead and fey that subsist on sucking various things, physical and metaphysical, out of human beings you can pick up new talents in about five minutes. Or a little bit longer if you want to leave the holder of those talents intact and not used up, crushed, and tossed aside like an empty juicebox.
ANYWAY! Singing!
"Girlfriend in a coma, I know
I know, it's serious
Girlfriend in a coma, I know
I know, it's really serious
There were times when I could
Have murdered her
But you know, I would hate
Anything to happen to her"
My prey scowls at me, I smile at him. He takes a few big steps towards me, and just as expected slugs me in the jaw. I go sprawling to the floor, overreacting to the blow just a bit. My guitar is a nice sturdy model, and survives falling to the floor with nary a scratch to be had.
"YOU STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM HANAKO!" he growls at me. He picks up the guitar and swings it at hard as he can straight down atop my head.
I don't even attempt to put up my arms and block the shot. I want each and every bit of force from the swing to splatter my brains out on the somewhat stained tile of this men's room in the back of a pachinko parlor.
This isn't the sort of guitar you can break 6,000 of and never draw a dime. Oh no, this is a right proper, sturdy guitar. So when I get the big ol El Kabong across the cranium the disks in my neck are pretty much utterly obliterated.
He doesn't stop, just keeps swinging until the pretty pink and white guitar is nothing more than a bunch of splinters. He looks at the neck of the shattered guitar in his hand for a second, then down at me.
He shudders, shakes his head, and throws it away, as if it had become a live snake. As funny as that would be, that's completely beyond my capacity to pull off.
I don't make a sound. Not a single groan of pain, nor even a giggle, or an utterance of "Good, good! Let the hate flow through you!" even though it would be the PERFECT time for it.
But that's not conducive.
"I… I didn't want this." Masatake says, "All I wanted was for you to leave me alone and stop stalking Hanako!" he actually sounds kind of upset at the damage he's caused. That guitar and my neck made quite a horrendous noise when they met.
He shakes his head again, looking down at his hands as if they've been covered in blood. He closes his eyes and just shakes his head harder, as if to deny the reality of it all.
Kawamata exits the bathroom, finding his girlfriend Hanako Takeuchi waiting for him.
"Are you alright? I heard something crash."
"That clown-dragon woman popped up again and..." he shakes his head, "And she was singing a song about you being in a coma. So I..."
"...was a very, very naughty boy and didn't wash his hands after going potty." I say from behind Hanako.
They both jump like three feet and recoil. The rather chivalrous Mr. Kawamata positions himself in front of his girlfriend, keeping himself between me and her.
"What do you want?"
"Peace on earth, goodwill towards men? A pony? Getting to do the fire hose trick with a gag penis at least once in my lifetime?"
He facepalms, and I grin, one of my least scary, most friendly smiles.
"Relax!" I say, giving Hanako a little wave, "I come bearing gifts. Something for each of you."
"I don't think we want anything from you."
"Look I promise I've left all my soul-sucking rocks, mind-warping artifacts, and body-morphing spell-plagues in my other pants."
"You don't wear pants. You always wear skirts or dresses." Hanako says.
"Which makes it pretty hard for me to find them, now isn't it? Now for you..." I point to Masatake, "Sorry to say, sport, but in this tandem trio, you're kind of the weak link."
"I know."
"Not much in the way of proper professional wrestling training."
"Yes, I know."
"The smallest member of the team by 40 pounds."
"I know."
"The least in-ring experience."
"I know!"
"No hella cool dragon powers."
"I KNOW!"
"No boobs or hips to speak of."
"I KNO… what."
"That one's totally easy to fix, since one of the things I can feed on is masculinity. Trust me, a few hearty meals of your conceptual manhood and you can be the prettiest belle at the ball and still sport your balls as well." I say, giving a waggle of my eyebrows.
"Why do you keep bringing up futanari all the time?"
"Because somebody has to! I've got memories of a world I've never been to dumped directly into my brain, and with all the races, species, and genders there being stuck on a world where the vast majority of people stubbornly demand that something so complex as gender be roughly shoved into two boxes of very narrow scope is absolutely maddening."
Masatake and Hanako share a bewildered look, and by the time they turn back to look at me I've gained a Minnesota Vikings helmet and a football. Somewhere Eric O'Flaherty has become suddenly erect, and he does not know why.
