Don’t get it fucked up nitwits… things are ALWAYS as they appear.

The scene opens up in complete darkness. The darkness is heavy and continually swelling with a heart racing wail of white noise coming from an intangible distance. It is uncertain if this is maybe a room, maybe a womb, maybe a tomb, maybe the backdrop of a closed set of eyelids belonging to a not so lucid dreamer.

The wailing noise grows louder, and we are brought in deeper into the nothing as the camera slowly pans our perception inward. The wailing is louder still, and we wonder where we are, what we are and why we are. We wonder so fucking much that the wonder feels like a fucking icepick repeatedly slamming into our membrane as a warm blood splatters and spills from the top of our skull and becomes cold as it rushes down ward to meet our trembling legs.

The noise grows louder…

And louder…

It’s hard to concentrate on the nothing, there’s so much nothing, and that noise is growing loud- so loud it’s unbearable, and if this were real you’d be clutching your ears and kneeling over as your heart throbs out from your throat.

Louder.

The noise.

It’s gripping.

It hurts.

You’re ready to snap out of this because it isn’t real, but did I tell you this isn’t real? No I didn’t, and now you’ve gone deeper into this darkness and the noise has somehow gotten louder…

And louder…

And louder…

AND LOUDER!

AND…………….

It stops.






It all stops.



The noise, the inward focus on the darkness and all you’re left with is the sound of your heart palpitations… and the sound of a drip into a puddle that echoes into what we’ve realized is a cold area. After a few moments the dripping seems to conclude, and as it does there’s a sudden striking sound and a fizzle from a briefly illuminating match. It greedily shines in front of a man’s bloated looking face with a fat cigar hanging from his mouth. The match meets the end of the cigar as it puffs several times, the smoke increasing each time as end turns into a now constant visible ember in the dark.

A voice emerges:

“You think you’ve got this all figured out now haven’t you… Buronan, is it?”

“…”

There is no reply,

“What’s the matter? Pussy got your tongue? I know you’ve gone soft on me, have you?”

“…”

Silence again,

“HAHAHAHA”

A menacing laughter explodes from what we assume is the man holding the cigar as he places the blunt back to his lips, taking a long, hard draw which causes the cherry to expose even more of the man’s face. There are thick lines running along either side of his mouth that signify the edges of his chunky cheeks, the cheeks running back to an unusually long set of ears that match the man’s nose.

“This is simply rich! For weeks all I’ve heard about is this ‘demon’, this ‘witch’, this ‘Babi ngepet’… and look at you now, here you are, you’ve finally got me right in front of you, and what? Nothing?!? You’re no demon! You’re no ghost! You’re a coward!”

“…”

“You’ve cost me a lot of time, a lot of sleep and a lot of money…”

The man with the cigar whistles and simultaneously a bright white rectangular object appears behind him, signifying the opening of a door as at least ten men carrying high powered assault rifles march in behind him. The door stays open, the light illuminating more of the man with the cigar as we now see him standing about six foot tall wearing a black and white pin-striped suit with a black fedora. The light also illuminates a portion of the room which looks bare aside from the pale concrete walls.

The men raise their weapons and aim them toward the corner of the room, but the man simply chuckles and waives his arm back, motioning for his militants to lower their weapons.

“…How many?”

The man looking pleasantly surprised to finally hear a voice, widens his eyes and leans in a bit closer to the corner of the room- a condescending look on his face,

“How many? How many what? How many monies? You’ve cost me about twenty-seven mil…”

“No.”

The faceless voice responds,

“No?”

The man in the pin-stripe suit begs,

“No.”

The faceless voice reiterates,

“How many what then?”

There’s a blood curling pause before the person called ‘Buronan’ clarifies by asking:

“How many of your men have I killed?”

The man’s face twists and turns with disgust. His nostrils flare, his upper lip twitches as his teeth grind and crack,

The vocalization of his response starts off low, and deep:

“You…”

It then grows louder with a callous snarl:

“…You’re a pathetic waste of life…”

Like the bark of a rabid, mouth-foaming pit-bull, the man begins screaming erratically into the darkness as we can almost see his intent for destruction in the condensation forming from is breath into the freezing cold room:

“I AM GOING TO MAKE YOU PERSONALLY PAY FOR EACH LIFE YOU TOOK! I AM GOING TO REIGN DOWN UPON YOUR WORTHLESS EXISTENCE LIKE THE MIGHTY HAMMAR OF THE GODS WHO SQUASH THE INFADELS! YOU WILL FEEL EACH OF THEIR HURT, EACH OF THEIR SUFFERING, EACH OF THEIR FEAR!”

