[We open to find ULW's Big Blue Brute, Kalinda Kriegdottir, in what we presume is her apartment, flopped down on her bed. Well, we assume it's her apartment because the bed is huge and sized for her seven foot frame, and the ceilings are high enough that she won't bonk her head.]
[The Deadly Dragonspawn isn't looking so deadly, nestled in a nest of pillows and blankets, staring up at the ceiling, pondering things and eating a sliced of recently cooked frozen pizza.]
Kalinda: We're not getting this one again, Spark. Tombstone. It's very bland and there's no crust to it, so you have to grab ahold of the cheese.
Spark: Or you could use a fork.
Kalinda: Blasphemy! You pick up a slice of pizza without the aid of silverware! Only when you've loaded it with so many toppings that the structural integrity can no longer be maintained, then and only then can you use utensils.
Something so skinny as a thin crusted frozen pizza does not meet this fundamental requirement. Thus I think I would much rather chew on an actual tombstone. There's like no flavor here, so terribly, terribly bland.
Spark: And speaking of terribly bland, how's your Twitter brawl with The Inbred Assassin Eric "Chocolate Rain" Huehuehuerrera going?
Kalinda: I think I owe Percy Whitman an apology for calling him the dumbest man in professional wrestling. He's off living in his own little fantasy world where casual insults are dire attacks on the good name of his family.
It took me like an hour and a half to get through to him that if he's really all gosh darn golly gee gung ho about having a GODS DAMNED WAR, then his sister is going to end up being the very first casualty.
Spark: You're like three times bigger than she is. All you have to do basically is grab her head in one hand, squeeze, and make brain gravy.
Kalinda: I don't think that family has much in the way of brain matter, it's all empty space.
Spark: Yeah, inbreeding will do that to ya. Mental retardation, physical deformities, dementia, that sort of thing tends to set in once you've decided to trim back the branches on your family tree.
Kalinda: And he's gathering umpteen dozen people to follow in his little clubfooted footsteps across several federations. All because of a campaign of mild snark on my part.
I mean how the hell does that work?
Spark: Lack of evolutionary pressure. A variety of sentient species tends to mean that if you make an extreme ass of yourself, Klu-gar the Ogre King will twist your head off for being an ill-behaved prat.
The only thing humans can mouth off to is other humans. So as a result they don't tend to be obviously and brutally outclassed physically.
If we had a full grown dragon that posted things on the internet, then went around chewing up and swallowing the houses of the most inept, socially abrasive, unpleasant, e-mail spamming, death threat posting buttlords, I think mankind would very quickly learn how to be a bit more polite to one another.
They'd also learn to laugh it off and not take offense when the great big thing that could devour them in one bite says mean things about their species, their country, and their parentage.
Kalinda: You wouldn't happen to know a way to rapidly age me to the stage where I can go Godzilla on this stupid little rock, would you?
Spark: Yes, but two require technology that's not going to show up around here for another couple of centuries, and the third one requires access to at least two methods of time travel and a really boring stable time loop that ends up being five seconds to the rest of the world, while you end up going about the aging thing the slow way.
Kalinda: Ugh. So I guess I'm just going to have to beat the ever-loving fuck out of each and every one of them, aren't I?
Spark: I wouldn't put it like that.
Kalinda: You never do. You almost never use cuss words.
Spark: I don't need to cuss to get my points across.
Kalinda: Spark, you never have points to get across. All you usually have are obnoxious puns.
Spark: I like puns. Puns are fun.
Kalinda: If I really wanted to do some damage, I'd just send you over to harass the Herpderprerra family. I think they'd give in after a few hours of listening to you rambling on about literally everything.
Spark: Oh um… I've kind of been cyberstalking one of your opponents for this week, the sister.
[Kalinda sits bolt upright.]
Kalinda: Spark, what did you do? You're not fucking around with credit cards or signing them up for the dildo of the month club are you?
Spark: Dildo of the month club, I'll have to remember that one. No, mostly I've just been following Jess-Jess the Inbred Mess from FPS to FPS whenever she's online, ignore the objective, and just focus on killing her, repeatedly.
