Come to think of it, I think you stated way back in the beggining that this story presumes Hisao went a different route. I'd go look that up, but... I don't feel like it.
Come to think of it, I think you stated way back in the beggining that this story presumes Hisao went a different route. I'd go look that up, but... I don't feel like it.
Hmm, don't believe I did. For arguments sake, let's just say Hisao went with Hanako and they're vacationing in Dubai right now. Also Lilly decided not to go to Scotland after all.
Come to think of it, I think you stated way back in the beggining that this story presumes Hisao went a different route. I'd go look that up, but... I don't feel like it.
Hmm, don't believe I did. For arguments sake, let's just say Hisao went with Hanako and they're vacationing in Dubai right now. Also Lilly decided not to go to Scotland after all.
Yup.
I now have a desire to write a fan fic on that premise based on the second Sex and the City movie. That knowledge disturbs me greatly.
Come to think of it, I think you stated way back in the beggining that this story presumes Hisao went a different route. I'd go look that up, but... I don't feel like it.
Hmm, don't believe I did. For arguments sake, let's just say Hisao went with Hanako and they're vacationing in Dubai right now. Also Lilly decided not to go to Scotland after all.
Yup.
I now have a desire to write a fan fic on that premise based on the second Sex and the City movie. That knowledge disturbs me greatly.
You should brah. And if you want to stir up a horrific shitstorm put in some NTR.
I'm just kidding don't do that that's horrible oh god what's wrong with me.
Nah, but seriously, just to explain why it's been so long between updates: was working on the next chapter of Real, couldn't write for shit, am now debating whether or not to keep working on it or start up the next chapter of Hideaki. I know you guys enjoy the Hideaki story more, so I may just go for that tomorrow. Sorry for the bump, Merry Christmas, and God Bless America.
“When your life is but one moment, do you let it fly past? Do you let your hopes and dreams fly past like sand flies through the wind. Or do you hold solid, like the very foundations of the Earth; the ore-rich mountains, the unrelenting cliffs of the mighty north... For that mighty sand was but once a mighty boulder. A boulder who gave up the dream. The Dream Boulder. Rated R.”
I turn the looseleaf binder over to my newfound business associate. “So, Mr.Hypothetical Big Shot Movie Exec, what do you think?”
The acne-scarred wage slaves wipes away Faygo from his drooping chin. “Well, the plot could use some fine-tuning. I mean, where would a fight between The Avengers, The X-Men and the entire cast of Gundam SEED even fit into the narrative? Tom Servo and Crow T. Robot becoming life partners in a ceremony overseen by the Janitor from Scrubs just really doesn’t make sense no matter what angle you go over it from.”
“It’s called artistic narrative!” I shoot back. “If people can’t comprehend the intricacies of my work, then it’s their fault for not being as smart as I am!”
Having made my point, I let him stew in his broth of ignorance.
“... Right. So, you wanted a diet 7Up, Orange Twist, and a packet of Jack Links?”
“Oh, yeah, thanks. Oh, and you're fired.”
Poor kid. I swear I see a misty gleam at the corner of his eye as he drives his cart away.
“What the hell’s taking so long over there?! Where’s my Orange Twist?!” my father yells.
We’re three holes in now and already we’re skirting dangerously close towards the bottom of the score charts. The rising wind is doing no favors for our game. Right now, we’re pretty much coasting along on the coattails of Mr. Furukawa. Once the game starts to pick up, however, we’ll be royally fucked. It’s a shame the greenskeeper won’t tell us where they stock the Clonidine.
“Now listen Jigoro, I know this will probably be the last thing you want to hear right now, but you cannot start losing focus. You must learn to harness your anger; to filter your negative energy into something positive!”
Jigoro considers this for a few seconds, letting the wind rustle past his face and steer the course of his judgement.
“Sounds gay. Hideaki, what’s the weather report on your ice cream sandwich thing?”
“You mean the ice cream sandwich platform on my Samsung?”
