Following the events of the previous post:
""""""""A sinister black car creeps up to 154 Hopper like a demon slithering through thestygian sands of Hell. The street is barren even several hours after the vicious attack...Save for the wretched cabbie, his mutilated derrière still exposed for all the night to see.There's not a twitch of life in him, his face seemingly plastered to the dilapidatedNewark sidewalk from the mustachioed man's brutal pounding. From within thelightless interior of the ominous car, a beady set of eyes leers out to survey the vulgaraftermath of Severn's conquest.
Antony Loaicono: Well, well, well...
A hulking goomba with hands like manhole covers emerges from the black vehicle andwalks over to get a better look at the unmoving body pasted across the concrete. Everyaspect of this cretin's appearance exudes sleaze like a beacon, from the pencil-thinmustached stitched above his lip to the undersized sharkskin shoes gradually crumblingapart on his feet. A perverse, sadistic smile uncurls across his leathery lips as he squintsdown upon Krinkle's spasming, Elmer's Glue clogged anus. Everything has worked outso far just as he was told it would.
Antony Loaicono: Now this is what I call first-class work.
Almost as if on cue, a voice abruptly greets Loaicono from behind and nearly causeshim to trip face-first into the pool of frosting.
Dan Severn: You have seen what I can do...
Antony Loaicono: Who-
The grizzled Sicilian turns around only to find the road just as deserted as before. Hetakes a step back, frantically scanning the street to see where that ethereal voice hadcome from.
Dan Severn: It is I.
Loaicono pauses. Hesitating but a moment, he tentatively steps off the sidewalk andlooks down through the sewer grate underneath the front left tire of Krinkle's cab. Aphlegm-smeared mustache is looking back up at him.
Dan Severn: I've kept up my end of the bargain.
Antony Loaicono: Yes... You've kept it up perfectly.
Dan Severn: I trust that you will keep your end up, as well?
Antony Loaicono: Of course.
Dan Severn: Excellent. It all works out for both of us: You get a legal cab, and I get amole inside the Den of the PitFighting.
Antony Loaicono: ... I'm glad we could establish such a mutually beneficial businessrelationship.
Dan Severn: As am I. But heed my warning, Mr. Loaicono: If you're planning todouble-cross me, you need only look to the right to see your future.
Loaicono automatically looks back over his right shoulder at Krinkle. The two-fistedguinea's heart skips a beat when he sees the bludgeoned hack actually begin to twitchand writhe on the concrete. The poor soul is still alive... No matter how hard he wisheshe was dead. Loaicono quickly looks away from this startling sight and back down thegrate, but Severn is gone.The normally stalwart illegal cab driver takes two steps back to readjust himself. Loaicono's gutted it through bleak situations his whole life, but he knows he's begun hisinitiation into an entirely different world now... And there's no turning back. Headingover to the sidewalk, he carefully approaches the army-jacket clad non-corpse andbegins fishing through his tattered pockets. The keys, his license, everything is there.Ripping off the (ex) taxi driver's face, he pulls it over his own head like a mask anddrives down into the innards of Hunts Point to make some dough.""""""
-Holy Moment/PinkMan
""""""""A sinister black car creeps up to 154 Hopper like a demon slithering through thestygian sands of Hell. The street is barren even several hours after the vicious attack...Save for the wretched cabbie, his mutilated derrière still exposed for all the night to see.There's not a twitch of life in him, his face seemingly plastered to the dilapidatedNewark sidewalk from the mustachioed man's brutal pounding. From within thelightless interior of the ominous car, a beady set of eyes leers out to survey the vulgaraftermath of Severn's conquest.
Antony Loaicono: Well, well, well...
A hulking goomba with hands like manhole covers emerges from the black vehicle andwalks over to get a better look at the unmoving body pasted across the concrete. Everyaspect of this cretin's appearance exudes sleaze like a beacon, from the pencil-thinmustached stitched above his lip to the undersized sharkskin shoes gradually crumblingapart on his feet. A perverse, sadistic smile uncurls across his leathery lips as he squintsdown upon Krinkle's spasming, Elmer's Glue clogged anus. Everything has worked outso far just as he was told it would.
