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Elfen High 2 (OOC, Closed)

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Ende
Negotiator
 
Posts: 7475
Founded: Jan 23, 2012
Ex-Nation

Postby Ende » Mon Nov 19, 2012 8:20 pm

Nationstatelandsville wrote:
Ende wrote:I meant with the whole "have a billion multiple choice questions on every single test" thing.

Point to where I said mine did.

So I read the page quickly and didn't really actually pay very much attention to your posts.

You did it in my brain.
Last edited by Ende on Mon Nov 19, 2012 8:20 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Condunum
Postmaster of the Fleet
 
Posts: 26273
Founded: Apr 26, 2011
Ex-Nation

Postby Condunum » Mon Nov 19, 2012 8:21 pm

I'm watching Saturday Night Live again. from 1990.

What? Fuck you.
password scrambled

User avatar
Nationstatelandsville
Khan of Spam
 
Posts: 70969
Founded: Apr 27, 2011
Ex-Nation

Postby Nationstatelandsville » Mon Nov 19, 2012 8:22 pm

Condunum wrote:I'm watching Saturday Night Live again. from 1990.

What? Fuck you.

I'm really far behind on that.
"Then I was fertilized and grew wise;
From a word to a word I was led to a word,
From a work to a work I was led to a work."
- Odin, Hávamál 138-141, the Poetic Edda, as translated by Dan McCoy.

I enjoy meta-humor and self-deprecation. Annoying, right?

Goodbye.

User avatar
Nude East Ireland
Post Marshal
 
Posts: 17308
Founded: Dec 31, 2011
Ex-Nation

Postby Nude East Ireland » Mon Nov 19, 2012 8:23 pm

Nationstatelandsville wrote:
Condunum wrote:I'm watching Saturday Night Live again. from 1990.

What? Fuck you.

I'm really far behind on that.

What is television?
Part One of the Incredible, Invincible Team Dai-Zarkeland!

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Nationstatelandsville
Khan of Spam
 
Posts: 70969
Founded: Apr 27, 2011
Ex-Nation

Postby Nationstatelandsville » Mon Nov 19, 2012 8:23 pm

Nude East Ireland wrote:
Nationstatelandsville wrote:I'm really far behind on that.

What is television?

Don't worry about it, Mr. Harker. You'll catch up eventually.
"Then I was fertilized and grew wise;
From a word to a word I was led to a word,
From a work to a work I was led to a work."
- Odin, Hávamál 138-141, the Poetic Edda, as translated by Dan McCoy.

I enjoy meta-humor and self-deprecation. Annoying, right?

Goodbye.

User avatar
Constaniana
Postmaster of the Fleet
 
Posts: 25106
Founded: Mar 10, 2012
Democratic Socialists

Postby Constaniana » Mon Nov 19, 2012 8:24 pm

Nude East Ireland wrote:
Nationstatelandsville wrote:I'm really far behind on that.

What is television?

It's some darn witch-box created by sorcerers. It'll never catch on though, it can't replace the popularity of the telegraph.
Joe Biden 2020; make aviators great again.
Elementals 3 has arrived!
Agritum wrote:I want to marry you now, my British damsel.
Nightkill the Emperor wrote:You know, I didn't expect you to be the most psychopathic person here.

I have the oddest of feelings this is my fault somehow.
Nightkill the Emperor wrote:I just realised how bizarre Const's existence is.
Cerillium wrote:Const is right.
Zarkenis Ultima wrote:You just cornered a scary indian man with a sword-of-brick-shattering.

Have a cookie.
Winner of the Best High Fantasy RP of P2TM twice in a row Choo Choo

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Condunum
Postmaster of the Fleet
 
Posts: 26273
Founded: Apr 26, 2011
Ex-Nation

Postby Condunum » Mon Nov 19, 2012 8:27 pm

Constaniana wrote:
Nude East Ireland wrote:What is television?

It's some darn witch-box created by sorcerers. It'll never catch on though, it can't replace the popularity of the telegraph.

Did you know the TV was invented when Jacob went back in time on accident, and used alchemy to combine metal and fruit?
password scrambled

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Nationstatelandsville
Khan of Spam
 
Posts: 70969
Founded: Apr 27, 2011
Ex-Nation

Postby Nationstatelandsville » Mon Nov 19, 2012 8:27 pm

Constaniana wrote:
Nude East Ireland wrote:What is television?

It's some darn witch-box created by sorcerers. It'll never catch on though, it can't replace the popularity of the telegraph.

"Radios are for communists." - Lewis Jameson
"Then I was fertilized and grew wise;
From a word to a word I was led to a word,
From a work to a work I was led to a work."
- Odin, Hávamál 138-141, the Poetic Edda, as translated by Dan McCoy.

I enjoy meta-humor and self-deprecation. Annoying, right?

Goodbye.

User avatar
Nightkill the Emperor
Post Kaiser
 
Posts: 88776
Founded: Dec 28, 2009
Ex-Nation

Postby Nightkill the Emperor » Mon Nov 19, 2012 8:31 pm

Ende, if you're online, make a bloody post.

So will I in a bit.
Hi! I'm Khan, your local misanthropic Indian.
I wear teal, blue & pink for Swith.
P2TM RP Discussion Thread
If you want a good rp, read this shit.
Tiami is cool.
Nat: Night's always in some bizarre state somewhere between "intoxicated enough to kill a hair metal lead singer" and "annoying Mormon missionary sober".

Swith: It's because you're so awesome. God himself refreshes the screen before he types just to see if Nightkill has written anything while he was off somewhere else.

Monfrox wrote:
The balkens wrote:
# went there....

It's Nightkill. He's been there so long he rents out rooms to other people at a flat rate, but demands cash up front.

User avatar
Hardened Pyrokinetics
Powerbroker
 
Posts: 7839
Founded: May 31, 2011
Ex-Nation

Postby Hardened Pyrokinetics » Mon Nov 19, 2012 8:35 pm

As people can clearly see, James has ceased to give two shits.
Ankh Mauta
Pope Joan wrote:I had a client who stole the magnetic flashing light from the top of a police car.

It was parked in front of his house because they were asking his parents about his theft of 100 pounds of copper wire from the high school.