I think I made her break her keyboard over her knee with Team Fortress 2 by just backstabbing her progressively closer and closer to her own spawn.
Kalinda: You may not be able to directly inhabit computers, but you can still do amounts of math in your head that puts physicists to shame. Too bad you use it mostly for making obscene headshots through tiny cracks and executing facestabs.
Spark: And knowing exactly when to fire to guarantee a critical hit. I had to stop with the grenade launcher before I made the entire sever ragequit, and not just her.
Kalinda: Keep up with the psychological warfare, Spark. Though… how the hell do you manage to play computer games?
Spark: Oh, I crank the sensitivity way, way up sprawl on the left half of the keyboard, and use the mouse buttons with my back legs. If I wasn't made of ectoplasm and had actual real muscles and stuff, I think I would be in agony about now.
Kalinda: Lucky bastard.
Spark: So about this whole war thing, how bad do you think it's going to get?
Kalinda: I'm going to do everything I can to prevent ULW from going the way of IWC. I'm going to cut out the cancer before it starts. Even if that means utilizing Operation Millstone.
Spark: Can I make the grinding noise when you attack?
Kalinda: If you want. If anything it will give them a crippling fear of rock tumblers for the rest of their lives, associating it with an endless cycle of violence. Get attacked out of the blue by something big and blue, only to have her vanish, soak in ice water for a few minutes to rejuvenate, then come back to do it all again.
Spark: I really wish people would actually listen when we talk about stuff. It would make things so much easier.
Kalinda: Yeah, no shit. I don't think people would be so eager to throw down with me if they managed to get the idea pounded into their heads that I can't take lasting physical damage. I can get tired, I can get achy, I can get sore. But unless somebody here manages to find the legendary Folding Chair of Perseus, imbued with cosmic magic by the ancient titans, I don't get worn down.
Spark: And even when you do actually get wounded you use ice like a bandaid. Rub an ice cube on a cut on your arm and the sucker knits right back up, good as new.
I hate it when you do that, it looks really, really gross, by the way.
Kalinda: It's better than the alternative of leaving it open.
Spark: Yeah, but still, it's gross.
Kalinda: You think damned near everything biological is gross. Just think about how gross it'd be if I didn't ice it back to full healing. What if it got infected? Scabs and pus galore!
Spark: EWW! EWWIE EWW EWW EWW!
Kalinda: That's a thing they have to deal with, and why the scrub down the ring after every match.
Spark: I thought that was because Rayne Young doesn't think personal hygiene is gangsta, yo.
Kalinda: Well that's part of it. Staph infections.
Spark: EWW! EWW! WHY DID YOU HAVE TO SAY WHAT THEY ARE?! NOW I'M LOOKING UP PICTURES AND DATA STORED IN MY HEAD ON THE TOPIC!
Kalinda: While you're at it try and find that image of the… whatever the hell it is, the wound, the sore, what the fuck ever it was that put me off from eating English muffins for the rest of eternity.
Spark: Oh gods, I have no stomach and I must barf!
Kalinda: Mwahaha, suffer the torment of ghastly biology!
[We cut to... somewhere, it looks like a miniature city stage set in front of what appears to be an orchestra. A very weird orchestra, as in addition to the usual sorts of brass, strings, woodwinds, etc we've got a couple of folks on electric guitars, drum set, keyboard. And these people look very, VERY strange. They're not even attempting to get dressed up.]
[Old school ULW fans easily recognize the plethora of morbidly obese gentlemen lacking shirts, sporting shiny and tight pantaloons, curly rainbow colored wiggies, and bow ties held up by absolutely nothing. There's even a couple of unique looking Bobs, there's a bald one with a rainbow goatee and a leather vest, an African-Mnoosevillain Bob with straight rainbow air and checkered pantaloons, a Bob with a grotesque green and brown pair of pantaloons with sunglasses, a bandana, stubble, and a neon green mustache, a pale, creepy looking gothic Bob with mascara and a pair of ladies' underpants on his head instead of a wiggy, and a supremely grotesquely fat Bob, fatter than usual, in a tight leather banana hammock.]
