Jojo Death Battle Preview ExtravaganzaJojo Death Battle Preview Extravaganza by Master-of-the-Boot
Jojo vs Terry Crews or: Jojo’s Death Battle Adventure
Jonathon “Jojo” Joestar looked down at the dying Father Alexander Anderson. The insane Scottish priest had attempted to kill Jojo, resulting in an epic anime battle of truly awesome proportions.
As the Priest’s body slowly crumbled from the removal of Helena’s Nail, Father Anderson spoke words of comfort to the saddened Jojo. “Hey, son, dinnae be sad. Ye’re young, mah time is done.”
“It didn’t have to be this way,” Jojo lamented to the priest.
Anderson laughed even as his doom crept up on him, “I forgive ye, an’ ye will forgive yerself. But tha real reason ah attacked ye was because ye made me sexually excited.”
Jojo internally did a double take while on the outside played it cool. “Uh, really.”
Anderson smiled and nodded, “Aye, if ah
First time passing!!!No T, (yet) no surgery.First time passing!!! by IsangsimaronBatis
I felt an overwhelming sense of joy. : DDDDDD I wasn't dressing any differently, although, the binder probably helps. : ) Demeanor: casual, not overly withdrawn, not overly excited. Stance: not closed, not open. I don't usually pass or expect to, but I did this time! : DD
Jojo vs Terry Crews or: Jojo’s Death Battle Adventure
Jonathon “Jojo” Joestar looked down at the dying Father Alexander Anderson. The insane Scottish priest had attempted to kill Jojo, resulting in an epic anime battle of truly awesome proportions.
As the Priest’s body slowly crumbled from the removal of Helena’s Nail, Father Anderson spoke words of comfort to the saddened Jojo. “Hey, son, dinnae be sad. Ye’re young, mah time is done.”
“It didn’t have to be this way,” Jojo lamented to the priest.
Anderson laughed even as his doom crept up on him, “I forgive ye, an’ ye will forgive yerself. But tha real reason ah attacked ye was because ye made me sexually excited.”
Jojo internally did a double take while on the outside played it cool. “Uh, really.”
Anderson smiled and nodded, “Aye, if ah’d a come out of tha closet years ago instead of here on mah death bed, we’d be havin’ sex in tha back o’ mah car.”
Jojo smiled and tried to hide his thoughts of WTF. Coming from Shoennen-ai Victorian England, he wasn’t fully comfortable with another guy expressing sexual interest in him; but he truly didn’t want to upset a dying man.
“Farewell, Jojo . . .” Anderson’s voice trailed off as his body finally crumbled into ashes.
With that the man was gone and Jojo could fully feel his exhaustion.
Alas the first Joestar didn’t have time for anything before he heard the telltale click of a shotgun. With ripple enhanced reflexes Jojo, zoomed out of the way of the buckshot. Landing in a roll, the first Joestar drew out his sword, Pluck-and-Luck and focused on the adversary who’d attacked him.
Standing on top of the smouldering London rubble, an elderly Englishman with psychotic eyes cradled an M-1 Benelli shotgun and smiled at Jojo in ways that made his skin crawl. “Prepare for the Michael Rosen rape!” the man shouted most jolly.
Before Jojo could take out Michael Rosen, the sound of a minigun whirring to life stopped him. A hail of bullets struck the spot where he’d been a moment ago; ripple powers taking Jojo to a higher vantage point away from the gunfire. Atop the roof of the ruined building, Jojo saw a bearded man in a blue shirt holding an impossibly large gun.
“Get your credit card ready!” shouted the man in blue, “And hold your dick steady because here comes BILLY MAYS!!”
Jojo didn’t have time to focus on Billy either, because at that very moment the building he stood on began to rumble and collapse.
Through the rising dust, not one but two robot armies marched, firing their weapons in unison at the Joestar hero. Jojo ducked, dodged and pivoted among innumerable terminators and robots, smashing the droids apart with ripple enhanced strength and opening up their hardened chassis’ with his sword.
As he fought these robotic menaces, a Finnish sniper shot the sword out of his hands. Out of nowhere, two old, angry men held Jojo’s arms behind his back while a demonic butler threw deadly butter knives at him.
Jojo pulled one arm free and parried a blow from a steroid fuelled homeless man in a batman costume. “You don’t know from screwed, you loser!”
“You don’t know from grammar, mister!” Jojo shouted back
The two old men hit the ground as Jojo broke free of their grip and evaded the flying cutlery; instead killing the two asshole grandpas and the Batman impostor.
Surrounded by evil on all sides, Jojo saw flashes of them all like soldiers in the Queen of Heart’s army; some kind of crazy street judge, a masked madman, another masked madman, an American vampire, a tall cloaked vampire and others that defied his comprehension.
Suddenly, a brick caught Jojo in the back of the head. Blood pouring down the back of his neck, Jojo fell limply.
Landing on the ground, all the wind left his lungs but he was paralyzed from doing anything about it. Unable to move or breathe Jojo could only watch helplessly as a vampire in a black leather body suit and white cotton gloves straddled him holding up a bloodied brick.
The vampire grinned, eyes burning with hate and fangs out on full display. “Ready to have some fun?” the vampire asked in a demonic voice as he raised the brick and with his free hand began to adjust his belt buckle.
Everything went black.
. . .
. . .
. . .
Jonathon shot up in the hospital bed screaming. Eyes bulging and sweat pouring down his body, the confused Joestar looked around to find himself all alone. Good.
Slowly calming down, Jojo felt his body for any wounds. Mentally he felt his more “private” areas and nothing felt out of order down below.
Leaning back on the hospital pillows, Jojo wondered just what the fuck was going on. Had it all been a dream? Who the hell were all those people attacking him?
He preferred to think it was a dream. The fight with Anderson felt real, but after that everything just seemed to melt. Then there was the fact that he didn’t want to imagine he’d been hideously sodomized by an insane vampire who made Dio look like Ned Flanders.
Unfortunately for Jojo, his bizarre adventures weren’t over yet.
From between his thighs, under his hospital gown, the buffest black man that Jonathon had ever seen sprang up like a tree growing in high speed capture camera.
“AAAHHHH!!!!” shouted the chocolate muscle man as he stood between Jojo’s legs, accidently lifting up the Joestar’s gown. “PREPARE TO RECEIVE A CAN OF WHUP-ASS!!!!”
Jojo’s eyes were as wide as saucers and his jaw had nearly hit the floor. Awash with shock and shame at his nudity before the scary yet sexy black man, he could only stammer, “W-what did I do to you?”
Screaming louder than anybody had ever met the man in the tight red speedo answered, “I DON’T KNOW. KING HARKINIAN WANTS YOU DEAD!!!!!!”
Jojo rolled off the bed and took off running. Maybe if he reached a public street then this man would hesitate to follow due to his state of undress.
Feet padding across the cold linoleum floors Jojo opened the door to his hospital room only to be confronted by a voice actor.
“Steve Blum!” crooned the voice actor.
Fearing for his sanity Jojo quickly shut the door and opened it only to be confronted by Jack Nicholson.
“Here’s Johnny!” he slammed the door shut.
And opened it again to see Barrack Obama.
“Wipe out China!”
And worst of all, the dreaded Weegee.
The silent sentinel of death and poor MS-Pain skills stared back at Jojo with its thousand light year stare.
For the final time, Jojo slammed the door shut. Spinning around, he avoided several martial arts kicks from Terry Crews as well as the Adam West like onomatopoeia. Twisting gracefully from the attacks, Jojo ran towards the window, well past the point of caring about his own partial nudity.
“This is insane,” Jojo panted, “I’m being trolled!”
And with one powerful push, Jojo pumped straight through the closed window. Shards of glass exploded everywhere, pigeons on the ledge took to flight and the first Joestar plunged over a hundred stories towards the ground.
As Jojo fell, Terry watched his target fall. But he’s not escape so easily. The nearly naked man scowled, “You think I’m playin?” And screaming like a lunatic, he too jumped out the window after Jojo.
Master of the Boot’s Vampire Royale: Part 1
Disclaimer: I do not own any third party properties; this is a purely non-profit venture. Now enjoy
Part two is going to be twice crazy so be ready for it. I started work on part two tonight so enjoy.
It was one hour before sunrise at 2Fort. Nighttime was the only peaceful time around here. With days full of death and slaughter, sundown was a time of rest and even the most zealous members of the soldier class would not dare disrupt it. Like soldiers at Christmas, this was one of those special times when the killing stopped and the only time when it stopped; except for this night.
