Because I don't want to lose this in case of computer crash:
Showing posts with label E-fed. Show all posts
Showing posts with label E-fed. Show all posts
Thursday, August 6, 2020
Tuesday, October 16, 2018
Battle Bash #5: Iron Road, The Ghost of Stepford Suburbia
[The room is an artifact. A living fossil. A window to another time. The lime green cabinetry and rounded fridge emblazoned with a chrome symbol of a long forgotten product line, the brilliant red and chrome formica tabletop and matching chairs. The floral pattern lazy susan on the middle of the table our camera appears to be resting on with a swan-shaped sugar bowl. Everything all polished, shiny, and sparkling. It looks like the place was yanked right out of the 1950's.]
[It makes things all the more jarring when suddenly the lights go out for a moment, then when they come on again someone is sitting in the chair. Tanned, blonde hair in a pixie bob that looks cemented in place, a headband and matching floral print dress, and… oh.]
[The orange eyes and the grin that has far too many teeth, though they're white, overly large, and square instead of sharp, pointy, and/or serrated tell us that this is Claudia Kajara with a wig and a fuckton of makeup.]
[The smile, for once, doesn't reach her eyes and she seems sad and almost on the verge of tears.]
"It's not a fun time for you, is it Joe? With your contributions ignored, your hard work cast aside, and the time and effort you put in unrewarded."
[Despite the sorrow in her eyes, Claudia's voice is strangely happy and chipper.]
"That's okay. Well, you feeling that way. It's not okay to be dumped on. But it sure is a thing that's happening alright."
"Because now is not a fun time. This particular stretch of time has taken fun, wrapped it up in duct tape, stuffed it in George Clooney's bum, wrapped George Cloony up in duct tape, stuck him in a padded wooden crate and shipped him off to that warehouse at the end of Raiders of the Lost Arc."
[It makes things all the more jarring when suddenly the lights go out for a moment, then when they come on again someone is sitting in the chair. Tanned, blonde hair in a pixie bob that looks cemented in place, a headband and matching floral print dress, and… oh.]
[The orange eyes and the grin that has far too many teeth, though they're white, overly large, and square instead of sharp, pointy, and/or serrated tell us that this is Claudia Kajara with a wig and a fuckton of makeup.]
[The smile, for once, doesn't reach her eyes and she seems sad and almost on the verge of tears.]
"It's not a fun time for you, is it Joe? With your contributions ignored, your hard work cast aside, and the time and effort you put in unrewarded."
[Despite the sorrow in her eyes, Claudia's voice is strangely happy and chipper.]
"That's okay. Well, you feeling that way. It's not okay to be dumped on. But it sure is a thing that's happening alright."
"Because now is not a fun time. This particular stretch of time has taken fun, wrapped it up in duct tape, stuffed it in George Clooney's bum, wrapped George Cloony up in duct tape, stuck him in a padded wooden crate and shipped him off to that warehouse at the end of Raiders of the Lost Arc."
Wednesday, September 26, 2018
DTW 2nd Year Anniversary: Of Sinking and Skeletons
Two years. Two whole years of DeathTrip Wrestling, and in just a few weeks I'd be defending the DTW World Championship once again.
With the big anniversary show looming on the horizon I was putting all my focus towards that instead of my various extracurricular activities.
The Skeleton Isles were growing nicely, soaking up calcium carbonate from ancient deposits on the seafloor and transmuting that into… well… bonestone. It sounds less lewd in Dwarven, let me assure you. It's a necromantic version of marble that operates as if it were still the raw bony bits that one uses for various forms of necromancy, except sturdier.
Using the usual necromantic forging techniques the stuff ended up somewhere between steel, mythril, and adamantite instead of approximating steel like the usual sort of bones. Necromatic Dragonbone was even better, but I certainly wasn't going to find any dragons here, and none of my bones were large enough to make swords out of anyway. Armor? Forget about it. I'm still using this ribcage, thank you very much.
With the big anniversary show looming on the horizon I was putting all my focus towards that instead of my various extracurricular activities.
The Skeleton Isles were growing nicely, soaking up calcium carbonate from ancient deposits on the seafloor and transmuting that into… well… bonestone. It sounds less lewd in Dwarven, let me assure you. It's a necromantic version of marble that operates as if it were still the raw bony bits that one uses for various forms of necromancy, except sturdier.
Using the usual necromantic forging techniques the stuff ended up somewhere between steel, mythril, and adamantite instead of approximating steel like the usual sort of bones. Necromatic Dragonbone was even better, but I certainly wasn't going to find any dragons here, and none of my bones were large enough to make swords out of anyway. Armor? Forget about it. I'm still using this ribcage, thank you very much.