Galloism wrote:I bet it takes a lot of weed to get stoned to death.


New Manvir wrote:Canada: We have flying bears.


greed and death wrote:It is a sad day when we criticize the President for honoring a solider who gave everything for his nation.


Olthar wrote:
Hardened Pyrokinetics wrote:... He's twenty.

He's also a moron.

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Nightkill the Emperor
Post Kaiser
 
Posts: 88776
Founded: Dec 28, 2009
Ex-Nation

Postby Nightkill the Emperor » Mon Nov 19, 2012 8:37 pm

Because fuck you, we're doing this flashback and you will have Diwali spirit.
Hi! I'm Khan, your local misanthropic Indian.
I wear teal, blue & pink for Swith.
P2TM RP Discussion Thread
If you want a good rp, read this shit.
Tiami is cool.
Nat: Night's always in some bizarre state somewhere between "intoxicated enough to kill a hair metal lead singer" and "annoying Mormon missionary sober".

Swith: It's because you're so awesome. God himself refreshes the screen before he types just to see if Nightkill has written anything while he was off somewhere else.

Monfrox wrote:
The balkens wrote:
# went there....

It's Nightkill. He's been there so long he rents out rooms to other people at a flat rate, but demands cash up front.

User avatar
Constaniana
Postmaster of the Fleet
 
Posts: 25106
Founded: Mar 10, 2012
Democratic Socialists

Postby Constaniana » Mon Nov 19, 2012 8:38 pm

Nationstatelandsville wrote:
Constaniana wrote:It's some darn witch-box created by sorcerers. It'll never catch on though, it can't replace the popularity of the telegraph.

"Radios are for communists." - Lewis Jameson

Carrier Pigeons are much more reliable. They can't be persuaded by sodomite propaganda.
Joe Biden 2020; make aviators great again.
Elementals 3 has arrived!
Agritum wrote:I want to marry you now, my British damsel.
Nightkill the Emperor wrote:You know, I didn't expect you to be the most psychopathic person here.

I have the oddest of feelings this is my fault somehow.
Nightkill the Emperor wrote:I just realised how bizarre Const's existence is.
Cerillium wrote:Const is right.
Zarkenis Ultima wrote:You just cornered a scary indian man with a sword-of-brick-shattering.

Have a cookie.
Winner of the Best High Fantasy RP of P2TM twice in a row Choo Choo

User avatar
Nationstatelandsville
Khan of Spam
 
Posts: 70969
Founded: Apr 27, 2011
Ex-Nation

Mormon Justice, Part 1

Postby Nationstatelandsville » Mon Nov 19, 2012 8:47 pm

1:30 AM, June 12th, 2015 - Las Vegas, Nevada

The black van sat idle in the hotel parking lot, its tinted windows hiding its occupants. Or so it was assumed - one can't park a van with tinted windows in the middle of Vegas without rousing suspicion. This was, of course, exactly the intention. No one's stupid enough, in the modern day, to be so blatantly "stealthy". The hope, however, was that someone wasn't savvy enough to know that. Believe me, if there was someone who was behind on pop culture, it was this guy. The plan was simple; the target knows they're coming, so he shoots the obvious trap. Trap blows up, killing the target. Just in case, though, the men behind the scheme were stationed in a hotel room overlooking their van, so as to get involved in case the target was smarter than they thought. For further security, they had set up a fake sniper rifle two rooms down, one which would fire with a press of the button. Hopefully, it would hit. If not, the assassins were still safe. Theoretically, anyhow. If everything went to hell, there was a second bomb in a room on the first floor, one big enough to rip the whole building to shreds. There could be no evidence left behind.

John White looked over to his partner, the only non-white in their entire organization. Technically, he was only one twelfth Cherokee, but that was still pushing the racial barrier pretty far. He was a hero, White thought, if only he knew his name. The Church didn't let its employees give their real names; could lead to emotional ties, and that was the last thing professional hitmen needed. Also, that might lead to gay stuff, and that's yucky. No, to his partner of six years, White was only a codename. "Missionary", they called him. His partner, his idol, was simply "the Son". John just called him "Junior", though, sounded much less pretentious.

"You think the son of a female dog will fall for it?" Missionary asked.

"No," Junior replied, "he's a lot smarter than the fudgers in Utah think. We'll get him with the rifle, though."

"Golly, do I hope so," Missionary said gravely.

A woman's moan emanated from the room between the two and the rifle. This room was that of their target's target - their job was to keep their subject, a rogue Mormon, from killing his own prey, whom he hunted out of vengeance. Of course, Missionary and Junior both knew they had to kill the civilian anyways. He could be a potential security risk, and when you're a group of assassins disguised as a friendly group of fundamentalists, maintaining cover is of the utmost importance. The goal was to take the renegade down now, before he moved on down his list, so as to minimize casualties. This one man's survival was never an option.

"Sinner," Missionary growled with a grimace as another moan, this time from a man, came from the room.

"Hey, this is Vegas," Junior said with a shrug, "What else did you expect? A fudging campfire? Singing confounded Kumbaya?"

"True," Missionary sighed, "Glad we can send him packing to heck."

"Agreed," Junior responded with a nod.

The two sat and waited. And waited. And waited. Twenty minutes later, nothing had happened. Nothing, except the noisiest prostitute anyone had ever heard doing her job in the other room.

"Fudge!" Missionary spat, "Call it off. I don't like this."'

"Patience," Junior demanded. Junior was an older, much more experienced than Missionary. He'd seen the darkest side of humanity and more. Missionary was still comparatively young, only 75.

"I could use a tall glass of stiff cranberry juice," the younger groaned.

"Watch yourself," Junior said with a good-hearted laugh, "Remember Havana? You have no tolerance for that stuff at all."

Suddenly, a man shouted, and the two Mormons could hear a door buckle under a strong kick. They looked at each other for a few seconds, and then bolted out of their room and into the hall. They soon found their target, a Caucasian man with salt and pepper hair, firing on his targets. Junior let out a mighty cry and pounced on the man, snapping his neck in two. Easily.

"Wait a fudging second!" Missionary demanded. He raced up to the the hooker and the dead man, both cold and unmoving. And then he pulled Newt Gingrich's head off - a dummy.