On this very night, the moon that rose over the horizon was blood red. From the window of his laboratory, Medic gave a grim sort of smile. Normally he’d be tempted to pass off the red moon as some kind of atmospheric phenomenon; but he knew the truth. The blood moon was the marker of his master; a harbinger of the coming perfection.
The blue Medic started to throw on a fresh pair of gloves, new coat and a freshly charged medigun. From the racks he selected the Crusader’s Crossbow over his usual medigun; he’d need this device tonight for its ability to damage enemies and more importantly, pierce their hearts. His usual bone saw took its place at his side.
He knew he didn’t have much time; soon the three foes would arrive at the base, each one ignorant of the others. They’d be forced to find out one another’s weaknesses and strengths through bloody trial and error; vampiric mortal combat would decide who was fit to be the king and who would be consigned to the dustbin of history.
But as he selected his weapons for the night, not bothering to warn his companions someone or something struck the Medic from behind.
The impact was staggering, and the German psycho doctor was thrown forward; slamming him into a rack full of test tubes and beakers. Lying on the ground and bleeding, the Blue Medic tried to get a bead on his attacker with the crossbow, but it a kick from his enemy shattered his arm bones.
Crying out in pain, Medic clutched his arm to his chest. When his enemy turned him over and looked him in the eye, Medic’s cry of pain turned to one of shock and horror.
Standing over him, wearing a Waffen SS officer’s uniform was an elderly but healthy looking German man with waxy skin and a ghoulish smile. The Waffen SS man cocked his head from side to side as he smiled down at the medic; looking for all the world like he’d already decided the Medic’s fate and now the rest was just waiting.
“Guten Abend,” the man smiled behind ultra-white teeth, “Good to see you again, Herr Medic.”
“Eichhorst!” Medic cringed in horror, “I thought you were dead. I swear, I not mean to leave you to the Red Army; my hands were tied!”
The Nazi Eichhorst chuckled at his former comrade, “We had fun together at Buchenwald, Joseph and I’m not even angry that you screwed us all over. It wasn’t easy to forgive you though, and don’t think that I didn’t try.”
With a flutter of his fake eyelashes, Eichhorst slammed a boot down on the Medic’s groin. The downed Doctor gave a high-pitched shriek of agony and tried to move the boot off of his family jewels.
Eichhorst continued, “While you ran away I found myself a new Fuhrer to believe in, a true Philosopher King of Aristotle. I think you might like to join him.”
Pale and sweating, Medic wordlessly looked on in horror as Eichhorst’s throat began to bulge out and his tongue split in half. From out of the Nazi’s mouth shot a long, pale tentacle with a bone barb on the end. The barb thrust into the Medic’s throat and immediately started sucking his blood with maximum efficiency.
As he did exsanguinate the downed German doctor, a hail of gunfire came through the window; messily cutting off Eichhorst’s head. The body fell to the ground, twitch and spasming like a headless chicken while Eichhorst’s severed head still kept trying to drink the Medic’s blood; fresh, steaming human blood spewed out of the severed stump of the head.
Out on the hills, Skinner Sweet smirked and popped a fresh clip into his BAR. Lighting a cigar, he figured that one burst of gunfire alone wouldn’t be enough to wake up the sleepy inhabitants of 2Fort. He’d need something bigger for that.
Five Minutes Earlier
A flock of bats flew through the Scout’s window. The block of winged creatures reformed, becoming the King of the Vampires. Standing tall and regal, Dracula scanned the room and nearly gagged. The smell was absolutely foul; like someone had the worst diarrhea attack in the world all over the floor. The Count nearly stepped in a puddle of semi-dried clear liquid feces.
Frowning, Dracula placed a white handkerchief over his nose and mouth. Stepping forward he disdainfully took note of Scout’s baseball paraphernalia; vowing himself to burn all of this when he’d drank Scout’s blood and made him into a thrall.
As he walked near the bed though, the Count almost stepped on something—Scout himself.
Eyes narrowing, Dracula knelt down and started to examine the downed Red Scout with one hand. His vampire hearing had detected no heartbeat and the downed Boston boy wasn’t breathing; yet the body felt warm.
Scout lay on his back, eyes wide open and face drawn into a lazy expression of despair. Dracula’s hand went to the boy’s face, feeling the shocking warmth of his body. Pulling back the lad’s eyelid, it snapped back into place; the skin still retained its elasticity.
Turning his head over, Dracula saw something of note. There over the jugular vein was an incision, scalpel clean and so thin and fine that all but the most skilled of morticians and physicians would fail to see it. Leaning in closer, Dracula caught the ghost of a sound, almost like crawling worms; coming from the incision.
Something wasn’t adding up. Somebody else or something had been here. It looked biological in nature; the neck incision was a point of entry and thus ruled out a contagion spread through water or food. Curiously, the Count stuck a pale, bony finger into the Scout’s neck. To his surprise, a thick white ooze dripped out.
That was when he heard the bout of gunfire. The Count stood up and looked out the window, cape billowing behind him. He saw a lone figure atop a rock formation with a number of guns strapped to him. Snarling, the count began to think of the ways he’d torture that lone gunman. His instincts told him that the gunman might have something to do with what had happened to scout. After he’d kill the man, he’d use necromancy to divine his secrets; being a thrall was too good for him.
However all plans that the count was making counted for nothing as he heard a noise behind him. Spinning around, he saw that the Scout was standing. The boy was standing without breathing and while having no heartbeat; his body temperature was skyrocketing, heat radiated off of him like fever.
Slowly, Dracula pulled the kerchief from his face, gingerly folding it back up and placing it in his pocket. “Mr. Renfield?” he asked the boy, attempting to assess the state of the former red scout’s mind.
Scout paid no mind to the count, his eyes unfocused and jaw slack.
Tentatively, the count took a step forward; chest pushed forward and cape spread outwards. It was very much like one animal asserting its authority over another. The action of moving in closer seemed to get the Scout’s attention as he jerkily turned to look at the vampire King.
A series of clicking noises emanated from Scout’s throat but otherwise he neither moved nor acknowledged the presence of the master vampire before him. Creakily, his arms began to move; the movement was stiff and awkward, a bit like a puppet on strings.
Dracula pushed forward with his mind, trying to psychically read this new unmeasured quantity in his plans. What he saw surprised him, or rather what he didn’t see. Scout’s brain was totally empty; no memories, no thoughts, no personality. The newly risen scout was running on pure hind brain; only a vague, unspecified hunger filled the otherwise empty skull.
Likewise, the Scout’s arms were now lowered and he focused his watery eyes on Dracula; nictitating membranes sliding over them. Nostrils flared as the Scout sniffed; taking notice of the King vampire but not responding to his dominant posture.
His mental probe did find something interesting though. As he broadened his mental probes, he felt . . . a presence. Scout was gone, but he had the intuition that his knowledge and personality had been sucked away rather than erased. Something was watching him, using the Scout like a personal security camera. Something was fucking with him.
It was then that the puppeteer had enough of testing his new toy out. Scout opened his mouth and a long, bone tipped tentacle shot out. The thing moved blindingly fast and aimed for the jugular; any other vampire would have missed it and been struck.
Dracula however was not another vampire; his hand shot out with blinding speed and snatched the feeding tentacle.
From the former scout’s throat came inhuman, bird like squawking. The Scout-creature shrieked and tried to pull back its tentacle; its body assuming a primal fight or flight position. With a mighty tug, the tentacle ripped free from the Scout-creature’s mouth. Thick white fluid splattered everywhere as the Scout-beast jumped back in pain.
Dracula lunged forward, throwing the squirming tentacle aside. The Scout creature saw him and lunged at the count, throwing itself at him a starving zombie. Hands held out in claw like position struck where the Count’s head had been, fingertips sinking into the wooden walls.
Steel flashed in the moonlight as Dracula used a broadsword to cut Scout’s legs off. The creature howled like a banshee and began to drag itself after the Count under the impetus of the puppet master. White ooze and hair thin worms wept from the leg stumps.
Dracula hissed at the abomination before him and grabbed it by the throat. The ghoulish thing snapped its jaws and yowled as the vampire King held it fast. His mental probes went into the thing’s empty mind as he sought out the master, the one in charge.
For one brief second, he locked eyes with the turned Scout and his psychic inquiry was met by a presence. The thing on the controlling end of the strain-Scout was powerful, ancient and unknowable. In the millisecond that Dracula glimpsed the thing, it had shut him out; but the damage was done. Dracula knew that something was in this area, spreading a new strain of vampirism like the Black Death taken sentience.
