I was determined not to spend this past New Year’s Eve the way I had the previous year, staring through a drunken haze at stroke-afflicted Dick Clark mumbling and slurring his way through a backwards ten-count as the ball dropped over Times Square. I jumped in my Hyundai Accent, popped some Real McKenzies in the tape deck and weaved my way over to the palatial estate of Dr. Robert J. Murk, where, I knew, I was certain to find a Great Gatsby-esque party in full swing.
Or so I thought.
Instead I was met at the gate by my bug-headed acquaintance, Dr. Mantodea, who had just opened the door to his metallic green Cooper-S. I stumbled out of my car clutching a handle of Beefeater and staggered toward him.
“Mantis!” I yelled. “Happy New Year, you old son-of-a-bitch!”
Dr. Mantodea regarded me with inscrutable, insectoid eyes. “There have not been a sufficient number of ‘Fuck Yous’ uttered since the dawn of time to properly greet you, Piper. I hope you die.” He got in his car and drove away before I could say anything else.
I made my way to the door, where I was greeted by Murk’s stodgy English butler. Rumor has it Murk has his own Academy of Servitude somewhere in Europe, from which only the most disingenuous, wheedling, sycophantic and servile are chosen to be his servants. This one betrayed none of these qualities, to me at least. His lip curled in a sneer as he beheld my kilt.
“You,” he said.
“Me,” I agreed.
“The doctor is in the conservatory. At his organ.”
I snickered. He glared.
“This is a dry house, sir. Your…beverage…must remain outside.”
I thrust the bottle into his hands, gin sloshed over his cufflinks. “I’ll find my own way, Jeeves.”
I wandered around the first floor for what seemed like hours, following the crashing, thunderous notes of a somehow familiar tune. At last I found Murk in an expansive marble hall, seated before a towering medieval pipe organ. He pounded at the keys in a frenzy, causing the organ to moan, wail and scream in agony. I listened for a while, fascinated, until at last Murk collapsed across the keys, spent.
“Wow,” I said.
Murk lifted his head beneath his bowler hat and blinked a few times. “Ah, Piper. Forgive me if I do not rise. I was just playing my favorite composition. It always leaves me emotionally and physically drained.”
“What was it?”
“The most beautiful piece of music I have ever heard.” A solitary tear rolled down Dr.Murk’s face. “It’s called The Curly Shuffle. Anyway, what brings you here?”
“It’s New Year’s Eve, Murk. I thought I’d spread some cheer.”
“How trite. I suppose you have a New Year’s resolution as well.””Not yet.”
“Well, you should resolve to change your kilt. It smells of stale gin and balls.”
Murk was clearly not in the holiday spirit. Did I mention I was carrying my bagipes? Well, I was. I lifted the pipes to my shoulder and fitted the bag under my arm. I blew into the blowpipe and inflated the bag. The drones began to hum in harmony. My fingers moved along the chanter, picking out the melody of Auld Lang Syne.
Murk stared, enraptured. Slowly, he rose from his bench. It was working! Thus encouraged, I continued to play as he walked slowly over to me, a spellbound look upon his face. I realized then hat Murk had never really heard me play. He must be so impressed.
At last he stood before me. He balled up his fist and punched me as hard as he could. In the groin.
My pipes abruptly stopped with a shrill squeak. I doubled over. “Ow! My groin!”
Dr. Murk stared at me coldly. “Do not ever—ever—play that hideous thing in my presence again.”
I felt nauseous. My gin was threatening to make a return appearance all over Murk’s marble floor. “I need your bathroom,” I gasped. “Now.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “You know the way.”
I didn’t; Murk’s house seemed to have an ever-changing and endless number of rooms and passages, different each time I visited. I stumbled out into the corridor and leaned against the wall to catch my breath. When I could breathe again I wandered up a circular flight of stairs upholstered in a Persian pattern. At the top I opened the first door I saw, hoping it was a bathroom.
