Continue this story...

[modest mouse]

Take a few minutes and give it a go....




Edmund falls from the balcony, mind addled with Scotch and stomach full of overblown cuisine.

Its the trash and decay of the city that cushions him and allows him to strugle for yet another day. Awake at 5 am, stray dog lickign his face, vomit on his sleeve.

The alleyway is alive with noise though its serene all around him. Exiting southbound with new-found pet in tow.

Martika calls out to him from the steps of the coffeeshop he vaguely remembers being fond of. Fighting through a haze he ventures over to gaze at her face amidst an utterly confusing morning.

 

[Sandia]

Martika's long lashes, blue-streaked hair, and several facial piercings evoke uneasy feelings.

"Hey, Edmund, wanna fuck?" she asks.

Edmund wearily shakes his head. "I'm still sore from the last time," he says.

The long-legged beauty shrugs and turns to re-entry the coffee shop. Edmund watches her fishnet - clad thighs disappear behind the door.

Wiping the garbage off his face, Edmund follows her inside.

Although he doesn't want to fuck Marika, he does like her, and wants to talk to her.

Besides. Coffee would feel good about now.

 

[RosevilleCAguy]

Martika looks at him, covered in trash and dog puke. She recoils from the stench of garbage and day old booze breath. "Angelo, "she yells for her 6'5", former world kick boxing champion of a husband, "I got a fucking wino chasing off the customers again."

Angelo comes out from the kitchen, blinded by rage. The only thing he hates worse then being reminded of the night he lost the kickboxing championship is bums scaring off the customers.


Angelo's spinning heel roundhouse kick fractures Edmund's skull and sends him to the hospital for 6 months, in a deep coma.

 

[KillerMuffin]

Edmund wakes up from his coma, and upon hearing what happens immediately hires Johnny Cochran to represent him and sues Martika and Angelo for allowing him to drink enough to fall off of the balcony and hurt himself, for pain and suffering that resulted in laying in the trash and getting licked by their dog, Puddles, and for not helping him. He is suing both for 12.8 million. Additionally, he has filed suit against Angelo for kicking his ass and putting him in the hospital for sixth months. The total amount there is 20 million. Edmund hopes to win and retire to some small Carribean island with the word Saint in front and no buildings taller than one story.

So far the Dream Team is optomistic about his chances of winning, though Edmund cannot seem to get Johnny to say "If the glove don't fit, you must acquit." Apparently gloves have nothing to do with his trial since kickboxers don't wear gloves. That and Johnny doesn't want them to acquit, he wants the jury to throw the book at him. And then give Edmund lots of money so he can take his 40%.

 

[Guest]

Mean while, in Senegal, Professor ChilledVodka perfected a love-portion which will make him a lesbo anytime of the day for fun.

The professor is watching a kickboxing bout on TV and wonders, ''What the fuck was KillerMifie saying kickboxers don't wear gloves crap was about?''

The professor approachs MsMuffie and force-feed the love portion and watches Muffie go lesbo.

 

[RosevilleCAguy]

Angelo, stand up guy that he is, takes care of business.

He contacts some of his former business associates to take care of Edmund, who soon thereafter has an unfortunate accident by way of stepping in front of a machine gun. This occurs just after Edmund had notarized a document bearing his signature. This document takes complete personal responsiblity for the fall off the balcony of the aparment he was burglarizing, his massive consumption of sterno prior to said fall, his criminal sexual assault on a helpless Yorkshire terrier, and his physical attack on Angelo and his wife, which was only thwarted by Angelo's superhuman skills as a kickboxer.

Shortly therafter, a man who bears a strong resemblance to Angelo is seen embarking upon a flight to Senegal. His passport identifies him as Dieter Gonzalez, a Sengalese national.

Upon his arrival in Senegal, Mr. Gonzalez is seen visiting the residence of one Chilled Vodka, who mysteriously disappears. The crocodile keeper at the Senegal National Zoo simultaneously becomes concerned at the sudden lack of appetite in his charges. This concern passes in a week or so. along with some suspiciously human looking crocodile poop.

Muffie, the favorite daughter of one of the Capos in NYC is deprogrammed form her lesbo tendencies in a secret location. This is accomplished with the assistance of a handsome, well-endowed individual wearing a green chem suit.

At the same time that the suspicious crocodile feces appear, the "Dream Team" recieves a letter from Angelo's attorney, Sylvio "The Knife" Scungiolli, which offers to settle the suit if "the Dream Team" agrees to pay Angelo 100 large and to work in commercials touting Angelo's newly opened spaghetti house.
Since the letter is also accompanied by the head of a horse, the "Dream Team" finds the settlement terms more than fair and complies in less time than it takes DCL to agree to a game of strip Monopoly.