"Here's a guy when he puts his contacts in he can see better!"
Blank stares. I guess they don't watch much NFL over here in Japan.
"ANYWAY! You might've noticed that a few rather high profile veterans were in the crowd the night Kalinda won the belt. Well, SPIDER, Hellkat, and Desolation are back for a few weeks. Deso's eldest is old enough to get in the ring over here, but isn't back in the states. So they're trying to find a place for her to train."
"And, well, Kal wants you to suck the least amount of ass possible. So the two of you might as well drop by and learn a thing or two.
"The two of us? I have no intention of getting in the ring." Hanako protests.
"But you do hang around the ring, and you've already had some goon lay hands on you. While you might not be able to learn something quick enough to be able to hold you own against a big baldy and beardy dude, you'll at least learn how to fall properly."
"Seriously, it's a very important skill for managers and valets to learn. You crack your head on the ground and bam, you're in a coma. It happens with alarming frequency to significant others of professional wrestlers, and occasionally professional wrestlers themselves."
"We'll think about it." Masatake says.
Hanako meanwhile absentmindedly rubs her head where she took a bump when she was accosted by Jason Kaine.
"Awesome. Always strive to suck less, that's my motto. Oh, and I still need to give Hanako her gift."
Hanako is coaxed back to stand directly behind her boyfriend.
"What is it?"
"It's a surprise!"
I pull out a box from behind my back that wasn't there a minute ago, wrapped with a big red ribbon.
"Here. You can even open it if you want to make sure it doesn't explode in her pretty little face." I say, handing Kawamata the present.
He looks at me with a wary eye as he slowly tugs on the ribbon, removing it.
The lid of the box springs up and confetti shoots into the air and some noisemakers cheerily make their noises.
Meanwhile with the distraction I've blown right by Kawamata, have Hanako in my arms, my lips against hers. No tongues, though! She's his girlfriend, and I'm not a cad.
She's more stunned than anything. Especially considering I'm using the same soul-sucking kiss I use on my opponents in the ring.
Kawamata grabs me by the hair, yanking me off his girlfriend, slamming me up against the wall and raining punches into my midsection.
"YOU SPIRIT-STEALING BITCH, HOW DARE YOU HURT HANAKO!" he roars, unloading body blows into me with great fury.
"She didn't hurt me." Hanako says, looking rather confused.
"My head's actually stopped hurting and..." she wrinkles her nose, "For some reason I know exactly how to do your Shouten."
"What do you mean you know how to do the Shouten?"
I grin. "I'm returning that itty bitty bit of lifeforce I sucked out of you when we fought." I say pleasantly. "I figured it'd be put to better use fixing Hanako's owwies."
"Thanks?" Masatake says, seeming confused about the whole thing.
"But don't kiss my girlfriend ever again."
"Sure. Alright. Fine. Can do." I say, giving him a thumbs up.
"Anyway, presents delivered! If you wanna act on 'em or not is up to you. Imma head out. You two lovebirds have fun. Toodles!" I saw giving a little wave.
And then I lunge forward, grab Masatake by the shirt and give him a kiss just as forceful as the one I gave his lady friend. Hey, I don't want him to get jealous. He tries to back away, but ends up pressing Hanako against the wall, blocking her view of me, while my own face blocks his view of me.
The only sucking involved is the absolutely mundane version of sucking face. And this time maaaaaybe there's a little bit of tongue.
He tries to shove me off, but I'm heavier and stronger than he is. But I'm done anyway, and in the blink of an eye I'm gone.
Masatake looks absolutely disgusted. But he only has himself to blame. He never said that he was off-limits for applying lip-locks to.
"Gaaah! Like a snake's tongue wrapped in sandpaper flavored with cheap candy."
Hanako is making a similar disgusted face. "It's like those lemon sours from the Godzilla toys."
It's so cute when a couple agrees on something.
-o-
We open with a shot of my splendiferous grinning face as I smile one of my many smiles. This one is "Happiness and Moderate Amusement with a Hint of Anger, Far Too Much Teeth Than Makes People Comfortable, with Lips Unsettlingly Wide."
I do a thing with my hands juuuuust off camera, making an unsettling rasping noise. Because that's exactly what I'm doing. Rasping something. Unfortunately I'm not rasping raspberries. But once I hit the thing with a coat of paint (or coat it in somebody's blood, same thing really) it'll be a suitable raspberry shade.
