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We pissin' our pants yet?; It's gonna be pee-pee pants city real soon...
Topic Started: Aug 13 2016, 05:17 PM (589 Views)
ToxieTheToxicAvenger
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"FUCK!"

*THWACK!*

"FUCKING FUCK YOOOOOOUUUU!"

*KRACK SMASH*

"MOTHERFUCKIN' COCK SUCK CUNT-FINGER-FUCKED FUCK!"

*SPLASH!*

"GAH!"

((B011 MICHAEL CROWE: V6 START))

Michael was, to put it nicely, not prepared for this at all. His chest heaved as he stared down at the shattered barrel below him. Not only was he not prepared; he was fucking pissed, he was fucking pissed and was covered in dirty who-knows-how-old alcohol. His axe was gripped tightly in his left hand. Damn, this was not good. This was not good at all. His right hand wiped the sweat from his brow, pushing his hair back a bit. His throat was already hoarse from his screaming barrel destroying tantrum.

It's okay, calm down, find Jonathan, cry like a bitch then die viole- Nah fuck that scene. Find Jonathan, get the fuck out. Stay calm, stay calm. You got this.

Easier said than done, the moment Michael walked out into the main room of the bar, his eyes caught the camera staring back at him. Covered in sweat, booze, and possibly his tears; wait, was he crying? Michael rubbed a hand over his eyes before almost calmly and casually placing his Wayfarers over his eyes as a precaution. Not like it'd help. Camera already got a good glimpse of his misty eyes, hell, they probably heard, nay saw him smash the shit out of that storeroom. Probably watched him while he slept too.

It was almost comical, after that intense period of venting he was completely deadpan calm as if nothing had happened. Almost casually he planted the axe into the desk and turned his head towards the corner of the room, making a beeline for that damned camera.

His voice choked a bit, but after a second, he composed himself. "Hey..." What would he say? Hey mom, hey dad! Your son's a faggot and he's gonna die. Whoop-de-fuckadilly-doo right? Would he appologize for whatever he'd be forced to do on the island. Would he laugh, take it as a joke, and walk outside to realize it's not?

Nah. He knew his chances, he might as well say it while he could.

"Hey... Hey Danya?" He waved his hand to the camera to see if it was following him. He was unsure if they moved across the room, or if they were static, either way, he WAS sure he had their full attention. "O-Okay Danya, you listen, an' you listen good, okay?" Michael gripped his giblets through the front of his pants to make his point clear. "You have a nice, slow, long, jerk to these events, Danya; You pedophile sick fuck, you." His voice cracked as he spoke, tilting his head to the side. He chuckled, it was a fake one, but it's better than wearing a crybaby bitch pout. "Because when I win, and you damn well know I will... I WILL PERSONALLY WALK UP TO YOUR LITTLE CAMERA ROOM, RIP YOUR DICK OFF, AND FUCK YOU IN THE ASS UNTIL MY CHILDREN COME OUT YOUR GODDAMN MOUTH!" Michael's strained high pitched voice probably wasn't doing much in terms of intimidation, but damn it felt good to get that off his chest. Michael gave himself a hard punch in the mouth and turned around, yelling out the Ric Flair special.

Fuck it, if Danya blew his head off, at least he died threatening to rape him until he'd choke on his semen. Michael walked over to the counter, ripped his axe out of the table, and sat down at a nearby bench, exhausted.

Fuck, that was cathartic.
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Oh shit, someone was in here! Michael gripped his axe as the door opened, still in his seat. He leaned forward a bit keeping the axe hidden behind the chair.

If this fucker thought he was being sneaky, he was failing horribly. He kept his eyes trailed on the kid as he slid out of the bathroom. Michael stayed stiff as a bored, making sure the bastard didn't see him looking at him.

Turns out it was Jerry, who, for the most part, was a pretty chill dude. Michael relaxed a bit.

Michael had relaxed even more when he asked to join him. Wait? Join him in what?

Michael's right hand grabbed the side of his sunglasses, lowering them, eyeing him up and down. Did he have a weapon? If he did it wasn't visible. Michael had the upper hand if he tried shit, though he doubted Jerry of all people would. He raised his glasses back at eye level. Michael smiled.