Antony Loaicono: Now this is what I call first-class work.
Almost as if on cue, a voice abruptly greets Loaicono from behind and nearly causeshim to trip face-first into the pool of frosting.
Dan Severn: You have seen what I can do...
Antony Loaicono: Who-
The grizzled Sicilian turns around only to find the road just as deserted as before. Hetakes a step back, frantically scanning the street to see where that ethereal voice hadcome from.
Dan Severn: It is I.
Loaicono pauses. Hesitating but a moment, he tentatively steps off the sidewalk andlooks down through the sewer grate underneath the front left tire of Krinkle's cab. Aphlegm-smeared mustache is looking back up at him.
Dan Severn: I've kept up my end of the bargain.
Antony Loaicono: Yes... You've kept it up perfectly.
Dan Severn: I trust that you will keep your end up, as well?
Antony Loaicono: Of course.
Dan Severn: Excellent. It all works out for both of us: You get a legal cab, and I get amole inside the Den of the PitFighting.
Antony Loaicono: ... I'm glad we could establish such a mutually beneficial businessrelationship.
Dan Severn: As am I. But heed my warning, Mr. Loaicono: If you're planning todouble-cross me, you need only look to the right to see your future.
Loaicono automatically looks back over his right shoulder at Krinkle. The two-fistedguinea's heart skips a beat when he sees the bludgeoned hack actually begin to twitchand writhe on the concrete. The poor soul is still alive... No matter how hard he wisheshe was dead. Loaicono quickly looks away from this startling sight and back down thegrate, but Severn is gone.The normally stalwart illegal cab driver takes two steps back to readjust himself. Loaicono's gutted it through bleak situations his whole life, but he knows he's begun hisinitiation into an entirely different world now... And there's no turning back. Headingover to the sidewalk, he carefully approaches the army-jacket clad non-corpse andbegins fishing through his tattered pockets. The keys, his license, everything is there.Ripping off the (ex) taxi driver's face, he pulls it over his own head like a mask anddrives down into the innards of Hunts Point to make some dough.""""""
-Holy Moment/PinkMan
""""The smell is something akin to a set of corpse breasts being charred in a paint thinnerfire. Biologically speaking, it SHOULD be impossible for a human to emanate such anodor, irrespective of whatever noxious matter he somehow put into his body withoutdying. Before ex-UFC fighter and WWF wrestler Geza Kalman had birthed hismalodorous kraken-child, the Charlie Brown's Steakhouse bathroom harbored only themildly off-putting stench of Rooto ammonia. But now... The restroom is a virtualAuschwitz death chamber.
“Hello everybody,” wheezes the formidably obese Kalman. “Welcome to anotherepisode of Go or No-Go!”
Draped in a wrestling singlet adorned with the Canadian Maple Leaf, Kalman aims hisZenith compact VHS camcorder down into the abyssal, brown-caked bowl he had justunloaded his excreta in not moments ago. The behemoth, pulsating loaf is still sittingthere, not a single particle having broken off from its diamond-hard body. It crouches atthe bottom of the porcelain almost as if possessing consciousness, like a predator bidingits time to lash out at the throat of some unwary passerby.
“This one took me the whole afternoon to pull out,” dribbles the rapist-eyed ex-wrestler.“Let’s see if it’s willing to go down in one shot.”
With beefy, feces-stained fingers, Kalman clumsily presses down on the toilet lever andunleashes an industrial-strength barrage of water onto his puce leviathan. Like a blackcivil rights protestor being blasted by riot hoses, the mass of waste can do nothing butwallow on the ground as the downpour unyieldingly hammers its frame. For twentysolid seconds, The Great Deluge beats the throbbing mound of feces with enough forceto disintegrate the flesh off a tortoise. NOTHING birthed of mundane, tri-dimensionalreality could survive this avalanche of water completely intact.
And yet, when the foam clears… Kalman’s son is no worse for wear than before heattempted to flush it.
