Viola Moonlight
I'm Literally Just Here for WZCW
Deadline is Friday, February 13th at 11:59PM CST. Extensions available upon request.
All-Stars IV: Gelgarin vs. CunderThunt
- Thread starter Viola Moonlight
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Johnny Scumm
InZayn In The Membrane
Is it a Bird? Is it a Plane? No, but both of those would be more helpful.
Faster than a man with crutches.
Stronger than an eight year old child.
Smarter than...something.
He is.
CUNDERTHUNT.
[YOUTUBE]e9vrfEoc8_g[/YOUTUBE]
"Ladies & Gentlemen, welcome to the 10 O'Clock news. We've been saving this very special report for you since this afternoon due to it's... mature content. Local Superhero "Thundercu-", sorry, "CunderThunt" has been at it again."
A petite blonde woman sits behind a desk on this very popular news show, being shown on a small TV. To the side of her head, an added image of a face with a question mark over it, with the caption "Who Is CunderThunt?!"
"That's right. The man who has said himself that he will cure all crime in America has gotten himself involved in yet another fight today. But as always, he was on the receiving end of the brutality. This so-called "Superhero" is yet to help the police in America put away a criminal."
The TV shuts off
"Man, this kinda stuff really bums me out!"
Sat on a worn out sofa, in a worn out apartment, is our apparent hero. In his worn out costume.
"Why can't they see that I'm doing them all the good in the world?! This is the future! No more cops running round putting everyone away. I'm going to get my team of superheroes together and we're going to make sure every criminal ends up behind bars! Just because I can't always get it done by myself doesn't mean it's impossible! I'll never give up the fight, that's for sure!"
In his hands, are a notepad & pen. He's scribbling out things he's just written down.
"If only I could come with a catchphrase! This kinda stuff is hard, dammit! Oh, how about "Never fear, the CunderThunt's here!"...No, that sucks ass. Wait, I've got it! "When the CunderThunt is around, you won't end up in the ground!" Wait. I don't think that'll stick."
A closer look to the notepad shows one lined page almost invisible, awash with black ink. All of a sudden, the lightbulb must've switched on in our hero's head.
"That's it! I've got it! It's simple, it's sure as hell gonna be effective and it gets right to the point!"
In a small corner on the pad, he writes down a few words, before grinning at his "genius"
"Die, criminal scum." Got it."
It's awful. I know it's awful, you know it's awful, even the criminal's know it's awful. But this is the decided catchphrase of the greatest hero in all of America...allegedly. At that moment, he's taken by a bright red light flashing from the wall. It's the "Criminal Siren". It flashes faster, as it's joined by the "Emergency Alarm", a sound that always denotes urgency...
[YOUTUBE]iNw_IxpNDkk[/YOUTUBE]
This is it, let me just check my Thunt-Pager and see what's wrong today!
GANG ROBBERY - DOWNTOWN BANK, COME QUICKLY THUNDERC-
Strange, must have run out of characters. Right, time to get downtown to the Bank and stop this gang before they make off with the millions & millions of dollars! Thunt-Legs, initiate!
The Thunt-Legs are far from special. They're regular legs. Less muscly than you'd assume and quite short, which means YES! Our superhero is going to run...to the bank.
"I'll get there so fast, those criminals won't be able to see me"!
He won't.
TEN MINUTES LATER.
"Almost there, I can see the right street! Criminals, I'm coming to get youuuuUOH MY GOD!"
CunderThunt stops out of nowhere, in his tracks. He looks up to the sky and catches a cat, stuck in a tree.
"Poor Kitty! Don't you worry pussy, I'm coming to get you!"
There's nobody around, sirens and what can only be described as gunshots are heard in the mid-distance. But our brilliant, fearless hero is a lot busier now, with a cat. He looks around for something that can help him to reach the heights the cat has scaled, but to no avail.
"I've got it! My Thunt-Legs are more than good enough to deal with this!"
He jumps, and jumps again. Then again. Followed by another few jumps. Then a jump. To top it all off...he jumps. None of them big enough to be able to reach this cat that has eluded him for the last three minutes.
"Well damn! I was sure I could reach it then. Hang on, that branch over there is loose, man I love how smart I am.
Pulling a long loose, relatively thick branch from the tree, most would hold out said branch towards the cat, to let him climb back down to safety. But NO! Not our high IQ'd, strong willed genius! Without a second thought into it, CunderThunt grabbed the branch, swinging back before thrusting forwards towards the cat, hitting it from the branch!
"Got it! There we go, oh. OH. OH!
The cat goes flying, out towards the road. A fleeting car manages to it...on it's windshield. As the car carries on as if nothing had ever happened, the cat carcass falls off, onto the road.
"So, that's what happens when you do that. Well, if it's any bonus, at least now I know my own strength! But now, I must take on those wicked criminals at the bank! Onwards Thunt-Legs!