"Shucks!" Junior swore, "He's smarter than I thought. I think I just killed Jason Sudeikis."

With another shout, the real Gingrich burst out of the door on the opposite side of the room, carrying a revolver. On instinct, Missionary opened fire with his handgun, hitting Gingrich twice in the chest and once the head. The fat adulterer never stood a chance.

"Now what?" Missionary asked, examining Gingrich's corpse for anything to pilfer.

"...Do you have the trigger to the bomb?" Junior suddenly asked, terrible realization filling his eyes with dread.

"Gosh dang it to mother-fudging heck!" Missionary spat.

Boom.

"You just got Bain'd, son of an unwed couple," quipped the target, slipping on a pair of sunglasses. He returned to his limousine, his wife waiting patiently for him in the back.

"Nice, honey," she complimented, giving him a quick peck on the cheek.

"Gee, thanks Anne," the rogue replied, "Say - do you think I'm camp?"

"Of course not, sweetie," she said, taking his hand in hers, "You're bad-butt."
Last edited by Nationstatelandsville on Mon Nov 19, 2012 8:53 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"Then I was fertilized and grew wise;
From a word to a word I was led to a word,
From a work to a work I was led to a work."
- Odin, Hávamál 138-141, the Poetic Edda, as translated by Dan McCoy.

I enjoy meta-humor and self-deprecation. Annoying, right?

Goodbye.

User avatar
Ameriganastan
Post Czar
 
Posts: 45262
Founded: Jul 01, 2008
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby Ameriganastan » Mon Nov 19, 2012 8:52 pm

...Am I supposed to know this Alastor guy?
The Incompetent Critic
DENVER BRONCOS fan
Eric Lumen: Ultimate Chad
Force of nature.
The Ameri Train.
The Ameri song
Tsundere Ameri.
HulkAmeri
Ameri goes to court.
Universal Constant
Edward Richtofen wrote:Ameri's so tough that he criticized an Insane Asylum and was promptly let out

Ameri does the impossible.
Fire the Ameri.
Sinovet wrote:Ameri's like Honey badger. He don't give a fuck.

Krazakistan wrote: He is a force of negativity for the sake of negativity

Onocarcass wrote:Trying to change Ameri, is like trying to drag a 2 ton block of lead with your d**k.

Immoren wrote:When Ameri says something is shit it's good and when Ameri says some thing is good it's great. *nods*

User avatar
Nationstatelandsville
Khan of Spam
 
Posts: 70969
Founded: Apr 27, 2011
Ex-Nation

Postby Nationstatelandsville » Mon Nov 19, 2012 8:52 pm

Ameriganastan wrote:...Am I supposed to know this Alastor guy?

He's Zark's old character from the original.
"Then I was fertilized and grew wise;
From a word to a word I was led to a word,
From a work to a work I was led to a work."
- Odin, Hávamál 138-141, the Poetic Edda, as translated by Dan McCoy.

I enjoy meta-humor and self-deprecation. Annoying, right?

Goodbye.

User avatar
Zarkenis Ultima
P2TM RP Mentor
 
Posts: 42279
Founded: Feb 22, 2011
Democratic Socialists

Postby Zarkenis Ultima » Mon Nov 19, 2012 8:53 pm

Nationstatelandsville wrote:
Ameriganastan wrote:...Am I supposed to know this Alastor guy?

He's Zark's old character from the original.


Which is to say, no, but you're supposed to act like it.
Hello! I'm a P2TM Mentor, if you need any help, send me a TG and I'll see what I can do!
P2TM Depot [Portal To The Multiverse Information Thread]
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User avatar
Constaniana
Postmaster of the Fleet
 
Posts: 25106
Founded: Mar 10, 2012
Democratic Socialists

Postby Constaniana » Mon Nov 19, 2012 8:54 pm

Nationstatelandsville wrote:
1:30 AM, June 12th, 2015 - Las Vegas, Nevada

The black van sat idle in the hotel parking lot, its tinted windows hiding its occupants. Or so it was assumed - one can't park a van with tinted windows in the middle of Vegas without rousing suspicion. This was, of course, exactly the intention. No one's stupid enough, in the modern day, to be so blatantly "stealthy". The hope, however, was that someone wasn't savvy enough to know that. Believe me, if there was someone who was behind on pop culture, it was this guy. The plan was simple; the target knows their coming, so he shoots the obvious trap. Trap blows up, killing the target. Just in case, though, the men behind the scheme were stationed in a hotel room overlooking their van, so as to get involved in case the target was smarter than they thought. For further security, they had set up a fake sniper rifle two rooms down, one which would fire with a press of the button. Hopefully, it would hit. If not, the assassins were still safe. Theoretically, anyhow. If everything went to hell, there was a second bomb in a room on the first floor, one big enough to rip the whole building to shreds. There could be no evidence left behind.

John White looked over to his partner, the only non-white in their entire organization. Technically, he was only one twelfth Cherokee, but that was still pushing the racial barrier pretty far. He was a hero, White thought, if only he knew his name. The Church didn't let its employees give their real names; could lead to emotional ties, and that was the last thing professional hitmen needed. Also, that might lead to gay stuff, and that's yucky. No, to his partner of six years, White was only a codename. "Missionary", they called him. His partner, his idol, was simply "the Son". John just called him "Junior", though, sounded much less pretentious.

"You think the son of a female dog will fall for it?" Missionary asked.

"No," Junior replied, "he's a lot smarter than the fudgers in Utah think. We'll get him with the rifle, though."

"Golly, do I hope so," Missionary said gravely.

A woman's moan emanated from the room between the two and the rifle. This room was that of their target's target - their job was to keep their subject, a rogue Mormon, from killing his own prey, whom he hunted out of vengeance. Of course, Missionary and Junior both knew they had to kill the civilian anyways. He could be a potential security risk, and when you're a group of assassins disguised as a friendly group of fundamentalists, maintaining cover is of the utmost importance. The goal was to take the renegade down now, before he moved on down his list, so as to minimize casualties. This one man's survival was never an option.

"Sinner," Missionary growled with a grimace as another moan, this time from a man, came from the room.

"Hey, this is Vegas," Junior said with a shrug, "What else did you expect? A fudging campfire? Singing confounded Kumbaya?"