[Coaxing the Bobs to stand in choir formation is a bland looking fellow. No real distinguishing features or clothes or anything, just black clothes and the usual set of generic video game protagonists traits. Square jawed white guy sporting dark hair and stubble. The front of his t-shirt identifies him as Bill. Bill and the Bob Squad.]
[There's the esteemed law firm of Zombie, Acula, and Wulfmann; a zombie in a dirty and tattered suit with an equally tattered drum, a tall gentleman in a lucha libre mask and a blindingly white suit with a stethoscope around his neck sports a violin next to member of the walking dead, a massive purple werewolf in a lucha libre mask with a tiny triangle and a stick to play it, and behind them a great big water tank where an aquatic, betentacled descendant of the Great Old Ones swims around, also in a lucha mask. A number of wine glasses filled with varying levels of colored fluid, apparently a glass harp.]
[There's ULW Hall of Famer Hellkat with a keytar whose neon paint spattered aesthetic looks right out of the eighties. Next to her are a pair of gentleman with stiff mannerisms in lederhosen and blue zentai suits, apparently being overseen by a fellow with equally blue hair and parachute pants.]
[There's none other than ULW's own Kalinda on keyboard, with Spark sitting atop it sporting a ukulele that he's wielding as if it were a massive double bass. Another draconic creature accompanies them, a brown furred beastie the size of a tiger sporting a tuba.]
[Astute pro wrestling fans recognize this unruly, strange-looking mass as members of the multiple federation spanning stable known as the Loons, all of whom are strange, wacky, eccentric, deranged, weird, and any or all of the above. Just panning over the crowd of assembled insane musicians is a simultaneous assault on both the eyes and the sanity, of which the esteemed lucha-law firm of Zombie, Acula, and Wulfmann is no insignificant part. A lawyer zombie, doctor-lawyer vampire, accountant werewolf, and cthulhoid intern. Bad enough that they're lawyers, they have to be unholy aberrations against God twice over by being physically monstrous too.]
[After the pan we pull back to reveal a cityscape in miniature which just adds to the confusion of this eclectic gathering of wrestler-musicians. And then striding down the steps comes a linebacker looking fellow with a scruffy goatee with a banjo slung over his shoulder. He takes his place in the center, apparently the conductor of this infernal orchestra.]
[And then... oh gods. That explains it. Down the stairs with a foam and felt puppet adorning each hand and several more stuffed into his pockets. And his pants. And down his shirt. And peeking out of his fly.]
[It's none other than known master of the weird, Mister Reginald Hush, so-called technician of the Black Crusade, a stable late of the IWC and the recently deceased CWR, a stable of which ULW's big blue brute is a member.]
[Hush nods to the conductor and sets about nestling himself somewhere in the sprawling city set. Oh god. We've got music video style text in one corner of the screen. Um, more than a corner of the screen, actually. I think the band and the contributing acts is going to eat the whole of the lower half of the screen.]
Mr. Hush and the Hushtones w/ the Esteemed Law Firm of Zombie, Acula, and Wulfmann, The Mnooseville All-Pantaloons Boys' Club Choir, The Steve Blueman Group, Dragonfarce, and Banjo Pickin' Ron and His Loon Symphonic Orchestra
"Attack of the Filthy Inbreeders"
Black Crusade Records
Director: Reginald Hush
[Banjo Pickin' Ron turns around and grabs his banjo, strums what appears to be the opening to the White Stripes' "Seven Nation Army" before spinning back around to face his podium, tapping his banjo on it as if it were a baton. He raises his hands and the music begins.]
[It's a rather upbeat sort of march-sounding thing that takes a second for the beat to really sink in. It's the theme song from "Attack of the Killer Tomatoes."]
[The lights dim, thunder crashes, and an insane laugh rings out from a puppet in the shadows.]
Mnooseville Choir: Attack of the Filthy Inbreeders!
[Oh god. Considering how immensely thin skinned the Herrera clan appears to be, this is not going to go over well.]