Hello ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all wages! Minimum wages especially, because I want to talk about that tonight! Not minimum wage, but minimum effort, juuuuust putting in enough to the point where you can be considered doing your job and going "Meh, good enough," and then galavanting off back to your crappy little hole in the wall apartment to touch yourself in naughty places and drink to forget that you sold your soul, gave up all your hopes and dreams, and made burnt offerings of wonder and creativity on the dark altar of commerce.
Because after all that stuff I said not too long ago about my best pal Masatake Kawamata, I would be completely remiss if I didn't take Jason Kaine out back to Uncle Touchy's Woodshed of Shame to lay down the law on being fun and exciting, unique and entertaining!
Because much like his namesake Jason Kaine is a murderer. He went and murdered his nice, happy, fun, pleasant Viking persona, then buried it in a ditch. Probably outside Tikrit, which is where I hear you can find unwashed, scruffy, bearded people, some of whom may be deposed Iraqi presidents.
And then he threw up his hands going "Am I my brother's keeper?"
And now all the fun is dead. And I, along with all the little boys and girls out there watching DTW are sad. Because this means that we have yet another violent, angsty, beardy guy with tattoos and questionable hair.
I know Riddick and Kalinda are complaining all the time about whiny, mopey, sad, pathetic, goth lesbian bandersnatches who are in a race to see who can dig down into the deepest darkest depths of the misery mines, and how they number in the thousands.
But just because there's a bimbo factory awash in lesbian pollen that purchases their clothes on the cheap from Hot Topic is no reason to go in the opposite direction entirely!
Instead of lesbian pollen taking seed and growing moody biscuits with personalities disorders and rape, tragic backstories and rape, and questionable choice in associates and also rape, what would be the DTW equivalent, do you think?
Instead of lesbian pollen we've got beardy rage spores. Beardy rage spores that take root upon a bald, hairless human male host and blossom into a big, thick crop of anger moss sprouting grumpily from their chins.
Riddick, aka Rapey Dwarf, has questionable hair, anger moss, and is pissy because he's what my not-so-evil overlord Kalinda would refer to as a "Tendie-obsessed, socially maladjusted edgelord."
Dickie Frenchman, aka Shouty Dwarf, has questionable hair, a chin full of anger moss, likes producing his own little mini-movies where he's the big important star because his mommy and daddy didn't give him attention growing up and left the TV on as a babysitter, and he's pissy about it.
Lazarus Foote, aka Stinky Dwarf, is of course sporting questionable hair, a nice big bushy thatch of anger moss, and is pissy because his first promoter assigned him his fake last name based on the overpowering stench emanating from his nasty-arse Athlete's Foot-infected, unwashed, grime-encrusted, standing straight up on their own in his wrestling boots gym socks.
Jason Kaine, aka Baldy Dwarf, who is pissy because Kalinda made fun of his hair and Shouty Dwarf made fun of his Viking gimmick, and he decided "By golly! No one is going to ever make fun of me again!" and super glued a dead muskrat to his head and immediately abandoned his whole Norse raider commune schtick. Eric O'Flaherty being from Minnesota and becoming unspeakably aroused when anything to do with Vikings comes within 100 yards of him probably didn't help.
Shouty and Rapey are actually doing something to try and stand out and be different from all the other angry, white, beard-y dudes with yucky hair. Sure Shouty's mini-movies make him look like a pretentious arsewomble, and Rapey is burning through the US strategic reserves of cringe every time he speaks, does something, or gets out of bed in the morning.
But by golly, Baldy, they're trying! They're trying their very bestest to stand for something, even if the things they stand for are being paragons of egomania and douchebaggery. Though I have to admit you've kind of got a little bit of a thing going by having a hot girlfriend-type who sometimes dresses like an evil clown.
So in that regard you've got a heads up on Double Dragon's accidental mascot, Masatake Kawamata, whom I've been TRYING to coax into doing something interesting and suggesting that he get an undead girlfriend. That was even if HE doesn't want to be interesting, he can become kind of interesting by standing in close proximity to something interesting.