It was not.
The scent of jasmine and lotus blossoms assailed my prodigious nostrils. I pushed my way through hanging silken sheets. From somewhere deep within this ethereal seraglio, a dusky voice purred. “Oh, Robert,” it said, every syllable drenched in promise and longing, “you came at last.”
Most men would have felt an immediate rush of lust at that succubus’s voice. But I am not most men. I knew better. I knew how much danger I was in, for I knew who it was that spoke.
I had unwittingly blundered into the bedchamber of the smokin’ hot Asian wife of Dr. Murk!
I moved aside another silken curtain, hoping against hope to find the exit before she noticed me. Instead, the veil parted to reveal that same beautiful and deadly woman I sought to elude. She lay upon a luxurious bed, faced away from me, her body draped in a gossamer sheet, one shoulder exposed and bare, revealing a tattoo. Despite my fervent desire to escape unnoticed, I was irresistibly drawn forward to peer at the tattoo. I squinted. I could just make it out.
It was a bowler hat.
Cold sweat broke out on my back. I inched backwards as stealthily as possible, but at that moment I stepped on a large bullfrog that had somehow found its way into Murk’s bedroom.
“RIBBIT,” said the bullfrog. Then it died.
Mrs. Dr. Murk’s head swiveled around, causing the sheet that draped her body to shift a little. Through sheer willpower I forced myself to stare only at her face. Our eyes locked, and in that moment, I was certain of one thing: I was going to die. I turned and ran as fast as I could, tearing silk sheets down in my headlong rush to the door.
She was after me in a flash, one hand clutching the sheet around her naked body, the other reaching for something lethal. Two ornate—and very sharp—hairpins embedded themselves in the wall a fraction of an inch from where my head was moments before. By some miracle I found the door and tore it open. I plunged into the corridor as something big and heavy shattered against the door.
I bolted down the stairs, feet barely touching the surface of each step, kilt billowing behind me. Half a dozen throwing stars thunked into the wall in my wake. Finally I reached the bottom and ran for the conservatory door.
It was locked.
I had little time to panic before Mrs. Dr. Murk landed behind me, her bare feet making not a whisper of sound. One hand still clutched the sheet, the other now held a very long and very sharp sword. She smiled. I felt my bladder let go.
I ran, expecting at any minute to feel the blade plunge into my back. I reached the end of the corridor and risked a look back. She was walking slowly forward, as if she had all the time in the world. I tore open the nearest door and ducked inside.
I was in a library. “Ah, Piper,” Dr. Murk said. “It seems you found me.”
He sat in a leather chair, a chessboard resting on his lap. He had changed into a velvet smoking jacket complete with ascot, and cradled a Meerschaum pipe in one hand. His ever-present bowler hat sat upon his head. From somewhere in the room came subdued music; Rachmaninoff, I thought.
I looked for a lock, but the door didn’t appear to have one. I tipped over the nearest bookcase, barricading the door behind me with a terrific crash. Dr. Murk raised an eyebrow.
Just then, a full three feet of steel—Mrs. Dr. Murk’s sword— was thrust through the door.
“You seem to have upset my wife, Piper” Dr. Murk said. “Perhaps you’d better explain yourself.”
I fell to my knees and sobbed out the whole sad tale. Dr. Murk listened in silence while his wife’s efforts to gain entry to the library intensified. The door was rapidly becoming a splintered ruin. When I finished, Murk sighed and stood, placing the chessboard on a nearby table and returning his still-smoldering pipe to the rack.
“So let me get this straight, Piper,” he said. “You came to my home uninvited, offended my ears with your horrid instrument, entered the private chambers of my wife, ogled her while she was in a state of undress, murdered her pet bullfrog, urinated on my carpet, toppled a Louis XIV mahogany bookcase and have now been instrumental in causing the destruction of my library door. I’m afraid there’s no hope for you, Piper. I’m going to have to shoot you now.” He leveled an antique flintlock pistol at my head and pulled the trigger.