Gnashing his fangs, Dracula thrust the sword into the wooden frame of the Scout’s night stand and put both hands around the head of the squealing, wretched monster that was once Mr. Renfield. Strain-Scout’s squawking grew louder and higher pitched, its eyes bulged as Dracula’s pressed on the sides of its skull. The pressure grew slowly at first, and then became much stronger. The squealing of Strain-Scout reached ear splitting pitch before his head burst like a grape; spraying white ooze and brain matter everywhere.
Dropping the Scout’s defiled corpse, Dracula disdainfully wiped the white ooze from his hands on the dead boy’s shirt. Idly, he noticed the parasitic worms crawling all over his hands; the little blighters tried to bite his skin but quickly turned away, as if the Count’s flesh was anathema to them.
Up until now, the armed figure he’d seen earlier was pushed to the back of his mind. However the sound of dynamite quickly pulled Dracula from the afterglow of murdering strain-Scout.
The Count pounced to the Scout’s window and looked at the hellish sight before him. The BLU battlements were blown to bits and the rubble was fast burning down. Down below, members of the Blue team were trying to charge into battle, led by the crazy soldier and the blue Scout.
Standing on the middle of the bridge between the two forts like John Motherfucking-Wayne was Skinner Sweet’ covered in guns and ammo; firing his BAR into the air while screaming as loud as inhumanly possible. “OH QUEERS! COME OUT TO PLA-AY!!!”
Blaring alarms started going off in the red base and the red mercs began to stir to life and go for their guns. The two teams of the Mann Corporation charged towards the bridge, towards certain doom.
Dracula snarled in fury as his plans were dashed. Now instead of draining each of the mercs in their sleep, he’d have to fight and take them all individually.
To his very great surprise, Skinner seemed to hear the Count’s snarl from all the way down below. Grinning, the mad American vampire grabbed his M1-Garand one handed. Without even aiming, he fired off a shot that blasted through the Count’s left eye. Dracula was thrown back by the impact and his brains scattered all over the wall behind him.
Skinner shrieked with glee as the first of the mercenaries came at him, blue to the one side and red to the other. Bullets from the Blue Soldier and scout just pinged off of him. A sticky grenade from the red Demoman landed right next to him and engulfed him in the concussive power and smoke of American gunpowder.
The mercenaries for a moment though the fight was over, until a hail of bullets came out of the fire and flames, mowing down the blue Soldier and Scout while blowing off the red Engineer’s jaw.
Skinner stepped out of the cloud of smoke, face fully vamped out; his clawed hands deftly operating the BAR and the Garand, the recoil of each weapon next to insignificant for him. He operated each gun with inhuman accuracy, cutting down his human foes with the martial ability of a thousand human soldiers.
Red Heavy gasped as the blonde demon shrugged off a hail of ubercharged minigun fire. “Demon enemy is killing us!” he shouted to what was left of his team. “Doktor! We must retreat!”
“No shit, dumkopf!” yelled the red Medic as he began to run away, leaving his heavier comrade to fend for himself. He didn’t get far however as a cloaked figure in fine clothes dove out of the sky, causing Medic to scream as the boot came down.
Dracula felt the red Medic’s skull shatter like an egg as he landed on top of the man; it was particularly pleasing to feel the Medic’s neck drive into his thorax through his fine shoes.
Standing in the bloody, crumpled mess of a Medic, Dracula started down the strange American vampire; his fangs flashing and his eyes glowing blood red. Claws extended from his fingers and a look of pure fury. With a flash, he threw his sword through the skull of the Red Heavy, who didn’t even manage to get out a single scream.
Foaming at the mouth, Dracula’s red eyes met Skinner’s gold ones. Skinner gave a growling, animalistic sort of laugh. His eyes were full of hunger, lust and the will to dominate. He was amused by his enemy’s fine clothing and faggy demeanor; he’s show this pussy who was the real vampire king.
Foam starting to fall from Dracula’s mouth, the Transylvanian raised one claw and motioned for Sweet to come hither.
Throwing his gun into his back holster, Skinner roared into the night and extended his own finger lengh claws. One thrust of his mighty legs and he launched himself at the Count.
Skinner charged at Dracula, a giant mess of claws, fangs and muscle; he saw nothing but his enemy’s throat and soft underbelly. He’d go in and disembowel the son of a bitch, make this a bit of fun and smash what little ego this Carpathian had.
The Count stood still as Skinner charged him. He didn’t blink nor move until the American vampire was almost on top of him. Skinner thrust his claws towards Dracula’s gut, attempting to run him through with his pitchfork like appendage. At the very last second, the Count sidestepped the attack; leaving nothing but clawmarks in his cape.
Skinner thrust his other claw towards the Count’s throat, but once more Dracula was prepared for it. He took Skinner’s wrist in his own clawed hand and twisted around; turning the American’s momentum against him.
In under a millisecond, Dracula was behind Skinner, twisting his enemy’s arm around him. The American vampire writhed and twisted like a captive crocodile; snapping his jaws, kicking out and slashing. Several times his free arm slashed Dracula across the face; the Carpathian vampire paid no mind as his healing factor went to work on the superficial wounds.
Bowing his legs, Dracula got under Skinner’s center of gravity and threw his foe over his head. Sweet went flying through the air , smashed through two wooden walls and landed face down in a mud puddle.
The American vampire spat the mud out of his gaping maw only for Dracula to stomp on the back of his head and force his enemy’s face back into the filth, where it belonged. Raising his broadsword over his head, Dracula howled as he brought it down on the back of Skinner’s neck—only for the antique sword to shatter like glass.
“What?” the count gasped as the American vampire broke his grip and was on his enemy like a rapid bear. Skinner slashes and cut furiously, slicing off Dracula’s left hand above the wrist and gouging out both of his eyes. The one handed, blinded Count desperately tried to parry with the broken sword but it was all futile. Another slash of the claws spilled the Count’s cold intestines all over the ground, tripping up Dracula and making him lose balance.
Not letting up for one second, Skinner brought his claws down on the Transylvanian’s shoulder; splitting the count in two all the way down to his belt.
The two sides of his body sagging apart, spewing blood and viscera everywhere, Dracula, still blinded and mutilated could only shamble backwards weakly like some sort of zombie. Looking to end this quickly, unwilling to see how well his enemy could fight back, Skinner swung his claws at Dracula’s neck.
Yet his claws felt nothing, met nothing. The Count had vanished! Nothing was left behind but his cape, which fluttered to the ground. Skinner noticed the mist on the ground pouring away and vanishing and put two and two together. “Fucker!” he shouted as the wounded prey vanished.
In the two forts, each team were busy reswpaning and desperately attempting to upgrade their weapons for war against the blonde haired super villain who’d trashed everyone earlier. Special weapons were brought out and the hats were coming out.
There was just one problem, while everyone was respawning, the Blue Medic was nowhere to be seen. Blue Heavy had made a quick beeline towards the Medic’s lab, “Doktor!” he shouted as he took in the remains of the ruined laboratory, visibly freaked out by the dead Nazi who was bleeding white for some reason. He cringed in disgust as small thin worms in the white blood began to crawl towards him.
He heard a crunch behind him as the Blue Medic stepped on a beaker. The Medic seemed daze, like he’d gotten into Demo’s stash of scrumpy; his arms were loose and his eyes were unfocused. Slowly however he seemed to look at Heavy as the big Russian spoke. “Doktor! We have to go! Doktor?”
A strange clicking noise was coming from the Medic’s throat as his eyes continued to focus on the heavy until he was looking at the giant man’s pulsing jugular and carotid arteries.
Heavy let out a strangled gurgle as a long, thing tentacle tiped in a bone barb shot out of the Medic’s mouth and ripped into his throat. The tentacle pulsed and took on a crimson hue as it began to efficiently and rapidly drain the Russian’s blood. Sasha the Minigun fell to the ground only seconds before her once proud wielder did. The strain was spreading and the puppet master was expanding his influence.
Skinner heard the screams coming from the Blue Fort but otherwise paid no attention; a massive black blurr sped at him, evading his claws and going for his mid thigh.
The giant black wolf with blood red eyes looked at the American vampire with inhuman sentience and burning hatred. Locked in his wolf form, Dracula tried to dig his long white fangs into the American vampire’s knee; hoping to either rip off the knee cap or throw his enemy off balance. Though as powerful as his bite was, his mighty jaws could not even make a scratch on that stupid American’s impervious skin; it was like the bastard’s hide was made of adamantium.