"True," Missionary sighed, "Glad we can send him packing to heck."

"Agreed," Junior responded with a nod.

The two sat and waited. And waited. And waited. Twenty minutes later, nothing had happened. Nothing, except the noisiest prostitute anyone had ever heard doing her job in the other room.

"Fudge!" Missionary spat, "Call it off. I don't like this."'

"Patience," Junior demanded. Junior was an older, much more experienced than Missionary. He'd seen the darkest side of humanity and more. Missionary was still comparatively young, only 75.

"I could use a tall glass of stiff cranberry juice," the younger groaned.

"Watch yourself," Junior said with a good-hearted laugh, "Remember Havana? You have no tolerance for that stuff at all."

Suddenly, a man shouted, and the two Mormons could hear a door buckle under a strong kick. They looked at each other for a few seconds, and then bolted out of their room and into the hall. They soon found their target, a Caucasian man with salt and pepper hair, firing on his targets. Junior let out a mighty cry and pounced on the man, snapping his neck in two. Easily.

"Wait a fudging second!" Missionary demanded. He raced up to the the hooker and the dead man, both cold and unmoving. And then he pulled Newt Gingrich's head off - a dummy.

"Shucks!" Junior swore, "He's smarter than I thought. I think I just killed Jason Sudeikis."

With another shout, the real Gingrich burst out of the door on the opposite side of the room, carrying a revolver. On instinct, Missionary opened fire with his handgun, hitting Gingrich twice in the chest and once the head. The fat adulterer never stood a chance.

"Now what?" Missionary asked, examining Gingrich's corpse for anything to pilfer.

"...Do you have the trigger to the bomb?" Junior suddenly asked, terrible realization filling his eyes with dread.

"Gosh dang it to mother-fudging heck!" Missionary spat.

Boom.

"You just got Bain'd, son of an unwed couple," quipped the target, slipping on a pair of sunglasses. He returned to his limousine, his wife waiting patiently for him in the back.

"Nice, honey," she complimented, giving him a quick peck on the cheek.

"Gee, thanks Anne," the rogue replied, "Say - do you think I'm camp?"

"Of course not, sweetie," she said, taking his hand in hers, "You're bad-butt."

:clap: :clap: :clap: :clap: :clap:
Joe Biden 2020; make aviators great again.
Elementals 3 has arrived!
Agritum wrote:I want to marry you now, my British damsel.
Nightkill the Emperor wrote:You know, I didn't expect you to be the most psychopathic person here.

I have the oddest of feelings this is my fault somehow.
Nightkill the Emperor wrote:I just realised how bizarre Const's existence is.
Cerillium wrote:Const is right.
Zarkenis Ultima wrote:You just cornered a scary indian man with a sword-of-brick-shattering.

Have a cookie.
Winner of the Best High Fantasy RP of P2TM twice in a row Choo Choo

User avatar
Nightkill the Emperor
Post Kaiser
 
Posts: 88776
Founded: Dec 28, 2009
Ex-Nation

Postby Nightkill the Emperor » Mon Nov 19, 2012 8:54 pm

Nationstatelandsville wrote:
1:30 AM, June 12th, 2015 - Las Vegas, Nevada

The black van sat idle in the hotel parking lot, its tinted windows hiding its occupants. Or so it was assumed - one can't park a van with tinted windows in the middle of Vegas without rousing suspicion. This was, of course, exactly the intention. No one's stupid enough, in the modern day, to be so blatantly "stealthy". The hope, however, was that someone wasn't savvy enough to know that. Believe me, if there was someone who was behind on pop culture, it was this guy. The plan was simple; the target knows they're coming, so he shoots the obvious trap. Trap blows up, killing the target. Just in case, though, the men behind the scheme were stationed in a hotel room overlooking their van, so as to get involved in case the target was smarter than they thought. For further security, they had set up a fake sniper rifle two rooms down, one which would fire with a press of the button. Hopefully, it would hit. If not, the assassins were still safe. Theoretically, anyhow. If everything went to hell, there was a second bomb in a room on the first floor, one big enough to rip the whole building to shreds. There could be no evidence left behind.

John White looked over to his partner, the only non-white in their entire organization. Technically, he was only one twelfth Cherokee, but that was still pushing the racial barrier pretty far. He was a hero, White thought, if only he knew his name. The Church didn't let its employees give their real names; could lead to emotional ties, and that was the last thing professional hitmen needed. Also, that might lead to gay stuff, and that's yucky. No, to his partner of six years, White was only a codename. "Missionary", they called him. His partner, his idol, was simply "the Son". John just called him "Junior", though, sounded much less pretentious.

"You think the son of a female dog will fall for it?" Missionary asked.

"No," Junior replied, "he's a lot smarter than the fudgers in Utah think. We'll get him with the rifle, though."

"Golly, do I hope so," Missionary said gravely.

A woman's moan emanated from the room between the two and the rifle. This room was that of their target's target - their job was to keep their subject, a rogue Mormon, from killing his own prey, whom he hunted out of vengeance. Of course, Missionary and Junior both knew they had to kill the civilian anyways. He could be a potential security risk, and when you're a group of assassins disguised as a friendly group of fundamentalists, maintaining cover is of the utmost importance. The goal was to take the renegade down now, before he moved on down his list, so as to minimize casualties. This one man's survival was never an option.

"Sinner," Missionary growled with a grimace as another moan, this time from a man, came from the room.

"Hey, this is Vegas," Junior said with a shrug, "What else did you expect? A fudging campfire? Singing confounded Kumbaya?"

"True," Missionary sighed, "Glad we can send him packing to heck."

"Agreed," Junior responded with a nod.

The two sat and waited. And waited. And waited. Twenty minutes later, nothing had happened. Nothing, except the noisiest prostitute anyone had ever heard doing her job in the other room.

"Fudge!" Missionary spat, "Call it off. I don't like this."'

"Patience," Junior demanded. Junior was an older, much more experienced than Missionary. He'd seen the darkest side of humanity and more. Missionary was still comparatively young, only 75.

"I could use a tall glass of stiff cranberry juice," the younger groaned.

"Watch yourself," Junior said with a good-hearted laugh, "Remember Havana? You have no tolerance for that stuff at all."

