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Started By
Message
The monuments are at it again. 2 robberies in FQ last night. One on Burbon.
Posted on 4/22/17 at 12:00 pm
Posted on 4/22/17 at 12:00 pm
5
Posted on 4/22/17 at 12:02 pm to Jimmy2shoes
Statues
It was a muggy August day in New Orleans, overly hot for the season, but not uncommon to the locals. The air hung heavy and damp as Skronquavious finished mugging his third tourist of the day. A fine haul of 43 dollars, an iPhone and some jewelry had been well worth beating the middle aged New York native about the face with his pistol. He left her whimpering in the alley as he grabbed the front of his sagging pants and walked away. He overheard the sounds of the local news through an open window. Apparently the city council had voted to remove the Confederate statues in the city, to a raucous applause from the assembled natives. Skronquavious mused on how the city was finally doing something to combat the terrible problems of New Orleans, and rounded the corner with a golden smile flashing across his lips.
He stood in the looming shadow. The sun no longer reflected across his grill. He raised his gaze slowly across the grey-green boots. The trunks of metal legs. The oxidized overcoat.
His brown eyes beheld a bronze beard a foot above his head. Metal eyes met his gaze, empty and unfeeling, silently judging him. His own grew wide with confusion and fear, followed by anger. His gun came up parallel to the sidewalk and his mouth formed into a sneer as he grabbed his crotch with one hand and fired his pistol into the obstacle in his path, each report accompanied by curse from his lips.
The bullets tore through the figure, punching neat holes through the first layer of metal skin and rattling around as they struck the other side, their velocity not enough to carry them through.
The mouth never moved. The eyes never blinked. Skronquavious's sneer turned to a trembling of lips as the golem swung its sword in a terrible arc. The blade made thick, wet sound as it sliced through his neck in a font of blood. His dreadlocks fanned out in all directions as his head rolled into the gutter, like dice in a back alley game.
The General stood sentinel straight, the red gore dripping fromI his saber. Seems he had his work cut out for him. But after all, it was they that had wanted him to come down...
He stooped down, metal joints creaky from a century of stillness, to wipe his blade upon the crumpled form of the former thug. And then, he began to walk. He had his work cut out for him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The crowd protesting around the confederate monument was a hodgepodge of the most virulent strains of Social Justice Warrior. Women, or rather piles of fat and flesh with short, spiked, dyed hair screamed and cackled, their jiggling arms clutching signs denouncing nebulous "racism" and "patriarchy".
Hipsters with skinny jeans and ironic t-shirts also made up clumps, apathetically vaping, their dreads smelling of patchouli and neglect. Some of the darker denizens of the city endlessly chanted tired and uninspired slogans. A motley crew for certain, annoying passersby with accusations of privilege and racism.
Yet the din began to cease as, one by one, they turned to hear the source of a peculiar, unfamiliar sound coming from down the street.
CLANK
A morbidly obese woman with a green pixie cut craned her flabby neck...
CLANK
A woman in a headscarf lowered her black power fist and stopped yelling at a father and his child and turned around...
CLANK
A skinny white male reached his tattooed hand up to remove his false glasses, sure that his eyes were deceiving him...
CLANK
CLANK
CLANK
The noise stopped, and they stood, spellbound, as the figure that should not be towered over them. There was only silence from the crowd now. No chants, no shouts, just the sound of sirens in the distance and the constant hum of the interstate. The figure stared down at the ones who wished to bring him down from his lofty perch of ages. He frowned, perplexed at this curious assemblage of humanity. And then the silence broke, with a trigglypuff hurling her big gulp at him and screaming "frick YOU SHITLORD!"
The styrofoam cup exploded against his metal chest, sending streams of orange soda splashing to the ground.
He cricked his neck twice, back and forth, as the hambeast continued to scream at him. Then, in one swift motion, he plunged his sword into her gaping maw mid-shriek and silenced the horrid noise. His blade stuck out the back of her fat head, bits of blood and brain clinging to it. The crowd stared, slack jawed, paralyzed by the unreal scene that had played out before them. And then the grim, grisly work began.