As our criminal runs (Yes, again) off to the bank, turning the corner to reach the street where the gang is holding up the bank, he finds that all is calm. Members of the gang are being placed into the backs of police cars, or restrained on the ground. The bank manager is thanking the chief of police, while the officers are all looking extremely proud of themselves.
"What happened here?!"
"Thundercu- Sorry, CunderThunt, where were you?! You were signalled at least 30 minutes ago!"
The Chief of Police does not look happy as he approaches CT, arms crossed and brows lowered.
"Sir, I'm sorry! I was running over here as fast as I could. I was distracted by the cutest pussy you've ever seen in your life and then I destroyed it! I know, I should've got here as soon as I was able to, but it just called me and it was so tempting to take on."
"I don't want to know the ins and outs of your life, did I ask to know that? Who cares what takes your fancy CunderThunt, you were the man who said he was going to help us do our jobs, no, you said you were going to make sure we didn't need to, because you and your team of superheroes were going to take everyone instead! Yet what do I see in front of me? I see a washed up, greasy, untalented, weedy piece of shit that's never going to amount to nothing! Here's some advice kid, take that costume off when you get home and burn it. It'll be the best thing that you've ever done for this community because you'll finally be out the way. You know what? You've got no chance. No chance in hell."
"I...um."
Our hero doesn't know what to say anymore. Suddenly the clouds turn dark and it begins to get colder. The wind picks up and CunderThunt turns away from the Chief. They both walk their separate ways as the rain begins to fall. As he turns a corner, the strong winds blow up a newspaper straight into the face of our disgraced hero.
"Goddamn paper!"
He scraps it from his face, throwing it to the floor, before he focuses straight back on it. Leaning down, he picks it back up and stares longingly at the page.
"WZCW All-Stars. Calling all wannabe wrestlers, come and test your might today!"
He scratches his chin.
"Hey! I could be a wrestler! I've got the awesome costume, a mask so nobody knows who I am. I've got amazing fighting skills and the brain that could outhink anybody in the ring! Why haven't I thought of this sooner?! I'm sure I could do it, what could go wrong?!"
He throws the newspaper back to the floor, standing on the sidewalk.
"WZCW, here me now! I will be there, for your "All-Stars" event. Never before have you seen somebody of my calibre before and you'll never see it again after I leave!
Putting his hands on his hips, he looks to the sky
"For I. Am. The..."
"THUNDERCUNT!"
"Shit."
The camera, which is apparently textually significant enough to warrant superfluous narration on its behalf, pans down to the reclining figure of a young, well dressed and, may we say, spectacularly handsome young man. It really should be stressed how handsome this man is. He has great teeth and hair we'd like to run our fingers through, and we're just incorporeal text.
Gelgarin, for what other name could deserve association with such a man, is reclining lazily across one of those French half-sofa things. Chez-Longue or something the furniture is eclipsed by the man (figuratively Gelgarin is definitely not fat) so it probably doesn't matter if we spell it right. He is reading a piece of slightly obscure classic literature which is coincidentally full of interesting inter-textual parallels to his current situation; aptly demonstrating both his cultural awareness and his superior intellect. Your idea of a good book probably involves the discovery that you can See Spot Run, so we won't dally on the literature. Just take it as written that he is much smarter than you are and leave it at that.
For no adequately explored reason, Gelgarin chooses this moment to turn his head forward and start narrating about his present predicament. Under normal circumstances, one would take this kind of behaviour as an indication of schizophrenia or some similarly tragic medical condition, but the gentleman in question is probably too attractive and intelligent to be insane.
You know, he intones; his sophisticated old English drawl, which causes moistening in several areas of the female anatomy, I am somewhat disappointed with this situation's results.
I confess to being little of a professional wrestling aficionado when I allowed my signature to grace the application form but what I had seen as a child appeared physical and violent enough that finding a way to emerge from such a contest victorious would present a passable intellectual distraction for a couple of days.
Alas, some cursory research into the murky waters of double you zee see double you, a number of self evident truths have come to light which regrettably transform achieving victory from an interesting puzzle into a laborious chore. Success is essentially assured, for the following reasons.
In addition to being physical arousing, verbally soothing, well read and well spoken, Gelgarin is apparently also a magical space wizard. With just a wave of his hand, letters appear to fill the empty space above him. Clearly a man capable of bending the fabric of reality in such a way is no mere mortal, and we are in fact observing the physical manifestation of a god.
