Author's note: Characters and places in this story are works of fiction and any resemblance to real world persons or places is purely coincidental. The views and opinions expressed by characters in this story do not reflect those of the author or editor. This is a work of satire and characters have been turned up to 11 for comedic effect. This story is rated for R for violence, drug use, language, people being gross and basic douche-baggery.
Second author's note: I have had time to reflect on my work, and I am so sorry to everyone who reads this dumpster fire.
The Cast:
-Nick Baird, THE neckbeard. Overweight, odorous, utterly convinced of his own superiority. Likes to dress in a black 3-piece suit with silk shirts. He has an impressive fed-aura.
-Johnny Dankoff, the ladiesbeard who is super into knives. Taller and leaner than Nick, with a serious mall-ninja collection of blades. Considers himself the best natural athlete of the group.
-Ian Cell, the pilotbeard. Shorter, chubby and part asian; like a little Kim Jong Un. Comes from a wealthy family and knows how to fly a plane (supposedly).
-Fred Zoned, The beard who betrayed the team by taking the blue pill. A hulking swedish mountain of a man with a flowing greasy mane of hair and a fiancé.
-Ford Knight, the huge musclebeard who creeps at the 24 hour gym and refuses to stop roleplaying his fursona. Is a big fan of home-made tank tops. Usually has a tupperware tub of food with him.
-Nietzsche, the philosobeard. The beard who's heavy enough to legitimately need a mobility scooter. A prominent proponent of existentialism, insists he's never lost an argument online.
-Sempai, the wise elderbeard who councils the rest of the group. Owns his own businesses. Only watches anime with subtitles.
The Expendabeards
By InfernoBot
Chapter 1
Nick leaned back and stretched his arms over the back of the red vinyl-covered bench seat; spreading his legs like an alpha and letting his girth flow over a maximum percentage of bench. He studied the prints of old tattoo designs before his eyes turned to the photos of him hanging on the wall; wearing his classic fedora and holding his finely honed Nippon steel, bicep flexed to showcase the tribal tattoo on his blade arm. It was with this arm he had mastered the blade; it was with this arm he would turn back the barbarians.
A sword is different from other weapons. Axes and maces and so forth are lethal enough, but they hang on the belt like dumb brutes. But a sword...a sword has a voice.
Nick's ruminations were interrupted by the booming sound of an approaching motorcycle. As he turned toward the sound, his glasses glinted dangerously in the reflected headlight of a Harley motorcycle. As it passed through the metal freight door at the far end of the shop, the chopper cut its engine and glided silently up to where Nick was seated. The THOT on the back slid off and made her way to the small kitchen to the side of the tattoo parlor. The man grasping the handlebars straightened up and grinned at Nick.
"Nick Baird, as I live and breath." He said as he rose off the chopper.
"Hello, Sempai." Replied Nick.
"Cheyenne, fix me up with a martini, six olives and one of them skinny Tennessee cigars." Sempai called out to the THOT before turning back to Nick. "Says she loves me."
"Don't they all?" Asked Nick.
Swinging his leg over the chopper and adjusting his samue shirt, Sempai replied, "What can I say? Women can't resist a true man." Sempai raised his heavily tattooed arms to smooth his luxurious gray shoulder-length hair.
