Threaded Mode | Linear Mode

Guppy Parsh · **04-10-2014, 12:40 PM**

He visited again.

Skulls. Umbrellas. Robes.

“That’s my savior’s birthday,” the voice has been saved, “Blaze it.”

[Image: 1911835_10152112126301026_238494358_n.jpg]

[Image: 1911835_10152112126301026_238494358_n.jpg]

“Who intrudes?” the voice saw the darkness.

“The sky of evil,” the masked man swayed like death, “Bright shoes of kill.”

“No, sir, the sky is me,” the voice had clouds, “I am the penultimate evil. We've been expecting u.”

“The sky is chilly, Mr. Racist Remarks. It’s like a hot dog topping,” the masked man’s mouth dripped with blood.

Small and cooked. Beef. With or without casting.

“I am not chilly; I’m hot with death like fire,” the voice was inspired by burns.

“Fire is life,” the masked man eyes twinkled wickedly.

“Sky-fire, is all I see. BURNING clouds HUMBLE and rumble,” the voice knew all the visions, “I see evil in the sun.”

“Sol doesn’t shine in the dead of night,” the masked man hummed.

“Sol always shines, WICKEDLY,” the voice knew every surface of the yellow ball of light, “But I DIGRESS!” the voice sensed it was the perfect time to cut the lively banter and provide the main course.

Creek of doors expectedly interrupts the sacred meeting of sin. Sluggishly sloth-like the curtains soar open. The blinding force drives the cave of evil in splits.

“Cough on my soul. Sicken my health. Jump and leap at my destruction. I am not a doctor.”

“GUPPY GO get THE door. I THINK the pizza IS here,” the voice’s thoughts were profound.

With a wicked click of his heels the Parsh stepped into the yonder doorway. He always stepped like the calculator of numbers. He heard the distant blood and the sickly sneezes of the Earth’s core. The trash of the living swarmed his brittle sockets and stones.

The open waydoor of wood looked sunny as night. His eyes rubbed themselves and settled in the distant land. “Who is here?” asked the Guppy as the Parsh tunneled his vision. “Who councils the great death? Who enters the chapel of crimson blue? Who deems the violence of my supreme-pineapple chancellor?”

With a brown tint the human less humanity stepped into the realm of Xtreme. His words rolled like tacos.

“Soy MEXICO y SKYO,” the voice was a country in the sky.

“Where’s the pizza,” the masked man’s meals of meat needed this supreme

The pizza-less incarnate of death just stared at the Goliaths of mercy. His words were silent like libraries.

“I smell ur blood STRANGER,” the voice’s nose was invisible but it could smell anything in arteries.

The masked man’s skulled robes of disaster sparked and spurted as the blood of murder touched his ripe pancreas of health. The cooling waves set over his unexposed skin follicles as breaded butter churned in the hives of insecticides. A pack of wolves howled as the night sky black-end and blackened. His fire-like eyes burned the burned strangers infamy as the mystery arose in the darkness. His fingers tingled in the red ocean of blood as the spires of hate peaked above the brooded skyline. A soul of unsettled hatred honed and zoomed as a painful embrace tugged his coat and cowls. Such pain humbled the bratwurst of hope as a train rolled on at fifty miles per hour. Much happening at the same time as things happened. “Do speaketh sir of the hour,” hissed the masked man’s mouthhole.

“Your pizza has been intercepted.”

“NO NO NO! U CAN’T be telling THE TRUTH!” the voice knew a liar when it smelled one with its invisible nose of kill.

“I never lie!”

“It is a mystery.”

“One that will never be solved.”

The red ball of death scoffed at the intruder's words. “UR WRONG! Guppy will SEARCH the ENDS OF THE EARTH until HE finds my SUPREME WITH PINEAPPLE!” the voice knew where Earth ended and outer space began.

“Guppy! Parsh?” the embodiment of disappointment's expression flushed and fluttered; did this thing not know the force behind the opened doors?

The masked man’s slimy fingers traced his umbrella. “This is the worst pizza party I’ve ever attended, Mr. Racist Remarks!” the masked man was a famous pizza party critic. “I’m leaving!”

“YOU CAN’T leave! It will BE BETTER THAN DonOLD Tramp’s! YOU’LL SEE!” the voice hated DonOLD Tramp’s pizza party. “HURRY GUPPY! Find the sacred box of happiness! MAKE my LIFE!” the voice was pizza in the shadows.

Guppy, sadistically disgusting-esque-like, rolled out of the doorway. He had to move like sunlight. The end of the Earth was sky in the blackness.

“AND don’t worry ABOUT UR MATCH with that POSER. He LOOKS LIKE A GUY IN TNA. THAT FED SUCKS MY dick. U’ll make him suicide HIMSELF easily,” the voice was words in the dust of ten worlds.

The masked man’s eyeholes stared at his wristwatch of critique. The blood continued to ravage his pancreas. The bread butter continued to churn. The wolves continued their howling. Mystery kept on rising. The spires still peaked. The cowls and capes remained tugged. The train paced on at fifty. Very still happening. “Fine, I’ll wait, but if you do not deliver you’ll never throw a pizza party in this town again, Mr. Racist Remarks.”

I am a mission. I must complete my destiny. Before the night is through everyone will like the pizza party a lot.

Guppy fin.

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode 2: Three's a SUICIDAL PIZZA PARTY OF KILL! I AM a CULT OF MISERY!
Author	Message