But you, Jason? I mean come on now! Your gal-pal's been here just as long as you have, and not once has she done anything with balloons, cream pies, whitewash, comically oversized mallets, amusing ladders, goofy pranks, silly shenanigans, or even bothered to cram into a hilariously small automobile with several of her fellows in whiteface!
She hasn't even had the courtesy of dropping by to visit my little troupe of clowns and compare favorite brands of face paint.
Why, I'm starting to suspect she's scarcely a proper clown at all! Just a poser trying to capitalize on the recent Horror Clown trend and milk some exposure out of the whole thing!
And that makes me sad.
Almost as sad as it does to see a promising, young amusing individual shucking his entertaining crowd-pleasing identity to take up being Dick Devereaux's bitch, if you'll excuse my French!
Shouty Dwarf comes out and starts throwing around action figures and saying how he knows Jason Kaine, and then makes fun of the whole Viking things, and breaks a little bitty toy version of Baldy Dwarf, and I guess poor Jason couldn't handle all the negativity. And it broke his little Viking heart.
But then ah ha! Shouty's saying they could be the bestest of best friends, going out shopping for leather chaps and head wax together, getting matching tattoos, braiding one another's chin hair, making friendship bracelets, sipping an extra large milkshake with two curly straws in it, if only Jason gives up what makes him special and unique.
Dude! Haven't you ever seen a single cartoon or teen drama? At best he's totally just using you to get something he wants, in this case the DTW World Championship, and at worst is just leading you on so he can kick you in the nards and laugh about how he got you to be his bitch and ha ha aren't you just a moron for thinking someone as cool as Dick Devereaux could every be best friends with a dweeb like you?
Or hey, it just might be your life's aspiration to be somebody's minion. I'm not knocking it, as I am a card carrying member of the Henchman's Union local 1666, but you've gotta remember that tag teams don't tend to rise to the top together.
Which I'm totally cool with. I don't need a pro wrestling title to feel complete (or achieve climax, like some people I could mention), and I'm perfectly content just being my usual amusing self and pleasing everyone with my cute antics.
I've stopped doing the thing that makes the rasping noise and now I'm doing something that sounds uncomfortably, moist, wet, and involving bits of meat. No, it's not THAT you sickos! I am a clown of purity and grace, which is why my skimpy clothes stay ever-firmly attached to my body without risk of a dreaded nipple being exposed to the world and sending the Americans into a horror-struck panic.
The camera can't quite see what I'm doing on the table, but it can see that my hands are covered in a thick, sticky, red liquid that I'm going to insist is strawberry jam. Type O negative strawberry jam.
But out of a tag team somebody's always going to go on to glory, and the other one onto mediocrity. Really, Jason, do you want to be stuck being Dick Devereaux's Marty Jannetty, attempting a cowardly escape through a plate glass window? D'ya want to be the Jim Neidhart? Or the Bart Gunn? Or even *shudder* the Stevie Ray?
Because that's where you're headed, bucko. You're looking to get knocked out by Butterbean and end up rubbing elbows with Vincent and Horace Hogan.
In ten years time you'll be scamming people out of tenners at conventions looking all lonesome and forlorn with your big banner promising that your much more famous associate will show up, though we all know that he never will.
C'mon, Jason! Nobody wants to be Virgil!
You need to do a thing! You need to stand out! You need to be special, and NOT in the short bus, unable to understand social conventions and behavior decently way that Riddick is special. No siree!
It doesn't take much! Waylon Mercy pretended to be kind and helpful and beat the febreeze out of people and Mr. Hughes wore sunglasses while he wrestled, and folks still remember these two nearly 20 years later, even though they never accomplished much.
C'mooooooon, Jason! I want to see you do a thing! I want to see you be different! I want to see you be original, like your teammates, Shouty Dwarf and Lanky Dwarf, whom I may add ALSO has chin moss and unfortunate, greasy hair. But I'm pretty sure he keeps the anger under control by smoking funny cigarettes.
Matto Asaddo, as they call him in Japan (and would even without the mask), at least attempts to stand out from the rest of you shouty, angry, pasty dudes by being Katy the Penguin of DOOM!
I brandish a spork with my blood… er… jam covered hand.
