Tevun-Krus #80 - WattPunk 2.0

Magic Mike and the Common-Sense Conclusion - A Short Story by @MadMikeMarsbergen

1

"I don't believe this shit," the man mumbled to his computer monitor. He took a sip of his extra-large Watty and grimaced in disgust. Picked a stray orange pube from his tongue. "They didn't even read my fuckin' story! The fuck is this comment supposed to mean, anyway!? 'Loved the way Pixy Dust rode Unicron LOL!' There wasn't any Pixy Dust or Unicron in my fucking story, nor was there anything remotely funny in it! What the hell are you LOLing at, you dumbass!?"

He rubbed his temples, leaving orange Cheetos dust behind. His head killed right now. Had been hurting a lot lately, but this took the cake. Nobody understood his beautiful writing. Their comments were irrelevant. It made him sick. Made him want to teach them all a lesson.

A grin worked its way across his pale face.

Yeah. Teach 'em all. A lesson.

The man brought up the profile of the latest imbecile to comment on his riveting story. Got a good look. Memorized the name and the face.

He went to his gun rack. Grabbed his finest and most powerful weapon. Locked it and loaded it.

The hunt was on.

2

He'd just jacked off. Now it was time to jack in.

MadMike tugged his pants up from around his ankles. They'd been down there while he got freaky with a little purple-headed someone named Magic Mike, which was his giant penis. The two had been with one another since the very beginning, and neither could imagine a world without the other.

Snorting a line off his windowsill, MadMike felt sufficiently recharged to write ten thousand words in ten minutes. He had another Tevun-Krus story to write, and as per usual he'd procrastinated until the day the issue was due to be posted. MadMike did his usual thing—which was to take the best parts of his previous stories and, without any kind of rewriting, reuse them. Then he filled in the gaps by throwing a bunch of words into a blender and seeing what came out.

The pulpy mess looked like puke—but, hey: Nobody ever said writing was pretty. He downed the mixture like a smoothie and belched. Jammed the computer cables into his veins, waited five minutes, then felt the words flow through him.

Five minutes later he had another masterpiece, this one titled "Jackass Rides the Carousel with a Cigarette Burning in His Butt." He sent it off to Angus and smiled in that self-satisfied manner that makes a person want to put a hammer to each individual tooth.

There was a knock at his door. MadMike went to answer it, expecting one of his many fans: a scantily clad woman demanding lots of kinky sex.

He didn't get what he wanted.

Instead there stood a frizzy-haired, morbidly obese man with scab-like acne on his ghost-pale cheeks. He had orange Cheetos powder all over his temples, at the corners of his large mouth, and in fingertip-sized smears on his vintage Alf snug-fit T-shirt, which barely covered his grotesque, furry belly—because no way could that shit be called hair. Below the nausea-inducing gut, zipper down and top button nearly bursting off, was a pair of black pants with chains dangling from millions of pockets. He wore thick, round glasses that made his ice-blue eyes look as big as pancakes, and he seemed to be staring at nothing at all. His lower jaw jutted out. Drool dripped down his many chins, like water rolling down a South American stepped pyramid.

"Help you?" MadMike asked, wrinkling his nose. Fatty smelled of something foul.

The thing slurped drool back into his rotten mouth. "Yeah," he mumbled, taking a look at his WattPhone. "Are you MadMike?"

"Look, if you want an autograph, mail me something to stamp. I only take house calls from chicks with big asses, and you're not a chick." MadMike glanced down at what looked to be DD-sized tits underneath the Alf shirt. "You're not a chick, right?"

"You left an irrelevant comment on my riveting story. Now you must die."

"What? You think I'd even bother to comment on your story?"

The thing pulled a comically large weapon from one of his millions of pockets. It looked like a rifle, but it had a crank, and the shooting end of it was as wide and deep as a funnel.

"Is that a fucking blunderbuss?"

"Yeah, you like it?"

"Not really, no. Real men swing around pikes. They're long, hard and pointy—the perfect metaphor for our wangs. Your blunderbuss, I'm sorry to say it, looks more like an anus after a night of hardcore anal. I bet I could blow into it like an empty jug and make music—your anus, that is."

The thing turned around, dropped trou and bent over. "Do it, then. Blow into it."

MadMike shielded his eyes from the sight of a ginger's asshole.

The thing pulled his pants up and turned around. "Didn't think you had the guts. You're just a troll who comments on riveting things in an irrelevant manner. And now you must die." He began to crank his vintage weapon.

"Wait," MadMike said. "You play ball?"

"What?"

"You play ball?"

"Those words mean nothing to me. Like the way you treated my riveting story. Now accept your fate, you sub-human scum."

"I'm saying let's settle this on the intergalactic b-ball court, like real men."

The thing scratched the orange stubble on his upper lip. Pimple flakes fell off. "Interesting proposition. I have been known to slam a few dunks..."

MadMike noticed the varicose veins, oddly enough, on the backs of the thing's arms. "Uh, of course you have..."

"Then it's settled," the thing said. "House rules. First one to seven wins. If I win, I kill you for your downright-offensive, highly irrelevant comment on my riveting story. If you win, I kill you for your downright-offensive, highly irrelevant comment on my riveting story."

"I don't much like the terms of that," said MadMike.

"Then make it interesting, sub-human."

"How about this. House rules. First to seven wins. If I win, you fuck off to whatever orange pube–laden pit you crawled out of. If you win, you go back to your cave and die alone."

The thing scowled. "Well that doesn't seem very fair to me. Where's the part where I kill you for shitposting on my riveting story? What can you do for me?"

MadMike snapped his fingers. "I've got it. House rules. First to seven wins. If I win, you crawl back inside your mother's uterus and live out the rest of your unnatural existence where you were spawned. If you win, I'll blow into your revolting asshole and then you get to kill me for no apparent reason."

"Deal." The thing turned around and led the way to the sporting arena. "I can't wait for you to blow into my—"

Gripping the thing by the curly hair with his muscles bulging, MadMike ripped out the fucker's spine and gave him two lashes—just two. He kicked the corpse a few dozen times—no more than absolutely necessary—and threw aside the bloody spine.

He took off his shirt for no reason—because that's what rugged motherfuckers named MadMike do—and made his abdominal muscles high-five each other.

He picked up the blunderbuss, studied it for a second. Crumpled it up like paper. "Never bring a gun to a MadMike fight. It's just common sense."

Nodding in approval, MadMike went back inside. He had a few more irrelevant comments to leave on other people's shitty stories, and he thought he might order a few babes with big asses to bang.