Tuesday, August 28, 2018
Tokyo Gore Noir #10/11, Of Repugnance and Revolution
Fuck you, Josh Kennedy.
Fuck you, Eddy Poe.
And fuck you, Masatake Kawamata.
Fuck all of you.
Fuck you with a cactus.
Fuck you like it's a chore.
But fuck Kennedy in particular.
Because you haven't been paying attention at all.
You'd have to be living in a cave in the middle of the remote American wilderness with a bag on your head, plugs in your ears, and your head up your ass to not have heard literally ANYTHING about me.
"Blah blah blah, Kalinda, you sit on the throne of DTW surrounded by everything you've ever wanted!"
And you're sitting on a motherfucking throne of lies, Kennedy.
Fuck you, Eddy Poe.
And fuck you, Masatake Kawamata.
Fuck all of you.
Fuck you with a cactus.
Fuck you like it's a chore.
But fuck Kennedy in particular.
Because you haven't been paying attention at all.
You'd have to be living in a cave in the middle of the remote American wilderness with a bag on your head, plugs in your ears, and your head up your ass to not have heard literally ANYTHING about me.
"Blah blah blah, Kalinda, you sit on the throne of DTW surrounded by everything you've ever wanted!"
And you're sitting on a motherfucking throne of lies, Kennedy.
Tuesday, July 31, 2018
DTW Deathmatch Demolition II, Of Valor and Villains
[The scene opens with the ocean, the waxing gibbuous moon, still nearly full, shining down from the cloudless starry sky. The lovely view of the night, enough to make poets and fans of purple prose sploosh in their prissy, pretty, pansy pantaloons, is cut out by a suddenly flash of blue, the camera adjusting from taking in the night sky to focusing on the source of the blue blaze.]
[It's none other than recently ascended (or would that be descended?) Evil Overlord and Bosslady Extraordinaire Kalinda Kriegsdottir. An orb of eldritch flame held in her gauntleted hand.]
[She tosses the ball harmlessly from hand to hand, then grips it like a basketball player about to make a three pointer before she smiles. She tears the orb in half and sends the two smaller orbs into nearby braziers, their prepared oily contents catching fire and illuminating the scene with a brighter light.]
[DTW's resident Necromancer Queen and World Champion is seated upon her throne of skulls and bones, her attire different than usual. Her pauldron has been replaced with something more spiky and sinister. Like if a tribal tattooed buggered one of those oversized World of Warcraft shoulderm pads and out popped a creepy kind skeletal looking black and silver baby that grew up on a diet of horse steroids. Also yes, I said shoulderm. That was totally on purpose. It's cute and I will not hear a mean word against it. Because I'm wearing a voice over headset. These headphones are thick as heck, you realize.]
[Her top is also different. The half 'n half design is gone, replaced by pure black, once again adorned with silver stylings meant to imitate bones. In this care a sternum and ribcage. She's still got the black cargo pants, but her kneepads are now stylized like jawless skulls, and the leg guards are a black matte material adorned with stylized silver ribcages.]
[She's also changed her hairstyle, pulling most of it back into a ponytail and leaving her bangs going to either side of her heart-shaped face. Kalinda Kriegsdottir smiles, showing off her fangs, and tilts her head, her bangs moving aside momentarily to show that she's got the beginnings of tiny horn nubs going on. *sniffle* My dark mistress is growing up and starting to blossom into true dragondom!]
[Next to her throne on a purple velvet pillow is the DTW World Championship, all polished and spiffy. Jokingly dubbed the "killer codpiece" the tribal design resembles a bearded lion's face composed of shapes resembling dragon's wings, a spider, and if you squint really hard a stabby bit that extends down the the groin that looks kind of like a demonic wasp. Kalinda's new attire aesthetic seems to be suited to match the style of the belt almost perfectly.]
[She beckons the camera forward and sits up upon her throne. She steeples her fingers and takes on a serious expression.
"Before we start things off I need to make something perfectly clear, because nobody seemed to get the full picture. When I said I was going to be a villain, y'all jumped to conclusions and immediately decided that I was going to immediately become some sort of puppy-kicking, baby-eating monstrosity that was going to be a dick to everybody for no reason."
[Kalinda extends six inches worth of forked tongue and blows a raspberry.]
"And that's just not true."
[It's none other than recently ascended (or would that be descended?) Evil Overlord and Bosslady Extraordinaire Kalinda Kriegsdottir. An orb of eldritch flame held in her gauntleted hand.]
[She tosses the ball harmlessly from hand to hand, then grips it like a basketball player about to make a three pointer before she smiles. She tears the orb in half and sends the two smaller orbs into nearby braziers, their prepared oily contents catching fire and illuminating the scene with a brighter light.]