Twisting his animal head every which way, he tried his best to topple his enemy and then perhaps see if the skin around his rival’s throat was any weaker but Skinner refused to go down. Skinner swung with one massive claw while reaching for a schofeld revolver with the other.
Skinner fired a bullet through Dracula’s neck, spraying cold dead blood on the parched earth of 2Fort. A second gunshot struck the vampire king in the gut, a third in the leg and a fourth in the chest. Each bullet did next to nothing and Dracula paid no mind to any of those shots; the wounds already beginning to regenerate.
A fifth bullet went right through the red eye of Dracula, throwing off the animalistic vampire. Dracula’s wolf jaws let go of Skinner’s knee and the American vampire capitalized by kicking his oponnet off of him. The Count went sailing through the air, crashing through the walls of an old general store; the massive wolf form lay still as several wooden planks pierced through his chest.
Skinner smirked at his downed foe, features returning to his human façade. Holstering his gun, he looked around until he saw the most perfect broken piece of wood with a sharp point on the end. Over on the ground, the Transylvanian twitched but made no sound. This had been amusing, but it was now time for Skinner to take his rightful place as the last man standing.
His post combat bliss however was interrupted by a soldier’s rocket launcher to the face; the impact threw Skinner off his feet and detonated most of the ammo he was carrying, running all his guns in the process.
Shrugging off the damage, Skinner groaned and got to his feet shakily. His ears were ringing and the vision in one eye wasn’t what it should have been. The desperado vampire stumbled forwards in the dusty streets of 2Fort, blood dripping from his face into the American earth that had breathed life into his personal horror story. Idly, Skinner put a hand up to touch the exposed bone, muscle and sinew at the spot where the rocket had struck him. Dazed as he was, it took him a couple of seconds to spot that the blue soldier who’d shot him looked very pale and seemed to be losing hair in patches.
Skinner’s mind began to clear as the rest of the blue team joined the soldier, every one of them pale as fresh dug roots and all having the same zombie like lack of coordination. Their gun barrels waved in eveyr direction, though they seemed to hold their melee weapons with greater confidence. Like Satan’s glee club, each member of the Strain Team let out a shrieking howl. This seemed to full wake up Sweet.
Smelling the blood and fire, the cowboy vampire grinned and reached into his pocket for his last intact candycane. Cheekily, he asked the infected blue team, “Hey, got anything sweet, boys?”
In response, each and every one of them threw out their mouth tentacles and began to either stand and shoot or charge with melee weapons in hand.
“No that’s no,” Sweet deadpanned as he charged to meet the advancing horde. At the peak of his power under the full moon, Skinner bulldozed through his attackers. A Strain-Scout with a Boston Basher was knocked down like a nine pin. A Strain-demo with a claymore swung his blade, only for it to shatter against Skinner’s upraised wrist. Lunging forward, Sweet ripped the Strain-demo’s twisted, foul heart from its chest.
The creature fell to the ground, wounded but not dead; weakly it snarled at him and tried to gnaw on his ankles, only for Sweet to stomp on its head, crushing its skull and splattering its brains everywhere.
A quick jump and leap allowed skinner to evade a second rocket shot from the Strain-soldier. Gunfire from Strain-Heavy bounced off his hide and the Strain-sniper wasn’t even accurate enough to get a shot. Skinner tore the heads off of them like dandelions, he didn’t even need to vamp out to kill these sad sacks. Twisting the head off of an infected Pyro, he grabbed the masked pyrotechnician’s flamethrower and turned it on the Strain team.
Jets of sweet fire shot out and Skinner began to create a nightmare far worse than anything that the pyro had ever created. The entirety of the strain team went up in fire, the creatures all shrieking in agony as they died. Though even in the pain of death, the monsters who used to be the Blue team tried to attack skinner. It was all futile as the lot of them burned down.
Skinner began to laugh maniacally, surrounded by the flaming corpses of those who’d opposed him. For the fun of it, he began to turn the flamethrower on the buildlings around him, dragging behind him the Pyro’s corpse.
Over by the red fort, the Red Team had chosen to hunker down behind a row of the Engineer’s turrets. Sniper was watching the madness up close through his sniper scope. “Holy Dooley!” he exclaimed as Skinner began to cross the bridge to start burning down the Blue Side of the map. This son of a bitch seemed harder to kill than Saxon Hale; so the entire team except the Soldier was glad that they hadn’t rushed in to take that fucker out.
Suddenly, behind him, Sniper heard the sound of a crate smashing. All of his teammates were clustered down below him in the courtyard so it had to probably be an enemy spy. With his Bushwacka, he swung for the neck of his foe.
There was a sound like metal on metal and Sniper felt the vibration run up his arm. Gasping, he saw just what he’d swung at. Holding the head of the red spy in one hand and a three rune sword in the other was none other than Count motherfucking Dracula, eyes aglow and Sniper’s blade caught between his razor sharp teeth.
Down in the courtyard, the team never got a chance to hear Sniper’s scream before an enraged and psychotic Dracula dropped in the midst of them. Dual wielding his own sword and Sniper’s bushwacka, the Count quickly beheaded the engineer, the Pyro and the heavy in short order.
Soldier pulled a shotgun on the count and aimed for his head, “Eat American lead, you sparkling, garlic hating homo!”
The bushwacka flew through the air and went through the Soldier’s head, killing him instantly. The last one, Scout tried to kite the Count, firing shotgun blasts at him and trying to taunt the vampire. “Hey Mr. D! I got my letta’ a’ resignation here for ya! I’ll kick ya fuckin’ ass back to Romania, sister!”
The Count was on him in a single step, moving so fast the Scout didn’t even see. One clawed hand went down and tore off the Scout’s genitals like picking fruit off the vine. Scout screamed louder and higher than he’d ever in his life, only stopping when Dracula sank his fangs into the Boston boy’s throat and began draining him.
Throwing aside the Scout’s drained corpse, Dracula let a sigh of satisfaction out. He wasted no time as soon the whole team would respawn and with better weapons. With the blood of the slain he started to draw magic runes into the ground while chanting in an ancient, Eldritch language. A blue flame spread, forming a five pointed star over the courtyard and the dead bodies of the mercs started to twitch with the new animation of the undead.
Skinner ran towards his pickup truck. Playtime was over; it was time to shut down the respawn system and take the briefcase from each fort. It was doubly important to finish the job now that the faggot Carpathian was making things hard for him. Not to mention that a big part of him wondered where the pale, worm tongued freaks were coming from.
Skinner spun around with a bowie knife, slicing off the head of a blue Demoman wielding a claymore sword. Sweet parried and thrust with his knife, driving the blade into the heart of an advancing blue scout with a force’a nature. Grabbing a spare schofield from the glovebox of his truck, Skinner took aim and put a bullet through the scope of the blue-Sniper, killing the man and blasting his face with shards of glass. A second gunshot ruptured the blue Pryo’s gas tank and set him off like a firecracker, killing his remaining teammates in the blast.
As he finished gathering his spare guns, Skinner thrust a coach gun into his leg holster; unaware of the invisible figure behind him. Superior vampire hearing alerted him to the blue Spy’s position at the last minute; though it was too late to evade the strike from the Saxy award.
The Australium trophy slammed into Skinner’s head and knocked him to the ground; blood leaking from the wound and running all down his face. Dazed and with a soft spot in his skull, Skinner took aim and fired his last shots, getting the blue Spy right through the face. The injury from soldier’s rocket had almost completely healed, but this wound from the Saxy award felt different; the thing was almost as bad as getting hit by gold.
Skinner snarled and grabbed the Saxy award from the fallen spy. He winced as the gold coloured metal burnt his hand before he tossed it into the river separating the two forts.
Across the river, on the red base, an undead Sniper watched the exchange with skinner and Dracula watched through the eyes of that sniper. Dracula grinned, surrounded by his undead slaves. He’d now seen something that could harm this new blonde stranger. Isotope Gold 47, better known as Australium; one of Mann Co’s most precious commodities; that seemed to hurt this American vampire. A psychic command saw Dracula’s thralls begin to search for crates to crack open in the hopes that they’d have gold or better yet, Australium weapons.
As the thralls began to break open crates, a bullet whizzed past Dracula. The red team; Drac’s was highly surprised it’d taken them this long to respawn and rearm. Something was off about the red team as they charged the vampiric version of themselves. The red eyes of the vampire king widened as a respawned Mr. Renfield attacked his thrall counterpart; driving a barbed tentacle into its throat and starting to drink its blood. Likewise, a strain-Heavy charged like a L4D tank and barrled over the thralls; his tentacle tongue ripping out eyeballs and piercing skulls like eggshells.
