Iron-Knee
Nov 15, 2016 18:13:45 GMT -5
Post by pimp on Nov 15, 2016 18:13:45 GMT -5
“Bruh what the fuck you mean you leavin’? YOU MY MASTER! I been collecting alien spirits all this time for nothin’? I coulda stayed in DR for this shit. The aliens in this place lowkey weak as fuck too.” Dooder3G was on the phone with “Sunshine” Scandalous Tony Carmine. He had him on speaker.
“I’m sorry sweetheart. I’m just not going to be around for a while…BUT! I asked Martino if he could tra—*sighs* be your master. I will relay all of your assignments through him. Your next one should be there by now I had The Goats drop it off.” Tony realized a long time ago that he had to treat Dooder like a child because the guy doesn’t have all of his marbles…
…clearly. “Well I gotta go. My phone will be off for a bit too so don’t try calling it. I’ll text you Marty’s number.”
“Aight…just know if I suspect for a second that he got his own agenda imma take ‘em out!” Dooder hung up the phone and laid back on the couch in his mystery machine. He picks up a manila envelope from his tree-stump supported table and opens it up. There’s a picture of Peaches as well as a rundown of her stats.
“Five foot eight. One thirty two…” Dooder switches from the stats to the picture. “Damn doods getting good with this photo manipulation shit. Seen her on TNC few times before and she the true definition of a heifer. This shit right here is typical. When the mortals on Earth think of aliens, they think of UFOs abducting a cow from a farm…I ain’t ever seen this before but from the looks of it, it’s possible. They took you from a coyote ugly-type titty bar in the backwoods of Georgia, went to extract your brain for human study but barely got an ounce so they sent you back.”
Dooder continues to eye the file. “Fascinating.”
He tosses the folder back on his table and grabs a joint.
Lights it.
Takes a few puffs.
“The master don’t make the pupil. It’s up to the pupil to show the master he can make it out on his own, and that’s what I gotta do. It’s gonna start with Peaches. You ain’t like any other alien I done came in contact with lately. You seem a little foreign to the landscape. I could tell Lyndon could scrap. I could tell Knite was gonna be a challenge. This assignment is different. At the next TNC, the Doodster faces a mutant cow who don’t got no business tryin’ to blend it with the rest of the 3GW martians. You don’t belong in the ring Peaches, and you got a lotta mouth for someone who ain’t did diddly scaddoddle since 3GW open. Out the gate I’m declared myself Mr. 3GW. Provin’ it too. Imma one man gang thats been mutilating and extinguishing any A.I. put in front of me, and I can pretty much guarantee imma be the one left standing at the Red Carpet Rumble for the Paramount.”
Taking another hit of the joint, Dooder ashes out on the open file, right on Peaches’ face.
“Sure won’t be yo ass. Yo gonna get…what homegirl call it? ‘Bulldove’? Yeah that whatever point is you gettin' wrangled the night before the match while Doodski stays fresh. I only say you gonna get wrangled cuz the Dood gonna show you just how out of ya element you are when I fly Saturn rings around yo dixie ass in the squared scrap pit come jueves.” Dooder takes another hit and keeps talking as he’s exhales. He begins to mock Peaches’ accent. “You keepin’ on runnin' that country ass mouf a yers’ darlin’ ain’t gon’ do nuffin’ but put ya in a weeerrrrld a hurtin’!”
Laughing at himself, Dooder puts the joint out on Peaches’ forehead.
“This dumb ho only had her hand raised here once had the nerve to call Macy out for having a shitty record. Hitchu’ with that Iron-knee. The General of all things Green and Mean ain’t goin’ into this one the underdog for once. This battle is one of three things: a warmup match for The Dood before Paramount time, people still thinking Dood can’t handle the strong aliens so they keep feeding me algae, or a genuine belief that Peaches is or can be a formidable opponent. Either way, I aim for the head when I slay these extraterrestrial beasts. I ain’t gonna take Peaches lightly even if she is a little slow in the ring…and a little in the face. Imma punt kick that bitch back to Fayetteville with the dip-spittin hog pittin’ hick shits where she belongs. Dood Out.”
