Slyfox

Sex & Violence or Interior Decorating Mistakes

Amidst the bloody mist of the aftermath of the sperm whale’s collision, Dongo stumbled around a bit, thinking that he should’ve had a lot more to drink the morning.

The Bar In The Middle of Nowhere was now indeed in the middle of nowhere. Largely owing to the fact that it had been vaporised by a large sperm whale. Miraculously, Dongo and company were the only survivors. Things were looking ominously Hollywood.

Looking around, he located Spud levitating a couple of feet above the ground, sporting a potplant head accessory.

“I have been enlightened by the Peaceful Petunia. I am one with the universe and sooo hate the sperm whale.”

Dongo looked at Harold, who had emerged from underneath a slab of cracked concrete. Harold, who had emerged from underneath a slab of cracked concrete looked at Dongo. They exchanged glances. They shared meaningful looks.

“Ms. Continuum’s gonna get even more bitchy than she already is if you try that shit, cowboy,” interjected Spud.

Dongo and Harold shrugged, and the trio set off once again to find the dungeon of ph47 13w7.

After long, sweaty (and manly) hours of trekking across the barren wastes, Dongo wandered straight into a big metal door built into the cliff face, after letting his thoughts out of the playpool to go wander in the other direction.

After checking the integrity of his facial bone structure, they examined the door. It was big. It was round. It was in the mountain. And it had a big “69″ painted over it.

Dongo looked at Harold. “You know that stuff about the Vaults that were supposedly some kind of social experiment?”

Harold nodded. “Yup.”

“Well… this is Vault 69. Don’t you think that maybe…”

“Either that or its the Golden Globes Porn Studio’s idea of an expensive set.”

“Point taken. Either way it should be fun.”

And thus they fiddled with the door controls, got shocked a few times, and finally opened the door. Naturally, they stepped inside.

And were greeted by a scene of obscene, gory carnage. The whole blood-splattered-on-the-walls, brains-hanging-from-the-tube-lights, gore-dripping-from-the-air-vents shebang.

“You just about ready to revise that theory of yours, Dongo?”, asked Harold.

“I’m about ready to revise my stomach contents.”

Spuddius say: “Potato with no stomach not vomit.”

Harold looked at Dongo. “I think we’ve unleashed the world’s first spiritually enlightened potato. You do realise that this is all your fault?”

“My fault?!”

“You’re the one who’s off dashing around the wastes to go find your purpose in life. Whatever that may be… I don’t really think I want to find out. I’m just in this for the ladies and the booze. Not in that specific order, mind you. And you’re the one who can’t catch a potato when you’re standing over a radioactive pool of toxic sludge.”
“Sports was never my strong point.”

“Anything other than lying prostrate on the ground wasn’t ever your strong point, Dongo.”

Suddenly (How else? Drama!) a voice boomed out. Well, echoed. Okay, it kind of whined: “Ahh! How delightful! Visitors! If I wasn’t so depressed we could have balloons and women! I killed them all, though, so I’m fresh out. You’re welcome to help yourself to any organs you might find lying around though.”

Dongo quickly reminded himself what he ate that morning in a corner of the chamber, while Harold looked for a light switch to see who this sick-minded person was.

A flick, and the chamber was flooded with white neon light, causing the wet pulpy mass of gore strewn about to cast hellish reflections off the big suit of power armour sitting on a computer terminal at the end of the chamber. The big suit of power armour had an equally big mutant in it.

“Now, whatever shall we talk about?”, asked the mutant, and the entrance door slammed shut.

“Dongo, once again ? you do realise this is all your fault, don’t you?”