“Boy, oh boy. Looks like I’m going to be here until dinner,” puffs Kalman.
With steadfast patience fostered through years of dealing with public facilities too punyand ineffectual to handle his power, Kalman waits for the latrine to recharge so he cantry once again to purge his excrement. This is the tedious part of science, themonotonous labor and toil one doesn’t get to experience reading factlets and memes onpseudo-intellectual websites. Kalman doesn’t know how many attempts he’ll have tomake before finally being able to defeat his effluvium-dispersing colon spawn, but whathe is certain of is that he can’t move from this particular stall until the job is done.Science requires unremitting passion and dedication from its disciples; a scientician’sjob may often be a thankless one, but there needs to be people in the world willing to dothe incessantly mundane work necessary to push civilization forward.
The mammoth wrestler waits intently next to the putrid bowl, almost as if in a trance.Just the thought of trying to flush his excreta again nearly makes him sexually aroused,much akin Dan Severn catching the sight of man ass. At the exact split second when thetank has fully refilled, however… A very disconcerting knock at the stall completelyshatters his rapture like a Jenga tower being blasted by a pitching machine.
“Sir, I apologize, but you have to get out of there and leave the restaurant now,” sharplywhispers the exacerbated Charlie Brown’s Steakhouse manager. “The smell is creepinginto the smoking section. People are complaining about it more than the cigarettes.”
In an instant, Kalman’s countenance shifts from an expression of sheer elation to acontortment of unmitigated fury. This has to be something in the realm of the fourthtime this asshole has harassed him tonight. The Canadian steadfastly ignores themanager’s plea and prepares to push down on the tank lever a second time.
“Welcome back to Go or No-Go,” hisses Kalman through gritted teeth. “Take two for-“
The manager bashes on the door again.
“Sir, I don’t know what your problem is, but this is private property,” whines themanager. “You can’t just stay here and do… Whatever the Hell it is that you’re doing.”
“Maybe he has cancer,” says a withered second voice. “Chemotherapy shits are evenworse than milk shits. I would imagine a person with both lactose intolerance andcolorectal cancer has to spend most of his day in the head.”
“Eddie, I- It doesn’t matter what his issue is. He just has to get the fuck out, now,”whispers the manager while massaging his temples.
Kalman continues to ignore him. His body practically immobilized by pure rage, heforces the lever down and unleashes the geyser a second time.
“Is he done?” says Eddie.
The manager tentatively waits for his girthy patron to step out of the stall andFINALLY leave the establishment. Apparently, the lumbering man in the ludicrouswrestling outfit came into the Steakhouse (On 222 Plainfield Road in Edison, NewJersey) some time around noon and was allowed to use the restroom without buyinganything by a novice waitress. Locking himself inside a stall, he spent the next severalhours grunting and wheezing so heinously that people could actually hear him out onthe main floor; one elderly woman was so repulsed by the vulgar sounds that shevomited up her Mrs. Brown’s Meatloaf onto another diner’s table. Starting his shift at3:30 P.M., the manager had no idea what he was walking into. He had just stepped ontothe main floor when the fucking smell hit him like a toddler getting gored in the templeby an elk.
“Oh God, I hope this is it,” gasps the manager. “I probably would’ve called the policeon him by now if every cop in the state wasn’t fighting Emmanuel Yarborough’s armyin Rahway. If he’s done right now, though, I guess I’ll just let him go without cuttinghis nose off with a steak knife.”
On that note, an ominous bubbling sound begins emanating from behind the stall andcauses the manager to freeze up where he stands. He doesn’t have a second to processthe noise before a river of off-white tinted water starts to soak his pleather dress shoes from behind the door. The manager’s eyes open wide as he watches tiny flakes of browncaress the edges of his soles like snowflakes sliding off a child’s nose.
“Damn,” croaks Kalman. “It looks like Turdzilla’s winning this fight.”
Every man has a breaking point. For the unnamed Charlie Brown’s Steakhousemanager, this was his.
“Son of a bitch! GET! OUT!”