[DTW's resident Necromancer Queen and World Champion is seated upon her throne of skulls and bones, her attire different than usual. Her pauldron has been replaced with something more spiky and sinister. Like if a tribal tattooed buggered one of those oversized World of Warcraft shoulderm pads and out popped a creepy kind skeletal looking black and silver baby that grew up on a diet of horse steroids. Also yes, I said shoulderm. That was totally on purpose. It's cute and I will not hear a mean word against it. Because I'm wearing a voice over headset. These headphones are thick as heck, you realize.]
[Her top is also different. The half 'n half design is gone, replaced by pure black, once again adorned with silver stylings meant to imitate bones. In this care a sternum and ribcage. She's still got the black cargo pants, but her kneepads are now stylized like jawless skulls, and the leg guards are a black matte material adorned with stylized silver ribcages.]
[She's also changed her hairstyle, pulling most of it back into a ponytail and leaving her bangs going to either side of her heart-shaped face. Kalinda Kriegsdottir smiles, showing off her fangs, and tilts her head, her bangs moving aside momentarily to show that she's got the beginnings of tiny horn nubs going on. *sniffle* My dark mistress is growing up and starting to blossom into true dragondom!]
[Next to her throne on a purple velvet pillow is the DTW World Championship, all polished and spiffy. Jokingly dubbed the "killer codpiece" the tribal design resembles a bearded lion's face composed of shapes resembling dragon's wings, a spider, and if you squint really hard a stabby bit that extends down the the groin that looks kind of like a demonic wasp. Kalinda's new attire aesthetic seems to be suited to match the style of the belt almost perfectly.]
[She beckons the camera forward and sits up upon her throne. She steeples her fingers and takes on a serious expression.
"Before we start things off I need to make something perfectly clear, because nobody seemed to get the full picture. When I said I was going to be a villain, y'all jumped to conclusions and immediately decided that I was going to immediately become some sort of puppy-kicking, baby-eating monstrosity that was going to be a dick to everybody for no reason."
[Kalinda extends six inches worth of forked tongue and blows a raspberry.]
"And that's just not true."
Tuesday, June 26, 2018
DTW Tokyo Gore Noir #9, Of Ostentation and Oases
[We open in the viewing lounge aboard A Zeppelin Called Trouble. The massive airship appears to be drifting above the ocean. The sky is awash with fiery colors while the sun is slowly setting into the brilliant blue-green sea.]
[But rather than staring out at the picturesque sight, Kalinda Kriegsdottir is instead hunched over a cluttered table. There ware printouts, a good deal of hand-written notes in an unfamiliar alphabet, a large map showing the island chain outside, photos of various DTW wrestlers (which seem to be focused on them winning titles or events in other companies), several photos of graveyards, a globe with bits of yarn pinned to it, and what looks to be plans for a garden with several layers of octagon-shaped trellises set up with a sinister looking centerpiece marked "DREAD GAZEBO!" in large, red letters.]
[Kalinda picks up a photo of Masatake Kawamata, fresh from his victory holding the CPW World Heavyweight Championship up high. She looks at it, sighs, shakes her head, and gives it a fling that sends it flying across the room.]
So this is what it's come to. Literally having to face my own creation. Save a dude from death, drag his soul back from its journey into whatever shitty afterlife you people have that's probably just as shitty as your shitty, shitty planet, stuff it back in his crispified corpse, de-crispify it, and then make the damned thing move again, and what do you get?
The bastard goes and wins a goddamned tournament with the intent on taking from you the prize that it took you three fucking years to get. Three fucking years where every title shot, every other match, and the entire backstage climate were rife with bullshit.
Three goddamned years where every chance I had was stolen away from me. Three goddamned years where I tried to play nice and do things by the rules, but everybody else decided to fuck the rules and propel themselves into title victories by having their friends help them. The rules were beaten, gagged, stuffed in a gimp suit, and became the centerpiece of a super-bukkake circle jerk of politics and corruption.
I'm happy for you, Masatake, I really am.
Somebody had to win the motherfucking Carnage Carnival, and you were one of the few rainbow sprinkles atop a festering mountain of repugnant shitheaps with nothing but avarice and hubris in their hearts.
[But rather than staring out at the picturesque sight, Kalinda Kriegsdottir is instead hunched over a cluttered table. There ware printouts, a good deal of hand-written notes in an unfamiliar alphabet, a large map showing the island chain outside, photos of various DTW wrestlers (which seem to be focused on them winning titles or events in other companies), several photos of graveyards, a globe with bits of yarn pinned to it, and what looks to be plans for a garden with several layers of octagon-shaped trellises set up with a sinister looking centerpiece marked "DREAD GAZEBO!" in large, red letters.]
[Kalinda picks up a photo of Masatake Kawamata, fresh from his victory holding the CPW World Heavyweight Championship up high. She looks at it, sighs, shakes her head, and gives it a fling that sends it flying across the room.]