“What the fuck ever you just said, yes!”
I quickly pull up my weather app and hope the cringing in my face isn’t too visible.
“Well?”
“Well,” I begin, only to be cut off by a powerful gust of wind that manages to lift our cart a few inches off of the ground. “You can probably expect a lot more of that for the next, say, five hours?”
“Filter, FILTER!” Furukawa pleads as my dad threatens to throw his sideburns into the lake. As if to add to our woes, a stray cart blurs out of the nearby treeline, circling around us and playing Power by Kanye West at deafening volume. Something of a dead giveaway, really.
“So sorry, you three! My son tends to get a little carried away with his driving, you see!”
The day Mr. Ketsuno is sorry about anything is the day Kevin James makes a funny movie.
“Go to hell, Kestuno!” my father barks angrily, waving his 3-Wood about wantonly. “You and your 'roided up gorilla-hybrid offspring just fucked up my field of vision!”
“Oh, you needn’t worry about us ruining your game, Hakamichi; you’re doing that quite well yourself!”
FIIILTER!” Furukawa strains, as the two of us work to keep my father from garnering another assault charge. The sight only serves to amuse the two of them further. The more they laugh, the angrier my father becomes, and the more of a workout my shoulders get.
“Anywho,” continues Ketsuno. “We just came by to let you in on a little... well, a little rule change.”
“Rule change?” I ask.
“Yes indeed, a rule change! You see, the planning committee has, with input from valued members of the community, one of them being me of course, that all registered teams should have a minimum of four members to qualify for the winning prizes!”
Mr. Furukawa is equal parts dumbstruck and indignant about this sudden ruling. “Four?! They didn't tell us anything about that at the gate! If you’re lying to us Ketsuno, so help me--!”
Ketsuno Jr. steps forward from the driver side of the cart, as if daring either of us to echo Furukawa’s sentiment. By all accounts, he appears to be just a head bigger than my father, and could probably fit three of Furukawa and I into him. By injection into the testicles, most likely.
“Well, if you’d like to test your luck and continue on without a fourth partner, then by all means! But, anyway, I must be off. I swear my team is just burning through these holes! They might be clear across the course by now, as a matter of fact!”
With a condescending wave they pull out, speeding down the fairway like they own every finely-edged blade of grass on it.
“What if he’s telling the truth?” I wonder out loud.
My father snatches a club from his bag and, pardon my french, abso-fucking-lutely murders the ball a good off a good seventy yards or so.
“Then we’ll get a fourth member!”
“Yes!” we chant in unison, his miraculous charisma filling us with an abundance of confidence.
“We’ll find the best damn player on this whole damn course!”
“YEAH!”
“No, wait, scratch that. We’ll find the worst damn player on this course and rub it in Ketsuno’s face when we win anyway!”
“YE--what?”
“It’s foolproof! Stay here boys, I’m going to come back with the worst player in all of Japan before you can say ‘there’s no way this plan can go wrong!’”
We try to stop him, but he hops into the cat and speeds off back towards the clubhouse before we can get a word in edgewise.
Oh hell no. My father is terribly susceptible to reverse psychology. Sure, it’s cool when I do it, but when someone else starts to fuck with his brain, that’s when the line is drawn.
It’s on now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Gentleman! I want to introduce you to the newest member of our prestigious team! Please say hello to Bucky!”
“Bucky” is a rather skeletal, hunched old man who smells like aged milk duds. His eyes are perpetually crossed, and at present he’s looking at both my father’s shoulder and the arrowroot bushes behind us.
“Bucky works part time as a greenskeeper here, and he said he’d be thrilled to assist us as the honorary fourth member of Team Hakamichi!”
The three of us politely golf (hah) clap for the new arrival.
“Now, Bucky, on to the real question here,” continues my father. “Can you play golf?”
“I’m Bucky.”
“Yes, you are! But do you play golf?”