"Sure." Michael stood up. His left hand gripped the felling axe, however he kept it low, showing it off, but hopefully Jerry would pick up on his body language in that he didn't intend to use it unless he had to. He raised his right hand assuming he'd get a handshake.

"I was just, ehhh, venting earlier."

He probably scared this poor fuck senseless, which wasn't a good thing to have if someone wanted to befriend you.

"Wasn't nothing meant for you or anyone else on this island, just got a bit pissed at-" Michael nodded his head towards the camera. "Well, y'know."

Michael smiled again, his eyes staring through the Wayfarers, still looking for a weapon; Just in case. If Jerry had one, Michael wanted to know.
Edited by ToxieTheToxicAvenger, Aug 13 2016, 10:05 PM.
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Michael stood still, awaiting his handshake. When he realized he wasn't getting it, he lowered his arm, his grin fading. Damn, don't let the end of the world make you lose track of common courtesy for fucks sake...

"You know..." Michael shrugged for a moment; he'd lean his head back and pinch his brow. "When someone offers a handshake you kinda fuckin' follow through with it right?" Shaking his head he looked at Jerry. "Like damn man, don't leave me hangin'..."

Whatever, it really didn't matter, but holding onto small shit like that helped him hold onto what small traces of normalcy his suddenly shorter life expectancy had. He wasn't really serious with the whole handshake thing. It was just a mix of reflex and trying to lighten the mood. Weird sense of humor right?

He couldn't really get onto Jerry though, dude was definitely scared as shit. Hell, Michael himself was scared. Anyone would be in this situation.

But it was once Jerry stopped stuttering and put on the 'hard-ass' routine when Michael got his grin back. It was hilarious to see Jerry walk out scared-as-balls then turn a one-eighty, and pretend that he weren't scared. Michael understood how he felt. Pretty identical to be honest. Michael was just a hell of a lot better at hiding it. Then again from what little he knew of Jerry, he knew had almost no mean bones in his body. Made the whole I got this baby even hokier. Plus, it was a whole lot better to have someone who knew he was scared and tried to hide it with you, than it was to have some crybaby coward roll up in a ball rocking back and forth, right? That's what they call courage right? It wasn't the lack of fear, it was knowing you're scared as shit but you defy it anyways. Kind of an admirable trait. Even if it was done in such a goofy chucklefuck manner.

Least he knew he had a knife now. Not only that it was a fucking taser knife or some shit. Zap and shank. Fuck that's metal. Probably the most metal shit he's heard of since that one internet weapon that threw saw blades like a fucking lacrosse stick. If that made it on the island he was as fucked as a fuckboy on fuck night Fridays. Glad to have Jerry on his side though. Two good weapons, two badass motherfuckers. People already don't wanna fuck with Mike alone, and with his new buddy to back him up, well shit, he was all set to live through this thing until he found Jonathan. Speaking of which he-

Jerry interrupted his train of thought and spoke up about his bag.

"Numbers? Oh yeah, this fuckin' thing. Number eleven, shitty fuckin' number man." Jerry lapsed back into freak out mode on seeing the numbers. He wasn't wrong, we weren't people anymore, we're entertainment for a bunch of sick fuck bastards. When Michael got out of here, he was gonna have a lot of dick-ripping-off to do. Danya wasn't the only one who's going to feel the wrath of a thousand angry fucks all wrapped up into one kinda-medium sized fuck; as five foot eight couldn't necessarily be considered a big fuck, there was gonna be a lot of people to feel the maximum fuck of medium fuck's rage. Point at hand though, he couldn't have Jerry break, not yet at least.

"Hey." Michael brought his right arm up again, he didn't know why, felt like body language, maybe consolidation? "It's alright man, don't panic. We panic we're as good as dead." Michael kept his grin up, he really didn't want Jerry to flip his shit, to hurt himself, or worse, try to come at him with the shock knife. Couldn't have that.

"Listen, we just gotta, j-just gotta plan some shit out, okay?" Michael lowered his hand down a bit. "Plan something out, right?"

Might as well ask if there's anything he wants.

"You uhh, there someone on this island you maybe wanna find?"

Maybe he could help Jerry find his friends, and in return Jerry could help him find Jonathan and Darius. The three fuck-a-tiers needed their D'artigan after all...