So this is what it's come to. Literally having to face my own creation. Save a dude from death, drag his soul back from its journey into whatever shitty afterlife you people have that's probably just as shitty as your shitty, shitty planet, stuff it back in his crispified corpse, de-crispify it, and then make the damned thing move again, and what do you get?
The bastard goes and wins a goddamned tournament with the intent on taking from you the prize that it took you three fucking years to get. Three fucking years where every title shot, every other match, and the entire backstage climate were rife with bullshit.
Three goddamned years where every chance I had was stolen away from me. Three goddamned years where I tried to play nice and do things by the rules, but everybody else decided to fuck the rules and propel themselves into title victories by having their friends help them. The rules were beaten, gagged, stuffed in a gimp suit, and became the centerpiece of a super-bukkake circle jerk of politics and corruption.
I'm happy for you, Masatake, I really am.
Somebody had to win the motherfucking Carnage Carnival, and you were one of the few rainbow sprinkles atop a festering mountain of repugnant shitheaps with nothing but avarice and hubris in their hearts.
Saturday, May 19, 2018
(An Android Weeps for the Future)
(Opening narration) And once again we are aboard the fiendish laboratory aboard A Zeppelin Called Trouble, which is actually looking a bit more sinister than usual, as there are a few blood splatters here and there, as well as bit of tissue and a few eyeballs pinned to a board, as well as several more dissected ones strewn about.
"(Annoyance) Yes, the retrieval of the samples required a great deal more were more effort than was necessary, thanks to you."
(Protesting narration) But you can't just vivisect a gal without the proper mood and music!
"(Scoffing) Marvin Gaye, rose petals, and candles are not required for a scientific vivisection!"
(Masochistic narration) Sure they are! You strap a gal down to a table, whisper sweet nothings about carving up her eye sockets for scientific study, and didn't even bother taking me out for dinner and drinks first!
"(Disgust) This was not a romantic liaison."
Tuesday, May 15, 2018
DTW Tokyo Gore Noir #8, Of Sad Clowns and Shitgibbons
Where the fuck do I even begin with this set of dried, out, cracked, bleeding, infected, festering assholes?
This is basically every single fuckwit in DTW that thinks "Okay, no rules. So I'm going to get my asshole friends to but in and win the match for me. Because I'm a sad waste of human ejaculate that thinks all that matters is winning matches."
All my inbred, panty-sniffing, "staring at the orange juice on the counter because it says concentrate" rivals are here!
Rapey Dwarf Riddick, good ol Stone Cold Steve Autism who managed to make himself so goddamned vile that Twitter perma-banned his account. Congrats, you disgusting incel tendie-chomping edgelord. The Cheetoh-in-Chief still has his goddamned Twitter account even after he used it to basically threaten wiping out a whole fucking nation, and yet you managed to out-dump the Trump.
Teiji Shintaro, our resident Tyler Durden obsessed nihilistic shitgibbon. Who decided that instead of standing out by being Awesome McCooldude, Flippyshit Highspotsinov, or Strongstyle O'FightingSpirit, he's going to get attention by being the grossest human being possible and share all his bodily excretions with his co-workers and everyone within a 30-yard radius of the ring.
And Shouty Dwarf Dick Devereaux, who during the legal trouble induced offseason decided to take a belt sander to the bit of himself that actually made him interesting. Instead decided to be yet another angry, bald shouty guy.
This is basically every single fuckwit in DTW that thinks "Okay, no rules. So I'm going to get my asshole friends to but in and win the match for me. Because I'm a sad waste of human ejaculate that thinks all that matters is winning matches."
All my inbred, panty-sniffing, "staring at the orange juice on the counter because it says concentrate" rivals are here!
Rapey Dwarf Riddick, good ol Stone Cold Steve Autism who managed to make himself so goddamned vile that Twitter perma-banned his account. Congrats, you disgusting incel tendie-chomping edgelord. The Cheetoh-in-Chief still has his goddamned Twitter account even after he used it to basically threaten wiping out a whole fucking nation, and yet you managed to out-dump the Trump.
Teiji Shintaro, our resident Tyler Durden obsessed nihilistic shitgibbon. Who decided that instead of standing out by being Awesome McCooldude, Flippyshit Highspotsinov, or Strongstyle O'FightingSpirit, he's going to get attention by being the grossest human being possible and share all his bodily excretions with his co-workers and everyone within a 30-yard radius of the ring.
And Shouty Dwarf Dick Devereaux, who during the legal trouble induced offseason decided to take a belt sander to the bit of himself that actually made him interesting. Instead decided to be yet another angry, bald shouty guy.