“Do the Reptilian overlords control the flow of Bermuda’s fiscal market?”
“ Uh... maybe?”
“I play golf.”
“Perfect! Saddle up men, we've got some holes to burn through!”
I have the wondrous luck of being Bucky’s traveling partner. I’m finally able to smell him up close. I mentally apologize for insulting milk duds earlier. I at least owe it to the guy to be cordial. For all I know, he could be a very nice crazy guy. With that thought in mind, I begin to chat him up as we drive on to the next hole.
“So... Bucky?”
“My name is Bucky.”
“Yeah, I got that. Just, it’s sort of a... weird name, all things considered, you know?”
“Want to know how I got it?”
“Kind of?”
“I like watching Burke’s Law. It was a fun show.”
“... Cool. But how did you get the name Bucky?”
He looks to me with piercing eyes, like I just asked him to write down his social security number on a Dixie napkin.
“That’s for me to know and you too not know.”
We arrive at the sixth hole tee box, and I don’t think I could jump from that golf cart any faster. I take a minute or so to survey the landscape. I have to give credit where credits due; the people here may be snooty stuck-ups who think everyone driving a car that costs less than a house are “the help,” but they definitely know how to pick a golf course. The autumn trees form a picturesque barrier against the outside world, with quaint stone half walls dotting the cart paths. Not a crack in sight! Not to mention the green itself, which is very... well, green. With the sun shining just right, some patches of the fairway seem to glow with a healthy sheen. It seems like the only place in the world you’d find a woodland cottage and a tanning salon only a short walking distance away from each other.
“Alright boys! Sit back, relax, and watch a man and his club become one,” my father boasts, popping the stiff joints in his shoulders and arms as he readies himself at the blue tee. For some reason or another, the presence of this weird old man who probably calls his plant’s harlots and gets scared when he hears his phone ring has given my father a much needed boost of confidence. I don’t think I’ll really ever understand the inner machinations of my father’s mind, but for right now at least he’s not hitting anybody.
Jigoro takes a swing after a considerable amount of prep work, sending his ball soaring across the clear blue sky with a satisfying plunk. Impressive.
“Looks like a 200-yarder from where I’m standing! An excellent bounce back, my friend!” compliments Furukawa.
“Right you are! We’ll be leaping to the top of the scoreboards in no time!”
His two partners get their shots in. Furukawa hits about a 230-yarder, and Bucky hits a small animal. We’re off to a good start here.
A sharp rumbling in my lower abdomen hits as I hand my father a 9-iron.
“Excuse me guys, nature calls!”
Carefully choosing the most secluded area of brush on the side of the course, I come across a tucked out nook closed off from any prying eyes with some snaking tree branches. Relief overcomes me as I let the golden army march down. Those three Starbucks iced cappuccinos caught up to me it looks like. Birds begin to chirp up above me, as if serenading me in my call of nature.
What a lovely--
“HI, HIDECCHAN~!
“JESUS!”
I flop back like Tyson getting knocked out by Douglas, Lil’ Hideaki unceremoniously flying in the afternoon breeze.
“OHMIGOD, I’m so sorry!” Misha cries, cupping her eyes so hard I fear she may pop them out of her sockets. “Just go ahead and... re-tuck it!”
I've never heard anyone use the phrase “re-tuck” before, and I hope to God this was the last time.
“It’s alright. Well, it’s not alright, but I forgive you... this time. Please don’t look at my penis again.”
“ Uh, deal...”
“A-anyway! How are you and my sister doing?”
“Pretty good so far!” she says excitedly. “We hit a rough spot a few holes back when one of the guys tried to grab Shicchan’s butt. Let’s just say we won't be using the sand wedge again!”
She begins to laugh, only to have it die down rather quickly (and grimly).
The furor over being accidentally peeped on by Misha and hearing about my sister’s attempt at murder have made me late in noticing Misha’s new attire. A navy blue Penn State track jacket and egregiously large sunglasses, with a fisherman’s beanie to veil her distinct pink mop.