This was not good. Whatever was spreading the taint of this new vampire strain had to have some way of moving between the two forts. It can’t be the bridge; nothing had crossed that but Skinner and the doomed members of red and blue.
Dracula began to transform into bats, fleeing his dying and fighting thralls and the meaningless strain vamps; both groups were inconsequential to him. Flittering and reforming, Dracula stood atop the red battlements and scanned for his targets. His mission tonight would be sadly sidetracked by the American vampire and the puppet master behind the strain; for that both of the would have to be punished most severely.
He began to reach out with his psychic senses, utterly apathetic to his thralls who were now losing to the strain team. He started to feel the American vampire, a clouded and strangely “sunny” presence that was crossing over the bridge. Soon, the Transylvanian could start to feel something else. It wasn’t so much a presence as a lack of a presence; like a black hole he could detect this thing by the way it was sucking in everything else around it.
He couldn’t see physically this strange presence, only perceive it as it consumed all thought and feeling around it. It had crossed the river; possibly through some underground maintenance passage in the sewers that red Scout had failed to mention to him. It was then that the un-presence unleashed a devastating psychic attack.
A psychic shockwave flew over the fort, invisible but more powerful than all of Demoman’s explosives. The phychic whisper flew over everything, knocking down Dracula’s last surviving thralls and blasting Dracula himself several meters backwards. The force hit his mental shields like a sledge hammer and they held . . . but only just. His head hurt, pounding like the worst hangover in the world. The vampire king got up shakily, shaking his head to try and rid himself of this wretched feeling. As he did so, two barrels of a shotgun pointed at Dracula’s head and a certain American finger rested on the trigger.
Dracula’s eyes narrowed and his body turned to mist just as Skinner fired his shotgun point blank at the Count’s head. Laughing heartily, Skinner popped open his gun and loaded fresh shells as his enemy rematerialized.
The Count lunged at Skinner, fangs flashing. He thrust out with the point of his captured sword, aiming to drive the point of his blade into the American’s eye. Lighting fast, Skinner’s hand reached out and grabbed the blade, sparks flying as the edge struck against his impervious skin.
Dracula’s strength pushed skinner back, forcing him up against the wall. The tip of the sword was only an inch from his eye, but Skinner merely smiled and laughed hysterically; like this was some kind of game that he had no hope of losing. The laughter only infuriated Dracula further, whose hands trembled around the hilt of his weapon and strings of drool flowed freely from his fangs.
The pair of them struggled on the spot, but as Skinner pushed the point of the three rune sword away from his eye it became aparant that one of them was physically superior and it wasn’t the Count.
The fire that skinner had set spread to the red Fort, and in doing so had set off Demoman’s secret collection of nitroglycerin stored in the base of the battlements. The explosion was massive, so powerful that it put out the fire on the red half of the map and flattened most of the burning buildings in the process.
Dracula and skinner both fell from the falling tower. The explosion had ripped open Mann Co’s poorly designed bomb hatch and opened a new way into the sewer; the two vampires fell through it and into the sewers down below. The pair of them landed on their feet like cats, ignoring the fetid, dank water that stagnated around their ankles.
Dracula raised his sword for another thrust into Skinner’s eye and Sweet pulled out his bowie knife; hoping to cut out the Count’s heart and end this once and for all. But something made the two of them stop; an overwhelming presence of nothingness, a source of plague and an eater of light.
There was also the stink. The Sewers weren’t a nice smelling place at the best of times, but the light eater/puppet master seemed to spread stink and disease with it; a foul stench that smelled like a week’s worth of unchanged bedpans in the infectious disease wing of a hospital.
There, folded nearly in half was a gigantic humanoid figure in ratty brown robes, arms folded over its chest and face obscured by a hood. The figure was still as a statue before Dracula and Skinner. Unlike the Count’s aristocratic air and Skinner’s rebellious and freewheeling demeanor, this thing looked furtive, ascetic; penitent almost. Even the multiple tarnished gold rings around its hands looked less like symbols of office and more like tawdry sentimental trinkets.
Under his hood, Jusef Sardu took in the American Vampire and the Count . . . and struck accordingly. Faster than either of his enemies, a swipe of a giant six inch long talon cut off Dracula’s head. The Romanian’s head splashed down and his sword clanked to moist sewer floor.
Skinner's eyes widened as he raised his gun to the cloaked figure.
Ashi and the Triple Size Salami: By Master of the Boot
This story features hardcore sex, man on man action, references to female on male sex and profanity. Now enjoy.
Nagasaki, Japan, 1510
Ashibinasu of Sato’s brothel gasped and bucked as his client rode his ass like a horse. I don’t mean that in a metaphorical sense, I mean that nine and a half inches were jammed up the male whore’s asshole so far that Ashibinasu (or Ashi) could almost taste the head.
The man on top bucked like a gorilla in head before his body began to spasm and his movements became eratic. Then with a groan, the man who was a sexual legend in his own mind came hard and fast; spewing his goo as men are wont to do.
Ashi let out a deep breath as semen flooded his rectal cavity and then the mass of flesh rolled off him. The sumo wrestler he’d just finished fucking had the biggest smile on his face; either from post coital bliss or eight bottles of sake he’d drunk earlier.
Groaning, Fat Hoshi stretched out like an elephant seal. “That was great, sweetheart. The last time I was on top in the bedroom I was thirteen years old and Kimiko the gardener’s daughter forced herself on me.”
The exhausted whore collapsed on the covers and sucked in sweet, sweet oxygen. Half-heartedly, the whore with a stretched hole nodded and gave the gigantic sumo wrestler an affirmative hand gesture. Ultimately however he’d just gone ten minutes with five hundred pounds on his chest, with the sumo making no attempt to hold up any of his weight. Any longer and he’d have asphyxiated under the folds of fat and blocks of solid muscle. Crushed like an elephant seal female during mating season.
Fat Hoshi groaned with pleasure and stood up, stretching out his puffed limbs while his nine inch meat retracted under his belly folds. “Oh heaven, that was great. I feel like a new man. Twenty years of laying on my back comes to an end today. I’ll put in a good word for you sweetheart.” He paused and started to waddle out of the room, still muttering to himself, “Maybe next time I can have a woman on the bottom.”
With his client gone and nobody else booked for the next hour or so, the whore was able to get up, take in a few more deep breaths and start a proper anal douche. One must always keep up on the hygiene, even if one’s vocation is taking it up the ass and mouth day in and day out.
His butthole cleaned out and rinsed, Ashi was then free to jump into the employee’s bath at the whorehouse; first scrubbing himself clean with a pumice and then hopping into the tub. From there came the lotions for good skin, perfume and makeup. Once bathed, oiled and dolle up, Ashi was a good and proper whore ready to face the rest of the day.
As he strolled down the steps of the brothel’s gilded and plush interior, he saw the owner and master pimp Saigo Tanaka. “Ashi!” the man called and ran up to his whore. Like a trained geisha, he took measured steps and calm demeanor in the presence of his employer.
Tanaka ran up to his star whore and took him by the hand; the pair of them began to walk towards the back office. “Ashi, I have a job for you; one that only you can handle.”
At this, Ashi’s eyes slightly narrowed, “This had better not be another sumo wrestler, I already gave you half of my tip so that I wouldn’t have to be crushed again. I like face sitting as much as the next fellow but when the ass is five square kilometers that’s another thing.”
Tanaka laughed though his nervousness was palpable. “Yeah, well we have another speciality client and he’s too rough for the ladies and none of the other men here will touch him. That’s why I need you, Ashi, you’re the best even though you’ve only been here a few months. Best freelancer I’ve ever had in this shithole of a town.”
Ashi groaned internally, he knew that this asshole of a pimp was buttering him up for something nasty. Ever since coming here all the freaks, woman beaters and lunatics had gone into his bed; and while it paid well it could get things really sore; especially with the assclowns who used no other lube than their own spit. “Who is it?”
Tanaka looked like a child about to tell the name of a horrifying monster under the bed. “Father Alexander Anderson is coming in this afternoon.”
Ashi blinked, and blinked, and blinked. “Pretend for a minute that I have no idea who this guy is because I’ve only been in Nagasaki as long as I’ve been working for you.”
The Pimp looked down and wondered how he was going to break the news. “Well, there’s this guy over at the Catholic Mission, he’s not Dutch, and he’s some other kind of white motherfucker. This priest loves his whores and he’s known for his drunken disorderly; I’m in a bad way with money right now after some betting gone wrong and the good father Anderson is willing to pay enough to put me back in the black.”