Saturday, May 12, 2018
(Ignorant Reeking Foe Part II: Meatbag Boogaloo)
(Introductory narration) Yes! That's right ladies and gentlemen, boiling ghouls, inbreds of all stages! MECHA-Kalinda is freshly victorious over hacker and astrologer Kara Star, a pathetic creature of meat and bone, running through corridors, blah blah blah.
Anyway, with all her stargazing and attempts at divination, she somehow managed to avoid seeing herself totally getting her ridiculously pale butt kicked from pillar to post.
And look, I'm one to talk head considering I'm the color of newly fallen snow. But I've got a bit of undead and faerie in me. I'm supposed to be pale, deathly, and otherworldly. Kara, though, is like mayonnaise. Eggy, glistening, full of sulfur, and prone to becoming gross and unpleasant if you leave her out in the sun for more than like fifteen minutes.
But this week! This week we...
"(Grumps)"
(Continued narration) This week we...
"(Further grumping)"
(Narration following a particularly loud raspberry) Pbbbbt. Fine. Okay, sourpuss, what's up?
Anyway, with all her stargazing and attempts at divination, she somehow managed to avoid seeing herself totally getting her ridiculously pale butt kicked from pillar to post.
And look, I'm one to talk head considering I'm the color of newly fallen snow. But I've got a bit of undead and faerie in me. I'm supposed to be pale, deathly, and otherworldly. Kara, though, is like mayonnaise. Eggy, glistening, full of sulfur, and prone to becoming gross and unpleasant if you leave her out in the sun for more than like fifteen minutes.
But this week! This week we...
"(Grumps)"
(Continued narration) This week we...
"(Further grumping)"
(Narration following a particularly loud raspberry) Pbbbbt. Fine. Okay, sourpuss, what's up?
Friday, May 4, 2018
(Mathematical Proof: Stars = Stench)
(Introductory narration with Auntie Claudia, the dragon-demon-faerie-undead-clown-thing. That is her scientific classification) It is! It is totally my scientific classification! Or at least it will be once there are enough weird beasties that have shown up in Kaiju Family Values show to warrant Stanton Enterprises putting out an official guide to Kaiju.
ANYWAY! I am indeed you cutie clown narrator, and we open aboard A Zeppelin Named Trouble, the floating, bulbous, villainous lair of the dread Menagerie!
"(Ominous crackle of thunder)"
(Amused narration) Thank you, MECHA-Kalinda! Thunder cracks in a most sinister fashion outside the windows of the bloated gas bag. The zeppelin, you goofs! Don't disparage Lumber Jackson like that! His mother says he's a husky boy!
ANYWAY! I am indeed you cutie clown narrator, and we open aboard A Zeppelin Named Trouble, the floating, bulbous, villainous lair of the dread Menagerie!
"(Ominous crackle of thunder)"
(Amused narration) Thank you, MECHA-Kalinda! Thunder cracks in a most sinister fashion outside the windows of the bloated gas bag. The zeppelin, you goofs! Don't disparage Lumber Jackson like that! His mother says he's a husky boy!
Tuesday, April 3, 2018
Of Cowboys and Crushed Testes
Twenty four men and women, two dozen souls all coming together for one purpose: to show their skill, to show their strength, to show their determination, their will. Their capacity to soak up absolutely hellacious amounts of damage that would make lesser men and women simultaneously puke, piss, and shit themselves and shortly thereafter passing out.
Three points for a win, one point for a draw, no points for a loss. Whichever of the dozen individuals in each of the two groups scores the highest will face each other in May. The winner of that bout, having proved their mettle, will face me one on one for my DTW World Championship.
But you see, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and human cancers of all stages, I'm also here too. A wolf amongst the sheep. I'm fighting my own future competition for my champion, my title, my belt. I am the first, the ONLY DTW World Champion and in the living hell I call a career, not a single one of you has managed to defeat me cleanly in one on one combat.
I get absolutely nothing out of this tournament if I win. A pretty, shiny trophy to adorn my mantle? I don't want them. I don't need them. Years ago I might have been filled with the desire to give it all, to do my best, to win at all costs and earn myself the prestige and glory that comes with victory.
Three points for a win, one point for a draw, no points for a loss. Whichever of the dozen individuals in each of the two groups scores the highest will face each other in May. The winner of that bout, having proved their mettle, will face me one on one for my DTW World Championship.
But you see, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and human cancers of all stages, I'm also here too. A wolf amongst the sheep. I'm fighting my own future competition for my champion, my title, my belt. I am the first, the ONLY DTW World Champion and in the living hell I call a career, not a single one of you has managed to defeat me cleanly in one on one combat.
I get absolutely nothing out of this tournament if I win. A pretty, shiny trophy to adorn my mantle? I don't want them. I don't need them. Years ago I might have been filled with the desire to give it all, to do my best, to win at all costs and earn myself the prestige and glory that comes with victory.