Mnooseville Choir: Attack of the Filthy Inbreeders!
[The second repetition is met by one of the tiny building exploding with a mongoloid puppet of Jessica Williams emerges, shaking her little foam hands on the ends of sticks all menacing-like, but mostly seems to be kind of pathetic.]
Mnooseville Choir: Eric Huehuehuerrera has a plan
To take over UL-Dubya land!
With inbred hordes and leaky poots
And they're all homophobic to boot!
Inbreeders! Inbreeders!
[And there's a puppet version of Eric Herrera, mask and all, wringing his tiny puppet hands in malevolent glee as a hoard of ugly, deformed, naked puppets march forth in the background.]
[Then we cut over to Assistant bob Wrangler Bill, who has donned an ascot and a frosted hair wig to play the role of the requisite Random Interview Metrosexual that every pro wrestling federation is apparently required by law to have. He rolls his eyes and nods, holding a microphone in front of another Eric Herrera puppet, who seems to have thick, viscous brown fluid pouring from both his mouth and anus as he flaps his lips, cutting a promo.]
[Then over to yet another scene, where the cute, angelic puppet form of homosexual, hunchbacked Rain impersonator Kevin Herrera is being kicked down a flight of stairs and into the basement by his brother Eric, with a mob of torch and pitchfork wielding members of
Rear-End Effect holding signs of protest decrying rainbows, triangles, and bundles of sticks]
Mnooseville Choir: Oh isn't a pity?
His capitalization's so shitty!
On his itchy rear he scoots
Still cutting leaky promo poots
And murdering some black prostitutes!
Inbreeders! Inbreeders!
[And now we're subject to a deluge of Twitter posts in which there is nary a capital letter to be had. A bust of Noah Webster weeps tears of blood, having been exposed to such a horrible mauling of the English language,]
[And now a larger version of puppet Herrera, which appears to be a midget in a foam and felt soot, scootches across the floor with his pants down, one hand holding a mic, the other frantically sawing at his behind with a backscratcher, or would that be buttscratcher? The brown crud is still pouring forth from both front and back ends.]
[And then a cut to the same Cookie-Monster style midget in a suit puppet with some Barbie dolls of color. Their little plastic limbs have been cruelly hacked off, blood and bone is everywhere. As we watch Herrera cruelly bites the head off of a doll and spits it at the camera, throwing his head back and cackling with sinister glee.]
Mnooseville Choir: Now let's talk about Jessica the gamer,
Could she possibly be any lamer?
Sitting 'round and camping spawn
Til the entire server's gone
Spraying tags of raunchy porn!
Inbreeders! Inbreeders!
[And now we have a deformed puppet version of Jessica Williams, who has three nostrils, crossed eyes, and a vast overbite. The puppet is dressed scantily and is seen in a series of those stereotypical "sexy gamer girl" poses. Well, mockeries of them. Here she is presenting her rear and biting a Playstation controller. There she is chewing on a controller wire and cupping her little foam boobies. Now she's getting an electric shock and smoking from having chewed through the cord.]
[Cut to the puppet dressed like the Team Fortress 2 Demoman, farting sticky bombs out her rear while a herd of little blue spy crabs waddle worriedly in their spawn room. Then they begin vanishing one by one. Pull back to see the rest of RED team shaking their heads and making disgusted faces as they too vanish one by one.]
[And finally a shot of Jessica painting her spray on a wall. We're not sure what it is since it's pixel-blurred out, but there seems to be an awful lot of brown. Puppet Silencer walks by, looks at the spray for a moment, and then begins projectile vomiting in absolute horror. Meanwhile Puppet Jess laughs maniacally and pelvic thrusts against the scenery. Ick.]
[And then we cut back to the Loons, each and every one of them armed with a kazoo instead of their proper instrument. The Deep One makes bubbles inside his tank, the zombie has the kazoo in his mouth backwards, the two dudes in Zentai suits of the Steve Blueman Group haven’t bothered to take off their masks and are blowing through the thin fabric. The Bobs of the Mnooseville Choir have them jammed in their ears, their nostrils, one is bent over and has it pressed against his backside, basically they have them everywhere but the proper place.]
