a conclusion was reached:
everyone had to wear special hats to be part of their secret club.
"Psst, would you like to join a secret club?" said a masculine man in a dark cape
before being mercilessly crushed to death by the UGSL. Nobody gets into her tea parties uninvited, not even
your esteemed narrator. You might not have thought about who was narrating this, did you? No one ever thinks about the narrator. I've lived a hard life. It's not as easy as a life you kids today have. You just lock yourselves in your room and jerk off to anime porn. But me? Starting at the age of 12
I've been starving and going into bouts of
really unsubtle Touhou references, because I'm a NEET.
You may know me as Morgan Freeman. And this is my story...
The Spiral Temple began to gain enormous amounts of political power in the 20s due to the influence of Spiral Power on prominent Politicians as well as the New Spirals introducing themselves to the System. Invisible to the average Citizen their violent right angles called and Screamed out to my electric Soul . They were reaching out, calling to me, screaming. People were losing their minds in the twisted World of Spirals. My eyes cried red blood, my body smiled blue Tears for the work was hard and.
But then,
( ﾟ ヮﾟ) Suddenly, mittens! Thousands of them!
and On each Mitt was a nother and aother Spiral indiciating that the Power had Spiraled out of control They fell from sky like a Cat or Dog..
Truly, the mittenpocalypse possessed a terrible beauty. A young man
of Nordic descent was making his way through
puberty
knew that he was developing strong feelings for a
cardboard cut-out of Keanu Reeves
(´ε｀ )♡ "Oh, Kjeanu Rjeeves," he thought.
Just one glance into the spiralling mittenstorm was all it took to
( ・-・) derail this thread. Up against the wall, motherfuckers!
" is what Beady Eyes would have said, were it not for the fact that he has already been killed off several times. Instead,
He kept his mouth shut and went to his local store to
derail a serious discussion regarding the
second coming of jesus christ as defined by the holy bible
penis
2: the resurrection
. The two gentlemen engaging in this discussion
really wished they were little girls,
that still had penises
so that they could
urinate in more easily. The Greek goddess Aphrodite
wondered passingly what the word "in" was doing there in the previous sentence
as she polished up the apple so carefully
- the very same apple which
she had recently
stuffed up her vagina and kept in for hours
as preparation for a sacred ritual to
Summon Eris and bring chaos to the world. Meanwhile, Dr. Robotnik began to wake up on the cultists' ritual table.
The cultists promptly set fire to
a passing Espeon, who ran off screaming and was never seen again.
Seeing this, Dr Robotnik decided not to
shout “PINGAS”
, as he LOVES each and every Espeon quite dearly. Who couldn't?
The next author promptly took over and swore upon his mother's grave that he would salvage this horrible mess of a short novel and turn it into a true masterpiece. Of course, we all can see where that is going.
The new author sighed. He cradled his weary forehead in his hands and poured himself another shot of cheap vodka. He let his stubby, worn fingers fall to the keys of the typewriter and began to write, not even daring to look back at what his poor alcohol addled mind was spewing. Anything to keep his thoughts away from... never mind that.
Chapter 3: Betrayal in Venice
It was raining in
Barcelona. There was a sullen despair afoot. Unlike in Venice, where there was only betrayal and sunlight, Barcelona was pretty wet. A young boy pondered this with idle fascination, wondering whether the betrayal in Venice was particularly troublesome that day. Clear skies and a deceptively bright sun usually heralded such behavior.
He would know. He'd been to Venice.
Wondering whether rain and melancholy were preferable to light and deceit, the boy trudged forward uneasily. At least you could trust a person here, he thought. Venice was different. It was mean. You could buy an orange and get a softball, or spend five years working unpaid as, week after week, you were promised wages that never came. Men might lie dead beneath your feet, knives in their backs. Sometimes you tripped over them.
Here, however, it was just wet. Sad and wet. No one knew why and no one bothered to find out.
A lonely figure sat in a cramped steamy café, appropriately enough named "The
Shitty Cafe."