Tuesday, February 6, 2018
DTW Tokyo Gore Noir #5, The Menagerie RP 1/1: Of Misandry and Matriarchy
Lightning flashes ominously through the windows of the ruined chapel, thunder rattling the remaining shards of stained glass in their frames. Dozens of large, dribbly candles illuminate the scene of three hooded and cloaked figures standing around the desecrated altar.
The former holiest of holies in the chapel has been adorned with a blue velvet cloth, adorned with gold fringe (making it an admiralty chapel according to the Sovereign Citizen movement), upon which sits a wooden box with wood so dark it's nearly black.
"Sisters of the Darkness," states the tall one. That being me, Kalinda Kriegsdottir. DTW World Champion, Dragoness, and Seducer of the Innocent. "Upon this unholy eve I call upon each of you to report on how you've sought to bring down the cisgender heteronormative patriarchy."
The camera zooms in as I pull back my hood, showing off my true demonic features, gaunt, pale, demonic, and in tribute to a certain horror movie icon wearing a bald cap and adorned with shiny silver thumbtacks.
Okay, it's not my true form, it's special effects makeup. You're ruining the ambiance. Shut the fuck up and let me get back to the scene.
The former holiest of holies in the chapel has been adorned with a blue velvet cloth, adorned with gold fringe (making it an admiralty chapel according to the Sovereign Citizen movement), upon which sits a wooden box with wood so dark it's nearly black.
"Sisters of the Darkness," states the tall one. That being me, Kalinda Kriegsdottir. DTW World Champion, Dragoness, and Seducer of the Innocent. "Upon this unholy eve I call upon each of you to report on how you've sought to bring down the cisgender heteronormative patriarchy."
The camera zooms in as I pull back my hood, showing off my true demonic features, gaunt, pale, demonic, and in tribute to a certain horror movie icon wearing a bald cap and adorned with shiny silver thumbtacks.
Okay, it's not my true form, it's special effects makeup. You're ruining the ambiance. Shut the fuck up and let me get back to the scene.
Tuesday, January 9, 2018
DTW Tokyo Gore Noir #4,Double Dragon RP 1/1: Of PETA and Playground Bullies
Twas the night before Blood Bowl, and all through the arena, not a creature was stirring, not even Antonio Pena (who was probably looking for masked wrestlers to haunt, steal their clothes, and hand them off to somebody else). Well, okay, actually there were at least two creatures stirring.
My minion had snuck out of the hotel and had wandered off in search of mischief, and I was pretty sure I knew what kind.
Which was why I was headed towards some other, smaller creatures that were potentially stirring in the arena, though I wasn't sure.
I hadn't looked to see if the spiders, snakes, and scorpions that had been secured for one of the team tournament match semi-finals were nocturnal or not.
But I was probably going to find out as a side effect, because that was precisely where I was headed, along with my trusty cameraman.
Because as long as Claudia's on camera she can't do her horror movie monster teleport thing when I blink.
I manage to arrive just in time, or more likely Claudia has stalled for the purposes of drama and narrative convenience. I reach out and grab the haft of her mallet before she can smash open a terrarium that houses a few tarantulas.
"Can't let you do that, Star Fox." I intone.
My minion had snuck out of the hotel and had wandered off in search of mischief, and I was pretty sure I knew what kind.
Which was why I was headed towards some other, smaller creatures that were potentially stirring in the arena, though I wasn't sure.
I hadn't looked to see if the spiders, snakes, and scorpions that had been secured for one of the team tournament match semi-finals were nocturnal or not.
But I was probably going to find out as a side effect, because that was precisely where I was headed, along with my trusty cameraman.
Because as long as Claudia's on camera she can't do her horror movie monster teleport thing when I blink.
I manage to arrive just in time, or more likely Claudia has stalled for the purposes of drama and narrative convenience. I reach out and grab the haft of her mallet before she can smash open a terrarium that houses a few tarantulas.
"Can't let you do that, Star Fox." I intone.
Tuesday, December 12, 2017
DTW Tokyo Gore Noir #3,Kalinda RP 1/1: Of Grims and Games
So there I was; seated at the kiddie table in the middle of Castle Exterra, resplendent in my full on bone armor and having temporarily cursed myself with with what was probably a good four decades or so of extra age so that I had my full-on dragon thing going.
Because to be perfectly honest people don't take you seriously as a dragon until you've got proper horns and wings, and they will persist with this delusion until you use your magic fire breath and set their gonads ablaze.
But after having Maleficent duty pinned on me by bitch queen faerie numero uno Rosie the Rapist I had to do my best to look the part. If I was going to have to suffer through this, so was everybody else.
