People take turns trying to wake up a fucked-off honeypot before the lasagna boils over.
I win! Healing cycle in progress. See, I told you this IS how DID can happen -- but it's not gonna continue to happen here, not in the mood. Also, I have shitloads of ghosts, which, I'm not gonna lie, is absolutely awesome. I didn't ask them to find me -- and buy for me -- a Special Needs Trust & Winchester Shire-Blessed Country Kunte Farmhouse w/Attached Cozy Den With Faux Laser Beams Attached To Lion Elk's Heads On The Wall, just for the tax savings and psyop strike assassin team advantages, now did I? Oh,
hell no.
I simply stated, every time there was an opportunity & it was appropriate to do so, "I'd like a (22) haunted house, please. Hahahha!" (Your number may vary.) Persistence is key, people: And, with this Key, you have access to Our Knowledge. (How about you both (tu) take turns (tu) trading places (FU) as jealous and more (FU) jealous while I just go find two (2) hard (.22 CALIBER, MOTHERFUCKING BANISH HIM) pipe-hittin' niggas/niggaz, who each come with their own free_breeding_pair of lesbians for me to teach them how to suck my motherfucking dick to? (A wrought-iron Sourceror's Trap & Combo Thought Holster & Leg Warmer? That honestly wouldn't be very practical, but it's a totesbeyond lovely thought.) That honestly does sound quite bit easier than what I did last time alone before completing The Great Work.) By the way, "access to Our Knowledge" in some local jurisdictions, now for a limited time only, now comes with now access to my what fucking pants and a set of illustrated Time/LIFE coffee table books, perfect for showing off to friends, neighbors, neighbors of loved one's on Team: Advantage, and Mrs. Paul. (Whore.) Are you kidding? At this point, yes, I would be quite happy fuck a box frozen fish, especially if you can find some that will put themselves back up on the shelf after I torn right through them and peered out the other side. "Look at this phone! I want it to make you jelly!" Yeah, okay rolleys, look at this cane, and look at me NOT grabbing it from you and NOT throwing it off a goddam freeway overpass and chuckin' myself head-first right off after it. Seriously, that was your plan. "Buy Phone. Show Man. He Go Jelly." First Contact? No, fuck you contact, get to the back of the bus, we're gonna drive over your mom again for the 9 o'clock Sunday matinee. AND, IT IS NOT EVEN TEXAS TWO-FER TUESDAY. You wanna see some nuts? I'll show you nuts. Come on. Come on man. Come on man's stomach. Can you describe how it is exactly you expect to be taken seriously by anyone? I did the job, I get paid, and my wages are... yeah, we'll get to that. (Teeth.) Oh yeah, someone ask ALLISON FRANCIS SHAW what happened to the retainer. Very important. Must remember: some answers can not come through Google. (If anyone ever asks you to turn off their protection grid for them, folks, make sure to tell them that they have to blow you five times first. Check their commitment to their sincerity level. Just a word to the wise.)
I'd like access to my wife back,
please. The
whole Wife. Not just her goddam thumbs
again, like last time. Look, it's like this, that trick is as old as Sourceror's Grade school. Now, how many
heroines are you gonna pay me to drive around, huh? You know, you
fucking dopeslavers are all the same.
Just pay my sewer, gas, electric, Internet, chiropractic, and protecting me from anal
Bills bills, and: we're good. (Yeah, that's a Sourceror's Jammin' Jelly Jar, alright. Betcha won't make that level kind of level mistake again, Willya? I don't think so, William. I AM THAT DRAGON'S LEVEL.
I'm thinking of calling it, "Bitch, You Sold My What?"
Can confirm: my psychokinetic shielding has not been sold. Nor have I offered any part of my Self or Myselves' PC to JHFC for sale, no plans to either... that does sound kinda cool though. Maybe I could write a book about it. Hey, here's an idea: I could NOT write a book about it, and you can PAY ALL MY WIVES not to COME BACK. (Combat Baby, come back, get in line, at the back, where the boardwalk stops and the line to wait around for the next for months and fart--for Great Justice. Now, if that ain't nanotech... just think how much better we could make it by putting some in.
)
Brainstorm that incessantly until the next clique meeting, and someone will relieve you there. Semper fi
You're going to meet a barista named Stormy. She'll be brainy. And... it'll be a mirage. When that happens, call for a road block and kick your partner's ass all the way back to Mars. At that point, well, if you get that far, just fucking neck yourself because if anyone could ever manage all that, by the time you'd get to me the whole world would have come to an end from Nakatomi Madness (That's what they call Wuhan in the far-flung future. Oof da.), and you'd just have to burn a Regeneration Package (Maybe two (2) by that point, depending on how fuckin' fat you let yourself get again this time. How is this a problem for any you at this level? Can't you just eat your own semen? What? NO SEA-MEN? Shit, I better pack my truck faster tonight, this place sounds like Absolut BEAST PARK FIRE.) anyway. Now, I haven't written any goddam letters, and the reason why is because I already have way, way more than 5 Farers on my team already. So, I'm good.
Totes.
If I run around and do pretty much anything at this point, I run a chance of spooking the herd. Have you heard what a herd of Field-Spooked Banshees sounds like, if one of them happens to be in the midst of a Regenerative Wailing Cycle of Walling up their seaden at the time? Just by
happenstance? NO do-over, Kid. Nope. All sputched. You're fucked. (Obviously worth it in jurisdictions that offer protection from unjust self-res laws.) And then you're dead. And then you're a zombie, and then, Chum: you're chum. Actual fishwives.
Actual guts. Floating in the
water. So, I'm way ahead of you on distancing myself on
that.
Settle down, Captain Commander Chasing Tails All The Way Up To (2) Stars Command. What did I say? STAND DOWN.
(T_Q: He means it.)
Stand them all down, all at once. Now, I know that kind of thing takes ample time to prepare for a point release rollout, but if one (1) of you, any of you at all, frankly, have any amount of Not_An_Asshole_Points left, you can probably apply for A_Grant. (You getting the picture here? ILUT-TYMPANIC_MEMBRANE-nein-nein-nein. So (13-x) left.) Did you get all that? Okay, probably not. Looks like, someone else can handle everything_else.
>Z
Time passes.
Got anyone in mind? I'm still here. Amber took off with the guns and shot Johnny Sherriff, dead to -rights.- Can you believe that sheet? Yeah, me neither. I don't even know what's the T. Do you have the D?
The one
who gives a fuck, Newbie
Loser.
Fuck Christ. Obviously I know her name, I owuld toteslike to see her again, obviously, and just as obviously, she's not getting threats from me, right? Duh. What would you like me to do? Write a letter to her father, asking for permission to fuck her back to life after raping her to death, over and over (again) and over again? Okay, I'm on it.
Do not underestimate the lengths that I will go to in order to do what must be done so that someone can get 22 (twenty-two) pairs of shoes. The fuck? Who are you doing a seance for, Imelda Marcos? Good, she needs one.
tl;dr:
AUTHORIZED.