His forehead throbbing with such vascular intensity that it looks like it’s about toexplode, the manager begins furiously trying to rip the door off its hinges by the handle.Eddie, seeing that the shit is about to hit the fan (Metaphorically and, potentially,physically), hollers something incomprehensible and waddles off as fast as his old legswill carry him. The manager doesn’t notice that his companion has abandoned him; allhe can think of is forcing the scatologically-obsessed retard behind the door face firstinto the toilet bowl and shoving a bar of soap up his ass. He wants to rip the Canadianapart so bad that his dick is practically grinding its teeth.
When he finally breaks the lock and gets to see Kalman for the first time, however, themanager freezes in utter shock. The singlet-clad wrestler, his brow furrowed in abjecthatred, slowly turns around and looks upon his diminutive aggressor. The manager hadno idea just how… Bestial the Canadian looks.
“Friend…” Kalman heaves. “You just bought yourself a one-way ticket to Ass RapeCity.”
-To be continued"""""
-Holy Moment/ThePinkMan
“Hello everybody,” wheezes the formidably obese Kalman. “Welcome to anotherepisode of Go or No-Go!”
Draped in a wrestling singlet adorned with the Canadian Maple Leaf, Kalman aims hisZenith compact VHS camcorder down into the abyssal, brown-caked bowl he had justunloaded his excreta in not moments ago. The behemoth, pulsating loaf is still sittingthere, not a single particle having broken off from its diamond-hard body. It crouches atthe bottom of the porcelain almost as if possessing consciousness, like a predator bidingits time to lash out at the throat of some unwary passerby.
“This one took me the whole afternoon to pull out,” dribbles the rapist-eyed ex-wrestler.“Let’s see if it’s willing to go down in one shot.”
With beefy, feces-stained fingers, Kalman clumsily presses down on the toilet lever andunleashes an industrial-strength barrage of water onto his puce leviathan. Like a blackcivil rights protestor being blasted by riot hoses, the mass of waste can do nothing butwallow on the ground as the downpour unyieldingly hammers its frame. For twentysolid seconds, The Great Deluge beats the throbbing mound of feces with enough forceto disintegrate the flesh off a tortoise. NOTHING birthed of mundane, tri-dimensionalreality could survive this avalanche of water completely intact.
And yet, when the foam clears… Kalman’s son is no worse for wear than before heattempted to flush it.
“Boy, oh boy. Looks like I’m going to be here until dinner,” puffs Kalman.
With steadfast patience fostered through years of dealing with public facilities too punyand ineffectual to handle his power, Kalman waits for the latrine to recharge so he cantry once again to purge his excrement. This is the tedious part of science, themonotonous labor and toil one doesn’t get to experience reading factlets and memes onpseudo-intellectual websites. Kalman doesn’t know how many attempts he’ll have tomake before finally being able to defeat his effluvium-dispersing colon spawn, but whathe is certain of is that he can’t move from this particular stall until the job is done.Science requires unremitting passion and dedication from its disciples; a scientician’sjob may often be a thankless one, but there needs to be people in the world willing to dothe incessantly mundane work necessary to push civilization forward.
The mammoth wrestler waits intently next to the putrid bowl, almost as if in a trance.Just the thought of trying to flush his excreta again nearly makes him sexually aroused,much akin Dan Severn catching the sight of man ass. At the exact split second when thetank has fully refilled, however… A very disconcerting knock at the stall completelyshatters his rapture like a Jenga tower being blasted by a pitching machine.
“Sir, I apologize, but you have to get out of there and leave the restaurant now,” sharplywhispers the exacerbated Charlie Brown’s Steakhouse manager. “The smell is creepinginto the smoking section. People are complaining about it more than the cigarettes.”
In an instant, Kalman’s countenance shifts from an expression of sheer elation to acontortment of unmitigated fury. This has to be something in the realm of the fourthtime this asshole has harassed him tonight. The Canadian steadfastly ignores themanager’s plea and prepares to push down on the tank lever a second time.
“Welcome back to Go or No-Go,” hisses Kalman through gritted teeth. “Take two for-“
The manager bashes on the door again.