It clicked on an empty chamber.
“Confound it. I forgot I already shot someone today. Be a good fellow and wait while I reload, will you?”
I don’t know how I made it outside, but I even managed to snag my gin bottle on the way out. One thing is certain: next year, if he’s still alive, I’ll be watching Dick Clark.
Murk's New Year's Rockin' Eve- A Tale of the WoW
Tales of the WoW: Escape from the Brown Bowler
by Christopher Morris:
I awoke in a dimly lit, smokey chamber with the smell of ether still clinging to the hairs of my nostrils. Fuck. Never sleep! Never SLEEP! I had slipped up again. When you sleep, he sends his hatchlings for you.
My head swam in the sickening afterglow of the crude anesthetic, no doubt administered by the "Good Doctor" himself. Jumble vision flipped itself rightways, then askew, then aright and blurred edges gave way to ultra sharp, psycho-delic vision. Of course. Two drugs. One to keep me sleeping, one to cloud the depth of my mind. I saw him. I saw The Piper standing behind him. He'd promised me revenge.
I'd accidentally ordered a few men to beat him to death. Such a thing is possible. The Piper, louse that he is, had removed the body and... well, no one was sure. There were rumors. Someone had started a new blog, but come on, now! He was dead. I saw him dead on his own floor.
Mistakes. I've made a few. Living in his house after killing him was one. I should have reasoned that on the off chance he did survive, the last place I'd want to be when he was ambulatory was in his lair. Fucking den of sin and surprise that it is. Now he had me and he had The Piper. One part of the story was solid. This was Murk. I could smell him. Even through the dual action of ether and LSD I could smell him. This was no phantom, no charade, no trick.
Why the hell are you wearing that turban?
"Simple," Dr. Murk replied. "A safe place is necessary. Maslow's Heirarchy of Needs. Food, Safety and Shelter are the base of the pyramid. So, I found someplace safe and I took you there. Well, actually, I can't walk very well... yet, so Piper brought you here."
Where is here? Araby?
His laghter was like the sound of large icicles falling in staccato.
"No, you ass," he laughed again. He nudged The Piper and The Piper laughed too, but not nearly as heartily. Something always creeped me out about The Piper. Something about that hollow baritone and those dead, souless fish eyes made me wary. "I'll give you a hint..."
"... after I torture you a bit."
Mistakes. Like forgetting to eliminate his seat of power, the Queen of the Widow Spiders: Mrs. Dr. Murk. She appeared from her usual nowhere, bearing an elegant woman's shoe in one hand and a scorpion in the other. The shoe was rather large for her but, oh... oh no... Scorpion goes in shoe, shoe goes on my foot, blah blah blah.
Next thing I know, I'm wearing a Spiderman mask and eight fists are pummeling me at once.
"This is the coolest thing I've ever seen," I heard The Piper mumble.
"Silence," Murk hissed, "Let my colleague concentrate on my dear brother's face. DR. OCTOPUS! CONTINUE TO OPERATE!"
I black out after five minutes.
Mistakes. I should have blacked out quicker.
"Brother?" I hear his voice. "Oh brooottthhhhhherrrrrrrr?"
Correction: I should have not blacked out at all. Maybe old Doc Oc would have pummelled me to death. Wait! That was it! We drugged him, beat him to death and then...
"Well, it's been fun," Murk said. I could only see him as a squiggle between the slits of my broken eye sockets. "Piper, chase him to the door."
"Wait! You said you'd tell me where we are!" I needed to warn everyone. I needed to round up a posse and take him down. "Hey," I said, "Isn't every Supervillain supposed to reveal his secret plan when you ask him? That's like Supervillain 101."
Murk stopped The Piper before he leapt from his 'Crouching Ninja' stance (complete aside here, but The Piper does it so that you see his gonads. I know he does this on purpose. He has to. What certified Ninja would Sharon Stone you by accident every time he attacked?).