All in all, her ensemble makes her strongly resemble an extra in A Serbian Film.
“So, you want to explain, the uh... ensemble?”
“Oh, right! Shicchan and I just thought we’d blend in better with some cool disguises!”
“By dressing up as members of the Wharf Street Ballas?”
‘No, silly! I’m a gender-swapped Prince Harry when he started dressing like a hobo! Duh!”
I realize that I've pretty much given up on figuring out why Misha does anything anymore.
“So who’s Shizune going as, Princess Di?”
“No, she just put on a t-shirt and khakis. Boooring! She didn't even like the 'Parliament Funkadelic meets pre-Industrial chic' look I laid out for her!”
“Can’t imagine why. Who was that guy you were with earlier?”
“One of Shicchan’s friends from university. He’s nice enough, but he smells a bit like sawdust and garlic. Also he insists on being called Ketchup. It’s his 'free man' name."
I’m seriously starting to think that those jokes about there being a med supplier in the back of the clubhouse kitchen aren't really jokes.
I figure it’s time to bring her back down to reality.
“I don’t mean to rain on your parade, Misha, but those disguises aren't very disguise... ful. Only a complete idiot would fall for them.”
‘HIDEAKI!” calls my father from atop a nearby hill. “Stop talking to that Eastern European girl I don’t recognize and get back over here! I’m not paying you to stand around drooling on yourself like that Down’s girl from Glee!”
‘You’re not paying me at all!” I holler back (girl).
“So what, everything’s about money to you now?! I can’t believe I raised such a selfish son! Get your happy ass back up here so I can teach you the value of humility and respect! Physically!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As they are so wont to do, things have taken a turn for the worse late in the game.
Holes ten through fifteen were certainly beginning to look up or our ragtag team of bored rich people. Unfortunately, our supply of non-suck has seemingly begun to run dry. Between sand traps, two balls flying into someone’s window and Bucky running off into the woods, it’s been a very fretful hour indeed.
“It’s because Bucky left us, I’m telling you!”
Even the normally bright as a button Furukawa is beginning to grow agitated by my father's insistence that a mentally ill greens keeper was his lucky charm, as opposed to his thorough and knowledgeable training. On the other hand, we were doing better while Bucky was here. Much better, as a matter of fact.
“I kind of miss Bucky,” I mumble to no one in particular.
“Jigoro, I’m telling you, it’s purely psychological! A placebo effect! You can still do good if you only believe in yourself!”
Furukawa has to visibly restrain himself from peppering any smacktalks into his speech.
“If I want to believe that a weird old guy I payed fifteen bucks and half a portabello mushroom sandwich made me a better player, than it’s my right as a rich Japanese citizen to be in denial, dammit!”
To demonstrate his point, he pulls out his driver from the back of our cart and swings it sharply at his grass stained ball, which proceeds to sail through the air and plunks down cozily onto the putting green.
“See, I barely even hit that one! I’m losing touch!”
The rest of us are too busy having our jaws unhinged from our heads like cartoon characters to respond to his nonsense.
“Ji-Jigoro, you damn near hit a hole in one!”
“I-I did?”
“Dad, you don’t suck anymore!” I cheer excitedly.
“MY MOJO’S BACK!”
Jigoro jumps for joy and corrals us all into a leaping group hug filled with laughter and joviality. we break it apart after a few seconds and fill the awkward silence with coughs. Hopefully nobody saw that.
“So, uh... let’s finish our game?” I suggest.
Mumbling in agreement, we finish up our tee shots and begin the trek back to the carts. As luck would have it, I feel another rumble in my lower quadrant. Should have known better than to trust some liberal arts major at the food stand with my chai tea.
I quickly excuse myself and rush towards the nearest bush clearing to do my duty. That would be a wonderful pun if I were doing the other thing, but i’m not, so here we are. For the second time today, my flow is interrupted, this time by a vaguely bear shaped shadow looming overhead.