This didn’t seem like a good idea, but part of Ashi wanted a challenge. To fuck and suck what no man or woman had fornicated before; maybe he would be the one to finally tame this beast of a man, this Anderson. Vanilla sex was boring and even the kinkiest acts of debauchery got dull if repeated too often; this could be a great way to brighten up things in the sheets.
However he still had concerns, he’d seen more than one whore killed by clients with foul tempers and egos as big as they were fragile. “Is there anything I should know about this Anderson?”
Tanaka laughed nervously, “Well, he’s been bounced out of every whorehouse in Nagasaki at least twice, including this place. He propositioned me a half hour after I’d had him thrown onto the streets and he left me lying in a pool of my own blood.”
The man whore was quiet and unscrutinable, and Tanaka was starting to get nervous. “come on, Ashi, do a man a favour; for this you’ll keep your whole tip if there is one. And you’ll be famous! The only whore who could take the evil Father Anderson!”
“How big is he?”
Tanaka was losing it now, he must have been really in the red. “Oh he’s giant! He’s got a dick the size of a katana! It’s like this big!” He held his hands about three feet apart.
“I’ll do it then,” Ashi agreed. For a whore’s greatest asset isn’t tits or cock, it’s a good poker face. “But I need permenant employment, no more freelancing. I get house rates from now on.”
Sato thanked him, grateful that he’d be able to pay off his gambling debts.
The day went on, and Ashi pleasured five other men and two women, none of the memorable except for the woman who wanted Ashi to pretend to be an abusive husband; that was new.
Clientele filed in and out, and several foreigners came in to enjoy the wine and woman; pissing away whatever money they earned in the sailor and merchant trades. A Dutch trader named Van Smack was playing go with a white haired Arab sailor who went by the moniker Scar. “Your ass is mine, Scar, all your gold belongs to me!”
Scar glared at van Smack and turned to one of the serving girls, “More rice wine, please; I need something to savour my victory.” He narrowed his red albino eyes at Van Smack, “Prepare to be trounced again.”
Elsewhere, Fat Hoshi was sitting down with a Chinese merchant and a British schooner captain. The Chinese man held up a bottle of yellow liquid that was filled with raisins and snakes. “It’s called Baijo,” he explained, “Chinese folk wine, much superior to your Japanese sake. We make this from rice and add an ancient blend of herbs, fruits and whatever is left over in the pantry. Count yourselves lucky as you’re looking at a bottle of my, Ling Yao’s extra grade baijo.”
Hoshi pointed a finger at the Chinese merchant, “Hey, nothing is better than sake, you yellow monkey bastard.” He then turned and smiled at the British man, “Though that “rum” stuff was great, and do you have any more of that weird sweet paste?”
The British man spoke, his formal speech pattern unintentionally comical due to its frequent awkward pauses and stutters, “The um, stuff that you’re, ah, talking about is, eh, marmalade. It’s a Portuguese desert, very uh, expensive and difficult to transport.” He then gave a sort of cheeky grin like he was really thinking about sex, “The marmalade, um, goes well with rum, which is a drink made from ah, fermented molasses; much better than any rice wine.”
Ling Yao was dismissive of the ginger Englishman, “Dammit, Sabine, haven’t you heard the news? China is the center of the world and our liquor is heavenly. To prove it we’ll bring out your best rum, my best baijo and fat boy’s sake and we’ll see what goes best. And don’t skimp out on the marmalade, that stuff is good.”
Sabine smiled wider, a vacant cheeky grin that greeped out most people but by now Ling Yao and Fat Hoshi were used to it. “yes, this should be fun.” He then turned and gave an awkward, knowing grin to the serving girl who’d brought a fresh cup of sake for every man.
The woman smiled, but soon withered under Sabine’s unblinking gaze
“Is he even human?” asked Ling Yao to Hoshi.
Suddenly a vibration came through the entire brothel, startling the patrons and even more startling the staff of the brothel. A second, more noticeable vibration came through the floor and furniture.
“What the hell was what?” asked Ling
The vibrations came faster and deeper, with the whores, male and female making themselves scarce; all but Ashi.
The thundering vibrations came with the fall of the world’s largest boots; size twenty feet stomped down in worn, muddy, bloody boots. The priests long coat billowed open with each step he took and he had to move sideways through each door and duck down.
He was without a doubt probably the single tallest man in the city, handsome and not at all marked by the typical signs of gigantism; his hands, feet and cock were all perfectly proportioned to his mammoth frame.
The over seven foot Scotsman stomped over to the lone whore like some kind of oni or European ogre on the prowl for raw flesh.
With one last dinosaur footstep, the Scotsman loomed over Ashi, his cross dangling about like a pagan talisman of old.
Ashi bowed, “It is an honour to meet you, Alexander-sama.”
“Ah!” Anderson boomed in a voice that could be heard in Kyoto and Peking, “Yeh got mah name right, lass. Everybodeh calle meh fucking “Aruksando,” whit tha fuck is tha?”
Ashi took the boisterous European in stride, “It is my pleasure to honour you with proper pronounciations, Alexander-sama.”
Anderson laughed maniacally, white teeth flashing, “Great! But ah want ye ta call meh Anderson; tha’s mah family name.”
“As you wish, Anderson-smama,” Ashi steeled himself for the worst.
He was taken by surprise when Anderson reached out and grabbed him with both hands. As if he weighted nothing, Father Anderson threw Ashi over his shoulder like a doll. The man whore gave a girlish yelp as the Scotsman began to storm towards the bedroom.
“Ah serve the lord!” Anderson shouted as he stomped up the steps to the private rooms, “And ah deserve a great fuck! Ha-ha!”
Down below, Ling smirked, “Well, I pity that poor little slut.” He turned to his two compatriots, Hoshi seemed oblivious to the plight of the whore while Sabine was well . . . Sabine.
“He’ll be fine,” Hoshi shrugged it off.
While Sabine had the biggest, most unblinking grin ever and oozed out the word, “Marmalade,” as if Marmalade was some kind of European word for cunt.
“You give me the fucking creeps, Sabine,” Ling Yao grumbled.
Ashi knew better than to fight the gigantic man who’d thrown him over his shoulder like some rabid ass caveman. Sometimes fighting made the client horny, other times it made them fucking furious; in both cases he was on the receiving end of the wrath and lust.
The world turned into a blurr as Anderson threw Ashi onto the ornate bed frame as easily as a rag doll. A swipe of his massive hand slammed the door shut and Anderson flexed his knuckles to work out the creaks.
Reaching up, he pulled off his rounded glasses and placed them in his coat pocket. Then with the slobbishness of a teenager, he threw his long coat to the ground. With one swift motion he ripped off his shirt to expose a gigantic, muscular chest covered in thick blonde hair. Piny pink nipples stuck out of the shaggy, muscular mass and the sight of those erect nubs made Ashi lick his lips and start to get it up down south.
The samurai turned hooker looked down at the Scotsman, dropping down from the chest hair was a treasure trail leading down there. Sitting in the man’s semi washed trousers was a bulge that was either the most giant penis Ashi had ever had the pleasure to know or the man stuffed his crotch with rags to make his junk look bigger.
The answer came for him when Anderson haphazardly kicked off his pants, leaving his boots on and showing off what God and his mamma had given him. Ashi involuntarily licked his lips at the stiff, turgid member that stuck out at full mast. Most people who talked about a twelve inch member were bullshitting, but it looked like Anderson might be one of the only people who weren’t. Below the shaft hung a large sack that dangled beneath a national forest of blonde pubes.
Anderson held out one muscular arm bulging with veins and pointed downwards, “Now, ah want ye to come here and suck like tha very devil.”
Ashi had no idea what the dickens was, but he could suck the edge off a katana. He slithered forward on his hands and knees, making sure to suggestively shake his hips as he did. Getting to his knees before Anderson was a practiced move and he took the shaft in one hand. To warm up the giant man, Ashi gave the cock a few pumps but he received a rude surprise when Anderson grabbed him by the neck and impaled him onto the shaft.
A deep bull rumble left Anderson’s throat as he fucked Ashi’s mouth with a singular thrust. There was no gagging from Ashi, which sorely disappointed the Scotsman. Grinding his nearly perfectly white teeth, he started to work the tongue and teeth over his dick, Anderson savoured both the wetness and the feeling of power he gained from handling a weaker partner.
