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Nathan
New member
I wrote this for no reason at all, it needs refining so it reads better and it probably sucks a huge soggy dick anyways. I think it might be sort of boring. But whatever. I'm sharing regardless cause otherwise I just wasted my time. I dunno, I'm sure this shit helps with my vocabulary and stuff. I start writing in one direction and out comes....well, this sort of thing. Only I laid off the perversion stuff this time. Sorry if that was what I was supposed to do for the few peeps who enjoy this sort of thing.
Rex Dwarf and the Robot Bull
A thick fog obscured the beaten path underfoot. Rex Dwarf had walked it many times before and didn't need his eyes to safely make his way through the soggy ravine. Stan, on the other hand, was having more than a little trouble finding his way. An immense bull, he was a force to be reckoned with. His demeanor was usually placid, though you'd never know it to look at the beast. As intimidating as he was smelly, the great bull stood a whopping 7 feet tall and owned a pair of tremendous longhorns that stretched a good 5 feet on either side of his head. Stan had, once upon a time, belonged to an eccentric old man who worked as an engineer for the Royal Army to the King. He was a reclusive inventor, but a genius one at that. Tragically, however, even geniuses make mistakes and this particular one had proved especially good at it. One warm summer day, while sharpening a bayonet he planned to surgically attach to the spine of an abnormally large gopher, Stan's creator accidentally Popsicle Peted himself (in other words, inadvertently sat) on the immeasurably sharp blade, bleeding to death within minutes. Rex, a young farm boy who lived nearby, had been his only friend and so took it upon himself to care for Stan after the curious inventor's gory death.
Stan had been, for lack of a better word, upgraded. He now sported an entire host of weaponry - most of which had been surgically implanted, fused to skeletal muscle and bone. An immense positron cannon sat atop his wide hips, fully loaded and so accurate it could pick off a herd of tiny toddlers from a couple miles out. AK-47's hung from his teets like tiny chandeliers of death, dangling menacingly with each powerful stride the great bull took. Attached to his knees were plasma rifles, each as individually lethal as a rebuffed bulldyke working a straight bar. There was no turning back for Stan - he was dangerous and a threat to the peaceful ways of the surrounding community his master called home.
As a result of his daily strolls with Rex, most citizens were more than familiar with Stan and had no qualms with the intimidating creature. While it didn't happen often, every now and then a new face would over-react at the sight of him. Rex had gone to bat for his friend on many an occasion, assuring the ruling monarchy that any thoughts of violence could be attributed to the imaginations of the frightened peasants and much less to Stan. Lately though, Rex could tell the King had grown weary of a nagging problem that most certainly did not carry its own weight in the community. Bogged down by a cumbersome assembly of weaponry, poor Stan was useless as a farm animal. He was unable to carry little more than his own bodyweight and was hence easily fatigued upon trying his hand at manual labor. More to the point, his testicles had been replaced with grenades the size of grapefruits and cows, not bulls, regularly worked the field. Since the grenades were likely to go off at even the slightest hint of an erection, Rex thought it prudent to keep Stan removed from such stimuli.
The odd pair slowly made their way through the dank woods, stumbling as they went. As tends to be the case with animals, Stan required daily exercise. On this particular afternoon, however, Rex decided to try a new hiking route - one he liked to walk alone on brisk, moonlit nights in order to facilitate deep thinking and introspective reflection, two of his favorite past-times. They had only been walking for an hour or so when they heard what sounded like cries of terror emanating from a nearby village. Startled, Stan stopped cold in his tracks.
"Come on boy," Rex pleaded. "We've got to see what's going on." After a few forceful tugs at the lead, Stan once again began moving, albeit at a sluggish crawl.
"COME ON!" the boy demanded, tugging harder. But it was no use – Stan had ceased walking for good this time and was focused on a vague shape off in the distance that was slowly approaching the boy and his bull. Rex couldn't quite make the odd sight out, but did not care for the unpleasant sensation churning in his gut. At first he attributed the stomach pains to the partially cooked chicken he had voraciously consumed for lunch, but quickly came to the realization that the strange feeling could instead be attributed to his instincts, which were trying desperately to warn him. The ominous shape came towards the frightened pair with intimidating vigor and it wasn't long before Rex could make out a herd of pissed-off menonites running menacingly towards them. Having made quick work of the townsfolk, the mob didn’t waste any time in shifting its attention to the curious strangers. A sea of white-collars and wide-brimmed black hats bubbled and swelled as the angry mob grew ever closer.