I prepare to turn around and be face to face with whatever textile horror Misha’s concocted this time. Either Misha’s been to the gym and I haven’t noticed, or oh fuck me.
“How’s it hangin’ kid?”
Funnily enough, Ketsuno Jr. looks much more intimidating when he’s being pleasant at you than when he’s angrily screaming at your from a moving car.
I gather up the nerve to answer him. “Just fine McLargehuge--I-I mean, Ketsuno. as just over to take care of my business... and I think I just did... so bye.”
I turn to leave calmly before his veiny forearm blocks my progress. Hideaki, the key here is to stay level headed and act like an adu--SHIT I’M GOING TO DIE GODDAMMIT THE ROIDED UP BOOGEYMAN IS GOING TO PUNCH ME SO HARD I DISSAPEAR FROM PICTURES FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.
“Is there something else you need?”
“Right you are, little buddy!” he says smiling, pulling me into a constricting hug/headlock.
“Listen, bro, I’m not really the kind of guy for difficult shit like ‘explaining myself’ or ‘making meaningful communication,’ so I’m just gonna come out and say it, alright? I need your dad to drop out of the tournament.”
I have to stop myself from chuckling nervously. “You want to go up to my dad and tell him to let your dad beat him? You realize he carries a katana everywhere he goes, right?”
“You weren’t listening to me, were you?” he asks while pulling me into a tighter hug/headlock.
“I’m not going to do it, you are!”
“Excuse me?”
“Listen, kid, I know your dad’s probably made this whole tournament out to be the fuckin’ Tostitoes Bowl or something; so has mine. Truth is, though? It ain’t shit. We both got dragged down here to be part of some stupid blood feud that we don’t even want to be any part of of! Sounds pretty stupid, right?”
“If you think it’s dumb, why not just tell your dad and go home?”
“DON’T INTERRUPT ME FAGG--I mean, uh, I did! Tell my dad, that is. He didn’t listen, though. Real shame. Anyway, all you need to do is head on over there and tell your dad to just stop wasting his time, go home, and let my dad win! Simple!”
“You’re a pretty terrible liar.”
It’s now morphed into a full on headlock.
“Look, I know kids like you, bro. I see kids like you everyday! You go home, order your next body pillow because you got your impotent little boy juices on your last, play your stupid amputee porn games, then you squeeze out what little spunk you have left onto a napkin and go to sleep. Rise and repeat. Honestly? Kind of pathetic, bro.”
He pushes me off, sending me down on all fours to the grass below. I think back to the one fist fight I’ve ever been in. It was with a kid two years younger than me back when I was in elementary. It was over a tube of Go-Gurt. I lost.
This more than likely won’t be my moment of redemption.
“See you on the losers podium!” he calls out to me, marching back triumphantly onto the green and his “assured” victory. I wipe away grass stains from my polo and slacks.
Shit’s about to get real.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jigoro only.
Final Destination.
No items.
…...
Blanked out there for a minute. Where was I? Oh yes.
“One more hole dad! Just a few more feet! You can do it!”
Jigoro is practically shaking out of his Salvatore Ferragamo’s. As sweat begins to stain his palms, his grip grows tighter on the black and red handle of his putting wedge. He’s going to get some nasty blisters, to be sure.
Furukawa waits at the bottom of the hill, the proverbial Obi-Wan observing his Hawaiian-shirt loving Skywalker preparing to make himself famous. In his own mind, anyway.
I think back to the pep talk I gave him this morning. “Remember, dad! Mentos and coke!”
He glares back at me in confusion. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“You know, you’re bottling it all up, you need to let yourself free, yada-yada?”
“We talked this morning?”
“Just hit the ball...”
And he does. Oh, does he ever.
With one crisp swing, he sends the white rocket marching in a steady path towards the narrow black hole that awaits him.
…..
I should rephrase that.
So he whacks at the ball with--Oh, nevermind, he made it in.
