OccultHawk

Unassailable

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Member of the Year & Journal of the Year Champion

Behold the Writing of THE LEGEND:

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rubber soul

I was wondering about that. I am from a writing forum but I hadn't written anything here at the time you nominated me. Thanks for the nom anyway though

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Oriphiel

Evening fell upon the land, as the sun went down on America like the cosmic strumpet that she is. Like clockwork, the White People family was gathered for dinner. Bob, the patriarch, was carving the roasted turkey, smiling and laughing like he was in a toothpaste commercial. Mary, the matriarch, was laughing along with him, while covertly injecting a syringe of alcohol directly into her bloodstream to temporarily dull the pain of her existence. Suzy, the teenaged daughter, was reading a shitty book about vampires that fuck each other instead of killing people. And Jimmy, oh poor Jimmy, the son of the family, was trying to act normal, while the pain of his having flunked a test that day burned his spirit with the hot fury of a slice of pizza that you just had to bite before letting it cool off.

"So," spake the father, "Jimmy, how stands thine Education? Hath it much mirth and firth?"

Alas, under such steadfast enquiry, Jimmy could restrain his shame no longer, and he soon regaled the tale of his vile flunkiture. His parents gasped. His neighbors gasped. His sister burped. The earth told the sun to keep going.

"How could this be?" asked the father. "Doth no flicker of respect in thine breast yet dwell for what once was thy guiding flame? Hath thee no more love for the almighty institution of Education?"

"HA HA HA HA HA, WHAT A CARD," said the mother as she slumped over, her consciousness departing faster than a dudebro ditching a trend after realizing that it won't get him any pussy.

"You don't understand," pleaded Jimmy tearfully. "It's not my fault! I've been trying so hard! You see, in truth, I'm not to blame for my failure. My Education is."

"What means this?" asked the father. "Expound."

"Expound I shall," answered Jimmy. "You see, in spite of my best efforts, my teachers were inadequate to my needs. And so you see, as I said it to be, my Education has truly failed me!"

"How horrible!" yelled the father.

"I agree," said Frownland, stepping out of the nearby coat closet.

The father turned to face the foreign voice. "Who art thou? And how comes thee to mine abode?"

"Frownland," answered The Frownman, "and as for how I got here, well, every closet in the world is connected to my home."

"Intruder! Away with thee!" shouted the father, shepherding his children to safety. Alas, if only he knew that his efforts were in vain, for no child can ever be safe from Frownland.

Opening his terrible maw until his true face was revealed from the depths of his gullet, Frownland sang the Timeless Song of Misery, the notes of which paralyzed the White People family. Stepping forward, he extracted the memories of Jimmy to see if he had accused Education rightfully before, and found that it was so. Education had indeed failed him.

"Hmm," pondered Frownland, wisps of patchy hair floating to the ground as he stroked his beard. "Something must be done about this. Why, though many a child I have devoured, to deprive them of an Education is a torture so abominable that even I must shudder. To keep them from higher intellect is to shut them out from life itself, as if their very minds were being aborted..."

The front door became a cloud of splinters as OccultHawk dashed into the house. His swollen member was already in hand. "Did someone say 'aborted'?"

"Why, yes, my old friend," said Frownland. "I did indeed. But, alas, it was not fetuses of which I spoke, but brains."

"Sounds kinky," said OccultHawk. "I'm game."

Sighing, Frownland explained the situation in proper to OccultHawk.

"Oh," said OccultHawk. "You know, I used to be a part of the great Education. Maybe I could help you fix it up."

Frownland smiled, the sentient bacteria coating his teeth shrieking as his open mouth flooded with bright lamplight. "That would be most welcome."

They got to work. About an hour of montaging later, they had the solution.

"We call it, 'Some Children Left Behind,'" said OccultHawk, as he presented the system to The Cosmic Board of Education. His powerpoint presentation was comprised of three slides; the first was of a pair of tits, because hey, tits. The second was a picture of a jazz musician shitting into a trombone. The third was the word 'Crumpets'. Perhaps a bit abstract, but if The Board didn't understand the genius of it, that was their problem.

"Indeed," chimed in Frownland. "The concept revolves around the idea that children are horrible, stupid little creatures. While most of them can be forcefully molded into beings that don't actively try to kill themselves at every possible interval, some are just not worth the effort. It's these 'lost causes' that are ruining Education, since our current system spends so much of teachers' time and resources on catering to the helpless shitheads, instead of the ones that deserve the help."

"Exactly," said OccultHawk. "Furthermore, the way that the schooling system is funded is flawed to the very core. Schools habitually cover up problems instead of resolving them, and manufacture grades, as anything that would make them look bad would strip them of much needed money. But these problems don't just go away. They get worse, until eventually little Jimmy is bringing a rocket launcher to Home Ec to make the pain stop."

"Perhaps," spake the Head of the Board, looking at the first slide. "But what do the tits have to do with anything?"

"I like tits, you see," explained OccultHawk.

The Tummy of the Board shifted in his seat. "So, how do you propose that we fund schools?"

"Ah," said Frownland, "good question. I propose that we establish an intricate roster of bi-monthly chess matches. To the death, of course."