I mean, some garbage plan is better than no plan right? Can't lose your mind doing nothing. Michael'd much rather spend his time looking for the people he cared about then pacing around in circles in some shitty cheap bar.

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That wasn't too helpful. Michael would have no idea who to keep his eyes out for. Shit, who hung out with Jerry before it all hit the fan? Fuck it, beggars can't be choosers. Right now Jerry was his closest ally, and Michael was Jerry's. For all we know, Jon, Darius, Bradley, and all the other chucklefucks in Michael's buddy group? They could be dead.

No. No they're not. It's too early for that. Nobody would kill just yet.

But someone's going to die before the day's out. Or...

All of us would.


Michael found himself staring out the window. He saw two other buildings across from the one he's in. Turning his head to the left, he saw two large apartment complex looking thingies... At least he was sure they were apartment complexes. Where were they anyways? Michael reached through his bag, pulling out an assortment of items, laying them on the table.

Big ass first aid kit, Danya's survival guide; HAH! Like that desk jockey would know anything about survival... and the map. Skimming over it, he searched for his location.

Well shit. Island's smaller than he thought. Way smaller. He could practically spit on the other side of the bridge. Finding his pals should be easy right? There was the living quarters, which for the most part didn't look too bad. The area they were at was roughly the size of your typical college campus, the buildings were a bit larger, but not too bad. Then, there's the helipad and storeroom, maybe the size of a large Costco?

The hard part was going to be the Asylum. Even if it weren't too large, the interiors would be a fucking labyrinth. And if the asylum was large. Well... It'd be even worse. He had a feeling most of the students would be here. Whether or not it's a good or bad thing is a different story. Hell, Henry could be leading some Wickerman death cult right now; burning Bradley like Nicholas Cage or some crazy shit. Michael shook his head at the thought. He doubted even a single one of his classmates would do something so sadistic, let alone a large group of people falling down that route.

Then Jerry regained his attention with a question. A damn good question at that... Jerry was planning on looting the place. That's something that'll help in the long run for sure, especially if shit goes pear shaped. "Hell yeah, not like anyone else gonna use this shit." Michael grabbed his supplies and put them back in his bag. He kept the map on him however, folding it up and putting it in his jacket pocket.

"Aight Jerry, best thing to get would be bottles, toilet paper, and maybe some backup weapons."
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"Yeah, I gotcha."

Jerry decided to loot the restrooms, after all, there's only so many pages in the survival handbook. Hah, get a good look at that you fucker! That left Michael with the weapons and beer run.

This was the plan then. Ransack the place, get what we need, prepare for what could be the rest of our lives. Rather do it now, then try later and find the rest of the place has been fucked over. At the very least, whatever's in here will add three days to our lifespan, and that's if there's no high-proof alcohols in the building. Michael had doubted there'd be just cheap lagers and drafts here. But first, there was another task at hand. One that required a bit of Crowe-creativity.

Michael's eyes trailed down towards the table below him. His hand slid across the top of it, it was old, but it wasn't soggy or moldy. This was built to last, which meant...

Michael's leg shot up into the bottom of the table, knocking it on it's side. Grabbing a hold of the table leg with his right hand, he took his axe with his left and brought it down on the base of the leg, right where it met the counter top. Four decent smacks, and the leg came off without a hitch. "One for you..." Michael swung twice on the next leg, before twisting and yanking it off. "One for moi..." Michael squinted through his shades, admiring such a simple, yet effective tool.

Wasn't too hard, wasn't too soft. With this, he could pull his hits. He didn't have to worry about killing someone if he hit them with this. If someone were to attack him, he could knock them out, take their shit, leave, put it in the back of his mind.

He couldn't say that with the axe. There's no pulling punches with an axe. You'll cut through them, or if you don't, you'll cut so deep they'll bleed out anyways later on. He didn't want to use it except as a last resort.

Michael moved over to behind the bar. He wondered how this place was abandoned, how much was left over. And how much after that Danya and his droogs took. You bastards, you fucks, you're gonna get it, just you fucking wait. Michael slid his hands along the counter, reading the worn labels on the bottles. "High proof, high proof..." He needed something with a high alcohol content, on one hand, you could make a molotov, easy dispatch right? Except it was a cruel and senseless waste of both life and liquor.