“HAHA!” he cheers, reveling in the personal fanfare in his head. “Gaze upon my prowess Japan! GAZE!”
We take turns congratulating each other on a hard fought and well-earned victory. Even if we don’t win this tournament, I’d say we came out as better people. As better men. Besides, we can always just go and throw eggs at the Ketsuno’s when we’re done.
Speaking of the insidious father-son duo, we catch a glimpse of them as they ride up towards the clubhouse alongside us. Everything about their body language boasts that they've already won this tournament for the next three years, the other competitors just don’t know it yet.
“That was quite a game, Jigoro!” Mr. Ketsuno faux-congratulates. “Especially the parts where you made it below par! Ohhh, wait...”
To my surprise, I don’t have to hold my father back from giving or receiving any savage beatings.
“Ketsuno, on the principle of sportsmanship, I’m not going to beat your scrawny ass all the way to the Mexican restaurant down the block in front of your kid. Why don’t we just go find out where we placed?”
Ketsuno arches his thin, midnight black eyebrows in befuddlement, but begrudgingly nods his head anyway. Junior hasn't taken his eyes off of me since we drove up. It’s all very disconcerting.
The other participants are all gathered in the lavish clubhouse, rewarding themselves with egg rolls and some Lindeman’s. Leave it to the filthy rich to reward themselves for rewarding themselves.
“Alright everyone, gather around! Gather around! It’s time to announce the finalists of The Groytuer Oaks Neighborhood Tournament!” cries the officiator, a large gentleman who bears a striking resemblance to Halloween Town's mayor.
He begins to do the usual post-game back-patting before a sharp cough interrupts the proceedings.
“With all do respect, sir, I believe it would be a better use of everyone’s time to just hand me my prize and let us leave, no?”
Ketsuno’s deal is met with a defeated sigh of resignation from the many who have gone through this scenario countless times before. My father, however, stands defiant, glaring in the direction of the two snake-like millionaires.
With all his posturing, Ketsuno barely registers the judge whispering nervously into his ear. The oily conspirator suddenly goes very pale, chuckling maniacally in a way that would make Jim Carrey proud.
Out of nowhere, his maniacal ramblings go violent as he grabs ahold of the John Candy wannabe’s collar.
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN WE GOT THIRD PLACE?!”
A deafening round of cheers and hollers waif through the clubhouse as the two once-winners look on in shock.
“RECOUNT, BRO, RECOUNT!” Ketsuno Jr. chants.
As the judge sweatily explains that the results have been put through the motions numerous times, a new group enters the club. A pair of uniformed officers and one familiar crazy person.
“There he is, officers!” cries Bucky. “That’s the guy who tried to pay me to rub honey in his hair while he masturbated!”
They uniformly move in to arrest Ketsuno Jr., who’s macho facade proceeds to crumble fairly quickly.
“I-It’s a party game, I’m telling you! No, don’t take me to jail, please! I need my ritalin! DADDY, HELP ME!”
“I’ll be calling my lawyer over this! As for YOU!”
Ketsuno, now in full-on “holy shit he’s crazy” mode, snaps his wild eyes towards my father and points a bony finger at him.
“Well I hope you’re happy, HAKAMICHI! YOU, YOUR STUPID HAIRCUT, YOUR CRAPPY KATANA, AND YOUR IDIOTIC SON HAVE RUINED ME!!”
“HOLD IT!” my father bellows, sending a few stranglers scurrying for the safety of the walls. He takes a few threatening steps towards Ketsuno, the words leaving his mouth with horrific quietness.
“You can insult my hair. You can insult my golf game. You can tell I’ll end up in the poor house by this time next year all you want. But don’t you ever. Insult. My. KATANA.”
With one lightning fast movement, Ketsuno’s toupee winds up in a plate of deviled eggs courtesy of my father’s punch.
“Also my son, or something.”
Thus, the Lord Voldemort of competitive Japanese golfing fell.