Ashi’s impressive gag reflex almost gave out when the Father yanked out of his mouth and threw him down on the bed. Mercifully, Anderson dind’t put most of his weight on Ashi nor did he go in dry. Like a wild animal in heat, Anderson started to hump repeatedly the whore’s ass, hotdogging those sweet buns. The Scot’s giant hands ran over and felt the hard but giving body underneath him, touching every bit of the sweating skin.
For his part, Ashi’s errection was throbbing and his loins called for the Scotsman to dominate him. Every nerve was aflame and all thoughts in his head had ceased. He’d known ahead of time that the man was rough in the sheets and he welcomed it.
Anderson flipped Ashi over and grabbed his face in both massive hands. Coming down like a lustful war god, he planted a crushing kiss on the whore’s lips. Ashi gasped and tried to push the man off; while a kiss violated the professional code of the whores, he did so enjoy being violated by such a brutish man. He could feel the bruises forming on his lips and the sense of asphyxiation added to his pleasure.
While Anderson did his work, Ashi drank the man in with his eyes. Each massive limb flexed and pulsed with sinew and muscle. Beads of sweat ran down his abdominals and flowed through the sculpted sides of his hips. The rug of blonde chest hair did little to cover up Anderson’s enormous pectoral muscles or the tiny pink nipples so delicious.
So taken in by the man’s brutal and exotic appearance, that Ashi barely noticed Anderson’s cock until it was at his entrance. Lucky for the whore that he’s prepared himself ahead of time, as he’d been warned that Anderson wasn’t one for foreplay. The giant thrust forward, and even Ashi’s experienced asshole had a hard time taking the mammoth member.
Anderson’s square features contorted with years of blocked sexual desire, lust and rage. The way his green eyes bulged and craggy features twisted make him look like one of the demonic no masks. Father Anderson was a pornographic actor in a kabuki play and Ashi was the leading lady.
From his perspective, Anderson’s entire body was tense. Inside him was an itch that he could never scratch. Internally, he screamed with rage that it was not a woman beneath him and he screamed even louder when he remembered what had happened with the women he’d been with. The pressure around the head of his cock nearly made him want to explode there and then. A good part of him wanted to just cum now and then fuck off. Pride though, was what made him stay.
He ground his hips, thrusting sideways to try and make the hole he was in stretch. He knew htat it was a whore underneath him and that he’d fucked half the city but he wanted desperately to make this goddamn fucking whore remember him.
Ashi bucked under him, pushing back on the massive cock; eager to take the giant man to the hilt. The initial pain was subsiding but not entirely gone; it was a good pain now. When Anderson started to initiate a rhythmic pummeling of seismic power, Ashi pounded right back like an anvil welcoming the hammer.
The clap of bodies rang through the air and the bed actually shook. Anderson’s rage only grew. As his balls tingled with delight his heart burned with fury. The whore under him wasn’t all that attractive, but the Scotsman was jealous of his energy and glee. The whore bucked and thrust and he knew that none of it was make believe. The little bitch loved the work.
Griding his teeth, Anderson drew back his hand and slapped the whore writhing underneath him. The penetrated partner gasped and turned to look at him. Ashi smiled as he licked a trickle of blood coming out of the coerner of his mouth. “Fucking beat me until I bleed,” he moaned in a husky voice.
Confused and a little excited Anderson slapped the man again. Though he used a fraction of his strength, he still felt horrible for smacking the sex worker underneath him. But he just couldn’t shake that feeling of anger, impotence and hunger. A few more smacks took out some of the pressure from Anderson’s twisted heart but it wasn’t enough.
Lunging forward, the man bit down on the whore’s neck; Ashi screamed in pain and pleasure as the jaws clamped around his neck, restricting his breathing and blood flow. Anderson grit his teeth around the delicate skin, leaving bruises but not actually drawing blood. The motion of his hips went faster and was matched by the motion of his partner’s hips.
Then out of the haze of unfulfilled need, a spring coiled up somewhere in Anderson’s loins. Internally he cried out, shouting for his body to last longer but the moment came. As he did, the whore Asi moaned and threw his head back as the Scotsman shot a load deep inside his body.
The resulting haze was so great that Ashi never really felt it when Anderson rolled off him. Like kissing, cuddling was a big no-no in the official whore’s handbook. Though he hadn’t orgasmed, the pleasure had been intense and his prostate would be sporting bruises for a bit.
It was as the afterglow retreated, the middle aged prostituite noticed the dirty priest crouching in the corner. The giant blonde European wiped off his junk with a moist curtesy rag and kept his eyes on the ground. For all his brutish manners, massive frame and aggressive bedroom play, Alexander looked really small. Something about the man tugged at Ashi’s heart in a way he’d never expected to feel for one of his clients.
Sitting up, Asi waited for Alexander to notice him, to get up, maybe boast a bit in that bizzare accent of his but he remained silent, hugging his knees to his broad chest.
For the first time in a long time, Ashi was uncertain about how to deal with a man. Sex he could handle. Women, he knew them and their physical needs intimately. Yet this was the first time where he’d been called to deal with a client’s emotional needs.
Telling himself to keep it professional, and that his concern for Alexander Anderson was exactly in the same veing as giving a rimjob or similar. “Hey, are you alright there?”
Slowly, Alex looked up from the spot on the floor. His square features were blank and his vibrant green eyes seemed to have lost some of the savage fire he’d shown before the whore house’s other patrons. “Yeh, ah’m fine. Sure.”
He sighed, as if waiting for Ashi to show him the door or start another round of sex. Though he never showed it, he was deeply surprised that Ashi was waiting for a real reply. He sighed once more before saying, “Ye know, ah’m nae a tough guy. An . . . I dinnae like who ah was jus’ nae.”
“go on,” Ashi prompted in a motherly tone.
Feeling insecure before the man before him, Alex allowed himself to open up just a crack more. “I had nae gotten fucked in year, but I dinnae feel any better after tha’.” He paused and pointed a finger at Ashi, “If ye laugh at meh, ah will beat ye down.”
“Never,” Ashi promised, pretty much used to threats from entitled men and angry wives. “Your secrets are safe with me.”
Anderson chewed over his words carefully before admitting, “Ah guess ah was looking for a friend. Fer the last twenty years, everybody was fuckin’ afraid o’ me. An, if ah’m not offending ye, ah’d rather nae pay fer friendship.”
The sex worker shrugged, “No offense taken, Anderson-sama. It’s good to admit a problem, bottling it up only twists you around, and maybe I’m overstepping my bounds, but I know some people who are as scary as you and mean who maybe you’d get along with.”
Anderson smirked a bit at this. “Ah’ll think about it, ye’ll see meh around if I agree. Ah got a lotta thinkin ta do.” He stood up, towering over the sex worker, though not with the intention to intimidate this time. One more time he pointed a finger at Ashi, “But seriously, lie about how long ah lasted in bed if anybodeh asks. Ah’m fuckin embarrassed at how fast ah came.”
Ashi smirked in turn and nodded, “You were a god in the sheets and your penis was the size of a katana.”
“Ye’re damn right,” Anderson growled, his mean attitude coming over him once more. “We’re done here.”
Ashi stood up, feeling the burn in his ass. He’d walk funny for a few days, but for taking a guy who was a size that most men only pretended to be it had gone surprisingly well. If the rat bastard, cheapskate motherfucker Tanaka kept his word he’d be promoted to a proper lady of the house.
“Hey,” Anderson called to Ashi, now fully clothed and standing at the door. “Ah got a joke for yeh.”
Ashi nodded, eager to hear what the man had to say.
“Why are butt-pirates, butt-pirates?”
The Japanese whore stared blankly at the European man. “I don’t understand that joke at all.”
Anderson ignored Ashibinasu’s confusion, “Because they just arrrrrrrr fruits.”
Ashi did not understand, and Anderson didn’t care one bit about his total not getting the fucking joke.
One day Anderson would seek the mysterious satisfaction that had eluded him in the whorehouse, and to do that he’d first have to stop being an abhorrent piece of shit.
Whorehouse main floor
Sabine meanwhile was explaining some basics about humour to the four men around him who were thouroughly sussed on the Chinese folk liquor of Ling. “And so, um, whenever, ah, someone hears the word butt, they start, um, giggling uncontrollably. Like, um, Ling-yao likes big butts and he cannot lie.”
Ling Yao, under the haze of golden folk liquor sadly confessed to everyone at the card table, “This isn’t actually primo liqueur. This is just some folk wine that me and my girlfriend brew in the same tub my dead grandfather bathed his feet.”
Scar the partially albino Arab merchant ignored Ling Yao, focusing on his cards and the fact that he was the last man in the card game; him and van smack.He brushed off the confession and drained another cup of Chinese liquor. “Less talk, more pouring.” His red eyes met with van Smack and fire was generated by the rivalry.