The letters read:
Reason 1: Professional wrestling is not real
I know, I know: I was as alarmed as you to uncover this most shocking of deceptions, but it is simply impossible to deny. Examine if you will, the vertical suplex. The recipient of such an assault need only adjust his body weight in any direction, or retract his legs, in order to completely ruin the attack for everyone. Being on the receiving end of any throw containing a vertical lift requires more acumen and effort than countering it. This is true of such a large proportion of pro wrestling's tropes that I am forced into the conclusion that the participants of any given match are cooperating towards a common goal, and that the results are in fact predetermined. In such a circumstance it makes logical sense for the most popular and marketable performer to be allowed victory, and since I was born with the affliction to be enviable or irresistible depending on sexual preference, it seems only reasonable to conclude that I am going to win.
Gelgarin sighs, the pressures of modern life as a superior being weighing heavily upon his ample shoulders. A casual flick of his hand causes the miraculously floating words to vanish and be replaced by:
Reason 2: Professional wrestlers are pansy ass bitchez
The vernacular in the title was provided to me by a black man I encountered at the laundrette. I am unsure of the spelling of the terminology, so I have endeavoured to encode it phonetically. Translated into talk comprehensible by those with lower melanin levels, those who partake in professional wrestling are inferior physical specimens, even to an amateur like me.
Take for example the comparative speeds with which I, and a pro wrestler, can ascend to the top of a ladder. I am hardly a world ladder climbing champion, but I can ascend the steps at roughly five times the rate of the average wrestler. Clear superiority.
The same data can be run for cage door manipulation, vertical climbing and half a dozen other metrics which once again prove that I am faster and or stronger than the average competitor inside the squared circle.
Perhaps the most damning evidence in support of this point however is the effect wrestlers are able to achieve with their punches and kicks. On a bad day a wrestler may throw thirty to forty uncontested strikes, with little to no effect being achieved. I ran some empirical experiments with my twelve year old niece, and found that I was able to achieve both pinfall and submission after only two well places kicks and she was trying to protect herself after the first. Again I make no claims to being a physical Adonis, but I am evidently a more deadly combatant than the man across from me is likely to be.
Gelgarin sighs again, demonstrating to the world his dark and brooding side. If this man was any edgier he'd be two dimensional how's that for a metaphor? Ehh? Ehh?
Another flick of the wrist and the final argument is presented for the world to see.
Reason 3: The rules of professional wrestling do not make sense.
I entered this competition assuming that I would have to use my superior mental fitness to contrive a scenario in which I emerge victorious against the odds. Such a thing does not sound challenging to accomplish given the nonsensical nature of the contest.
Based on my observations, a competitor is free to assault his opponent prior to the commencement of the match without fear of repercussions. So if I were to make a preemptive strike using, for the sake of argument, a gun, I would be guaranteeing myself success.
And what about those disqualification rules? If someone attacks me during the course of a match, I am declared the victor immaterial the circumstances surrounding the attack. I am a wealthy individual competing in a city with a homeless population that runs into the high five figures normally I try to avoid contact with homeless people because of AIDS but if you think I am unable to contrive a victory condition in such circumstances then you tragically underestimate me.
Gelgarin looks ahead. He was looking ahead before, but we felt reiteration was necessary at this point because we hadn't had any prose for a while and that's how good writing is supposed to work. Oh and the words that were there are now not there. Magic or possibly after effects which is basically magic. Did we mention that Gelgarin is very pretty?
My opponent is... err... a... train? No... hang on a minute.
Gelgarin walks to the left and disappears from the known universe. The sound of scrabbling is heard briefly, and our idol returns holding a sheet of paper.
My opponent is a diminutive superhero who spends more time beating off rather than beating up criminals. I would highlight for his benefit that the omission of a comma in that sentence suggests that he is literally *********ing the criminal element but based on his costume he's probably Mexican so I guess we should show a little charity.
Anyway, he's not that relevant but my multicultural menagerie of friends informed me that I should mention him so I did. He looks a bit shit and he isn't me. Period (the kind that definitively ends a statement, not the other kind).
Gelgarin, for what other name could deserve association with such a man, is reclining lazily across one of those French half-sofa things. Chez-Longue or something the furniture is eclipsed by the man (figuratively Gelgarin is definitely not fat) so it probably doesn't matter if we spell it right. He is reading a piece of slightly obscure classic literature which is coincidentally full of interesting inter-textual parallels to his current situation; aptly demonstrating both his cultural awareness and his superior intellect. Your idea of a good book probably involves the discovery that you can See Spot Run, so we won't dally on the literature. Just take it as written that he is much smarter than you are and leave it at that.
For no adequately explored reason, Gelgarin chooses this moment to turn his head forward and start narrating about his present predicament. Under normal circumstances, one would take this kind of behaviour as an indication of schizophrenia or some similarly tragic medical condition, but the gentleman in question is probably too attractive and intelligent to be insane.
You know, he intones; his sophisticated old English drawl, which causes moistening in several areas of the female anatomy, I am somewhat disappointed with this situation's results.