 

[Guest]

A sudden rainstorm broke out in the West Africa. Violent wind assulted the entire region. A marriage of high and low pressure. Thunder purred its hunger.

The Zookeeper watched the dramatic weather so rare in Senegal from the safety of his tin-roofed office. A flash of lightning seemed to hit the crocodile pen. Though, affraid of lightning stricking twice, the Zookeeper ventured out to check on his charges.

Contrary to his presumption, the crocodiles seemed oblivious to the potential danger of a lightning hitting the surface of the water-pool.

The zookeeper was startled by a giggling noise suddenly breaking out behind him. The source of the noise was what used to be a pile of crocodile poop. There stood ChilledVodka in perfect - if not improoved - condition.

''Muhahahahaha!'', the inigmatic sweetie-pie roared.

''Bonjour, Monsieur,'' the zookeeper tatatively asked.

Muhahaahahah! Fuck off! Au revoir,'' super-handsome ChilledVodka shouted. In his mind, there was only one thing - KillerMuffie's tight lesbo ass.

The zookeeper blinked and the Chilled one was gone. Gone out of the stratosphere, into atmosphere of US of A.

 

[RosevilleCAguy]

Upon his return to the land of Uncle Sam, Prof. Vodka was asked for his passport by the kind, yet diligent customs agent.

The customs agent verified that Prof. Vodka was indeed who his passport said he was.

As he return Prof. Vodka's passport he quipped "Hey buddy, ya gotta take better care of yourself. You look like shit."

 

[WaxNWane]

Somewhere, in the distance, a dog barked.

 

[KillerMuffin]

Muffie, completely addlepated over her green chem-suit wearing lover, ran off to Cabo San Lucas to be with him. She was distraught to find that he'd run off with the maid who knew how to treat a green chem-suit.

Languishing on the beach in the throes of heartbreak, she proved that her Capo blood runs true. She created and outlined the perfect plan for vengenance against her green chem-suit wearing ex-lover and the dastardly maid, Martika.

Shortly after arriving in New Jersey, she found the objects of her vengeance in Trenton. Martika, now slovenly and a shrew, kept the handsome, yet dashing, green chem-suit wearing ex-lover on a short leash. His only respite was the long hours he put in at the Trenton Turpentine and Infectious Diseases Plant, a wholly owned Subsidiary of Angelo International.

Muffie, a black belt in jeet kune do, among other things, quickly made short work of the maid, then made her way to the Trenton Plant where she rescued her handsome, yet debonair, green chem-suit wearing ex-lover from the vile hands of Angelo, the bisexual. She carried her non-ex-lover off in her white Hummer limo and promptly forgave him for all his trespasses and promised to remove testicles if he ever did it again.

 

[Guest]

Professor ChilledVodka watched Muffie kick some ass.

He lesbo-wanked watching the scene.

 

[RosevilleCAguy]

Bran Muffin, Capo di tutti frutti of the Raisin family was pissed. Not only had his uncontrollable daughter Killer run off to Senegal with the diabolically pervert Professor Chilled Vodka, known seeker of perverse lesbos, she had trashed Martika, the one person who knew the secret location of the Wholly Grill and had began a torrid affair with Nevada Smith, the eccentric chemical suit wearing archaeologist of great renown.

It could have been worse, mused Bran. At least Nevada Smith was in possession of the Tiger Tank in which Joseph of Aramathea had transported the Grill to the land of the foul and most foreign French.

The grill was long sought after by archiologists and outdoor chefs alike, for upon its surface, the famous "Last Bar-B Que" had been cooked.

Bran called in one of his many green chemical suit wearing assistants, Poppino "The Cherry" Tart. "Pop Tart," Bran said, "Muffie had once again become that which would be referred to outside of the family as a slut."

Go fetch her and the famous Nevada Smith and bring them to me. Feel free to abuse Muffie in any way, but do not harm the professor.

Pop Tart set out immediately to do his master's bidding.

 

[KillerMuffin]

Thankfully, unbeknownst to Bran Muffin, his lovely daughter Muffie was safe in the arms of her green-chem suit wearing, seriously tough, and also a master strategist with a background in nuclear engineering, weapons design, and flower arranging, with several strong connections to various special ops branches of the government and military. He had put a nuke in Bran's toilet seat before running off with Martika and it accidentally went off while Bran and Martika's old lover Angelo were getting it on in the shower.