It was a muggy August day in New Orleans, overly hot for the season, but not uncommon to the locals. The air hung heavy and damp as Skronquavious finished mugging his third tourist of the day. A fine haul of 43 dollars, an iPhone and some jewelry had been well worth beating the middle aged New York native about the face with his pistol. He left her whimpering in the alley as he grabbed the front of his sagging pants and walked away. He overheard the sounds of the local news through an open window. Apparently the city council had voted to remove the Confederate statues in the city, to a raucous applause from the assembled natives. Skronquavious mused on how the city was finally doing something to combat the terrible problems of New Orleans, and rounded the corner with a golden smile flashing across his lips.
He stood in the looming shadow. The sun no longer reflected across his grill. He raised his gaze slowly across the grey-green boots. The trunks of metal legs. The oxidized overcoat.
His brown eyes beheld a bronze beard a foot above his head. Metal eyes met his gaze, empty and unfeeling, silently judging him. His own grew wide with confusion and fear, followed by anger. His gun came up parallel to the sidewalk and his mouth formed into a sneer as he grabbed his crotch with one hand and fired his pistol into the obstacle in his path, each report accompanied by curse from his lips.
The bullets tore through the figure, punching neat holes through the first layer of metal skin and rattling around as they struck the other side, their velocity not enough to carry them through.
The mouth never moved. The eyes never blinked. Skronquavious's sneer turned to a trembling of lips as the golem swung its sword in a terrible arc. The blade made thick, wet sound as it sliced through his neck in a font of blood. His dreadlocks fanned out in all directions as his head rolled into the gutter, like dice in a back alley game.
The General stood sentinel straight, the red gore dripping fromI his saber. Seems he had his work cut out for him. But after all, it was they that had wanted him to come down...
He stooped down, metal joints creaky from a century of stillness, to wipe his blade upon the crumpled form of the former thug. And then, he began to walk. He had his work cut out for him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The crowd protesting around the confederate monument was a hodgepodge of the most virulent strains of Social Justice Warrior. Women, or rather piles of fat and flesh with short, spiked, dyed hair screamed and cackled, their jiggling arms clutching signs denouncing nebulous "racism" and "patriarchy".
Hipsters with skinny jeans and ironic t-shirts also made up clumps, apathetically vaping, their dreads smelling of patchouli and neglect. Some of the darker denizens of the city endlessly chanted tired and uninspired slogans. A motley crew for certain, annoying passersby with accusations of privilege and racism.
Yet the din began to cease as, one by one, they turned to hear the source of a peculiar, unfamiliar sound coming from down the street.
CLANK
A morbidly obese woman with a green pixie cut craned her flabby neck...
CLANK
A woman in a headscarf lowered her black power fist and stopped yelling at a father and his child and turned around...
CLANK
A skinny white male reached his tattooed hand up to remove his false glasses, sure that his eyes were deceiving him...
CLANK
CLANK
CLANK
The noise stopped, and they stood, spellbound, as the figure that should not be towered over them. There was only silence from the crowd now. No chants, no shouts, just the sound of sirens in the distance and the constant hum of the interstate. The figure stared down at the ones who wished to bring him down from his lofty perch of ages. He frowned, perplexed at this curious assemblage of humanity. And then the silence broke, with a trigglypuff hurling her big gulp at him and screaming "frick YOU SHITLORD!"
The styrofoam cup exploded against his metal chest, sending streams of orange soda splashing to the ground.
He cricked his neck twice, back and forth, as the hambeast continued to scream at him. Then, in one swift motion, he plunged his sword into her gaping maw mid-shriek and silenced the horrid noise. His blade stuck out the back of her fat head, bits of blood and brain clinging to it. The crowd stared, slack jawed, paralyzed by the unreal scene that had played out before them. And then the grim, grisly work began.
Posted on 4/22/17 at 12:02 pm to fr33manator
Statues part 2:
The streets around the square ran red with streams of blood, like piss after Mardi Gras. In fact, piss was amongst the foul liquids that flowed that day. Severed limbs and multicolored heads lay around the statue. The General had been brutally efficient. The ones who had been so loud turned into whimpering messed under his long shadow, begging for mercy, pleading with a thing that had no pity.