I know what you're trying to do, sweetie, and I just love you for it. But frog random monkey cheese statements and bubbling purple actions aren't proper dingleberry-covered mukluk comedy. You can just eggo waffles slap some hiccuping vaginal diaphragm unrelated but especially red corpuscles amusing words together sinister buttocks and maybe titty sprinkles get a few fully dilated anus chuckles. But there's jiggly jiggly jew no real effort, anal bum covers, talent, wibbley-wobbley dick pics, or skill involved.
Comedy is something you feel deep down in your soul! And as a comedic entertainer you don't want to merely make somebody laugh now, you want them to think back on your funny moments and burst out laughing when they recall the memory of your hilarity, be it a day, a week, a month, a year, or a lifetime down the line.
Like when me and Mascot Mitsubishi wrestled and he was throwing punches and I was throwing myself backward to make it look like he was hitting me far, far harder than he actually was. Then he faked a punch, and I fell over anyway, and everybody laughed!
Somewhere down the road someone is going to remember that a get a little chuckle out of it. Or somebody is going to see what I've done and copy it, either in a wrestling ring where more people are entertained, or when in a fight with somebody else and it throws them off guard and maybe lets them get in a few licks when they otherwise wouldn't.
Swinging down from the rafters and doing the Tarzan yell. It's not much, just a cool little spot, and it brings a smile to people's faces when they think back about the old Tarzan movies.
It's a lasting emotional response. It's personal.
It's not just the detached, bemused randomness of Rosco P. Tickledicks, Esquire, and his Massive Manwhore Moon-Monkey Mickey Moobs. Ooh, funny words, funny actions, funny concepts, sure they get a giggle. But you want to give somebody more than a giggle!
You want to give 'em a nice strong laugh-gasm deep down in their soul.
Come in closer and let me tell you the secret of good comedy.
I crook a
Closer.
More zooming.
Closer!
The camera pokes me right in the nose.
Too close!
Both the cameraman and I back up just a little bit.
The secret is when you deliver your hardest hitting punchlines, you want to make sure that the butt of your joke is somebody worth mocking. Punch up with your jokes, don't punch down. Find acceptable targets.
Just look no further than our own local feces-flinging shitgibbon Teiji Shintaro. It's uproariously funny when he spews poo on somebody like Riddick or Mr. France or some crappy wrestling she-wench that can't tell a wrist lock from a wrist watch. Because in some way they're seen as deserving of being brought down a peg, be it by being unpleasant, by being an egomaniac, or just being an awful wrestler.
If you picture Rina the Interview Lady getting covered in poop, suddenly it's not quite so funny anymore, now is it?
Then again Matty Ratty, you and your teammates like to hit ladies for no reason, don't you? So you might very well think it's funny, because there's no girls allowed in your He-Man Woman Haters club. Where you all gather around in your club house, and talk about how girls are yucky and have cooties, and how awesome crappy, mossy growths on your chin are.
Literally crappy. There have been studies to show that there are non-trivial amounts of fecal matter contained in the things! And that's in normal day to day life, not when there's a poop spewing, derriere-dumpling flinging madman on the loose.
I know the abominable Dr. France has gotten a blast of butt-nuggets right in his face too! Literal shitbeard! Literal shitbeard! Get him a peg leg, a parrot, a pirate ship, and a lot of other things beginning with P.
Like a personality that doesn't involve literally the worst two things about family get togethers combined into one hybrid of suck; home movies and having to ooh and aah over Junior's sucktastic art projects.
And it's not even like you've got any sort of artistic vision there, Frenchie Doc-Martins, it's mostly just punching the clown, if you'll excuse the expression, about how big and bad and scary you are. When you're not.
Because let's face it, buckaroomba, you fought in DTW's first World Title match, and came out dead last out of three participants.
How'd you get into the world title match in the first place? Why, because Kalinda and I helped you, of course, silly!
You think that your piddly body weight would have been merely enough to stop Masatake Kawamata's immense Fighting Spirit? NO! It required you, me, and the mighty, mighty bulk of my mistress to keep our beloved mascot's shoulders on the mat for the three count!
So what are you going to do now that you don't have 671 pounds of sexy dragoness to keep the ENDLESS REBEL HEART RESOLVE FIGHTING SPIRIT of our plucky little Japanese underdog contained?
After all, he's already beaten Jason Kaine, and did it after getting the crud kicked out of him for most of the match.
