Re: The Glorious Championship! [S3G5] [Round One: The "Denny's"]
06-20-2011, 11:10 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by TimeothyHour.
“Um-,” Elimine began, a little put off by the nature of the question. “Well-”
The typewriter began clacking furiously before anything else could be said, shutting Eli up and drawing an amused look from Old Greg.
“FUCK NO,” Etiyr typed. <span style="font-family: Courier New">“I DON’T LIKE PEOPLE TYPING ON ME ANYWAY, AND THERE’S NO WAY I’M LETTING THAT FUCKING CONVIE’S FINGERS ANYWHERE NEAR ME!”
Etiyr settled into an enraged silence, while the rest of the group stared confusedly as they read the typewriter’s outburst. Eli fidgeted uncomfortably, something she had been doing lately, and AMP’s pieces whirled peacfully as Old Greg turned to her, a puzzled look on his face.</span>
“Um. What does he mean by Convie…?”
Etiyr began clacking again, interrupting any conversation that could have happened.
“You can speak directly to me, you fuckwad. I’m not fucking deaf or blind or whatever it is you think I am,” Etiyr began. <span style="font-family: Courier New">“And by ‘convie,’ you know how you’re wearing that stupid, ugly, purple and yellow jacket?”</span>
Old Greg nodded. His alien hand flipped the bird.
“Well, that means you’re probably being manipulated by our good friend, Mr. Convolution, also known as Badge-Face and The Mind-Whore of the Ages. I’m afraid to say that you’re now being controlled by one of the stupidest things ever.”
“I…I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Old Greg said, his normal hand scratching his head.
The other hand, meanwhile, had continued pointing the obscene gesture at Etiyr, but had begun thrusting it violently upward. It was at this point Old Greg had finally noticed its inappropriate behavior (although he was a little miffed about this typewriter guy insulting his jacket, just not enough to be flipping him off), and tried to calm it down with the hand that wasn’t batshit insane.
“Sorry, um,” Old Greg stammered to no one in particular. “I have alien hand syndrome. It does this kind of stuff. Nothing having to do with my subconscious, though.”
Eli was about to answer with a “No problem,” when Etiyr cut her off again.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you don’t have anything to do with your really fucking stupid hand’s actions. Although I have an idea who is flapping your hand all around like an idiot.”
“Um, who?” Greg said, as his hand repeatedly slammed its palm into his forehead, despite his efforts to stop it.
“Why, The Mind Whore of the Ages itself, Old Greg! Isn’t that right, Mr. Convolution? Wave hello if you can read this, dickface.”
The hand made several exasperated gestures, balling up angrily before finally waving at the typewriter.
Elimine turned to Etiyr, one of her eyebrows raised. “Etiyr, what-”
“-shut up, bitch.”
A shocked look appeared on the sidekick’s face. Pointing her finger at the typewriter, she retorted.
“Now that is NOT something you call-”
“Look, it was pretty obvious you haven’t been really comfortable with me and AMP after you got beat up by The Cockiest Cyborg in the World over there. Now, I can understand not being ok with me, but little ol’ AMP? You’re letting Quantos’s words get to you, so until you’ve sorted yourself out, I don’t want to have anything to do with you, racist.”
Elimine stopped in her tracks. She looked down, a pondering and shamed look on her face.
Ah, the race card, Etiyr thought to itself. Reactions to that are HILARIOUS.
“Anyway,” Etiyr typed, “<span style="font-family: Courier New">Mr. Convolutiondick of the mindsluts. Maybe you haven’t read my strongly worded letter, so I’ll just give you the short version.”</span>
Old Greg’s hand had been tapping impatiently on his thigh, and continued to do so as the typewriter continued to write.
“I fucking hate you for being a jerk, you’re a massive whore, everything you control is stupid (besides Gabe (WHO YOU STOLE)), purple’s a stupid colour, and I’ve basically sworn that I’m going to kill you. Capiche?”
Old Greg seemed confused, or at least a little bored. So, he was at least a little surprised when his alien hand literally pulled him toward the typewriter, forcing him to lift it up, shoving it into his other hand, and began to type.