Some tasted the swift, sweet death of his saber. Others weren't so lucky. The giant hand of the General closed around the helmet shaped purple-hair of one particularly loud woman. "Take it back!" She screamed, "I DON'T WANT THIS ANYMORE!" The General's grip tightened. Her eyes bugged out, then she began to bleed from her sockets, her ears and nose. Finally the top of her skull imploded from the mighty metal grip. She stopped screaming.
A cry arose from behind the General.
FASCIST SCUM!
He slowly turned, the viscera still dripping from the purple helmet of hair in his palm, to face the new addition.
Three black clad men with face masks stood defiantly, holding glass bottles filled with liquid, rags hanging from their tops. One held a lighter and all three lit their wicks, flames blossoming like spring flowers. In unison the hurled their Molotov cocktails at the metal menace and laughed as he erupted in a massive gout of flame, so hot they were forced to withdraw several yards.
The General was ablaze, his massive arms waved and slapped at the flames on his chest, but this only served to spread them to his hands. The masked group's cries of jubilance grew silent, however, when the General stopped his attempts to smother the fire, shrugged his shoulders, and advanced upon them, smoke and flames billowing off his surface.
They attempted to backpedal again but tripped backwards over a body, falling on their rumps as the sound of boots clanged closer on the concrete. They tried to scrabble back on their hands but they were too slow. A metal boot came down with such force on the chest of the first one it caved it in. He vomited a stream of blood and then lay still.
The other too just sat there in shocked silence as the burning figure reached down. His hands had grown red hot from the flames and as he palmed both of their faces their masks caught fire. Their hidden faces became infernos as their hair caught. Their skin began to sizzle and pop. The noises they made as they were lifted from the ground and struggled in abject agony were horrible.
Rising crescendos of unimaginable pain as their flesh was cooked by the brazen hands. Finally their squirming ceased and their bodies went limp, screaming no more. The General slammed their heads together and the baked brains spilled out like half boiled eggs. If he could smell the foul stench of burning excrement would have assailed his nostrils. He tossed them aside like unwanted toys and looked around to surveil what he had wrought.
Bodies burned and bled on the pavement. Sirens wailed from across town. No survivors were left to protest his presence now.
News crews tracked the carnage from nearby rooftops, and a chopper circled high in the air. A hand went up to stroke a metal beard, leaving a residue of soot and brains behind.
Then he began to walk.
~~~~~~~~~
The Mayor watched the news coverage in stunned silence as The General rampaged through town unimpeded. He'd given a press conference earlier, doing everything he knew he should.
He blamed the police for failing to stop it. He blamed the Republicans for not voting to do what he wanted. He blamed White people in general for racism. He'd done all he could. He knew his decision to tear down the historical statues had been the most important issue the city had ever faced, and this was proof.
He called to his driver to take him home. He hummed the first bars of "The Battle of New Orleans" to himself with a smug satisfaction on the bumpy trip until the car came to a lurching halt. Apparently the officers had barricaded the road for some sort of "safety issue." He cursed them under his breath as his driver made a detour.
Dodging the larger of the potholes, The Mayor was thrown left and right as his driver tried to navigate the roads without crashing. Again the Mayor thought of what issues the city faced and decided what needed to be done next was to change all the racist names of the streets. The names were obviously causing the roads to deteriorate.
Suddenly the car came to a screeching halt. A strange sound rang increasingly louder in the Mayor's ears. A rapid Ka-Klunk Ka-Klunk Ka-Klunk Ka-Klunk, getting closer and closer. Then a shattering of glass and a ripping of metal as the top of the car was ripped open. A blade began to saw around the Mayor's head, as if someone was trying to open a tin can with no can opener.
Suddenly metal hands appeared to rip back the canopy as the mayor stared up at what had befallen him. Seated atop a bronze horse was General Jackson with a glare in his eyes that made the Mayor's bowels loosen. His mouth opened, and a banshee wail erupted from his lips.
I SAVED THIS CITYYYYYYYY!
The metallic voice hung in the humid air, echoing off the ancient boulevard. A dark spot grew on the front of mayor's pants.
AND THIS IS HOW YOU HONOR MEEEEE?
YOU DISGRACE THIS PLACCCCCCCE!