"Villain?" Murk gasped. He could fake being hurt like that. Jerk-off. "Piper, Piper Piper?"
"Yes, m'Lawd?" Piper boomed.
"Have I killed anyone?" Murk asked plaintively.
"Naught in weeks, m"lawd." Piper ansered.
"Villian. I abhor this. Fine, I'll tell you if you take that villain crap back." Murk said.
"No," I said defiantly.
"He took it back, m'Lawd." Piper pronounced proudly.
"No I didn't!" I yelled.
"In denial again, m'Lawd." Piper grinned.
"In denial indeed," Murk matched him grin for grin. "The answer is: I'm wearing a turban because my Bowler can't be in two places at once. Now, get out." Piper sprang, and this time with no warning. I ran like hell through mazes the likes of which even King Minas would have nightmares about. The whole while Piper was trying to urinate on me while running after me, heedless of his own backsplash.
I finally found my way out and was on the brim of an enourmous Brown Bowler Hat. "Oh my God!" I screamed as I looked down. They'd burried him upright. Before I could wonder about all of this, one of the gigantic eyes opened and looked directly at me. I stopped still, afright.
The smell of ether and Piper's rotten, stale ale breath.
I awoke in the basement of the Palatial Murk Estates. Alone.
Beware!
Beware!
BEWARE!!!!!
What Really Happened: A Tale of the WoW
Last week I was in a local Starbuck’s, waiting in line for a ridiculously overpriced coffee. I really hate Starbuck’s, partially because their coffee tastes like three hundred year-old skunk taint, partially because they charge you an arm and a leg for their shitty coffee, and partially because pretentious Bohemian fucks like to sit in there all day drinking said coffee while reading Nietszche, chatting on their cell phones and writing plays that will never get produced. Plus, they all stare at me in my kilt.
Anyway, I was standing in line, admiring the badonkadonk ass of the size 18 “Vampira” goth chick in front of me, when all of a sudden, I heard a voice from beyond the grave:
“How difficult is it to get a godforsaken cup of coffee the way I ordered it, you ignorant cow?!! I said two—TWO—sugars. That means two teaspoons of sugar, not two bags of sugar. Do it again!” There followed the unmistakable sound of a cup of coffee being violently hurled, followed by a shriek from the counter girl.
I craned my neck around the woman in front of me, straining to see who could be the source of such a venomous diatribe. A man stood at the counter, all but hidden behind the several other patrons of the coffee shop that had arrived before me. I could only see the back of his head, but upon that head sat a very familiar bowler hat.
Surely, it couldn’t be!
I watched him for several minutes, watched as the hapless Starbuck’s counter girl was forced to make and re-make his coffee while enduring insults to her intelligence, body type, gender and breeding, until she could take it no longer. She fled, crying, with discarded coffee flowing from her apron and hair like rain. A new member of the counter staff fearfully made the customer a new cup to his specifications. At long last the customer took a sip of his coffee and did not return it as a projectile.
“Better,” he said. Then he turned around, and our eyes met.
“Ah, Piper,” said Dr. Murk, for it was unmistakably he, “How’s it hangin’, brother?”
“Murk!” I exclaimed.
“Keep it down, you insufferable poltroon. Can’t you see I’m trying to maintain a low profile?”
Murk wore a white T-shirt with the words “HERE'S THE BEEF” printed upon it in block letters. A large arrow pointed downward, indicating “The Beef” was located in his shorts, which were festooned with a garish Hawaiian print. A pair of orange crocs and argyle knee socks completed his outfit.
“But…you’re dead!” I said.
Murk didn’t bother to dignify my statement with a response. He brought his coffee cup to his nose and inhaled deeply. “Fresh-brewed java. It arouses me like nothing else, save the jasmine scent of my wife’s hair.”
“Is she here?” I looked around fearfully.