No survivors.

Tragically enough, Muffie inherited all of Bran's illegally gotten billinos, except for the Krispy Kreme franchise chain in Atlanta. That went to Martika's son, and Muffie's half brother, Marxist.

 

[RosevilleCAguy]

Unfortunately for Muffie, Pop Tart was a dedicated soldier of Bran Muffin, approaching his given task with the dogged determination of a special prosecutor investigating allegations of presidential sexual indescretion. This combined with Muffie's tendency to seek quick, simple and trite resolutions to craftily devised and well written plot complications in multi-writer stories allowed him to easily capture both Muffie and her love slave, Nevada Smith.

Pop Tart chuckled as he watched Nevada Smith struggling to carry the burden of the securely duct-taped, drugged, chained, and completely restrained (dammit completely means completely) Muffie. "Too bad competence in strategy does not equal competence in tactics, Dr. Smith," Pop snorted, "Nor do success in nuclear engineering, weapon design, and flower arrangement remedy a failure to properly secure the front door. I still can't believe you fell for the old 'Girl Scout Cookie Salespitch', especially since I was wearing a 'Camp Fire' uniform."

Smith, laboring under the weight of the old/young (or is it young/old) Muffie rasped, "We felt safe. Nobody knew we were here except several strong connections we had to various special ops branches and the military."

"Who do you think gave you up, you overeducated, Joseph of Aramathea's Tiger tank possessing, last somewhat coherent link to the location of the Lost Grill, " Pop said sarcasticly as he rolled his eyes. "Seriously, what WERE you thinking? Ten million American Taxpayers were instantly vaporized by the nuclear fireball that took out NYC. Did you think that would go unnoticed? Maybe a gas line explosion? Jeez, not even the Yayahead would buy that."

After freezing Muffie securly in a block of carbonite in order to safely transport her to the desert fortress of "Pizza the Hut," Pop handcuffed Dr. Smith securely to the steering wheel of his immaculately maintained, pink 1958 Cadillac convertable. Comfortable molding himself into the contours of the passenger seat, Pop continued his dissertation to the idiot-nuclear savant Smith. "What a couple of ultra maroons. Special ops and the military couldn't give me your location fast enough. With you out of the way, they can pin this on the Iraqis. I figure our boys will be in Bagdad within a week"

Pop had Dr. Smith, drive the Caddie and its insensate, young/old (or is it old/young- I get very confused about this) carbonite ingot cargo to the hideout of Pizza the Hut, pausing only to purchase a Muffie-sized, daring but not so daring as to get an "R" rating, brass bikini, catch a few baseball games, and to allow Dr. Smith to telephone his mommy in order to let her know he would be missing supper that night.

Finally, they reached the palace of Pizza the Hut, surrounded by its mysterious odor of garlic powder and canned tomato sauce. Noting that the brightly lit sign in the window read "open", Pop and his unwilling driver fetched "Muffie the Ingot" from the trunk and dragged her in

 

[KillerMuffin]

Muffie watched the party tromp into the Pizza Hut through her field glasses. The only things running through her mind were, gawddammit, that body double came in handy and I wonder if they have any pepperoni in there.

Well, there was nothing for it. She stuck the AT-4 onto her shoulder, verified that it was facing in the proper direction, stuck the lollipop into her mouth, and pulled the trigger. One thing she always wondered as she watched the smoke trail run to the building was why an AT-4 round couldn't go in a straight line.

The next thought was that she sincerely hoped that the kevlar she'd had sewn into the green chem-suit worked out okay. If not, well someone was going to be a bit pissy.

 

[Lost Cause]

On the other side of the city...

In a jack-off booth at the Pussy Sweat adult theatre, Edmund looked at his refelection in the cum splattered monitor. "How did my life take such a tragic turn?" he thought. Fumbling in his left trouser pocket, he removed the shiny one dollar tokens, and began feeding them into the viewing machine.

 

[RosevilleCAguy]

Muffie's kevlar concerns were unfounded as she had forgotten that the suggested tactical engagment range of the AT 4 was 250 meters or less and her firing position was much farther than that from the Hut's lair.

Her firing position precisely revealed by the AT 4's backblast, Muffie was quickly captured by private security guards retained to patrol the Hut's parking lot.

After being slapped into a form-fitting brass bikini and her neck encompassed with a collar, Muffie was hooked to a leash held by the Hut himself.