Menonites aren’t ordinarily the type of people to instill fear in the hearts of others. The rogue tribe in question, however, did not represent your garden variety yeomen. They were the proud creators of their own especially potent brand of fertilizer. Not only did it cause legumes to grow at twice their normal rate, but it also blew up three of their barns and an entire season’s worth of crop yields when a guest had unwittingly stored a truckload of diesel fuel therein. The discovery sparked a sort of revolution in the menonite tribe – exhausted and defeated from a summer of diligent laboring, they fashioned crude explosives from the remaining fertilizer and began forcefully taking what they needed to survive from the surrounding communities. It wasn’t long, however, before surviving turned into living comfortably and the tribe began amassing all the modern conveniences and luxuries they had been denying themselves for so many years. They numbered in the thousands and nobody, not even the army of the ruling monarchy, had as of yet been able to bring their decade-long reign of terror to an end.
With a defiant snort, Stan swung his head down in an arc, catching Rex with one of his giant horns and launching him bodily into the air. Upon landing comfortably on his companion’s muscular back, Rex anxiously enquired: “What gives boy?” But Stan was no longer listening. Hell-bent on defending his territory, the beast’s instincts had taken over and the great bull saw only red. He charged with the staggering intensity of a thousand Suns, fertilizer explosives detonating all around them. The AK-47’s that hung from his teets fired repeatedly and the plasma canons fused to his knees rang like bells with each deafening blast. Rex’s own instincts kicked in and he quickly shuffled himself backwards to sit atop Stan’s pelvis, eagerly manning the positron canon. The lethal weapon roared with each deadly accurate discharge as Rex picked off the angry menonites one-by-one. Blood sprayed and splattered as they fell, their limbs flying free of their bodies as the immensely powerful blasts slammed into them.
Their numbers started to dwindle rapidly. Stan could practically smell imminent victory - the fire burning in his eyes intensified and his pace quickened. The bull’s breast-bone began to heave and tear away from his chest, sliding down to reveal the largest rocket-launcher known to Man. Hesitating for only an instant as he waited for the instrument of death to load, his hoofs dug deep into the wet soil and he let fly a vicious missile that whistled through the air like an old man enjoying his morning bowel movement. Menonites flew into the air like out-of-control gymnasts. Squashed like a helpless bug, the frantic mob stopped cold in its tracks and reversed direction, fleeing in terror back towards the manure-filled stables they called home.
Rex’s lips parted and a wide smiled stretched across his face. Stan wasn’t so useless after all. For all the malevolent words spoken about him, the bull was a truly qualified protector. After all, he practically single-handedly saved the entire community from certain annihilation. A profound sense of pride washed over Rex as he gazed at his friend’s warm eyes and he knew the townsfolk would now see the great bull in a different, ideally less hostile, light. Things would be different. He was sure of it.
Rex Dwarf tapped his heels gently on the massive bull’s flank. He pulled hard at the lead, turning the docile beast around in order to begin the long trek home. “Let’s go home Stan.” Acceptance awaits.
Rex Dwarf and the Robot Bull
A thick fog obscured the beaten path underfoot. Rex Dwarf had walked it many times before and didn't need his eyes to safely make his way through the soggy ravine. Stan, on the other hand, was having more than a little trouble finding his way. An immense bull, he was a force to be reckoned with. His demeanor was usually placid, though you'd never know it to look at the beast. As intimidating as he was smelly, the great bull stood a whopping 7 feet tall and owned a pair of tremendous longhorns that stretched a good 5 feet on either side of his head. Stan had, once upon a time, belonged to an eccentric old man who worked as an engineer for the Royal Army to the King. He was a reclusive inventor, but a genius one at that. Tragically, however, even geniuses make mistakes and this particular one had proved especially good at it. One warm summer day, while sharpening a bayonet he planned to surgically attach to the spine of an abnormally large gopher, Stan's creator accidentally Popsicle Peted himself (in other words, inadvertently sat) on the immeasurably sharp blade, bleeding to death within minutes. Rex, a young farm boy who lived nearby, had been his only friend and so took it upon himself to care for Stan after the curious inventor's gory death.
Stan had been, for lack of a better word, upgraded. He now sported an entire host of weaponry - most of which had been surgically implanted, fused to skeletal muscle and bone. An immense positron cannon sat atop his wide hips, fully loaded and so accurate it could pick off a herd of tiny toddlers from a couple miles out. AK-47's hung from his teets like tiny chandeliers of death, dangling menacingly with each powerful stride the great bull took. Attached to his knees were plasma rifles, each as individually lethal as a rebuffed bulldyke working a straight bar. There was no turning back for Stan - he was dangerous and a threat to the peaceful ways of the surrounding community his master called home.
As a result of his daily strolls with Rex, most citizens were more than familiar with Stan and had no qualms with the intimidating creature. While it didn't happen often, every now and then a new face would over-react at the sight of him. Rex had gone to bat for his friend on many an occasion, assuring the ruling monarchy that any thoughts of violence could be attributed to the imaginations of the frightened peasants and much less to Stan. Lately though, Rex could tell the King had grown weary of a nagging problem that most certainly did not carry its own weight in the community. Bogged down by a cumbersome assembly of weaponry, poor Stan was useless as a farm animal. He was unable to carry little more than his own bodyweight and was hence easily fatigued upon trying his hand at manual labor. More to the point, his testicles had been replaced with grenades the size of grapefruits and cows, not bulls, regularly worked the field. Since the grenades were likely to go off at even the slightest hint of an erection, Rex thought it prudent to keep Stan removed from such stimuli.