The liquor wasn't for drinking. He knew while he was on this island he was gonna get shit on. Beaten, cut, burnt, blown up, shot, maybe even literally shat on. He'd need something to clean those wounds if he didn't want to die of sepsis, or blood poisoning, or some fucking flesh melting bacteria or shit that could be on this island. He'd need it to survive, and contrary to Danya's belief, survive doesn't necessarily mean kill everything that moves.

There wasn't anything here of use though. Empty draft machines, pitchers, glass cups, bottles of 50 year old flat beer. No way in hell was this place inhabited since the 70's.

He remembered where he woke up. That barrel soaked his fucking ankles when he broke it. There had to be something in the back room, right? Michael shifted over to his awakening point, if that's the right word to use. "Yo!" Michael called out to the restrooms. "I'ma check the store room, maybe we'll find some rum, or whiskey or some shit y'know, in case someone tries cuttin' us or some shit!"

Michael opened the door, and walked down the two steps into the room. His shoes stuck to the floor with each step, as an audible plop was heard as he walked through the wet floor. If the place still had the good shit, it'd be here.
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Bugs in the bathroom? Poor bastard, Michael was glad he didn't get bathroom duty. Goddamn, Michael hated bugs. He hated spiders most of all, but all bugs are fucking terrible. Well, except honey bees, those are pretty cool, they actually do shit. But shit like mosquitoes and flies could fuck off. Do nothing but spread malaria and get eaten by spiders, which coincidentally, spiders only eat other bugs that do nothing but spread disgusting shit. It's like damn God, couldn't you think of something a bit less redundant? Out of the seven days it took, the one with the bugs must have been his writer's block. Michael wasn't going to ask him about it right now though, he had a long fulfilling life in front of him, regardless of what those gas mask wearing fuck-sticks told him.

The wet plopping noises were getting on his nerves now. There wasn't much good stuff here to use. Most of the bottles were empty, or were so molded that putting it on a cut would cause your dick to rot off. So really, there wasn't good stuff at all, just useless shit. Guess on this one he was SOL. Michael opened the crate next to the shelves.

Well whaddya know. There was still vodka. The edible nail polish remover that people most commonly of Slavic nationality consume. Michael picked up various bottles, before he heard Jerry mention something about a broomstick. "Nah man! I got you a table leg!" Michael called back. "Smaller, and just as good of a hit!" A broomstick was just too long to reliably use. Maybe if we had a kni- oh shit the shock knife! Well... we've got nothing to connect the two. Actually, we don't even need to connect the shock knife! Michael had an axe, he could sharpen that shit! Damn, we might not have guns, but we got enough shit to go Far Cry on some motherfuckers. "Aaaaactually, hold onto that broom for a moment!"

Looking back at the vodka bottles, they were barely empty. Just a shot or two at most if you combined what they all had together. Well, damn. There isn't nothing in here worth dragging along outside of toilet paper and a few improvisational. Yep, he was shit out of luck it seems. Eh, maybe he could use one of the bottles to throw and distract someone? Fuck it, he'll come back later if he has to. Michael closed the box back up.

"Store room's fuckin' empty, wouldn't order the fish and chips here if I were you." Michael walked back into the main room, scratching his head. "I think we got everything here, but if we stay a little longer, I could probably make that broomstick into a damn javelin or some shit; whittle it down to a point, y'know?" In terms of weapons and commodities, they did all right, now it was just a hope of if the first aid kits had enough in them to keep them from dying from tetanus.
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Jerry handed him the broom. Michael got straight to work.

They were going to make it; at least they are in the early game. Michael summed up their weapons. Two table legs, a shock knife, an axe, and a spear. Nobody who wanted to live would come at them, unless they were really well armed. If someone had a gun, and Michael knew damn well people would, they wouldn't be too scared of them unless Mike and Jerry managed to close the distance quickly. If the gun was semi-automatic, or even bolt action, they'd be screwed if they missed their first shot, and even if they didn't the one not hit would close the distance and utterly facefuck them. Twenty foot rule. A man could close in on someone within 20 feet if they weren't expecting it, and it's turned down to 8 feet if they are expecting it. If they were quick to close the distance, they could down a gunman before he even had drawn.