The Hut was not from this planet, but he did bear an uncanny resemblance to Orson Wells, sans whiskers, plus tail, plus another 200,000 calories give or take. He only interests were encasing women in carbonite ingots (He was a collector of some renown with a portion of his collection formerly on display at the now vaporized NY Metropolitan Mueseum of Art), encasing women in form-fitting brass bikinis, and consuming slimy, still living creatures for the on-camera shock effect it created.

"Ho, Ho, Ho," laughed Pizza as he sequed from Orson Wells to the Jolly Green Giant, "Parlez vous a humma humma?"

"No, no!!!!" shrilled Muffie, her usually calm facade cracking like an egg under the treads of Joseph of Aramathea's Tiger tank which was used to smuggle the Wholly Grill to the land of the foul and most foreign French.

"Too bad," said Pizza, as he opened the secret trap door beneath her feet. "Other than your tendency to seek quick, simple, and trite resolutions to craftily devised and well written plot complications in multi-writer stories combined with woefully inadequate knowledge of the capabilities of the AT 4 weapons system, I really liked you."

"What a waste of a great ass," the Hut sighed. "Oh well. Somebody send in what's her face? You know, the one with the brand new luxury British car and the cruel thread mocking the Yayahead."

The 'THUD' of Muffie's brass clad butt hitting the packed sand of the arena under the Hut's lair was drowned by the swelling roar of the standing room only crowd packed into the stadium to witness the titanic struggle between Muffie and the B.C. Lions of the Canadian Football League.

Muffie's mind raced. Were they playing by American or Canadian Football Rules? Before her mind could fully register its import, the back field shifted and the ball was snapped with two men in motion drawing no penalty flag. Muffie's heart pounded. It was a long pass. Desperately, she attempted to catch the fleet footed wideout as he pulled in the perfectly thrown spiral.

Muffie instinctlively chose the pursuit angle which would allow her to tackle the receiver or drive him out of bounds before he reached the goal line. Unfortunately, as she hit and wrapped the tall, attractive, talented wide reciever wearing a green chem suit under his uniform, she failed to notice the trailing runner, who caught the pitched ball thrown to him in the perfectly executed 'hook and ladder" play and raced across the goal ine.

"Touchdown, B.C. Lions!!!" roared the announcer as the scantily clad and well proportioned B.C. Lion cheerleaders cavorted on the sidelines.

 

[Guest]

Professor ChilledVodka woke up and found Muffie gone.

''Ack, fuck 'er!'' he muttered and farted loudly into the direction of USA. His cock displayed the usual morning hard-on. It wasn't as large as Dillinger's whale penis, but substantial, nevertheless. As he sat up Please e-mail your story in .doc or .txt format. Use of the volunteer editors are hightly recomended. Currently, we, at literotica, do not accept stories with less than 750 words, so please fucking write a longer stories.

The professor washed his handsome face. There was a day old stubble, but he did not shave. Lesbos liked him looking that way.

''Rachel!'' the professor yelled. The bitch run to his side. ''Lick my ass,'' he comanded to his obedient bicth. Rachel put her front paws on his hard butt-cheeks, dug her nozzle into his crack and began to lick his anus clean.

Professor brushed is teeth.

The Chilled one golden-showered his golden retriever.

In his devious mind, a new plan for world domination was forming. The evil one grined at his cleverness.

''I'm going after you, Alexandraaah,'' he mumbled and spit out the toothpaste. His breath was minty fresh, fit for kissing Caly, supperlittlegirl, and Juicygirl in sequence, but not in that particuler order.

The professor picked of his cellphone and called the Senegalise foreign ministry of defence. miles aka Ginny answered the call.

Although a Senegalise born and bred, professor Chilled didn't speak Freanch, so he said to Ginny, ''Arrenge a flight to the States, babe, pronto.''

''Only if you... butt-fuck me..., professor,'' Ginny spoke heatedly.

''Is tortoise around?''

''No..., he's at... BeeGees concert... with *bratcat*''

''I can't believe you let him go with *brat*, Ginny. Do you trust him that much?''

''No..., but... TWB is there... too.''

''That's worse, Ginny.''

''Ahck, well... I don't mind..., coz that mean's... you have the oppotunity... to come around here... and be nasty with me.''

''Okay, Ginny. I'll be there in ten minutes. Arrenge the flight for me, would you?''

''Cum................... for........... me.........., baby...........''

''Right away, sweetie.''

Prifessor Chilled gunned his Ferrari F40.

Bang!

The car exploded.

 

[Guest]

ChilledVodka scratched his head and wondered why the hell did he shoot his Ferrafi F40.