“Thankfully, no," Murk replied. "Christ, but that bitch gets on my nerves sometimes. Now, come, let’s sit down before you embarrass yourself further. Over here should suffice.”
We moved go to a nearby high table, where moments before a skinny, bespectacled über-geek sat typing on a small laptop. The laptop was still there, but its owner had stepped outside, where he was loudly chatting on a cell phone, hoping others would notice how important he was. Murk reached out and gave the laptop a shove. It shattered on the floor with a resounding crash. He sat down and watched me awkwardly mount the tall chair in my kilt, an expression of wry amusement on his face.
“You have to tell me what happened,” I whispered harshly. “Everyone thinks you’re dead!”
“Stop whispering harshly,” said Murk. “We’re in a Starbuck’s. Everyone in here is busy trying desperately to be more tragically hip than everyone else. There’s enough Emo angst floating around in this pathetic commercial shitpile to cover whatever we say, even if our conversation were audible above this horrendous Norah Jones CD.”
“Fine. What happened?”
Dr. Murk tore open a packet of “Sugar in the Raw” and poured it into his mouth. He sucked the sugar for several seconds before answering me.
“All right, Piper, it was like this: after the ambush at the WoW, I realized the bullet that was meant for me hit Cyrus instead. When he went down, I knew I was going to be blamed for it, so I fled and went underground. I knew I would be safe if I could just make it back to Coney.”
My eyes narrowed. Murk continued: “It was rough going for a while, even with Swan as War Chief after Cleon got aced; first Ajax got pinched, then The Lizzies almost took my nuts off, then I had to hide from the Turnbull ACs—and all the while, the lights of the Wonder Wheel at Coney Island were like a beacon promising salvation, if only I could get there—“
“For fuck’s sake!” I blurted. “That’s The Warriors, Murk!”
“The what, now?”
“The Warriors. You know, ‘Warriors, come out to playeee’. The fucking Warriors, Murk— a classic gang film from 1979!”
“Never heard of it. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that I decided to lay low for a while. Closed up the palatial estate, signed the S. S. Murk-errific over to that costumed fool the Angry Veteran, dismissed the Barrys; gave up all the trappings of wealth.”
“What about Mrs. Dr. Murk?” I asked.“You mean you abandoned her, too?
“Hell, no. Her I kept. I mean, the things she does to me in bed are absolutely incredible.”
“That’s great, Murk,” I said, hoping not to hear more.
“Her carnal skills and sexual appetites are legendary.”
“Swell,” I said.
“She does this thing with some rubber tubing and a yak pelt that’s just—“
“Yeah, ok. I get it.”
“And when she puts on the SCUBA gear—“
“Christ, Murk! I said I get it! Spare me the sordid tales of your sexcapades!”
Murk poured more sugar into his mouth, sucking noisily. He stared at me in silence.
“My dick is bigger than yours, you know,” he said at last.
I sighed. “So, how long is this “laying low” bullshit going to go on?”
“Until I’m ready to return. Speaking of which, here comes our table’s previous occupant.”
Our ponytailed predecessor came over to the table, took one look at his destroyed computer and screamed. “My laptop!” he wailed. “What the hell did you do to it?”
“It fell,” replied Murk. “Sorry about that.”
“You assholes! All my work is ruined! My novel is destroyed!”
“Let me guess,” said Murk, “you come here to this public venue to toil away on your “novel”, because there are too many distractions in your parents’ basement, where you live.”
“How did you—“
“It’s a work-in-progress of “erotic horror”, in which vampire women, bondage and nuns feature prominently; no doubt the same puerile fantasies that fuel the frantic masturbatory urgings of your flaccid member while you sit upon your toilet, dreading the inevitable jiggle of the doorknob that heralds your mother’s untimely entrance into the bathroom.”