Well, everybody above the age of majority. I may be a trolling asshole that just so happens to be an unwilling agent of the God of Evil Overlords, but I'm not going to cement myself as the sort of mustache-twirling, puppy-kicking Saturday morning cartoon villain that get their jollies by being a dick to children.
So after earning the scorn of the King with a very farty ketchup bottle I had managed to win a small battle in the war of hearts and minds by animating the roast pigeons, having them take up forks and knives as weapons, and work together to bring down the titanic spit-roasted boar.
Because to be perfectly honest people don't take you seriously as a dragon until you've got proper horns and wings, and they will persist with this delusion until you use your magic fire breath and set their gonads ablaze.
But after having Maleficent duty pinned on me by bitch queen faerie numero uno Rosie the Rapist I had to do my best to look the part. If I was going to have to suffer through this, so was everybody else.
Well, everybody above the age of majority. I may be a trolling asshole that just so happens to be an unwilling agent of the God of Evil Overlords, but I'm not going to cement myself as the sort of mustache-twirling, puppy-kicking Saturday morning cartoon villain that get their jollies by being a dick to children.
So after earning the scorn of the King with a very farty ketchup bottle I had managed to win a small battle in the war of hearts and minds by animating the roast pigeons, having them take up forks and knives as weapons, and work together to bring down the titanic spit-roasted boar.
Tuesday, November 7, 2017
DTW Tokyo Gore Noir #2,Kalinda RP 1/1: Of Maleficent and Mountains
Y'all are a bunch of uncultured fuckwombles, seriously.
I mean just look at what little miss "I only wrestle on rare occasions, but can interfere in my fuckpets' matches all I want and can run my filthy whore mouth about them and can cry foul when a professional wrestler actually lays their hands on me" said not too long ago.
It's like you people are incapable of forming your own ideas, of having your own hobbies, of going out to see a movie that isn't a bajillion dollar blockbuster, of watching anything but the most recent popular television show.
Because fuck me in my blue, scaly cloaca, do you people do precisely fuck-all creatively when it comes time to insult somebody with draconic heritage.
Of course out come the reptilian slurs, which are stupid. Because I'm neither splay-legged nor cold-blooded.
Then come pretty much the only three works involving dragons that you guys managed to have hammered into your skulls in between sessions of drinking french fry grease and inbreeding.
DTW Tokyo Gore Noir #2,Claudia RP 1/1: THE MOTHERFUCKING GRIMACE
"Oh, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny," I say with a grin (#774 Pissy Shark Contemplating Her Prey), "You've gone and fuzzed up now."
I clap my hands and accidentally let a bit of a sadistic giggle slip out.
"You think that just because things have always been the way they were that that means that things are always going to continue to be the way they used to be."
I pause for a moment mouthing words to myself and making motions with a finger to make sure that what I said was something close to correct and then nod in satisfaction that it was either perfectly accurate or just so outright nonsense that poor Punky Drunkerton's head will explode from hearing it.
I clap my hands and accidentally let a bit of a sadistic giggle slip out.
"You think that just because things have always been the way they were that that means that things are always going to continue to be the way they used to be."
I pause for a moment mouthing words to myself and making motions with a finger to make sure that what I said was something close to correct and then nod in satisfaction that it was either perfectly accurate or just so outright nonsense that poor Punky Drunkerton's head will explode from hearing it.
Monday, October 2, 2017
DTW Tokyo Gore Noir #1,Kalinda RP 1/1: Of Bitchfights and Babies
There's always a bigger fish, no matter how big you are.
No matter how powerful you are there's always something more powerful.
Something that makes you feel weak, that makes you feel helpless.
Even when you're a mage.
Even when you're a dragon.
Even when you're probably in the top ten most powerful supernatural forces on the gods-damned planet.
Because there are natural forces compared to which you're little more than an oversized, bright blue bug.
Like the bullshit in the Caribbean, where it's basically The Neverending Story: Tropicane Hurristorm Edition.
DTW Tokyo Gore Noir #1, Claudia Kajara RP 1/1: Of Inflammable Items and Infomercials
A drumroll, please!
Err… no. That's cute, a sweet roll-shaped to look like a tiny drum with little icing drumsticks on the top. But that's not what I was looking for. Try again, minions!
And there we go! We have a proper rolling of the drums as little spotlights move over a red velvet curtain.
And behind that curtains?
IT'S DOCTOR BEES!
No. No, it's not, it's none other than me! Claudia Kajara, star of stage, song, screen, and some other S word that involves the internet. Stream? Does stream work?
Err… no. That's cute, a sweet roll-shaped to look like a tiny drum with little icing drumsticks on the top. But that's not what I was looking for. Try again, minions!
And there we go! We have a proper rolling of the drums as little spotlights move over a red velvet curtain.