The man is overcome with a blood boiling rage, veins popping from his neck in a cartoonish manner. He finally has to stop as he grows short of breath, shouting so loudly that he is forced to bend over and clutch his knees as he slows his hyperventilation.

The man rises back up, adjusts his suit and composes himself while we can hear the faceless voice slow-clapping in the darkness.

“You’ve killed eighty-seven of my best men…”

The man’s voice begins to tremble as he is emotionally inundated now thinking of all of the events that have unfolded over the last few weeks.

“They were honorable, God fearing men, they were good men…”

The faceless voice suddenly interrupts after a sarcastic chuckle,

“Ah, yes! ‘Good’ men you say? Good men how, good men why?”

“Fuck you!”

“Good men because they helped you enslave an entire population while guarding your opium fields?” How many HONESTLY good and respectable men did they kill on your behalf, Mr. McManus?”

“You know nothing of respect!”

“How many children did they beat? How many women did they rape?”

“SHUT UP!!!!!”

McManus begins screaming and growling, a string of drool dangling from his lip. His men again raise their weapons, now locking them into position as red beams from their scopes can all be seen aiming at Buronan’s masked face.


Alright, so let’s hold the fucking phone right here for just a second.

I have given you turds entirely too much, too soon and I don’t think that’s fundamentally fair to you the viewers or me, the Buronan. The caviling cocksucker standing across from me is none other than Morton McManus. He’s a real piece of shit and I want to kill him, like really, really bad. Ol’ Morty is mad because over the last few weeks I have virtually obliterated his entire drug operation in this purposely undisclosed third world country.

Why have the narrator and I decided to purposely not disclose our whereabouts? Because it’s none of your fucking business! THAT’S WHY! I’m Buronan, I’m mysterious and shit and I like to do things my way regardless of what you ingrates think or feel.

But back to the subject, Ol’ Mortimer here is an unassailable portion of fecal-matter and I would much enjoy being the ender of his existence. Did I already cover that? Who cares… but anyway, he has his goober-gobbling-goons pointing their fancy-ass guns at my face, so I’m going to have to kill them. I don’t really WANT to kill them; I just want to kill Morton. I have to kill Morton so I can get state-side and do what I do best- kick ass and take names.

A friend of mine once said: “If you’re good at something, never do it for free.” Or maybe I heard that movie, but whatever. You see, I have now completely eradicated from a shithole country, well almost completely eradicated, an entire neo-imperialistic drug enterprise for free, I didn’t ask for anything in return… I’m doing this because it’s the right thing to do.

So now I believe it’s time for Buronan to earn his keep. What better way to do that then to enter the XWF Lethal Lottery, kick the ever-loving shit out of every single asshole I come across, win the briefcase and become Universal Champion? I can only imagine the size of that paycheck. Shit, just look at Chris Chaos. Goes from a Boaty-looking beach bum to living in a mansion and shit, bumping uglies with Jennifer Myst.

Man…

I think I’ve earned that, don’t you?

Well, if you don’t then I guess I’ll just have to convince you all otherwise and my work begins Wednesday the 15th when I tag up with Angry-Black-Guy to do battle with tranny-Mega Man and God.

That sounds too good to be true doesn’t it? Probably is, and like I said earlier, things are ALWAYS as they appear…

So, does Buronan appear to be a threat? Does Buronan appear to know what in the fuck he’s doing? Does Buronan appear to have ten automatic rifles aimed at his fucking dome? Does Buronan appear to be completely able to burst into the XWF Lethal Lottery IV and win the entire fucking thing?

I guess these are questions you need to answer yourselves, but either way, Buronan is here now and he has every intention of winning Lethal Lottery IV. I look forward to meeting, and beating, each and every one of you.

As for this little scene here, the apparent utter demise of Buronan… let’s resume the tape shall we?

“KILL HIM!!!”

Just then the men all fire their guns at Buronan as his head explodes into hundreds pieces, splattering all over the floor and wall. His headless corpse wobbles down to the floor like a limp noodle.


PAUSE AGAIN!

Just remember…






Things are always as they appear. Nitwits.