"Of course," agreed the Head of the Board.

Lighting his pipe, Frownland continued. "The schools that produce intelligent champions are the ones that deserve the esteem and support of The Board. All the other schools can get fucked. In this way, we will give every student a chance to succeed, while also rooting out the ones that can't help but fail. And, incidentally, the meat from the bodies from the slain students can also be recycled into cheap school lunches. Everybody wins."

The Ass of the Board sipped her glass of wine. "Well, I for one must say, you two have really outdone yourselves with this system of yours. You have my support."

"And mine," said the Tummy.

"And mine," agreed everybody else.

"And mine, as well," said Frownland's bra, his biggest supporter of all.

"Then it's settled," smiled the Head. "We'll implement this system immediately.

Putting on sunglasses, Frownland and OccultHawk gave each other a high five so powerful that it caused an earthquake in Cambodia, the aftermath of which made for some great wank material for the two of them.

And thus ends the story of how Education (and also Christmas) was saved once and for all.

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OccultHawk

Can my character have a magic penis?

__________________

2016 2017 2018 2019 2020

Member of the Year & Journal of the Year Champion

Behold the Writing of THE LEGEND:

https://www.musicbanter.com/members-...p-lighter.html

Oriphiel

Already done. The magic was implied.

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|---Mic's Albums---|
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|---Deafbox Industries---|
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Oriphiel

I've decided to write a chapter about Chula's [Removed. Watch it, Ori]. Hopefully, I won't get into too much trouble. I mean, they're technically not even together anymore, so the topic should be fair game, right? 'Cause let's be honest, we all know that his [Removed. For ****s sake] and he were just [Removed] and obviously [Removed]. How they even lasted so long, I'll never know.

Anyway, the chapter starts with...

Oh, come on! What the fuck, mods? Can't I just make a few harmless little jokes about his [Removed. And no, you can't]?

Why not?

[Because it's a sensitive topic for him. Just let it go]

Really? I mean, I knew he was getting touchy lately, and I thought it might upset him a bit, but I didn't realize that it was still such a sensitive issue for him.

[Yeah, well, it is. So drop it]

Huh. Okay. Fine. I just think it's kinda weird that he'd still be sore about it, even though they split, like, twenty years ago, or whatever.

[I know. But just bear with me, and... wait, what? Twenty years ago? I thought he and his wife broke up not too long ago]

Huh? His wife? What do you mean?

[What do you mean? Isn't she who you were poking fun at?]

What? No. I wasn't talking about her. I was talking about his band.

[Oooooh. His band. Ha.]

God damn it, Frown. Don't you even bother to look at what you censor?

[No, I don't. And I'm not Frown]

Oh. Sorry. What with the sloppy modding and all, I just kinda assumed...

[I understand. And about his band, yeah, the '70s really didn't need another awful Zep tribute. The real Zeppelin were bad enough all on their own]

Woah. You're actually intelligent enough to treat band names as plurals? I guess you really aren't Frown.

[Of course I'm not. As if he would ever put this much effort into anything other than wrapping guitar strings around his balls and slapping them on bongos]

You're not wrong. So, uh... does that mean that I can keep making fun of Chula?

[No]

Oh. Well, fuck. I'm not smart enough to write comedy without resorting to cheap shots.

[Then don't]

This is MusicBanter. What the fuck else is there to do here other than bump egos?

[Hm. I don't know. Maybe you could try talking about music for a change? How about that?]

Ew. Nerd.

[Suit yourself. Just lay off the personal shot from now on, alright?]

Sure. Whatever.

Anyway, I should probably get started on the actual chapter.




The Scene: The Batlord's basemential abode, wherein he doth play poker with his local Frownland.

Smiling triumphantly, The Batlord slaps down his hand of cards on the table.

The Batlord: Three of a kind, bitch. Looks like you lose.

Frownland: Yes. Well...

Lowering his hands to his lap, obscuring them from Batlord's vision using the table between them, Frownland closes his eyes and begins grunting with exertion. Before long, he has printed a new ace card out of his penis, and swapped it into his cards using both sleight of hand and sleight of genitals. Frownland shows The Batlord his hand.

Frownland: It would seem that you have lost, my friend.

The Batlord, with narrowed eyes, lifts a finger palsied by the judicious consumption of Steel Reserve, and points at one of the ace cards. The suit of the card in question is an ornate F writ in each corner, and at the center is a picture of an eyeless woman putting on glasses.

The Batlord: The fuck is that supposed to be?

Frownland: Why, an ace, my good man. The Ace of Frown.

The Batlord: Like fuck it is, you cheating son of a bitch!

Frownland: Maybe I am. Maybe I am't. What means have you to contest me?

The Batlord: Bitch, cosmic powers or not, I will stick a silly straw up your cock and suck all of the cum out of your balls, just so I can spit it all back in your face!

Frownland stares at The Batlord in silence for some time. Without speaking a word, he removes a silly straw from his pocket, and holds it up.

The Batlord, eyes widening: Hey. Wait. No. I was just-

The rest need not be said.