I confess to being little of a professional wrestling aficionado when I allowed my signature to grace the application form but what I had seen as a child appeared physical and violent enough that finding a way to emerge from such a contest victorious would present a passable intellectual distraction for a couple of days.
Alas, some cursory research into the murky waters of double you zee see double you, a number of self evident truths have come to light which regrettably transform achieving victory from an interesting puzzle into a laborious chore. Success is essentially assured, for the following reasons.
In addition to being physical arousing, verbally soothing, well read and well spoken, Gelgarin is apparently also a magical space wizard. With just a wave of his hand, letters appear to fill the empty space above him. Clearly a man capable of bending the fabric of reality in such a way is no mere mortal, and we are in fact observing the physical manifestation of a god.
The letters read:
Reason 1: Professional wrestling is not real
I know, I know: I was as alarmed as you to uncover this most shocking of deceptions, but it is simply impossible to deny. Examine if you will, the vertical suplex. The recipient of such an assault need only adjust his body weight in any direction, or retract his legs, in order to completely ruin the attack for everyone. Being on the receiving end of any throw containing a vertical lift requires more acumen and effort than countering it. This is true of such a large proportion of pro wrestling's tropes that I am forced into the conclusion that the participants of any given match are cooperating towards a common goal, and that the results are in fact predetermined. In such a circumstance it makes logical sense for the most popular and marketable performer to be allowed victory, and since I was born with the affliction to be enviable or irresistible depending on sexual preference, it seems only reasonable to conclude that I am going to win.
Gelgarin sighs, the pressures of modern life as a superior being weighing heavily upon his ample shoulders. A casual flick of his hand causes the miraculously floating words to vanish and be replaced by:
Reason 2: Professional wrestlers are pansy ass bitchez
The vernacular in the title was provided to me by a black man I encountered at the laundrette. I am unsure of the spelling of the terminology, so I have endeavoured to encode it phonetically. Translated into talk comprehensible by those with lower melanin levels, those who partake in professional wrestling are inferior physical specimens, even to an amateur like me.
Take for example the comparative speeds with which I, and a pro wrestler, can ascend to the top of a ladder. I am hardly a world ladder climbing champion, but I can ascend the steps at roughly five times the rate of the average wrestler. Clear superiority.
The same data can be run for cage door manipulation, vertical climbing and half a dozen other metrics which once again prove that I am faster and or stronger than the average competitor inside the squared circle.
Perhaps the most damning evidence in support of this point however is the effect wrestlers are able to achieve with their punches and kicks. On a bad day a wrestler may throw thirty to forty uncontested strikes, with little to no effect being achieved. I ran some empirical experiments with my twelve year old niece, and found that I was able to achieve both pinfall and submission after only two well places kicks and she was trying to protect herself after the first. Again I make no claims to being a physical Adonis, but I am evidently a more deadly combatant than the man across from me is likely to be.
Gelgarin sighs again, demonstrating to the world his dark and brooding side. If this man was any edgier he'd be two dimensional how's that for a metaphor? Ehh? Ehh?
Another flick of the wrist and the final argument is presented for the world to see.
Reason 3: The rules of professional wrestling do not make sense.
I entered this competition assuming that I would have to use my superior mental fitness to contrive a scenario in which I emerge victorious against the odds. Such a thing does not sound challenging to accomplish given the nonsensical nature of the contest.
Based on my observations, a competitor is free to assault his opponent prior to the commencement of the match without fear of repercussions. So if I were to make a preemptive strike using, for the sake of argument, a gun, I would be guaranteeing myself success.
And what about those disqualification rules? If someone attacks me during the course of a match, I am declared the victor immaterial the circumstances surrounding the attack. I am a wealthy individual competing in a city with a homeless population that runs into the high five figures normally I try to avoid contact with homeless people because of AIDS but if you think I am unable to contrive a victory condition in such circumstances then you tragically underestimate me.
Gelgarin looks ahead. He was looking ahead before, but we felt reiteration was necessary at this point because we hadn't had any prose for a while and that's how good writing is supposed to work. Oh and the words that were there are now not there. Magic or possibly after effects which is basically magic. Did we mention that Gelgarin is very pretty?
My opponent is... err... a... train? No... hang on a minute.
Gelgarin walks to the left and disappears from the known universe. The sound of scrabbling is heard briefly, and our idol returns holding a sheet of paper.
My opponent is a diminutive superhero who spends more time beating off rather than beating up criminals. I would highlight for his benefit that the omission of a comma in that sentence suggests that he is literally *********ing the criminal element but based on his costume he's probably Mexican so I guess we should show a little charity.
Anyway, he's not that relevant but my multicultural menagerie of friends informed me that I should mention him so I did. He looks a bit shit and he isn't me. Period (the kind that definitively ends a statement, not the other kind).
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