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13 years ago
I AM FORGET TO TAKE OUT THE TRASH
14 years ago
HEAR ME RAWR.
2019 years ago
12 years ago
I am not a pizza face.UR A PIZZA FACE!!
13 years ago
You spelled dying wrong.Also, sweet.Post edited 6/29/06 1:51PM
A dusky crow sang a shrill call to the endless desert wasteland. The sun beat heavy, scorching rays upon the cacti and brown weed, a stretching landscape that had burned and hardened with time. The untamed world rolled into the distance and was lost in the sharp, rocky horizon. This was the outskirts of humanity, a bitter and hostile place. A place governed by the rule of survival. A place where the outlaw makes the law. A blast of sudden gunfire echoed hollowly across the dead flats. A young man, not more than twenty and with fresh hair on his balls, was slumped in a pool of his own feces, vomiting up black blood and clutching his gushing belly-wound. Towering over him, the silhouette of a pistolero pushed his serape aside and holstered his smoking six-gun. Gasping his last breaths of shit-scented air, the dieing boy reached feebly for the .38 revolver strapped at his side. The pistolero kicked the gun from the weak clutch of his prey and squated. He spoke in a gravelly voice. "Come on, boy. Now you're just kicking against the pricks." He removed his flat-brimmed hat, revealing a craggy, age-scarred face. A thick black mustache spread across his upper lip; a hand-wrapped cigar drooped casually from his wicked smile. "If you want to go 'round joinin' gangs and playin' grown-up, you gotta at least learn to take a bullet." The boy spat back a pained response. "You might as well have shot me in the head, Poncho. I'm not telling you where it is." The Poncho Joe's smile did not fade. "I don't need you to say a word, boy." The boy looked up into his killer's eyes with a look of disbelief, and the pistolero laughed, "I never use the first bullet to shoot a man clean in the head. The satisfaction is in the suffering. What good is killin' a man if he doesn't even know that he's been beaten? No, that belly wound is all you'll get from me. For now, at least." Poncho Joe replaced his hat and stood, pausing to listen to the morbid sounds of choking and gurgling for a moment. He gazed off in the distance as he spoke. "You can lay here until you're to weak to fight off the crows that will eat your eyes out, and the buzzards will feast on your limbs even while you scream, and the sun will bleach your unmarked bones. Or you can try to drag yourself back to town, but even if the doctors could fix your gut the way it is now, you'll probably tear it up and get it full of sand on your ten-mile crawl back. Or," he grinned, "you can tell me the name of that fucking town, and I'll give you a mercy bullet. Spray your brains all over the sand." His eyes were wild with villainy as he stared down at his helpless victim. "What's it gonna be, boy?" The world was silent but for the soft sobs of a blood-soaked young gunman. Finally, in a quivering voice, he whispered a single word. "Malice." "Thank you kindly, boy. Enjoy Hell." A second gunshot blasted into the abyss. Under the same setting sun, a noble outlaw followed aimless footfalls. Strapped and slung low below his hips was a pair of .45 caliber long Colt double-action revolvers, seven-half inch nickel-plated barrels and oil-rubbed dark walnut grips. His leather-tanned face, squinted shooter's eyes and rugged stubble, was hidden below the brim of his dark, dusty hat. He was a border town drifter, a man who made his money with his guns. His name was Valence Quick, the Goodbye Cowboy. He strode past the weathered wood signpost that read "Welcome to Malice," and below, in smaller print, "population 256." There were no happy, welcoming notes of a ragtime piano as Valence approached the town, no bustling townsfolk in the streets. The edges of town were dotted with canvas tents and hand-built little shelters. At the heart of town, the buildings were mostly made of loam clay bricks or adobe, the humble town hall, the prison, the hotel. All but the saloon, which appeared to be made of old, and in a few spots rotting, wood. It was an age-scarred, sand-encrusted building with heavily-fogged windows. Strips of peeling tan paint that had once been white hung from the trim of the windows and doorframe. On the large sign above the door, in a tacky Old West font, read the words "The Music Parlor." Valence strolled up; he pushed through the doorway and into the dim-lit saloon. Standing at the entrance, inhaling the scent of varnish and whisky barley, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. Cigar smoke veiled the small, tinted bar lamps; it was an old desperado trick to keep your saloon dark so the patrons could have time to get a good look at the new arrival while he was still widening his pupils. Valence advanced, letting his heavy boots fall hard along the dusty floor planks. Seated at the bar were a few regular patrons, rough-looking old dregs who had turned their attention from their alcohol to look over their shoulders at him. The portly barkeep was standing silently, rubbing a grubby dishrag over the inside of a glass mug. Valence perched himself atop a worn barstool beside a shaggy old man with sad eyes. He leaned over the bar a bit, addressing the bartender with a few, chosen words. "Single-malt scotch whisky, and meat if you've got it."
Don't push your luck.
14 years ago
Okay, now I really am sorry.Fucker.
YOUR MOM IS A WHORE!
What'd you just say?!
There be ladies present.
I'm sorry I cursed at you.
Whoa, watch my language, mister.
FUCK FUCK FUCK