Loons: Bzz bzzz bz bz bz bz bz!
Bzz bzz bz bz bz bz bz bz!
Bzz bzz bzz bzz bz bz bz bz!
Bzz bzz bzz bzz bz bz bz bz!
Bzz bzz bzz bzz bz bz bz bz!
Bz bz bz! Bz bz bz!
We even have a guest appearance by the rest of the Black Crusade standing over by the Kalinda and her draconic companions in the corner. Gaunt is happily playing his, as is Mr. Hush, while Silence appears to be baffled as to how to play it when she can't get it through her masks' non-existent mouth. Legion is present as an action figure next to the small blue dragon with the ukulele, the action figure playing the kazoo as if it were a trombone.
Mnooseville Choir: Here's Priest with his daikamura!
He hides it from his mother!
It looks like an altar boy
With one of those Bad Dragon toys
And posed extremely coy
[And here we have a puppet rendition of Priest with a miniature love pillow with an image of a rather young anime boy on it. He looks around furtively while an almost identical puppet (right down to the goatee), save for a curly gray wig and a pair of golf balls glued to its chest. Priest hides the pillow behind his back.]
[Once Mom-Priest has gone he pulls it back out again, sporting hearts for eyes and a tongue lolling out of his mouth as he flips it over to reveal the same figure nude, pixilated from the waist down, though the rather realistic looking black horse phallus sex toy the anime figure is hold remains in all its horrific horsey glory.]
Mnooseville Choir: Tonight our valiant war begins
'Gainst the filthiest inbreeding sins!
On FUF our Blue Brute strikes
At gamer grrls and booty wipes
While van der Faart sends nudes over Skype!
Inbreeders! Inbreeders! Inbreeders!
[And now we jump to a bit later, after the concert. Kalinda is seated on a bench, while in the background the cityscape is a ruin, covered in the brown goo of leaky poot style End Effect promos, rampaging inbred armies, and the substandard building practices of the French.]
[A cluster of Bobs nearby hold up protesting signs, "NO MORE IMBREEDING! SAVE A PARSLEY PATCH!" yes, it's spelled imbreeding, "BOB HATES IMBREDS" in the style of the neon Westboro Baptist signs, a red circle with a line through it over a redneck trucker cap "STOP HAT IMBREEDING!" And then there's a Bob with a top hat and a monocle with a sign reading "DOWN WITH THIS SORT OF THING."]
[Kalinda looks them over and chuckles.]
Kalinda: So Eric Herrera wants a war. Well guess what, Captain Chuckles P. MxExtraChromosomes? You've got your war, complete with protesters and picket lines. I've got another half dozen groups of Bobs that'll be stationed all over the arena, at a few places all over town, and another group with a big old banner to protest out in front of the city hall of each and every town we wrestle in.
I've got Spark trolling Commandant Cam Whore in every and any first person shooter she happens to load up. I've got Banjo Pickin' Ron writing catchy tunes deriding the inbred masses of our foes. I'm got SPIDER typing in all caps on the internet conspiracy theory message boards stating that End Effect is an FDA plot to take the focus off of the coming Ebola Plague created by invading space gerbils to pre-terraform the planet and produce the human organ slurpee that their absolute favorite chilled drink. I've got Mr. Hush making puppets, Steve Blueman and the Blueman Group designing propaganda posters, the Esteemed Firm of Zombie, Acula, and Wulfmann working on an injunction so that poor Kevin Herrera isn't robbed of a cent of his inheritance, and I've got Bill doing… whatever the hell it is that Bill does.
This match isn't about the nascent rivalry budding between the Rising Tide and Gamers United Incorporated. Because honestly the moment the IWC got any sort of tag team competition, The Artists Formerly Known as the Chase Wrestling Collective folded like a piece of wet toilet tissue in the wake of a big, wet, Eric Herrera five alarm chili fart.