But there was another problem, if the gun was automatic, a spray and pray could end them both right then and there. No 'ifs', 'ands', or 'buts'. You'd be so full of wholes you would be dead before you could even say 'Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto". You might not even be able to finish the "Domo Arigato" part. The only way to beat a machine gun killer would be to catch them off guard. Gang and gank 'em before they knew what happened. If they got a hold of a gun like that, that'd cement their chances to even higher. Maybe even a week.

But there was another problem. Who knew if Jerry would be willing to stick with Michael for the duration of this fucked up show? Hell, Michael couldn't even promise to stick with him, his plan was to find Jonathan, or Darius, or Bradley or some shit. And for all Michael knows, Jerry had similar plans. Even if both of them found their friends and stayed in one large group it just wouldn't work. Too many incompatibilities.

It'd probably be better on Michael's conscious to help Jerry find his crew, before he left to find his own, but what if during the time it took his friends died? If by any chance taking the route Jerry told him when the other one would've led him to his friends. Would Michael be bitter? Would he blame Jerry for causing the deaths of his closest ones? Especially if he could help them had he gone another route. But then would be be able to live with himself if he found his crew and left Jerry on his own. What if Jerry died alone shortly after?

Michael turned the broom and began shaving the next side down with his axe.

Would Jerry even stick with him for that long? There's a chance one of them could be killed before ever reaching anyone's goal. Someone well armed enough to take them on, paranoia, fuck something as simple as saying the wrong thing could start fight to the death now. Might as well speak up about it now. Had to get priorities straight. Have to make sure there is a sense of loyalty in the first place.

"Yo, Jerry, if shit hits the fan and we get attacked..." Just drop the question."Like you gotta fight someone, no running or anything.." No pussyfooting around. "If I had to kill,-I mean we had to, like..."

Man just nut up and say it.

"If we had to kill someone, would you back me up?"

Michael stared at Jerry through his dark sunglasses.
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That was it then. Just like that, no stuttering, no hesitations, no 'if's 'and's or 'but's. This was it. Locked into place, Michael and Jerry were the SOTF Bonnie and Clyde 2015...

Except that they weren't. Michael wasn't going to be the murderer, neither he, nor Jerry.

Michael had to make it clear. He paused on his whittling to take a moment to contemplate. "Alright, listen. You and I both know we wanna see the people we care about.." Good start, good start. "But there is a big fucking problem with that, you feel me?" Michael placed the broom stick to his side. "We're gonna find a lot of people out there, angry, petty, scared, sadistic, you name it."

"All of 'em gonna have one thing in common, they gonna kill; don't matter if they want to live, if they got a grudge, or if they just want to see what it feels like to do it, there's gonna be killers on this island."

Michael always had a thing for the dramatic. It didn't matter if it were a group of mobsters talking about whacking a snitch, the underground resistance planning a last ditch assault against their machine overlords, or the lock and load montage as a rag tag team plans to escape a zombie infected city. One thing they all had in common was that big ass speech right before the climax. Michael'd like to think this speech would be one. He'd also liked to think this was one of his movies. Once you die, scene cut, go to the break room with your friends. Except this wasn't no movie.

"We ain't gonna be players, hunters, bandits, whatever the fuck you call 'em. If someone hits us, we hit back harder, someone raids us, we raid back harder. But we won't be the ones starting shit."

This was honestly a morbid fucking thing to be talking about, there were a lot better conversations he had planned. But it's best to get this shit out of the way now then later.

"If we can get away without anyone dying, then let's do it, but if it's us or them, you and me, we gotta make sure it's them. Make them got, before they get us got, no trusting the fuckers."

He picked up the wooden broomstick, damn he was almost done, he'd probably have been done by now if he didn't stop to be all dramatic and shit.

"Just to make sure we're on the same page, we ain't killing nobody who don't deserve it, okay?" Michael grinned, he was done with the words. Got them out, felt a hell of a lot better.

A bell rang, Michael turned his head. "Must be some people looking for their friends, hope they find 'em...." Speaking of which.

