Left beaten, bloodied and bruised in a ditch somewhere, @MadMikeMarsbergen lost the Pot 1 Finals of SmackDown: The Second Coming to @torontojim (who later ended up winning the Grand Finals, too). Now he's back to get some revenge on all you competit...
Mad Mike couldn't stop. His foot kept pumping the brake but nothing happened. Jim from Toronto, the Twinkie-loving bastard, had cut his brakes. Travelling around a California coastal highway with the ocean to his left and a mountain to his right, going two thousand kilometres per hour in a fifteen zone with signs stating children would be crossing on their way to or from school, his sick ride flipped over the guardrail and crashed into the raging Pacific sea.
His body was obliterated into a billion different hunks of bloody, pulsating flesh. Mad Mike died instantly.
Or did he...?
The organs unstuck themselves from the interior of the car, cartwheeling towards the dashboard air vents. Dripping and oozing blood redirected its gravity. Chunks of meat moved as if by magic. Bits of broken teeth chattered. To the observant eye, perhaps even a wispy green soul could be found floating about the vehicle. Everything that Mad Mike was made of went into the air vents on the dash.
And then the car transformed, becoming not a Transformer—no, that would be copyright infringement—but a Transchanger, a robot in disguise!
Mad Mike, rejuvenated in ways only a machine could be, converted himself to robot form. No longer was he a pitiful human male... now he was an anthropomorphic automobile male! He stepped out of the sea with ease, scaled the cliff with even greater ease, and then transformed—uh, transchanged—back into a wicked car with the greatest ease of all. He took off like a fast car driven by a reckless driver, but this time he had brakes that could brake, and now he was, quite literally, one with the car.
Jim from Toronto had another thing coming.
Within minutes, Mad Mike arrived at Jim from Toronto's JimboPad, a swanky sex club–cum–Twinkie-production facility. Neon lights flickered above the front doors. Two guards stood with their arms crossed and matching looks of Twinkie-induced constipation on their faces. They gave each other puzzled glances when the supercar pulled up, whining engine waning to a burble as it stopped. No driver stepped out of the car. The tinted windows revealed no driver. The goons came forward to investigate.
Just as Mad Mike had planned.
When they both pressed their noses to the glass, trying to peer in, the car exploded. Jim from Toronto's goons were obliterated much like Mad Mike was at the beginning of this riveting tale. But, unlike Mad Mike then—and unlike Mad Mike right now—neither of the goons were able to creatively piece themselves back together.
Mad Mike did, though. Because he was cool.
The flaming shrapnel that was Mad Mike extinguished itself, then rebuilt itself back into a perfect-looking, generic-but-still-beautiful, brand-name-not-to-be-disclosed-for-fear-of-being-sued supercar. And then, of course, he turned back into a robot and smashed through the door.
Jim from Toronto sat on his Twinkie throne, his long golden hair blowing constantly, his chiselled abs glistening with sweat that was quickly licked by one of his Twinkie-costumed sluts. "Mad Mike! We meet again! Mwa-mwa-mwa-mwa!"
"Yeah, except this time I make the rules," Mad Mike replied, and then blew Jim from Toronto to the ninth level of Hell.
With Jim from Toronto out of the way, Mad Mike ate all the Twinkies and even let some of the bimbos ride inside him.