We haven't seen hide nor hair, not that Hugo actually has any hair mind you, of the Rising Tide since they scuppered off from last week's abysmal little showing so Hurricanrrera could throw a temper tantrum and pearl harbor his chosen tag team partner in the middle of the ring, putting him on the shelf for who knows how long.
So they might very well be in cahoots. Which means that this match becomes a two on one, with me being the one. And I'm fine with that. If you stacked Jessica on top of Bash they might just barely be as tall and as heavy as I am. Of course the sheer levels of intellectual suck that creates might reach critical mass and cascade into a black hole of stupid.
But I don't think that can happen, since Jess's brother is a whole new level of idiotic. Seriously, what kind of a moron thinks a few playful insults are a dire attack on his family? What kind of inbred fucktard thinks that by denying it with more and more vehemence and anger that people are actually going to shut up about the inbreeding thing? If anything, Herrera, you throwing a shitfit in non-capitalized letters on Twitter is going to get you IN BRED crowd chants from here until the end of time.
LET'S GO IN BRED!
IN BRED SUCKS!
Hell, I might get Xande to do his Glenn Danzig impression and belt out an entry theme for you to the tune of the Misfits' "Last Caress."
[The vampiric doctor-lawyer floats eerily by in the background with a microphone, a muscle suit, and a tremendous pompadour wig.]
Dr. Alfredo Acula: I GOT SOMETHIN' TO SAY! I FUCKED MY SISTER TODAY! IT DOESN'T MATTER MUCH TO ME AS LONG AS SHE'S SPREAD!
[And he floats gracefully off camera. Kalinda grins and mimes wiping a tear from her eye.]
Kalinda: Thank you. That was lovely.
But anyway, what this means is that this little match is the first battle in a war between nice, sane, mentally grounded and well-adjusted people, and whatever poop sniffing, inbred mantards that Rick Rogaine the Extra Chromosome King can scrape off the bottom of a rock.
So this isn't about Jessica Williams and her store brand name anymore. This is about End Effect versus the rest of ULW. This is the first shot fired in what Eric promises to be a long and bloody war, but what I think is more like an afternoon of gleeful entertainment on my part.
Bludgeon the piss out of End Effect until overwhelmed, soak in a bath of ice to heal up, return to bludgeoning.
See, End Effect with their fused cranial hemispheres, hormonal disorders, and homeschool educations don't seem to realize that I'm not Giant Gonzales plus gazongas painted bright fucking blue.
I'm a gods damned dragon. I don't operate by the same rules you do. I'm not like anything you've ever faced before. I don't think you realize just how badly in over your heads you're putting yourselves.
Darling little Jessica is one third my size. She's a gamer, not a body builder. She's got this itty bitty, scrawny little sticks for limbs. One quick bite, less than five seconds. That's all it'll take to make her an amputee. Hey, it'll give her the same number of limbs as a large number of her cousin-marrying kin.
But I've promised not to bite anyone's arms off. Or legs. Or ears. Or noses. And if anyone in the world of professional wrestling is going to have two noses, it's going to be the deformed fuckheads in End Effect.
So this isn't going to be a match.
This is going to be a slaughter.
This is going to be the opening volley fired in a war for the heart and soul of ULW.
The IWC fell to a filthy flood of dismal fucks because no one decided to stand up at the beginning to band together and take them down. I'm not going to let the kudzu that's choking the IWC get a genetically deficient cousin taking root in ULW.
And I'm not the only one. I've got help on my side this time.
Jason King. Clay Colton. Two of the men that are thought of as the rising stars of the new ULW.
You've got a King.
You've got a Golden Boy.
You've got a Sapphire Sovereign.
[Kalinda smirks.]
Kalinda: So I think I know what to all our little alliance, what with our home federation being based in New York state after all. the Empire State. So to paraphrase the Sisters of Mercy, or my favorite cover by Warrel Dane…
We've got the Kingdom.
We've got the (golden) key.
WE ARE THE EMPIRE!
[Kalinda growls the last line, baring her teeth and blowing a vast cloud of ice cold mist straight at the camera.]
[Fade to white.]
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