“You can’t know—“
“Oh, please,” Murk continued. “I can see your pathetic life laid out like a road map. You’ve seen Star Wars more than thirty times. Your favorite “author” is Anne Rice. You bought prosthetic fangs, but stopped wearing them because you once bit through your lip by accident. You own at least one replica sword and at least one pair of leather pants. And I would say it’s been no more than six hours since your last foray into the World of Warcraft, where your online girlfriend (at least you hope it’s a girl) meets you every night for awkward and frequently-misspelled cybersex.”
The man’s lip quivered. He burst into loud, wracking sobs and ran out of the store, leaving the remnants of his laptop behind.
Murk smiled. “Looks like it’s turning out to be a good day after all. As for me, don’t worry, Piper. I’ll be around. I am forever the gadfly, the mosquito in your tent that you just can’t kill. I am Prometheus; I brought fire to the losers over at the WoW, and now my liver is torn out daily by vultures, only to regenerate before the next dawn.”
“I don’t think that last analogy really works well," I said.
“Silence!” said Murk. “Where would the WoW be without me? I provoke responses; I urge people to action. Like so.”
Murk reached over the table and emptied his still-very-hot coffee into my lap. I screamed in pain and leapt up from the table. “What the fuck?!!”
“See? I wanted you gone, and now you have vacated your chair.”
“Jesus, this hurts!”
“Yes, I imagine so. Well, I must be running along. Don’t tell anyone I’m alive, now. It’d ruin the surprise.”
I told him I wouldn’t.
Adrift: A Tale of the WoW
The scene: an iceberg, roughly 50 ft, in diameter, adrift on a mostly calm ocean. Three women, one man, one man dressed like a woman and a huge insect are the iceberg’s current occupants.
Angry Piper (AP): Well, this sucks.
Just Me (JM): Sure does. How the hell did we get here, anyway?
Tainted-Love (TL): Beats me. One minute I was making a list of all the reasons I hate mustard, and the next: Poof! Here we are.
Toyita (T): Eet ees horrible. Nothing to see for miles and miles. Hold me, Senhor Piper.
AP: Sure, babe.
Malach (M): I’ll tell you why we’re here. It’s because we’re the only ones who post to the WoW anymore. Everyone else reads but rarely posts. (Speaking of reading, read Fat Bug.)
Dr. Mantodea (DM): How the fuck does that get us on an iceberg in the middle of nowhere?
M: Well, you see…the way I figure it, the iceberg is one of those metaphor things…
TL: Huh?
M: You know…the iceberg is the WoW. And we’re the only thing keeping it afloat. (Read Jesusman!)
DM: (Gestures towards the Angry Piper) You telling me that fat piece of shit is actually helping us stay above the water? Not likely, assbag.
M: You’re quite hostile.
DM: Fuck you. This is just about the worst day of my life, aside from the whole turning into a bug thing. Me, stuck on an iceberg with you five douche-nozzles. Maybe I should just drown myself.
AP: Sounds like a plan, bug-boy. Let me help.
JM: Wait, guys…don’t you think we should be trying to find a way off this iceberg, instead of getting into a dick-waving contest?
TL: Actually, I’d watch a dick-waving contest…
AP: At least I still have a dick. The bug has been sexless for years.
T: Let’s hold hands. I say we pray. God will help us.
DM: Congratulations, Toyi. You’ve just guaranteed you’ll be the first person I’m going to kill and eat.
M: I think we’re stuck here until more people post regularly.
AP: Then…uh…maybe we should start, you know…pairing off.
T: Pairing off?
AP: You know…finding mates. Three girls…three…uh…make that two guys and a freak of nature.
DM: Fuck you.
M: I can’t have sex with anyone else. My wife will absolutely kill me for even considering it.
DM: OK. Who wants me, then? I’m not fussy.
T: …
JM: …
TL: …
DM: That’s just great. Screw you all.
AP: You can’t blame them. What do they have to look forward to? Revolting sex that ends with you eating their heads. And did I fail to mention you have no dick?
DM: (To JM and TL) I hope you get Hepatitis and die. Piper has it, you know.