Up on the second floor, Father Anderson was leaving Ashi’s’ room when he bumped into Hoshi the Sumo wrestler. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem for either party, except for the fact that Anderson knocked to the floor Hoshi’s bowl of rice and his bowl of Udon noodles. Worse yet, a huge amount of scalding liquid from the soup splashed over Hoshi’s flabby yet muscular chest.
“Oh fuck! I’m on fire!” Hoshi cried out, ripping open his shirt to expose giant man boobs. “You motherfucker! I’ll twist your head off!” Ignoring his scald wounds, Hoshi charged forward and grappled Anderson. The Scottish priest in turn felt the breathe leave him as the sumo hit him like a charging rhino.
Years of street fighting, heavy hitting and five years fighting in the reformation in Scotland had given Anderson honed battle instincts. Even with the wind knocked out of him, he raised one elbow over the Sumo’s back and slammed it down on his neck as hard as he could. Most men would have been knocked out cold or turned into a quadreapelegic, but Fat Hoshi shrugged off the blow. A similar elbow slam to the neck was shrugged off by the sumo.
The pair of five hundred pound men only stopped when they slammed into a wooden support pillar. The heavy wooden beam groaned and cracked like a toothpick. The ceiling let out streams of dust as it lowered by a few feet. The ruckus caused all of the patrons in the bar area to look up, while in the private rooms people were shaken out of their acts of fucking.
Out of one of the rooms, a Ronin girl by the name of Takako ran out naked and covered in sweat. “What’s going on out here? Can’t a girl ride three dicks anymore in peace?” Back in her room, a Dutch priest, a Korean sailor and a man-hooker from Vietnam all looked at her with eager eyes, waiting for the Ronin girl to come back.
Anderson and Hoshi however ignored Takako and grappled as only titans can. Hoshi slammed a knee into Anderson’s thigh, dropping the man to one knee. Pouncing on the chance, Hoshi slammed his knee once more into Anderson’s chin; knocking out a tooth.
Growling in rage, Hoshi grabbed the priest, attempting to break his spine in a bear hug, but Anderson was ready to start giving again. The Scott headbutted the wrestler on the nose with a loud crunch and the pair of them toppled sideways; smashing the guard railing on the second floor into kindling and falling together onto Scar and Van Smack’s card table.
The crash was monumental and was probably heard as far away as Russia. The entire brothel shook from the impact and the ceiling caved in a little bit more. The people at Van Smack’s card table barely had a chance to collect themselves before Anderson and Hoshi got right up, beating the everloving tar out of each other.
Suddenly, from the second floor, the Ronin girl pointed a finger at Sabine. “Hey, you’re the marmalade thief! Come quietely, motherfucker!”
At this the googly eyed Englishman began to panic. “Oh no! I killed three people to get that marmalade, I can’t go back to prison!”
The dutch trader Van Smack gave Sabine an incredulous look. “What the hell are you telling us about this for?”
He dind’t get much farther than that before Sabine punched his lights out; fucking dropping the Dutchman to the floor. Jumping targets Sabine spun around and took out Scar with a shot to the jaw. Seeing the Englishman go simply balls, the Patrons of the whorehouse decided to steal as much of the top shelf liquor from the bar as they possibly could and run.
Three such liquor thieves nearly made off with five bottles of good sake when they were flattened by a brawling Anderson and Hoshi; trampling the looters underfoot like ladybugs.
The Sumo and the priest clashed like the Olympians of long bygone eras. The pair of them threw punches, kicks, launched elbow attacks and wrestled. Truly neither man had met a foe of equal strength in a very long time. The Taller Anderson had better reach with his longer limbs and could punch like the kick of a mule but the shorter Hoshi had a lower center of gravity and devastating knee strikes. He lunged forward, grabbing Anderson and sinking his teeth into the priest’s side.
Anderson growled in agony as the sumo wrestler ripped a chunk of flesh from the Scotsman’s ribs.
Meanwhile, Takako watched as Sabine went totally snake, fighting both his former card companions and anything that moved. He traded chaotic punches and kicks with Ling Yao while still finding time to punch out one of the bouncers and a hooker trying to loot wallets from the unconscious.
Not waiting any longer, the sweaty, naked Ronin girl jumped down to the second floor. Gracefully, she landed like some man’s fantasy woman. Standing proud, she focused on Sabine, who’d taken out Ling Yao with a well placed kick to the face.
Takako ducked as an entire table flew over her head, thrown by Father Anderson. Hoshi has ducked the flying table, much as Takako had but the brother owner Sato wasn’t so lucky. The man barely had a chance to scream before the cheap wooden table stolen from a Dutch shipwreck splintered into two million pieces against the pimp’s body.
Takako leapt forwards like a cat, avoiding fleeing patrons and actually dancing under Father Anderson’s legs and around Fat Hoshi to get to Sabine. The insane Brit threw himself at the Ronin girl; there was a reason after all that he used to be called the One Man gang. He threw punches and kicks at the nude woman with the fury of a stark raving maniac.
For her part, Takako parried, deflected and dodged every attack. Dropping and rolling, she went under Sabine’s last kick and stood up behind him. Before the erratic Englishman could spin around, she’d put him into a chokehold. He struggled like an eel out of water, but thirty seconds and Takako had taken down the One Man gang and the marmalade thief.
Then there was the matter of Anderson and Hoshi, who were still ripping apart the furniture and if she dind’t do something the pair of them were going to tear this place apart.
Takako launched herself a the two men, screaming like an anime character as strobe lights, floating cats and weird animations danced around her. Her might blow hit Anderson on the back of the head, throwing him forward and smashing his face against the bar counter. Screaming still like an anime character, Takako kicked Hoshi in the scrote as hard as she could.
There was a very loud, very wrong crack as her foot collided with crotch and Hoshi blacked out from the pain.
The Ronin girl had triumphed, up on the second floor, Ashi applauded her and sang her praises. Now it was time to finish riding three dicks.
One Day later
Fat Hoshi stood before a curious crowd of people in front of Sato’s brothel. The crowd was a mix of enquiring citizens and the writers and artists of the yomiuri; wood block printings designed for mass sale and reading.
Hoshi himself had tied a bandage around his head not because he’s sustained any head injuries but because he wanted to look extra dramatic. “And there I was, at least forty evil foreigners surrounding me with muskets, swords and axes. And I looked at them all and I knew that I had to take a stand.”
Behind the huge sumo wrestler, a couple of stupid kids were giving him the middle finger without him knowing. Hoshi continued with his story, “And I’m not saying that the foreigners had a three headed lion with them, only that I wasn’t sure if the three headed lion had horns or not.”
Ashi watched the spectacle from the window of the brothel. Technically he’d never graduated from the position of freelancer since Sato was dead from yesterday’s injuries, but life went on and there was much peen to suck.
The whore turned away from the window and Hoshi’s utter bullshit to focus on his current customer; a muscular French sailor with the most manly body he’d ever seen and the most prissy attitude as well.
“Who cares if I was fucking Belle’s father,” the man asked angrily as Ashi took off his pants, “Nobody gives shit to Gaston!”
Ashi smiled as he began to jerk off the arrogant Frenchman, “So Gaston, why did you want Belle even when three triplets were throwing themselves at you?” The cock was of medium size, but still large enough to hit prostate when the time came.
“Because I’d already had the triplets!” Gaston barked, “I’d had every girl in the village; only Belle was cock blocking me.”
Gaston’s ranting would have annoyed any other sex worker, but Ashi was too busy getting ready to start worshipping Gaston’s knob. Without another word, he lowered his head and took Gaston’s dick to the hilt.
“Oh—yeah!” Gaston hissed and threw back his head, “that’s what I’m talking about.”
Life was good.
And that was fun!!!
At first I did this because as a writer I have a hard time writing sex scenes and I wanted to go outside of my wheelhouse. But eventually I poured out my sexual frustrations into the scene with Anderson; as many times I’ve had emotionless sex that left me feeling hollow and empty. In a way it was very cathartic.
I hope you all enjoyed this and had fun with it J
Current Residence: British Columbia|
Print preference: The Pen
Favourite genre of music: Heavy Metal
Favourite photographer: N/A
Favourite style of art: fan art and HR Geiger
Operating System: dunno
Favourite cartoon character: Tintin
Personal Quote: Andrew Breitbart likes to fuck children to death with cacti while fantasising about fisting his mother in the ass. Just throwing that out there.