General Jackson reached down and picked the mayor up by his collar. The dark spot now dripped and ran down his legs. He began to stammer.
"B-b-b-b-but you're a raci-"
He never finished the statement. A bronze glove backhanded his face, sending teeth skittering into the street. General Jackson's horse began to whinny, sounding like a hurricane wind. The mayor burbled and bled profusely from his swollen face. His left eye dangled from his socket and his lips were mangled from when they smashed his teeth.
He tried to speak again but was immediately stopped by another hammer-blow, this one shattering his remaining teeth and leaving his jaw hanging lopsided from his head. General Jackson began to pummel his fist into what remained of the Mayor's face, his body shuddering with every blow. Finally he tossed the mayor's body to the street where it landed in a gargantuan pothole, limbs askew at odd angles. His face was a mangled ruin of blood and bones.
General Jackson rode his horse over the corpse, the metal hooves crushing the mayor's tiny genitals in the process. As he rode away, a tinny rendition of "The Battle of New Orleans" whistled down the boulevard, and General Jackson laughed.
The streets around the square ran red with streams of blood, like piss after Mardi Gras. In fact, piss was amongst the foul liquids that flowed that day. Severed limbs and multicolored heads lay around the statue. The General had been brutally efficient. The ones who had been so loud turned into whimpering messed under his long shadow, begging for mercy, pleading with a thing that had no pity.
Some tasted the swift, sweet death of his saber. Others weren't so lucky. The giant hand of the General closed around the helmet shaped purple-hair of one particularly loud woman. "Take it back!" She screamed, "I DON'T WANT THIS ANYMORE!" The General's grip tightened. Her eyes bugged out, then she began to bleed from her sockets, her ears and nose. Finally the top of her skull imploded from the mighty metal grip. She stopped screaming.
A cry arose from behind the General.
FASCIST SCUM!
He slowly turned, the viscera still dripping from the purple helmet of hair in his palm, to face the new addition.
Three black clad men with face masks stood defiantly, holding glass bottles filled with liquid, rags hanging from their tops. One held a lighter and all three lit their wicks, flames blossoming like spring flowers. In unison the hurled their Molotov cocktails at the metal menace and laughed as he erupted in a massive gout of flame, so hot they were forced to withdraw several yards.
The General was ablaze, his massive arms waved and slapped at the flames on his chest, but this only served to spread them to his hands. The masked group's cries of jubilance grew silent, however, when the General stopped his attempts to smother the fire, shrugged his shoulders, and advanced upon them, smoke and flames billowing off his surface.
They attempted to backpedal again but tripped backwards over a body, falling on their rumps as the sound of boots clanged closer on the concrete. They tried to scrabble back on their hands but they were too slow. A metal boot came down with such force on the chest of the first one it caved it in. He vomited a stream of blood and then lay still.
The other too just sat there in shocked silence as the burning figure reached down. His hands had grown red hot from the flames and as he palmed both of their faces their masks caught fire. Their hidden faces became infernos as their hair caught. Their skin began to sizzle and pop. The noises they made as they were lifted from the ground and struggled in abject agony were horrible.
Rising crescendos of unimaginable pain as their flesh was cooked by the brazen hands. Finally their squirming ceased and their bodies went limp, screaming no more. The General slammed their heads together and the baked brains spilled out like half boiled eggs. If he could smell the foul stench of burning excrement would have assailed his nostrils. He tossed them aside like unwanted toys and looked around to surveil what he had wrought.
Bodies burned and bled on the pavement. Sirens wailed from across town. No survivors were left to protest his presence now.
News crews tracked the carnage from nearby rooftops, and a chopper circled high in the air. A hand went up to stroke a metal beard, leaving a residue of soot and brains behind.
Then he began to walk.
~~~~~~~~~
The Mayor watched the news coverage in stunned silence as The General rampaged through town unimpeded. He'd given a press conference earlier, doing everything he knew he should.
He blamed the police for failing to stop it. He blamed the Republicans for not voting to do what he wanted. He blamed White people in general for racism. He'd done all he could. He knew his decision to tear down the historical statues had been the most important issue the city had ever faced, and this was proof.