“Sir, I don’t know what your problem is, but this is private property,” whines themanager. “You can’t just stay here and do… Whatever the Hell it is that you’re doing.”
“Maybe he has cancer,” says a withered second voice. “Chemotherapy shits are evenworse than milk shits. I would imagine a person with both lactose intolerance andcolorectal cancer has to spend most of his day in the head.”
“Eddie, I- It doesn’t matter what his issue is. He just has to get the fuck out, now,”whispers the manager while massaging his temples.
Kalman continues to ignore him. His body practically immobilized by pure rage, heforces the lever down and unleashes the geyser a second time.
“Is he done?” says Eddie.
The manager tentatively waits for his girthy patron to step out of the stall andFINALLY leave the establishment. Apparently, the lumbering man in the ludicrouswrestling outfit came into the Steakhouse (On 222 Plainfield Road in Edison, NewJersey) some time around noon and was allowed to use the restroom without buyinganything by a novice waitress. Locking himself inside a stall, he spent the next severalhours grunting and wheezing so heinously that people could actually hear him out onthe main floor; one elderly woman was so repulsed by the vulgar sounds that shevomited up her Mrs. Brown’s Meatloaf onto another diner’s table. Starting his shift at3:30 P.M., the manager had no idea what he was walking into. He had just stepped ontothe main floor when the fucking smell hit him like a toddler getting gored in the templeby an elk.
“Oh God, I hope this is it,” gasps the manager. “I probably would’ve called the policeon him by now if every cop in the state wasn’t fighting Emmanuel Yarborough’s armyin Rahway. If he’s done right now, though, I guess I’ll just let him go without cuttinghis nose off with a steak knife.”
On that note, an ominous bubbling sound begins emanating from behind the stall andcauses the manager to freeze up where he stands. He doesn’t have a second to processthe noise before a river of off-white tinted water starts to soak his pleather dress shoes from behind the door. The manager’s eyes open wide as he watches tiny flakes of browncaress the edges of his soles like snowflakes sliding off a child’s nose.
“Damn,” croaks Kalman. “It looks like Turdzilla’s winning this fight.”
Every man has a breaking point. For the unnamed Charlie Brown’s Steakhousemanager, this was his.
“Son of a bitch! GET! OUT!”
His forehead throbbing with such vascular intensity that it looks like it’s about toexplode, the manager begins furiously trying to rip the door off its hinges by the handle.Eddie, seeing that the shit is about to hit the fan (Metaphorically and, potentially,physically), hollers something incomprehensible and waddles off as fast as his old legswill carry him. The manager doesn’t notice that his companion has abandoned him; allhe can think of is forcing the scatologically-obsessed retard behind the door face firstinto the toilet bowl and shoving a bar of soap up his ass. He wants to rip the Canadianapart so bad that his dick is practically grinding its teeth.
When he finally breaks the lock and gets to see Kalman for the first time, however, themanager freezes in utter shock. The singlet-clad wrestler, his brow furrowed in abjecthatred, slowly turns around and looks upon his diminutive aggressor. The manager hadno idea just how… Bestial the Canadian looks.
“Friend…” Kalman heaves. “You just bought yourself a one-way ticket to Ass RapeCity.”
-To be continued"""""
-Holy Moment/ThePinkMan
"Gordo de mais pra correr, burro de mais pra se esconder."
This clan fucking sucks ass
-----
I love it tho 😍😍
-----
I love it tho 😍😍
Last edited by Karan; Nov 14, 2020 at 05:05 PM.
Reason: <24 hour edit/bump
Doing art requests, PM me on discord Propialis#0839
(Enf)(Thief)(Mythical)(DukeL)(1st)(Penta)[py][REV](Mafia)[TA]
[]This clan fucking sucks ass
-----
Cap
-----
Y'all remember when we were (Neptune)?
Damn good times 😅😍😅
-----
Cap
-----
Y'all remember when we were (Neptune)?
Damn good times 😅😍😅
Last edited by Louie; Nov 15, 2020 at 01:45 AM.
Reason: <24 hour edit/bump
Fly me to the moon