And behind that curtains?
IT'S DOCTOR BEES!
No. No, it's not, it's none other than me! Claudia Kajara, star of stage, song, screen, and some other S word that involves the internet. Stream? Does stream work?
Monday, January 30, 2017
DTW DeathTube #8, Double Dragon RP 1/1: Of Edgelords and Excrement
A truck, seriously? You can drive a mother fuzzing truck into a wrestling match and have it be considered a legitimate weapon?
After all the trouble I went through to have my clowns construct a nice arsenal of amusingly horrific hardcore weaponry and packaging it up in a nice display, all arranged in a very aesthetically pleasing fashion, some wankwomble drives his Compensationmobile onto the field and not only eliminates me, but outright kills beloved mascot Mitsubishi Kowabunga.
Oh I'm sure someone would say that it was a mercy killing, what with Kawamata being a crispy critter from that flamethrower. But third degree burns don't really hurt. All the bits that are capable of going "Oi, brain! Something's really gone wrong down here!" are as fried as a bucket of the Colonel's finest.
Though honestly the thing I was the most upset about was the fact that somebody ELSE had went and offed somebody on the Deathmatch Demolition football pitch aside from me.
Consider it a look into the crystal ball of America's future. A guy who was just out there trying to make things better for himself and his girl is angrily run down by some tiny-dicked jackwagon in a gas-guzzling, oversized truck that is probably equipped to roll coal on every Prius and Smart Car that has the misfortune to get stuck behind it. Something that American lawmakers are attempting to make a legal reality. Protester in you way? Perfectly legal to run them the fuzz over.
Sunday, January 15, 2017
DTW DeathTube #7, Double Dragon RP 1/1: World's Shittiest Zodiac
Just another normal Saturday afternoon in the Kriegsdottir household. Dragon Kitty chewing on a car tire, Spark playing Overwatch with some contraption he's rigged up from a phone keyboard, a dish rack, the guts of a computer mouse, and a super ball, and of course Claudia wearing my DTW World Championship Title around the place.
I'd held the thing for seven weeks now, and I still had to bite my tongue to keep from calling it a World Heavyweight Championship. Because that was what ALL the wrestling companies called their biggest and baddest, most prestigious belt. Even if it wasn't quite accurate and anybody could compete for the thing. Even if your roster consisted primarily of a bunch of scrawny, bitchy ex-models trying to out-emo one another with their tragic backstories and ongoing series of miseries.
I growled to myself and banished the thought from my head. If I started thinking about that horrible place I'd spend the entire evening bitching about teleporting masked sex dungeon enthusiasts, meat curtains, bimbo factories, and conniving quasi-managers who had figured out that by acting entirely through subordinates they got to wield power, influence wrestling, and be the focus of every single wrestling show but only have to step into the ring twice a year, thus easily avoiding all consequences for their actions.
That was one of the things I liked about DTW. The boss man loved violence, so there would be no endless series of matches where I fought someone's flunkies as a professional wrestler did everything in their power to not have a professional wrestling match. There would be no six month spans of endless run ins and hiding behind bodyguards.
Oh no. In DTW I could just grab a flunky or a bodyguard and use them to beat the offending cuntmonkey into a gooey red paste. And not only would I not be punished for such a thing, I would likely receive a congratulatory letter detailing just how hilarious Goro Yamashi had found the funny noises my victims had made while screaming for their lawyers.
I'd held the thing for seven weeks now, and I still had to bite my tongue to keep from calling it a World Heavyweight Championship. Because that was what ALL the wrestling companies called their biggest and baddest, most prestigious belt. Even if it wasn't quite accurate and anybody could compete for the thing. Even if your roster consisted primarily of a bunch of scrawny, bitchy ex-models trying to out-emo one another with their tragic backstories and ongoing series of miseries.
I growled to myself and banished the thought from my head. If I started thinking about that horrible place I'd spend the entire evening bitching about teleporting masked sex dungeon enthusiasts, meat curtains, bimbo factories, and conniving quasi-managers who had figured out that by acting entirely through subordinates they got to wield power, influence wrestling, and be the focus of every single wrestling show but only have to step into the ring twice a year, thus easily avoiding all consequences for their actions.
That was one of the things I liked about DTW. The boss man loved violence, so there would be no endless series of matches where I fought someone's flunkies as a professional wrestler did everything in their power to not have a professional wrestling match. There would be no six month spans of endless run ins and hiding behind bodyguards.
Oh no. In DTW I could just grab a flunky or a bodyguard and use them to beat the offending cuntmonkey into a gooey red paste. And not only would I not be punished for such a thing, I would likely receive a congratulatory letter detailing just how hilarious Goro Yamashi had found the funny noises my victims had made while screaming for their lawyers.
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