The odd pair slowly made their way through the dank woods, stumbling as they went. As tends to be the case with animals, Stan required daily exercise. On this particular afternoon, however, Rex decided to try a new hiking route - one he liked to walk alone on brisk, moonlit nights in order to facilitate deep thinking and introspective reflection, two of his favorite past-times. They had only been walking for an hour or so when they heard what sounded like cries of terror emanating from a nearby village. Startled, Stan stopped cold in his tracks.
"Come on boy," Rex pleaded. "We've got to see what's going on." After a few forceful tugs at the lead, Stan once again began moving, albeit at a sluggish crawl.
"COME ON!" the boy demanded, tugging harder. But it was no use – Stan had ceased walking for good this time and was focused on a vague shape off in the distance that was slowly approaching the boy and his bull. Rex couldn't quite make the odd sight out, but did not care for the unpleasant sensation churning in his gut. At first he attributed the stomach pains to the partially cooked chicken he had voraciously consumed for lunch, but quickly came to the realization that the strange feeling could instead be attributed to his instincts, which were trying desperately to warn him. The ominous shape came towards the frightened pair with intimidating vigor and it wasn't long before Rex could make out a herd of pissed-off menonites running menacingly towards them. Having made quick work of the townsfolk, the mob didn’t waste any time in shifting its attention to the curious strangers. A sea of white-collars and wide-brimmed black hats bubbled and swelled as the angry mob grew ever closer.
Menonites aren’t ordinarily the type of people to instill fear in the hearts of others. The rogue tribe in question, however, did not represent your garden variety yeomen. They were the proud creators of their own especially potent brand of fertilizer. Not only did it cause legumes to grow at twice their normal rate, but it also blew up three of their barns and an entire season’s worth of crop yields when a guest had unwittingly stored a truckload of diesel fuel therein. The discovery sparked a sort of revolution in the menonite tribe – exhausted and defeated from a summer of diligent laboring, they fashioned crude explosives from the remaining fertilizer and began forcefully taking what they needed to survive from the surrounding communities. It wasn’t long, however, before surviving turned into living comfortably and the tribe began amassing all the modern conveniences and luxuries they had been denying themselves for so many years. They numbered in the thousands and nobody, not even the army of the ruling monarchy, had as of yet been able to bring their decade-long reign of terror to an end.
With a defiant snort, Stan swung his head down in an arc, catching Rex with one of his giant horns and launching him bodily into the air. Upon landing comfortably on his companion’s muscular back, Rex anxiously enquired: “What gives boy?” But Stan was no longer listening. Hell-bent on defending his territory, the beast’s instincts had taken over and the great bull saw only red. He charged with the staggering intensity of a thousand Suns, fertilizer explosives detonating all around them. The AK-47’s that hung from his teets fired repeatedly and the plasma canons fused to his knees rang like bells with each deafening blast. Rex’s own instincts kicked in and he quickly shuffled himself backwards to sit atop Stan’s pelvis, eagerly manning the positron canon. The lethal weapon roared with each deadly accurate discharge as Rex picked off the angry menonites one-by-one. Blood sprayed and splattered as they fell, their limbs flying free of their bodies as the immensely powerful blasts slammed into them.
Their numbers started to dwindle rapidly. Stan could practically smell imminent victory - the fire burning in his eyes intensified and his pace quickened. The bull’s breast-bone began to heave and tear away from his chest, sliding down to reveal the largest rocket-launcher known to Man. Hesitating for only an instant as he waited for the instrument of death to load, his hoofs dug deep into the wet soil and he let fly a vicious missile that whistled through the air like an old man enjoying his morning bowel movement. Menonites flew into the air like out-of-control gymnasts. Squashed like a helpless bug, the frantic mob stopped cold in its tracks and reversed direction, fleeing in terror back towards the manure-filled stables they called home.
Rex’s lips parted and a wide smiled stretched across his face. Stan wasn’t so useless after all. For all the malevolent words spoken about him, the bull was a truly qualified protector. After all, he practically single-handedly saved the entire community from certain annihilation. A profound sense of pride washed over Rex as he gazed at his friend’s warm eyes and he knew the townsfolk would now see the great bull in a different, ideally less hostile, light. Things would be different. He was sure of it.
Rex Dwarf tapped his heels gently on the massive bull’s flank. He pulled hard at the lead, turning the docile beast around in order to begin the long trek home. “Let’s go home Stan.” Acceptance awaits.