And as bad as he is, buddy, Kalinda is a bazillion times worse. Cause not only is she bigger, not only is she stronger, not only is she harder to hurt, but she has that same INFINITE DEPTH LEY-LINE DRACONIC EMPOWERMENT SOUL-BURNING EMPOWERMENT FURNACE jacked up to 11.
She's beaten the peas out of you and Riddick, and she didn't even have to break out her ULTRA SUPER DUPER SPIRIT CHANNELLING PRISMATIC DRAGON EMPRESS TECHNIQUE that has been passed down the Kriegsdottir family line through GENERATIONS.
Well, no, no it actually hasn't, but it sounded like a good thing to say.
Just think about how scary that is, guys. You've got a big four hundred pounds murder machine that in three years has never had to reach down all the way into her bag of tricks.
And for the most part she's been calm, collected, detached, and disinterested.
In three years there's been all of one night where she took off all the chains and went on a rampage and in two minutes of violence three wrestlers ended up going to the hospital, an office burned down, and she threw a quarter ton solid walnut desk across the room with one hand.
And you poor schmucks, you don't even have the option of isolating me or Mascot Masatake and leaving Kal on the apron the whole match. Cause in DTW there are no tags. So that means that she's going to be beating the crabcakes out of one of you at any given moment.
Oh, and hey, guess what also sucks for you guys? The fact that the boss lady and me? We're totally an official tag team. We've practiced together sooo much and even though we've never been in a proper wrestling match as a team, we've been in a lot of fights together against guys even scarier than Dick Devereaux's home movies and even stinkier than Matt Acid's unwashed, greasy, patchouli oil saturated hair.
We're like this.
I hold up one hand, still holding the bleeding, bloody scrap of muscle tissue that I've been using to craft my newest toy. My ring and index fingers are twisted around one another. They kind of twist around one another a little too well. Joints aren't exactly supposed to bend in the ways I'm bending them.
We have a bond. I'm pledged to her blood and soul. Literally. I'd tell you more about it, because it requires like twenty five minutes of listening to a kitten-sized dragon talk excitedly at you about the intricacies of necromancy, soul bonds, morphogenic fields, and all kinds of other concepts that make your eyes roll into the back of your head and make you pass out from boredom.
I don't care if Jason Kaine has been tonguing Dick Devereaux's poop chute for his entire life. You two don't have the capacity for teamwork that we've got.
And do you know what else you haven't got?
A cool logo!
A tandem finisher!
Trademark tag team moves!
Oh my goddess, you guys, you're not going to believe all the balls out amazing moves that Kalinda and I have come up with to perform on some poor sucker!
It's going to be AWESOME!
There's this one where we do a thing, and the guy is in the corner, and then I do a thing, and Kalinda does a thing, and then we both do a thing together and then the guy starts screaming his head off and it's painful and silly and amazing and effective and I just can't wait to do it to one of you guys! Because you're all SOOOO deserving, and I won't feel guilty at all about potentially ruining any chance you ever have to breed.
And then there's my favorite one, which looks COMPLETELY AMAZING AND BADASS! It's SO badass that I don't mind using that swear and not saying arse like I usually do! It's this totally awesome amazingly brutal thing that I don't think anybody but Kalinda could have the sheer strength to pull it off.
SQUEEEEEEE! I can't wait to beat the crap out of the lot of you naughty little boys.
Because I've seen how you like to hit defenseless women and torment people with axes.
Another smile. This one is "Completely Dead Eyes That Would Be At Home on a Shark with a Similarly Appropriate Number of Sharp and Pointy Teeth Dedicated Entirely to Rending Meat off the Bone and Devouring Your Tasty Flesh." I maintain it as I raise my weapon and lower the barrier that keeps nasty things from leaking into the mundane world around me.
It's an axe made from flesh and bone. Studded with fangs and claws, and a single massive eye darting about as it writhes in my grasp, seeking flesh to dig into.
Very Soul Edge, if I do say so myself.
It throbs like a beating heart, dripping with unspeakable fluids.
You can just feel its hatred for all life pulsing from its malevolent eyes.
Let's see how you like it.
Then I let the barriers go back up, and instead of a living weapon crafted of living flesh and bone animated by vile and perverse magic it's simply a giant raspberry lollipop the size of a battleaxe with a single googly eye similar in scale to a tea saucer stuck to it.
I'm going to have so much fun.
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