Suddenly, a man shouted, and the two Mormons could hear a door buckle under a strong kick. They looked at each other for a few seconds, and then bolted out of their room and into the hall. They soon found their target, a Caucasian man with salt and pepper hair, firing on his targets. Junior let out a mighty cry and pounced on the man, snapping his neck in two. Easily.

"Wait a fudging second!" Missionary demanded. He raced up to the the hooker and the dead man, both cold and unmoving. And then he pulled Newt Gingrich's head off - a dummy.

"Shucks!" Junior swore, "He's smarter than I thought. I think I just killed Jason Sudeikis."

With another shout, the real Gingrich burst out of the door on the opposite side of the room, carrying a revolver. On instinct, Missionary opened fire with his handgun, hitting Gingrich twice in the chest and once the head. The fat adulterer never stood a chance.

"Now what?" Missionary asked, examining Gingrich's corpse for anything to pilfer.

"...Do you have the trigger to the bomb?" Junior suddenly asked, terrible realization filling his eyes with dread.

"Gosh dang it to mother-fudging heck!" Missionary spat.

Boom.

"You just got Bain'd, son of an unwed couple," quipped the target, slipping on a pair of sunglasses. He returned to his limousine, his wife waiting patiently for him in the back.

"Nice, honey," she complimented, giving him a quick peck on the cheek.

"Gee, thanks Anne," the rogue replied, "Say - do you think I'm camp?"

"Of course not, sweetie," she said, taking his hand in hers, "You're bad-butt."

:rofl:
Hi! I'm Khan, your local misanthropic Indian.
I wear teal, blue & pink for Swith.
P2TM RP Discussion Thread
If you want a good rp, read this shit.
Tiami is cool.
Nat: Night's always in some bizarre state somewhere between "intoxicated enough to kill a hair metal lead singer" and "annoying Mormon missionary sober".

Swith: It's because you're so awesome. God himself refreshes the screen before he types just to see if Nightkill has written anything while he was off somewhere else.

Monfrox wrote:
The balkens wrote:
# went there....

It's Nightkill. He's been there so long he rents out rooms to other people at a flat rate, but demands cash up front.

User avatar
Nightkill the Emperor
Post Kaiser
 
Posts: 88776
Founded: Dec 28, 2009
Ex-Nation

Postby Nightkill the Emperor » Mon Nov 19, 2012 8:55 pm

James won't play?

Fuck it, I will make him play.
Hi! I'm Khan, your local misanthropic Indian.
I wear teal, blue & pink for Swith.
P2TM RP Discussion Thread
If you want a good rp, read this shit.
Tiami is cool.
Nat: Night's always in some bizarre state somewhere between "intoxicated enough to kill a hair metal lead singer" and "annoying Mormon missionary sober".

Swith: It's because you're so awesome. God himself refreshes the screen before he types just to see if Nightkill has written anything while he was off somewhere else.

Monfrox wrote:
The balkens wrote:
# went there....

It's Nightkill. He's been there so long he rents out rooms to other people at a flat rate, but demands cash up front.

User avatar
Hardened Pyrokinetics
Powerbroker
 
Posts: 7839
Founded: May 31, 2011
Ex-Nation

Postby Hardened Pyrokinetics » Mon Nov 19, 2012 8:56 pm

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Hardened Pyrokinetics wrote:... He's twenty.

He's also a moron.

User avatar
Ende
Negotiator
 
Posts: 7475
Founded: Jan 23, 2012
Ex-Nation

Postby Ende » Mon Nov 19, 2012 9:02 pm

Nationstatelandsville wrote:
1:30 AM, June 12th, 2015 - Las Vegas, Nevada

The black van sat idle in the hotel parking lot, its tinted windows hiding its occupants. Or so it was assumed - one can't park a van with tinted windows in the middle of Vegas without rousing suspicion. This was, of course, exactly the intention. No one's stupid enough, in the modern day, to be so blatantly "stealthy". The hope, however, was that someone wasn't savvy enough to know that. Believe me, if there was someone who was behind on pop culture, it was this guy. The plan was simple; the target knows they're coming, so he shoots the obvious trap. Trap blows up, killing the target. Just in case, though, the men behind the scheme were stationed in a hotel room overlooking their van, so as to get involved in case the target was smarter than they thought. For further security, they had set up a fake sniper rifle two rooms down, one which would fire with a press of the button. Hopefully, it would hit. If not, the assassins were still safe. Theoretically, anyhow. If everything went to hell, there was a second bomb in a room on the first floor, one big enough to rip the whole building to shreds. There could be no evidence left behind.

John White looked over to his partner, the only non-white in their entire organization. Technically, he was only one twelfth Cherokee, but that was still pushing the racial barrier pretty far. He was a hero, White thought, if only he knew his name. The Church didn't let its employees give their real names; could lead to emotional ties, and that was the last thing professional hitmen needed. Also, that might lead to gay stuff, and that's yucky. No, to his partner of six years, White was only a codename. "Missionary", they called him. His partner, his idol, was simply "the Son". John just called him "Junior", though, sounded much less pretentious.

"You think the son of a female dog will fall for it?" Missionary asked.

"No," Junior replied, "he's a lot smarter than the fudgers in Utah think. We'll get him with the rifle, though."

"Golly, do I hope so," Missionary said gravely.

A woman's moan emanated from the room between the two and the rifle. This room was that of their target's target - their job was to keep their subject, a rogue Mormon, from killing his own prey, whom he hunted out of vengeance. Of course, Missionary and Junior both knew they had to kill the civilian anyways. He could be a potential security risk, and when you're a group of assassins disguised as a friendly group of fundamentalists, maintaining cover is of the utmost importance. The goal was to take the renegade down now, before he moved on down his list, so as to minimize casualties. This one man's survival was never an option.

"Sinner," Missionary growled with a grimace as another moan, this time from a man, came from the room.

"Hey, this is Vegas," Junior said with a shrug, "What else did you expect? A fudging campfire? Singing confounded Kumbaya?"

"True," Missionary sighed, "Glad we can send him packing to heck."

"Agreed," Junior responded with a nod.