He called to his driver to take him home. He hummed the first bars of "The Battle of New Orleans" to himself with a smug satisfaction on the bumpy trip until the car came to a lurching halt. Apparently the officers had barricaded the road for some sort of "safety issue." He cursed them under his breath as his driver made a detour.
Dodging the larger of the potholes, The Mayor was thrown left and right as his driver tried to navigate the roads without crashing. Again the Mayor thought of what issues the city faced and decided what needed to be done next was to change all the racist names of the streets. The names were obviously causing the roads to deteriorate.
Suddenly the car came to a screeching halt. A strange sound rang increasingly louder in the Mayor's ears. A rapid Ka-Klunk Ka-Klunk Ka-Klunk Ka-Klunk, getting closer and closer. Then a shattering of glass and a ripping of metal as the top of the car was ripped open. A blade began to saw around the Mayor's head, as if someone was trying to open a tin can with no can opener.
Suddenly metal hands appeared to rip back the canopy as the mayor stared up at what had befallen him. Seated atop a bronze horse was General Jackson with a glare in his eyes that made the Mayor's bowels loosen. His mouth opened, and a banshee wail erupted from his lips.
I SAVED THIS CITYYYYYYYY!
The metallic voice hung in the humid air, echoing off the ancient boulevard. A dark spot grew on the front of mayor's pants.
AND THIS IS HOW YOU HONOR MEEEEE?
YOU DISGRACE THIS PLACCCCCCCE!
General Jackson reached down and picked the mayor up by his collar. The dark spot now dripped and ran down his legs. He began to stammer.
"B-b-b-b-but you're a raci-"
He never finished the statement. A bronze glove backhanded his face, sending teeth skittering into the street. General Jackson's horse began to whinny, sounding like a hurricane wind. The mayor burbled and bled profusely from his swollen face. His left eye dangled from his socket and his lips were mangled from when they smashed his teeth.
He tried to speak again but was immediately stopped by another hammer-blow, this one shattering his remaining teeth and leaving his jaw hanging lopsided from his head. General Jackson began to pummel his fist into what remained of the Mayor's face, his body shuddering with every blow. Finally he tossed the mayor's body to the street where it landed in a gargantuan pothole, limbs askew at odd angles. His face was a mangled ruin of blood and bones.
General Jackson rode his horse over the corpse, the metal hooves crushing the mayor's tiny genitals in the process. As he rode away, a tinny rendition of "The Battle of New Orleans" whistled down the boulevard, and General Jackson laughed.
This post was edited on 4/22/17 at 12:03 pm
Posted on 4/22/17 at 12:20 pm to Jimmy2shoes
quote:
The monuments
I like it.
Posted on 4/22/17 at 12:36 pm to fr33manator
Greatness, sir.
Posted on 4/22/17 at 12:55 pm to Jimmy2shoes
quote:this shite is played out
The monuments are at it again
Posted on 4/22/17 at 12:57 pm to SuperSaint
The joke, sure.
But not the point that wasting money to tear down inanimate objects that most people are ignorant about anyway does absolutely nothing to improve the city.
This should be lampooned daily. Hold their feet to the fire.
But not the point that wasting money to tear down inanimate objects that most people are ignorant about anyway does absolutely nothing to improve the city.
This should be lampooned daily. Hold their feet to the fire.
Posted on 4/22/17 at 1:26 pm to Jimmy2shoes
quote:
One on Burbon.
I hope they catch the frickers that stole that first "o".
Posted on 4/22/17 at 1:36 pm to Jimmy2shoes
Posted on 4/22/17 at 1:43 pm to fr33manator
Don't ever forget that this whole thing was started by a white liberal Democratic mayor. He was quoted as saying he was driving round Lee Circle one day & noticing his son sitting next to him, asked himself "what would I say if he asked me why the city was honoring a slave owner?" No city council, no State legislators, no Federal official. His Honor Mitch Landrieu started all this on his own.
Posted on 4/22/17 at 1:44 pm to Keltic Tiger
And that's why he got special treatment
Posted on 4/22/17 at 1:46 pm to Keltic Tiger
quote:
"what would I say if he asked me why the city was honoring a slave owner?"
If he wasn't retarded, Mitch could simply answer that trying to judge historical figures based on current morals is a futile exercise.
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