AP: I do not! You’re just pissed off because I get three hot ladies all to myself.
JM: Umm…actually… (looks at TL)
TL: We’re way more into each other.
AP: Figures. I guess it’s for the best. I can only disappoint one woman at a time.
T: And that woman ees me! Arrrrrriba!!!
M: I wish I could sit down, but my bum will stick to the ice.
DM: Serves you right for wearing those assless chaps. And you call me the freak of nature. Put some fucking pants on.
M: NEVER!
TL: Wait…is that a boat???
JM: Oh, my goddess! It IS!
T: Eet ees huge! Like the Piper’s manly parts!
DM: Oh, for fuck’s sake.
AP: Jealousy is an ugly thing, Mantis.
DM: So’s your mother.
M: It’s coming this way!
TL: Is that…
JM: Can it be???
M: It’s the S.S. Murk-errific!!!
DM: But Dr. Murk is dead…isn’t he?
A large harpoon thunks into the ice, dragging the iceberg towards the colossal ship. Suddenly, a brightly-colored figure appears over the rail of the boat, brandishing a star-spangled shield.
Angry Veteran (AV): Ahoy there!!!
M: It’s the Angry Veteran! We’re rescued!
DM: Thank Christ. This was already getting old.
JM: How did you get this swell boat, AV?
AV: Murk willed it to me. It’s mine now. I’d change the name to the S.S. Family Values, but it’s bad luck to change the name of a boat.
TL: With Murk dead, guess you’re out of a job, huh?
AV: Not exactly…
DM: Fascinating. Can we get the fuck out of here now?
AV: Sure. Climb aboard, all.
They all scramble up the ladder. The Angry Piper is last. Some might think this is for chivalry’s sake, but in truth he was hoping to see up the girls’ skirts. Instead, he comes face-to-face with the Angry Veteran at the top of the ladder.
AV: Sorry. Boat’s full.
AP: What? Stop screwing around. It’s a huge boat.
AV: Right. You can’t come on. Murk wouldn’t have wanted it.
AP: Murk’s dead. Now let me on!
AV: No. Besides, I work for someone else now, and he doesn’t want you aboard either.
AP: Get the fuck out of my way or so help me…
The Angry Veteran slams his star-spangled shield into the Angry Piper’s face, dislodging him from the ladder. He falls 30 feet, landing on the hard ice below sprawled in his kilt, his dangly unmentionables in full view.
AP: Ouch.
DM: Wow. He is huge.
AV: Hey Piper!! My new boss, Hobbs von Wackamole, sends his love and says, and I quote: “I’m back, bitch!” I’m also supposed to give you something. Wait a sec!
The Angry Veteran disappears below decks, returning after a few minutes holding a box at arms length. He drops the box overboard, where it shatters on the ice, dislodging a very irate skunk.
AV: Have fun making friends! AV...out!
Once Upon a Time...
before he would become the Angry Veteran, the Angry Veteran was riding his bicycle on a warm summer day, a beatific look on his hairless adolescent face. "Tra-la-la," sang the Angry Veteran, "tra-la-la-la-lee." Smiling benignly, the Angry Veteran approached an intersection and signalled a left turn. The Angry Veteran was always careful to use hand signals, as he was taught "safety first!".
Heedless of the Angry Veteran's signal, a large, black Cadillac hurtled through the intersection and collided with the Angry Veteran just as he was making his turn. It turned his bike into a twisted metal pretzel and sent the Angry Veteran hurtling through the air, where he would come to rest against a very hard stone curb. His beatific smile vanished, and his leg was broken so badly it left him with an unsightly scar he bears to this very day.
The car door opened and a man stepped out. "What did you do to my car?!!!" screamed the driver of the Cadillac, a rotund, heavily-accented Portuguese man indifferent to the bleeding Angry Veteran on the side of the road.
And do you know what happened next?
The Angry Veteran killed that man.