The two sat and waited. And waited. And waited. Twenty minutes later, nothing had happened. Nothing, except the noisiest prostitute anyone had ever heard doing her job in the other room.

"Fudge!" Missionary spat, "Call it off. I don't like this."'

"Patience," Junior demanded. Junior was an older, much more experienced than Missionary. He'd seen the darkest side of humanity and more. Missionary was still comparatively young, only 75.

"I could use a tall glass of stiff cranberry juice," the younger groaned.

"Watch yourself," Junior said with a good-hearted laugh, "Remember Havana? You have no tolerance for that stuff at all."

Suddenly, a man shouted, and the two Mormons could hear a door buckle under a strong kick. They looked at each other for a few seconds, and then bolted out of their room and into the hall. They soon found their target, a Caucasian man with salt and pepper hair, firing on his targets. Junior let out a mighty cry and pounced on the man, snapping his neck in two. Easily.

"Wait a fudging second!" Missionary demanded. He raced up to the the hooker and the dead man, both cold and unmoving. And then he pulled Newt Gingrich's head off - a dummy.

"Shucks!" Junior swore, "He's smarter than I thought. I think I just killed Jason Sudeikis."

With another shout, the real Gingrich burst out of the door on the opposite side of the room, carrying a revolver. On instinct, Missionary opened fire with his handgun, hitting Gingrich twice in the chest and once the head. The fat adulterer never stood a chance.

"Now what?" Missionary asked, examining Gingrich's corpse for anything to pilfer.

"...Do you have the trigger to the bomb?" Junior suddenly asked, terrible realization filling his eyes with dread.

"Gosh dang it to mother-fudging heck!" Missionary spat.

Boom.

"You just got Bain'd, son of an unwed couple," quipped the target, slipping on a pair of sunglasses. He returned to his limousine, his wife waiting patiently for him in the back.

"Nice, honey," she complimented, giving him a quick peck on the cheek.

"Gee, thanks Anne," the rogue replied, "Say - do you think I'm camp?"

"Of course not, sweetie," she said, taking his hand in hers, "You're bad-butt."

This is the best thing I have read today.

The best.

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Ameriganastan
Post Czar
 
Posts: 45262
Founded: Jul 01, 2008
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby Ameriganastan » Mon Nov 19, 2012 9:06 pm

Nationstatelandsville wrote:
1:30 AM, June 12th, 2015 - Las Vegas, Nevada

The black van sat idle in the hotel parking lot, its tinted windows hiding its occupants. Or so it was assumed - one can't park a van with tinted windows in the middle of Vegas without rousing suspicion. This was, of course, exactly the intention. No one's stupid enough, in the modern day, to be so blatantly "stealthy". The hope, however, was that someone wasn't savvy enough to know that. Believe me, if there was someone who was behind on pop culture, it was this guy. The plan was simple; the target knows they're coming, so he shoots the obvious trap. Trap blows up, killing the target. Just in case, though, the men behind the scheme were stationed in a hotel room overlooking their van, so as to get involved in case the target was smarter than they thought. For further security, they had set up a fake sniper rifle two rooms down, one which would fire with a press of the button. Hopefully, it would hit. If not, the assassins were still safe. Theoretically, anyhow. If everything went to hell, there was a second bomb in a room on the first floor, one big enough to rip the whole building to shreds. There could be no evidence left behind.

John White looked over to his partner, the only non-white in their entire organization. Technically, he was only one twelfth Cherokee, but that was still pushing the racial barrier pretty far. He was a hero, White thought, if only he knew his name. The Church didn't let its employees give their real names; could lead to emotional ties, and that was the last thing professional hitmen needed. Also, that might lead to gay stuff, and that's yucky. No, to his partner of six years, White was only a codename. "Missionary", they called him. His partner, his idol, was simply "the Son". John just called him "Junior", though, sounded much less pretentious.

"You think the son of a female dog will fall for it?" Missionary asked.

"No," Junior replied, "he's a lot smarter than the fudgers in Utah think. We'll get him with the rifle, though."

"Golly, do I hope so," Missionary said gravely.

A woman's moan emanated from the room between the two and the rifle. This room was that of their target's target - their job was to keep their subject, a rogue Mormon, from killing his own prey, whom he hunted out of vengeance. Of course, Missionary and Junior both knew they had to kill the civilian anyways. He could be a potential security risk, and when you're a group of assassins disguised as a friendly group of fundamentalists, maintaining cover is of the utmost importance. The goal was to take the renegade down now, before he moved on down his list, so as to minimize casualties. This one man's survival was never an option.

"Sinner," Missionary growled with a grimace as another moan, this time from a man, came from the room.

"Hey, this is Vegas," Junior said with a shrug, "What else did you expect? A fudging campfire? Singing confounded Kumbaya?"

"True," Missionary sighed, "Glad we can send him packing to heck."

"Agreed," Junior responded with a nod.

The two sat and waited. And waited. And waited. Twenty minutes later, nothing had happened. Nothing, except the noisiest prostitute anyone had ever heard doing her job in the other room.

"Fudge!" Missionary spat, "Call it off. I don't like this."'

"Patience," Junior demanded. Junior was an older, much more experienced than Missionary. He'd seen the darkest side of humanity and more. Missionary was still comparatively young, only 75.

"I could use a tall glass of stiff cranberry juice," the younger groaned.

"Watch yourself," Junior said with a good-hearted laugh, "Remember Havana? You have no tolerance for that stuff at all."

Suddenly, a man shouted, and the two Mormons could hear a door buckle under a strong kick. They looked at each other for a few seconds, and then bolted out of their room and into the hall. They soon found their target, a Caucasian man with salt and pepper hair, firing on his targets. Junior let out a mighty cry and pounced on the man, snapping his neck in two. Easily.

"Wait a fudging second!" Missionary demanded. He raced up to the the hooker and the dead man, both cold and unmoving. And then he pulled Newt Gingrich's head off - a dummy.

"Shucks!" Junior swore, "He's smarter than I thought. I think I just killed Jason Sudeikis."

With another shout, the real Gingrich burst out of the door on the opposite side of the room, carrying a revolver. On instinct, Missionary opened fire with his handgun, hitting Gingrich twice in the chest and once the head. The fat adulterer never stood a chance.