Jigoro moves back towards the podium, a distinctive Clint Eastwood like aura surrounding him.
“If it’s all the same to you, judge... I think it’s best if we take our first place prize and head on home. It’s been a long day.”
“Actually, you won second place.”
“BULLSHIT DAMMIT WE’RE THE HEROES OF THIS STORY WE SHOULD HAVE WON THE STUPID--”
Mr. Furukawa intervenes at the last moment. “What my friend meant to say was, we appreciate and respect the judgement of the committee. But, who won first prize?’
“Well, none other than this year’s newcomers, Team Pink and Black Attack! Shizune Hakamichi and Misha Miikado!”
“OH MY GOD SHICCHAN WE WON AAAAHHHH!”
My father’s impressive stream of unintelligible curses are thankfully drowned out by the cheers of the crowd as Misha and my sister take their rightful prize.
Off in the far corner, I catch a glimpse of our fourth team member packing up his clubs and preparing to take his exit.
“Bucky, wait!” I call out.
He turns to meet me as I hurry to greet him.
“When will I see you again?” I ask in a whispered voice. tears brimming along the edges of my eyes.
He smiles warmly at me, like a grandfather watching his grandson grown into a man before his own eyes. He put his pork pie hat upon his head and places a gentle hand upon my cheeks.
“I’m Bucky,” he whispers to me. It’s like poetry.
With that, he exits through the doors and off into the setting sun, forever to tend to the course he calls home. It’s his calling.
His destiny.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Overall, things turned out to be for the best.
Shizune and my father respectfully agreed to share dual custody of the first place trophy. My sister keeps it most of the time, while my father receives visiting and custody rights for Christmas, Presidents Day, and most school holidays.
Furukawa, meanwhile, has recently gone mad with power and decided to take up training potential golf prodigies in his spare time.
Ketsuno Jr. is a registered sex offender whose seemingly never ending supply of prescription medication is under close examination by the Japanese government. The senior Ketsuno never found his hair again.
As for Misha, she’s now decided that she wants to overthrow more thrones, until she becomes the undisputed Queen of Japanese golf.
God help us.
Last edited by DanjaDoom on Mon Apr 14, 2014 2:09 am, edited 4 times in total.
...where would a fight between The Avengers, The X-Men and the entire cast of Gundam SEED even fit into the narrative? Tom Servo and Crow T. Robot becoming life partners in a ceremony overseen by the Janitor from Scrubs just really doesn’t make sense no matter what angle you go over it from.”
Ahem:
Avengers Vs. X-men already occurred, so it could be considered a theatrical Spiritual Successor.
Gundam SEED could be a branch of the Super Registration Acts enforcement group (forget the name, sorry. Also, frak Civil War.)
The Janitor from Scrubs could easily be a cousin of Joel, or even Mike for that matter. They could be mechanics for the mechs.
There, problem solved. Although for the title to still work, you'd have to make Iron Man and Storm a romantic subplot.
...where would a fight between The Avengers, The X-Men and the entire cast of Gundam SEED even fit into the narrative? Tom Servo and Crow T. Robot becoming life partners in a ceremony overseen by the Janitor from Scrubs just really doesn’t make sense no matter what angle you go over it from.”
Ahem:
Avengers Vs. X-men already occurred, so it could be considered a theatrical Spiritual Successor.
Gundam SEED could be a branch of the Super Registration Acts enforcement group (forget the name, sorry. Also, frak Civil War.)
The Janitor from Scrubs could easily be a cousin of Joel, or even Mike for that matter. They could be mechanics for the mechs.
There, problem solved. Although for the title to still work, you'd have to make Iron Man and Storm a romantic subplot.
...where am I?
...Anywho:
“MY MOJO’S BACK!”
Best. One liner. EVER.
You are awesomely hilarious, and Happy New Year!
The sheer amount of nerdery in that story would be so great no one reading it would be able to sleep with a woman for at least three months.
?
.