“I’m sorry sweetheart. I’m just not going to be around for a while…BUT! I asked Martino if he could tra—*sighs* be your master. I will relay all of your assignments through him. Your next one should be there by now I had The Goats drop it off.” Tony realized a long time ago that he had to treat Dooder like a child because the guy doesn’t have all of his marbles…
…clearly. “Well I gotta go. My phone will be off for a bit too so don’t try calling it. I’ll text you Marty’s number.”
“Aight…just know if I suspect for a second that he got his own agenda imma take ‘em out!” Dooder hung up the phone and laid back on the couch in his mystery machine. He picks up a manila envelope from his tree-stump supported table and opens it up. There’s a picture of Peaches as well as a rundown of her stats.
“Five foot eight. One thirty two…” Dooder switches from the stats to the picture. “Damn doods getting good with this photo manipulation shit. Seen her on TNC few times before and she the true definition of a heifer. This shit right here is typical. When the mortals on Earth think of aliens, they think of UFOs abducting a cow from a farm…I ain’t ever seen this before but from the looks of it, it’s possible. They took you from a coyote ugly-type titty bar in the backwoods of Georgia, went to extract your brain for human study but barely got an ounce so they sent you back.”
Dooder continues to eye the file. “Fascinating.”
He tosses the folder back on his table and grabs a joint.
Lights it.
Takes a few puffs.
“The master don’t make the pupil. It’s up to the pupil to show the master he can make it out on his own, and that’s what I gotta do. It’s gonna start with Peaches. You ain’t like any other alien I done came in contact with lately. You seem a little foreign to the landscape. I could tell Lyndon could scrap. I could tell Knite was gonna be a challenge. This assignment is different. At the next TNC, the Doodster faces a mutant cow who don’t got no business tryin’ to blend it with the rest of the 3GW martians. You don’t belong in the ring Peaches, and you got a lotta mouth for someone who ain’t did diddly scaddoddle since 3GW open. Out the gate I’m declared myself Mr. 3GW. Provin’ it too. Imma one man gang thats been mutilating and extinguishing any A.I. put in front of me, and I can pretty much guarantee imma be the one left standing at the Red Carpet Rumble for the Paramount.”
Taking another hit of the joint, Dooder ashes out on the open file, right on Peaches’ face.
“Sure won’t be yo ass. Yo gonna get…what homegirl call it? ‘Bulldove’? Yeah that whatever point is you gettin' wrangled the night before the match while Doodski stays fresh. I only say you gonna get wrangled cuz the Dood gonna show you just how out of ya element you are when I fly Saturn rings around yo dixie ass in the squared scrap pit come jueves.” Dooder takes another hit and keeps talking as he’s exhales. He begins to mock Peaches’ accent. “You keepin’ on runnin' that country ass mouf a yers’ darlin’ ain’t gon’ do nuffin’ but put ya in a weeerrrrld a hurtin’!”
Laughing at himself, Dooder puts the joint out on Peaches’ forehead.
“This dumb ho only had her hand raised here once had the nerve to call Macy out for having a shitty record. Hitchu’ with that Iron-knee. The General of all things Green and Mean ain’t goin’ into this one the underdog for once. This battle is one of three things: a warmup match for The Dood before Paramount time, people still thinking Dood can’t handle the strong aliens so they keep feeding me algae, or a genuine belief that Peaches is or can be a formidable opponent. Either way, I aim for the head when I slay these extraterrestrial beasts. I ain’t gonna take Peaches lightly even if she is a little slow in the ring…and a little in the face. Imma punt kick that bitch back to Fayetteville with the dip-spittin hog pittin’ hick shits where she belongs. Dood Out.”