Elfen High 2 (OOC, Closed)

[Ende]

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.

[Condunum]

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

What? Fuck you.

[Nationstatelandsville]

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

What? Fuck you.

I'm really far behind on that.

[Nude East Ireland]

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

What? Fuck you.

I'm really far behind on that.

What is television?

[Nationstatelandsville]

I'm really far behind on that.

What is television?

Don't worry about it, Mr. Harker. You'll catch up eventually.

[Constaniana]

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.

[Condunum]

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?

[Nationstatelandsville]

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

[Nightkill the Emperor]

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

So will I in a bit.

[Hardened Pyrokinetics]

As people can clearly see, James has ceased to give two shits.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Because fuck you, we're doing this flashback and you will have Diwali spirit.

[Constaniana]

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.

[Nationstatelandsville]

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."

[Ameriganastan]

...Am I supposed to know this Alastor guy?

[Nationstatelandsville]

...Am I supposed to know this Alastor guy?

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

[Zarkenis Ultima]

...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.

[Constaniana]

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."

[Nightkill the Emperor]

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."

[Nightkill the Emperor]

James won't play?

Fuck it, I will make him play.

[Hardened Pyrokinetics]

James won't play?

Fuck it, I will make him play.

James is tired of your shit, Indian Miz.

[Ende]

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.

[Ameriganastan]

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.

[Nationstatelandsville]

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.

[Constaniana]

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.

What else is new?

[Nationstatelandsville]

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

Damn you, Texan!