"Now what?" Missionary asked, examining Gingrich's corpse for anything to pilfer.

"...Do you have the trigger to the bomb?" Junior suddenly asked, terrible realization filling his eyes with dread.

"Gosh dang it to mother-fudging heck!" Missionary spat.

Boom.

"You just got Bain'd, son of an unwed couple," quipped the target, slipping on a pair of sunglasses. He returned to his limousine, his wife waiting patiently for him in the back.

"Nice, honey," she complimented, giving him a quick peck on the cheek.

"Gee, thanks Anne," the rogue replied, "Say - do you think I'm camp?"

"Of course not, sweetie," she said, taking his hand in hers, "You're bad-butt."

TL;DR.
The Incompetent Critic
DENVER BRONCOS fan
Eric Lumen: Ultimate Chad
Force of nature.
The Ameri Train.
The Ameri song
Tsundere Ameri.
HulkAmeri
Ameri goes to court.
Universal Constant
Edward Richtofen wrote:Ameri's so tough that he criticized an Insane Asylum and was promptly let out

Ameri does the impossible.
Fire the Ameri.
Sinovet wrote:Ameri's like Honey badger. He don't give a fuck.

Krazakistan wrote: He is a force of negativity for the sake of negativity

Onocarcass wrote:Trying to change Ameri, is like trying to drag a 2 ton block of lead with your d**k.

Immoren wrote:When Ameri says something is shit it's good and when Ameri says some thing is good it's great. *nods*

User avatar
Nationstatelandsville
Khan of Spam
 
Posts: 70969
Founded: Apr 27, 2011
Ex-Nation

Postby Nationstatelandsville » Mon Nov 19, 2012 9:07 pm

Ameriganastan wrote:
Nationstatelandsville wrote:
1:30 AM, June 12th, 2015 - Las Vegas, Nevada

The black van sat idle in the hotel parking lot, its tinted windows hiding its occupants. Or so it was assumed - one can't park a van with tinted windows in the middle of Vegas without rousing suspicion. This was, of course, exactly the intention. No one's stupid enough, in the modern day, to be so blatantly "stealthy". The hope, however, was that someone wasn't savvy enough to know that. Believe me, if there was someone who was behind on pop culture, it was this guy. The plan was simple; the target knows they're coming, so he shoots the obvious trap. Trap blows up, killing the target. Just in case, though, the men behind the scheme were stationed in a hotel room overlooking their van, so as to get involved in case the target was smarter than they thought. For further security, they had set up a fake sniper rifle two rooms down, one which would fire with a press of the button. Hopefully, it would hit. If not, the assassins were still safe. Theoretically, anyhow. If everything went to hell, there was a second bomb in a room on the first floor, one big enough to rip the whole building to shreds. There could be no evidence left behind.

John White looked over to his partner, the only non-white in their entire organization. Technically, he was only one twelfth Cherokee, but that was still pushing the racial barrier pretty far. He was a hero, White thought, if only he knew his name. The Church didn't let its employees give their real names; could lead to emotional ties, and that was the last thing professional hitmen needed. Also, that might lead to gay stuff, and that's yucky. No, to his partner of six years, White was only a codename. "Missionary", they called him. His partner, his idol, was simply "the Son". John just called him "Junior", though, sounded much less pretentious.

"You think the son of a female dog will fall for it?" Missionary asked.

"No," Junior replied, "he's a lot smarter than the fudgers in Utah think. We'll get him with the rifle, though."

"Golly, do I hope so," Missionary said gravely.

A woman's moan emanated from the room between the two and the rifle. This room was that of their target's target - their job was to keep their subject, a rogue Mormon, from killing his own prey, whom he hunted out of vengeance. Of course, Missionary and Junior both knew they had to kill the civilian anyways. He could be a potential security risk, and when you're a group of assassins disguised as a friendly group of fundamentalists, maintaining cover is of the utmost importance. The goal was to take the renegade down now, before he moved on down his list, so as to minimize casualties. This one man's survival was never an option.

"Sinner," Missionary growled with a grimace as another moan, this time from a man, came from the room.

"Hey, this is Vegas," Junior said with a shrug, "What else did you expect? A fudging campfire? Singing confounded Kumbaya?"

"True," Missionary sighed, "Glad we can send him packing to heck."

"Agreed," Junior responded with a nod.

The two sat and waited. And waited. And waited. Twenty minutes later, nothing had happened. Nothing, except the noisiest prostitute anyone had ever heard doing her job in the other room.

"Fudge!" Missionary spat, "Call it off. I don't like this."'

"Patience," Junior demanded. Junior was an older, much more experienced than Missionary. He'd seen the darkest side of humanity and more. Missionary was still comparatively young, only 75.

"I could use a tall glass of stiff cranberry juice," the younger groaned.

"Watch yourself," Junior said with a good-hearted laugh, "Remember Havana? You have no tolerance for that stuff at all."

Suddenly, a man shouted, and the two Mormons could hear a door buckle under a strong kick. They looked at each other for a few seconds, and then bolted out of their room and into the hall. They soon found their target, a Caucasian man with salt and pepper hair, firing on his targets. Junior let out a mighty cry and pounced on the man, snapping his neck in two. Easily.

"Wait a fudging second!" Missionary demanded. He raced up to the the hooker and the dead man, both cold and unmoving. And then he pulled Newt Gingrich's head off - a dummy.

"Shucks!" Junior swore, "He's smarter than I thought. I think I just killed Jason Sudeikis."

With another shout, the real Gingrich burst out of the door on the opposite side of the room, carrying a revolver. On instinct, Missionary opened fire with his handgun, hitting Gingrich twice in the chest and once the head. The fat adulterer never stood a chance.

"Now what?" Missionary asked, examining Gingrich's corpse for anything to pilfer.

"...Do you have the trigger to the bomb?" Junior suddenly asked, terrible realization filling his eyes with dread.

"Gosh dang it to mother-fudging heck!" Missionary spat.

Boom.

"You just got Bain'd, son of an unwed couple," quipped the target, slipping on a pair of sunglasses. He returned to his limousine, his wife waiting patiently for him in the back.

"Nice, honey," she complimented, giving him a quick peck on the cheek.