"Hey Jerry, you didn't tell me who you were lookin' out for, by the way." Michael smiled as he whittled. "Any brothers or sisters? Bee-Eff- Eff's maybe?" As Michael thought a bit about Jerry's first impression, he thought about his own. What if he woke up to someone screaming and breaking shit, threatening to sexually assault a camera which all culminates in getting asked to help him kill shit?

Holy fucking shit. Michael just realized that to Jerry, and any other normal person who wouldn't know him, he probably looked bat shit fucking insane out the goddamn membrane.

Michael chuckled, Jerry probably thought it was about the whole friend talk, but Michael just had to laugh at himself a bit. This was a fucking joke. A joke in horrible taste, but damn, his very existence on this island was a joke. Hell there was an asylum on this fucking island right? Christ, the moment anyone left this place they'd be sent to another one back home.

Funny how that works right?

You uhhh, looking for a girlfriend or boyfriend? Maybe both, if you're a bisexual Morman?" Michael chuckled and wagged his eyebrows on delivery. Michael desperately hoped he could at least lower the tension a little bit. The hard part of teaming up was over; and to be honest, Michael wanted to go back to the good old days of five minutes ago, when they were just talking about catching their bearings and wondering where everyone was.
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This was it then. Moment he walked out that door, reality was gonna come crashing down on them. Of course, waking up on the island was the start of it all happening, but if Mr. Graham's brains getting blown out his nose was the punch in the teeth, waking up was merely the shove, whilst stepping out that door? The curb stomp to end it all. Only question would be if Michael would get up from a blow like that. Probably not said the little voice in his head. Shut up, lil' bitch said the other one.

In a way though, his location, and his new partner were the best things to happen to him for what could be the rest of his life. Getting Jerry to his friends would net him some pretty good karma. Now, you might be a Christian, Atheist, Muslim, Jew, Hindu, Buddhist, whatever. You can't deny this. Karma is a very real thing. It affected everyone, no matter how little or how large. Of course, reflecting on his life, Michael didn't know what he did to deserve all the shit that happened in his early childhood, or getting put on this island for that matter. Maybe in a past life he was some crazy cartel guy with a four wheeler and a machete. Maybe that bullshit story he made in 9th grade of being a really really distant descendant of Genghis Khan was true. Maybe he was the reincarnation Genghis Khan?

Whatever, he's lived a pretty shitty life. This honestly didn't surprise him one bit. It was even better that once everything started getting good he said yes to this damn trip. Stupid stupid stupid. If he has a chance to go back in time, he'd go back and punch himself in the dick until it looked like an eggplant, then go back in time again, slap himself in the face, and tell himself to say no. Also to tell Jon, Darius, Bradley, too. Maybe the others. Maybe not Ben, Blair, or Min Jae though, they can go sit and spin.

Still, rant aside, he needed some good karma for the road. Helping Jerry would be the best way to do it. Maybe help some others and see if his heart grows three times it's size this week. (That's called cardiomyopathy!) Maybe then he'd earn enough to find Jonathan, fuck like bunnies, then die peacefully in his sleep. Or maybe he was so down on the ladder that some pissant he made fun of would shoot his dick off then jam a pencil in his eye. Fuck Bradley by the way, he had to remind himself to slap his shit up for sending him that bloodgarden shit. Fuck liveleak too. Fuck SOTF, fuck karma, fuck all of this shit. He wasn't planning on dying on this island. It was probably still gonna happen, but he wasn't planning on it at least.

"Hey, catch." Michael tossed Jerry the spear. Jerry was gonna need it more than he did. Michael eyed his axe. Damn thing was kickass, better than a gun in his eyes. Well, here we are, beginning of the end of the beginning, or something like that. Moment that door opens, reality was gonna come to push his shit in. He'd like to pretend he wasn't afraid, that he made peace with God, that he'd go out peacefully. Really though, he was frightened. Knees shaking pants pissing frightened. Wouldn't actually do it, too much self-worth, but still, he was pretty close, y'know. After all, dying was gonna hurt like a bitch...

Fuck it. Michael adjusted his sunglasses, and forced his trademark smarmy grin. As the britbongs would say, keep a stiff upper lip or some shit.

((Michael Crowe continued in 70's Horror Movies))
Edited by ToxieTheToxicAvenger, Sep 6 2016, 10:17 AM.
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