“FFUUCCKK YYOOUU”
“Um-,” Elimine began, a little put off by the nature of the question. “Well-”
The typewriter began clacking furiously before anything else could be said, shutting Eli up and drawing an amused look from Old Greg.
“FUCK NO,” Etiyr typed. <span style="font-family: Courier New">“I DON’T LIKE PEOPLE TYPING ON ME ANYWAY, AND THERE’S NO WAY I’M LETTING THAT FUCKING CONVIE’S FINGERS ANYWHERE NEAR ME!”
Etiyr settled into an enraged silence, while the rest of the group stared confusedly as they read the typewriter’s outburst. Eli fidgeted uncomfortably, something she had been doing lately, and AMP’s pieces whirled peacfully as Old Greg turned to her, a puzzled look on his face.</span>
“Um. What does he mean by Convie…?”
Etiyr began clacking again, interrupting any conversation that could have happened.
“You can speak directly to me, you fuckwad. I’m not fucking deaf or blind or whatever it is you think I am,” Etiyr began. <span style="font-family: Courier New">“And by ‘convie,’ you know how you’re wearing that stupid, ugly, purple and yellow jacket?”</span>
Old Greg nodded. His alien hand flipped the bird.
“Well, that means you’re probably being manipulated by our good friend, Mr. Convolution, also known as Badge-Face and The Mind-Whore of the Ages. I’m afraid to say that you’re now being controlled by one of the stupidest things ever.”
“I…I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Old Greg said, his normal hand scratching his head.
The other hand, meanwhile, had continued pointing the obscene gesture at Etiyr, but had begun thrusting it violently upward. It was at this point Old Greg had finally noticed its inappropriate behavior (although he was a little miffed about this typewriter guy insulting his jacket, just not enough to be flipping him off), and tried to calm it down with the hand that wasn’t batshit insane.
“Sorry, um,” Old Greg stammered to no one in particular. “I have alien hand syndrome. It does this kind of stuff. Nothing having to do with my subconscious, though.”
Eli was about to answer with a “No problem,” when Etiyr cut her off again.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you don’t have anything to do with your really fucking stupid hand’s actions. Although I have an idea who is flapping your hand all around like an idiot.”
“Um, who?” Greg said, as his hand repeatedly slammed its palm into his forehead, despite his efforts to stop it.
“Why, The Mind Whore of the Ages itself, Old Greg! Isn’t that right, Mr. Convolution? Wave hello if you can read this, dickface.”
The hand made several exasperated gestures, balling up angrily before finally waving at the typewriter.
Elimine turned to Etiyr, one of her eyebrows raised. “Etiyr, what-”
“-shut up, bitch.”
A shocked look appeared on the sidekick’s face. Pointing her finger at the typewriter, she retorted.
“Now that is NOT something you call-”
“Look, it was pretty obvious you haven’t been really comfortable with me and AMP after you got beat up by The Cockiest Cyborg in the World over there. Now, I can understand not being ok with me, but little ol’ AMP? You’re letting Quantos’s words get to you, so until you’ve sorted yourself out, I don’t want to have anything to do with you, racist.”
Elimine stopped in her tracks. She looked down, a pondering and shamed look on her face.
Ah, the race card, Etiyr thought to itself. Reactions to that are HILARIOUS.
“Anyway,” Etiyr typed, “<span style="font-family: Courier New">Mr. Convolutiondick of the mindsluts. Maybe you haven’t read my strongly worded letter, so I’ll just give you the short version.”</span>
Old Greg’s hand had been tapping impatiently on his thigh, and continued to do so as the typewriter continued to write.
“I fucking hate you for being a jerk, you’re a massive whore, everything you control is stupid (besides Gabe (WHO YOU STOLE)), purple’s a stupid colour, and I’ve basically sworn that I’m going to kill you. Capiche?”
Old Greg seemed confused, or at least a little bored. So, he was at least a little surprised when his alien hand literally pulled him toward the typewriter, forcing him to lift it up, shoving it into his other hand, and began to type.
“FFUUCCKK YYOOUU”