"Gee, thanks Anne," the rogue replied, "Say - do you think I'm camp?"

"Of course not, sweetie," she said, taking his hand in hers, "You're bad-butt."

TL;DR.

Thank you for this pivotal bit of information.
"Then I was fertilized and grew wise;
From a word to a word I was led to a word,
From a work to a work I was led to a work."
- Odin, Hávamál 138-141, the Poetic Edda, as translated by Dan McCoy.

I enjoy meta-humor and self-deprecation. Annoying, right?

Goodbye.

User avatar
Constaniana
Postmaster of the Fleet
 
Posts: 25106
Founded: Mar 10, 2012
Democratic Socialists

Postby Constaniana » Mon Nov 19, 2012 9:28 pm

Ameriganastan wrote:
Nationstatelandsville wrote:
1:30 AM, June 12th, 2015 - Las Vegas, Nevada

The black van sat idle in the hotel parking lot, its tinted windows hiding its occupants. Or so it was assumed - one can't park a van with tinted windows in the middle of Vegas without rousing suspicion. This was, of course, exactly the intention. No one's stupid enough, in the modern day, to be so blatantly "stealthy". The hope, however, was that someone wasn't savvy enough to know that. Believe me, if there was someone who was behind on pop culture, it was this guy. The plan was simple; the target knows they're coming, so he shoots the obvious trap. Trap blows up, killing the target. Just in case, though, the men behind the scheme were stationed in a hotel room overlooking their van, so as to get involved in case the target was smarter than they thought. For further security, they had set up a fake sniper rifle two rooms down, one which would fire with a press of the button. Hopefully, it would hit. If not, the assassins were still safe. Theoretically, anyhow. If everything went to hell, there was a second bomb in a room on the first floor, one big enough to rip the whole building to shreds. There could be no evidence left behind.

John White looked over to his partner, the only non-white in their entire organization. Technically, he was only one twelfth Cherokee, but that was still pushing the racial barrier pretty far. He was a hero, White thought, if only he knew his name. The Church didn't let its employees give their real names; could lead to emotional ties, and that was the last thing professional hitmen needed. Also, that might lead to gay stuff, and that's yucky. No, to his partner of six years, White was only a codename. "Missionary", they called him. His partner, his idol, was simply "the Son". John just called him "Junior", though, sounded much less pretentious.

"You think the son of a female dog will fall for it?" Missionary asked.

"No," Junior replied, "he's a lot smarter than the fudgers in Utah think. We'll get him with the rifle, though."

"Golly, do I hope so," Missionary said gravely.

A woman's moan emanated from the room between the two and the rifle. This room was that of their target's target - their job was to keep their subject, a rogue Mormon, from killing his own prey, whom he hunted out of vengeance. Of course, Missionary and Junior both knew they had to kill the civilian anyways. He could be a potential security risk, and when you're a group of assassins disguised as a friendly group of fundamentalists, maintaining cover is of the utmost importance. The goal was to take the renegade down now, before he moved on down his list, so as to minimize casualties. This one man's survival was never an option.

"Sinner," Missionary growled with a grimace as another moan, this time from a man, came from the room.

"Hey, this is Vegas," Junior said with a shrug, "What else did you expect? A fudging campfire? Singing confounded Kumbaya?"

"True," Missionary sighed, "Glad we can send him packing to heck."

"Agreed," Junior responded with a nod.

The two sat and waited. And waited. And waited. Twenty minutes later, nothing had happened. Nothing, except the noisiest prostitute anyone had ever heard doing her job in the other room.

"Fudge!" Missionary spat, "Call it off. I don't like this."'

"Patience," Junior demanded. Junior was an older, much more experienced than Missionary. He'd seen the darkest side of humanity and more. Missionary was still comparatively young, only 75.

"I could use a tall glass of stiff cranberry juice," the younger groaned.

"Watch yourself," Junior said with a good-hearted laugh, "Remember Havana? You have no tolerance for that stuff at all."

Suddenly, a man shouted, and the two Mormons could hear a door buckle under a strong kick. They looked at each other for a few seconds, and then bolted out of their room and into the hall. They soon found their target, a Caucasian man with salt and pepper hair, firing on his targets. Junior let out a mighty cry and pounced on the man, snapping his neck in two. Easily.

"Wait a fudging second!" Missionary demanded. He raced up to the the hooker and the dead man, both cold and unmoving. And then he pulled Newt Gingrich's head off - a dummy.

"Shucks!" Junior swore, "He's smarter than I thought. I think I just killed Jason Sudeikis."

With another shout, the real Gingrich burst out of the door on the opposite side of the room, carrying a revolver. On instinct, Missionary opened fire with his handgun, hitting Gingrich twice in the chest and once the head. The fat adulterer never stood a chance.

"Now what?" Missionary asked, examining Gingrich's corpse for anything to pilfer.

"...Do you have the trigger to the bomb?" Junior suddenly asked, terrible realization filling his eyes with dread.

"Gosh dang it to mother-fudging heck!" Missionary spat.

Boom.

"You just got Bain'd, son of an unwed couple," quipped the target, slipping on a pair of sunglasses. He returned to his limousine, his wife waiting patiently for him in the back.

"Nice, honey," she complimented, giving him a quick peck on the cheek.

"Gee, thanks Anne," the rogue replied, "Say - do you think I'm camp?"

"Of course not, sweetie," she said, taking his hand in hers, "You're bad-butt."

TL;DR.


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Nightkill the Emperor wrote:You know, I didn't expect you to be the most psychopathic person here.

I have the oddest of feelings this is my fault somehow.
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Cerillium wrote:Const is right.
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Have a cookie.
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User avatar
Nationstatelandsville
Khan of Spam
 
Posts: 70969
Founded: Apr 27, 2011
Ex-Nation

Postby Nationstatelandsville » Mon Nov 19, 2012 9:29 pm

With every post, I both love and hate Ivy more.

Damn you, Texan!
"Then I was fertilized and grew wise;
From a word to a word I was led to a word,
From a work to a work I was led to a work."
- Odin, Hávamál 138-141, the Poetic Edda, as translated by Dan McCoy.

I enjoy meta-humor and self-deprecation. Annoying, right?

Goodbye.

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