The 600 GET he had ordered was
well cooked and lavishly prepared. He added a dash of salt from the shaker and it was just the way he liked it. whilist eating his meal
he remembered something his father had once told him:
"Son, when you grow up, would you be the saviour of the broken, the beaten and
those with godawful taste in music?' His father had always been prone to non sequitur after the third whisky or so.
He chanced a dreary look beyond the window. It was still raining cats and dogs outside, of course.
Every once in a while, Barcelona
was like that. Blood and animal cries filled the streets and his heart with sorrow. Suddenly, his 600 GET just wasn't so tasty anymore. "Excuse me, waitress," he called, "
as he proceeded to sit in despair at the scene before him. He got so mad that he smacked his plate off of the table and left. He would figure out what caused this travesty if it was the last thing he did. However, he first called...
his one and only friend in the entire world,
( ・-・) 'sup
. Mr Eyes picked up the phone after four rings, greeting him with
a comment so vulgar and obscene that Satan, a truck driver, and a sailor looked on in horror at such words.
How Satan came to be employed as a truck driver and a sailor is a story for another time.
After a brief exchange of insults, the two gentlemen agreed to
fart on their respective mothers and
got arrested. In jail they
languished and lamented for weeks until, by a bizarre stroke of luck,
they got released. Turns out you can only be jailed for so long when the worst crime they can pin on you is Conspiracy to Break Wind on a Family Member. Who knew?
( ・-・) The Shadow knows.
" said the schizophrenic,
It was about this time the author realized he had completely gone astray and, for the sake of passable literature, probably ought never write and drink in the near future. Halfway to inebriated forgetfulness, however, and anxious to hammer out a somewhat logical plot before blacking out entirely, he trudged on. His efforts were admirable at the least - really quite astounding at the most, given his vodka-induced stupor.
We at the Gutenberg Project are therefore proud to present the work salvaged from the wreckage of that long and tiresome night.
Chapter 4: It's Always Sunny In Venice
Mr Gray was not having a good evening. His best
jockstrap snapped, cheapest condoms
were sold out, and his Thai masseuse
inserted
her cock into his rectum without even the common courtesy to give him a reacharound. He wasn't too sure whether the female pronoun still applied in this case, either. And to top it all off,
Venice was still a rather shitty place to live.
Super Mario
, in short, wasn't feeling super at all today.
Yet, the neko-android still decided to
try to sell enough magazine subscriptions to win a pizza party. This attempt was met with
ubiquitous disinterest.
The depressed Venetians were all
blind
drunk, alone in their own apartments, wishing they
had felt instead of thought, and become tanasinn.
But it was not to be. Their combined powers of loneliness, however, turned out to be the source of power for
Italian Power Metal bands, who used that power to power their power-hungry amplifiers in order to show their audiences (with their strange insistence on attending concerts in powers of two) the power of RAWK. Powerfully.
It was totally rad, but
Islam has infused, absorbed, supplanted and dialoged with
a pig's anus
to such a degree that it is no longer of any relevance to this story.
The insignificant machinations of the poor wretched Venetians were about to be overshadowed entirely by
Dr. Robotnik's
elbow.
In fact, it was around this time that Dr. Robotnik's elbow, Eddie, had gained awareness of itself and begun its journey of criticizing others. He had buried himself deep into the sunset sandbox of his childhood days, the cold wet sand tickling his nerve endings, when he felt a soft, fleshy sensation that was unmistakably the warm cheek of Venice.
Mr. Gray
didn't even begin to
What did /a/ think of True Tears? shughive
care about questions like "
He was too busy plotting how to become an Earl and have a flavor of tea named after him.
Unfortunately for Mr Gray,
the predicament of such magnitude he found himself accost,
with thoughts that could only be described ( as per the words of James Goldstein III, writer for the Dallas Autismal Times) as "the most sadistic, violent, and erotic thoughts since..."
[the rest of the comment was omitted by order of