To this day, some say that he is still sucking. For the seed of the Frown, like all things that hath no beginning, hath no end.

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|---Mic's Albums---|
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|---Deafbox Industries---|
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grindy

Awesome.

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A smell of petroleum prevails throughout.

Cuthbert

This.

Oriphiel

The Batlord cuts off his dick so he can **** himself in the ass

The peace died quickly within the Casa Fatlord, as the earth itself seemed to spasm harder than the Batlord's legs after twelve hours of Starcraft. Gaggles of doritos were flung through the air. Back issues of Miracle Man, or whatever that ****ing series he won't shut up about is called, were flung about and violently creased. Many a Steel Reserve did fall from the chilly belly of his mini fridge, spilling out the beginnings of beautiful new stains as they rolled across the piss soaked carpet.

And then the carpet was colors, and the colors were the unfolding geometry of the intrinsic programming of the universe. And that could only mean one thing.

Frownland had arrived.

"Shabaaaaaaaaaz!" yodeled the cosmic cartwheeler, sporting infinite erections as he appeared before the Buttlord.

"Oh, **** me," muttered Charles. "Not this god damn **** again."

"He doth well to damn me, that might slay all such conceptions," answered Frownland. "But enough about funnel cakes. I came here to show you something."

Sensing that this was going to be a long night, the Burger King grabbed the emergency toast that he always kept warm in his seat cushion. Too lazy to get up and walk to the kitchen for a spread, he simply scraped his dick across the flaky bread, putting the excess butter from his latest misadventure to good use. "Alright. Let's get this **** over with. What'd you want to show me?"

Even as he asked, the answer was before him; sitting on his keyboard was a plate of golden brownies.

Frownland was already holding one up, stroking his beard with the sensual pastry. "My latest creation. Or discovery, rather. I call them Frownies."

"That's it? Are you ****ing kidding me? You came all this way, interrupted my bants, shook the **** out of my house, just for-" His mouth was stopped by a Frownie. They were all around, a temporal flood, within and without. They were everywhere, everything, all. They always had been.

He saw his mother, her eyes, the same eyes that lovingly watched him play toy genocide with his green army men as an innocent child. Those eyes, the crusty golden flakes shimmering, turning, and the hunger, oh god the hunger, and

"Pretty good, ja?" asked Frownland.

The Butterlord shrugged. "Eh. Not your best. I actually came back from this trip."

"Did you?" asked Frownland, raising an eyebrow. "Curious. Anyway, enough about my Frownies. Pray, what're you up to? I couldn't help but notice your buttery member, and likewise the kitchen knife

the kitchen knife

so bad, the burning cold, when the room started

sitting by your keyboard, right by that book of matches. Were you perhaps up to another of your silly penis experiments?"

The Catlord shuddered. The silly string shuddered. God got bored and opened a tab of porn. But you didn't, and that's what matters. "What? No. Hell no. Nothing like that. I was just... uh... trying to dig something out of my keyboard. Some **** that got stuck in there. And, you know, knives are good at... that."

With a smile and a chiding shake of the head, Frownland whistled. The worm broke through the skin of the Batporn's arm, poking out its eyeless head. With a wave of the hand, Frownland brought it into his grasp, and did lift it to his ear, whereupon the truth of the Scatlord's situation was revealed unto him.

"I understand," said Frownland without judgment. "You must be terribly lonely. But you need not turn to mutilation of the self, when mutilation of the laws of the universe would suit you just as well. Until your distinctions cease, anyway." Snapping his fingers, he created a shimmering vortex.

"Holy ****," gasped the Shatlord. "What did you do? What the **** is that thing?"

"A temporal fold." Frown stretched out a hand. "Come. Know it further, and so know thyself."

And what could Badlord do but obey? He stepped towards the hypnotic whirl, peering into the glittering dust, until at last he saw through to the other side... and the other side saw him.

Twas a rip through time and space, leading back to the same time and same space. Which is to say, not a rip at all, but a fold of the fabric, an impossible fold in the eternal instant wherein

He saw the road. One forward, the other around. If he had been wearing pants, they would have dropped. The butter sang as he greeted himself. Again and again and

Frownland could scarce keep from joining them

Every direction, from every point, the heart beat of the universe, the spurting pulse, movement, life, again and again and

Explosion, matter outward, the inception of conception

Countless universes pushing onward through the cracks

Flopping to the floor, the Faplord lit a cigarette. "Well that was ****ing amazing."

Frownland, who was the cigarette, smiled at his naivety, at the pleasures yet unknown to him. Such wonders might he show him, if only he would lose his way. Yet, there was always tomorrow.

Always.

"Yo, mom," shouted Charley. "Make me a ****ing kool-aid and a sandwich. And bring some tissues. I just busted all over the ceiling again."

From within the living room, his mother sighed. "Alright, sweetie," she answered, her weary bones aching as she stood. Yet, ere she had reached
the Finding Nemo tissue box she had bought for him, she stole a glance back at his door

And smiled

Her golden lips flaking softly in the still air

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|---Mic's Albums---|
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|---Deafbox Industries---|
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grindy

Epic.
WSB style.

__________________
A smell of petroleum prevails throughout.