Warning: This post contains very strong language and graphic imagery. Yes, we know it is very fucking long. 
From the deep recesses of the minds of Caine, Propensity, Mad_Larkin, Dietrootbear, The_Ghost, and Twighead
- THE TALE OF CAINE -
Caine's tale begins Millenia ago... A young boy named Caine began his journey along the ridge north of his hometown.
Of course, adventure was in the air as he set out. That said - adventure was not all that was in the air, the young lad puffed dreamily on his opium, hash, and cannabis blend - which he dubbed - Vindictum - as he set along his way. The weather was dreary, the sky a forlorn grey.
High as fuck, Caine made his way down a rocky path when suddenly a bright flash caught his eye several hundred yards further along the ridge.FIRE MAGES! How could they have already caught onto his path so soon? The young Caine found an outcrop of rock to hide under while he collected his thoughts. Suddenly the deafening sound of trees falling rattled Caine's mind. A bearded giant stepped out from behind a small hill, bong in hand, accompanied by a large wooden club topped with a massive boulder.
"Don't fear those rabble rousin' mages my good son, have a puff of this fine tincture and let your worries melt away" the giant preached.
"Don't mind if I do!" said Caine, taking a large milk of the gnarled giant's bong.
And with a simple swing of the giant's club, the ragtag band of fire mages was cast off the adjacent cliff whereupon their corpses were devoured by hungry wolves.
"Oh Hell no!" said a mad black woman miles away, completely unrelated to this story.
Caine made his way down the rocky path, mindful of his step lest the fate of the fire mages befall him... At the path's end was a small village. Caine had never left his hometown before, and new sights were abound as he explored the region. Still, a mild pall was cast over his countenance as he considered the widespread nature of the fire mage infestation. Though he sought adventure, would he ever find peace from the roving bands of infernal bandits?
We'll let Caine's adventure speak for itself. He stumbled into the tavern, rattled from his experience on the ridge above. "Fire mages! Giants! I saw--" He was cut off by an apparently jaded man. "I go by the name of propensitous," Said the man; so voraciously sporting his crimson, wild, unruly, beard.
"Why hello there, right well nice to meet you good sir!" Peeped Caine.
Propensitous took a long drink from his flagon of ale. "Giants, eh lad? There hasn't been giants seen in these parts for nary a hundred years. Why would they come back now? If your face wasn't so pale and fearful I'd think you were lying. And you know what I do to liars?" The blood on his axe made a powerful statement.
As the great bearded mans words settled in the air a cloaked man, in glorious flowing robes which seemed to shimmer, changing from black, to green, to blue and back again... stepped up behind propensitous, "If my instincts haven't gone bad over these long years I'm damn positive those mages had something to do with it too, the mages guild has had their twisted noses in the affairs of the mysterious and unnatural for far too long." The man punctuated his sentance with a sharp click of his staff against the stiff wooden floor.
Behind the counter of the tavern, a tall, homely looking gent crouched, wiping glasses down and cleaning dishes. He observed the conversation between these men, and stood up to join in.
"Cloaked man, what be yerr name? I haven't seen yuh around deerz purts." He spat out in an old and worn voice, through less teeth than most young men sport in a smile.
"My name, elder one, is of no importance in these trying ti-" The cloaked mans eloquent speech was sharply cut off by the booming voice of the man in the front door. "If ANY of you scoundrels value your meaningless lives, than tell me, tell me right NOW, where this lad jabbering his lips off about mages and giants is!" Instinctively, Caine shot to his feet - as to sprint away from the scene, but the mans reactions were quick... unaturally so. A quick gesture of his hand flung Caine several feet against a wall, in his fading perception he noted the men he was sitting with rise equally as quick... shuddering noise... and than darkness.
Cold. That was the first thing Caine recalled upon coming to. Slowly the dim fog entombing his vision was lifted. Immediately, Caine shouted in pain. His head throbbed, and his feet were numb. Looking around, Caine noticed that his surroundings had drastically changed from the musty tavern interior. He was high, in multiple senses of the word, on a mountain range. Snow capped peaks surrounded the path. Caine felt the familiar rythm of a horse's gallop. Looking up, he noticed that he was on the back of Propensitious' steed, the cloaked man following closely behind. "Where are we?" Said Caine to Propensitous. "We're in the mountains of Gomorria. The village was burnt to the ground by a large squadron of powerful fire mages. They said they were looking for you, boy. We did what we could to save yer life."
"And you...who are you??" Caine asked the cloaked man.
The lean man sighed heavily, "If you insist..." He grumbled.
"Some call me Tyraldithon, Elder Light Mage of the Eastern Warren of Khut, others still, Darknethon, Master Assassin of the Tl'Imrass, there are those who may know me as Yurl... Guiding shaman of the Twilight Star Tribe... Still others who would-" "Enough!" Snapped Propensitous, fingering his long axe with a sly grin sliding across his face.
"Okay, so, what should I call you, Tyraldithon?" asked Caine, in a confused tone.
"Just call me Twig. That's what my friends do." Twig said in a frustrated voice.
"Fair enough, what about this foul reeking steed you ride upon, lord Twig?" asked Caine.
"I'm not a bloody lord, it's just Twig. And this steed happens to be my companion, even if he reeks. His name is Root. Rootbar at birth. He is a horse, of great intelligence. At times he may even speak your language. But only in a manner so brash, and so harsh, that it may offend you."
Caine looked, befuddled. A talking horse? An ancient magician? This was all highly confusing.
"What the fuck you fucking faggots my hooves hurt" The horse, Root, suddenly choked forth, as if chewing on each word before spitting it out.
"Oh my, he is a harsh being." said Caine.
"Aye, harsh he may be, but we have a solution for that," said Twig the mage. The party suddenly stopped under a gnarled and ancient pine, a lone fortress against the raging blizzard and biting cold. Twig, with a few words in some long forgotten language, produced a curious pipe and bag of pipeweed. "This'll help your headache, boy! And you, blasted horse, this should silence your annoying complaints until we find a warmer place to sleep for the night." Twig puffed on his pipe, passing it clockwise to Propensitous, who proceeded to inhale the entire pack, his beard being singed by the burning pipeweed. "By Zorath! I am absolutely blitzed!" Said Propensitous.
"Tis Chaos Kush, from the crystal fields of Azzath, winner of the Dwarven Hempfests "Chron of the Year" award 211 aeons in the running my friend!" Exclaimed Twig.
"Hooo...ly... sheeeeeit" Caine gurgled, bits of drool spattered his fine linen dressings. The magnificent beast, Root, was quickly seduced by the rolling vapours entering through his ears, nose, and even eyes.
Suddenly, arrows rained from the sky. The pine offered ample protection, yet an arrow still managed to pierce Root's right flank. "SON OF A BITCH!! YOU MOTHERFUCKERS" Screamed Root. Propensitious was the first to act, unsheathing his massive axe, he looked to the north. Some 30 feet above them stood a goblin archer, crossbow in hand. Propensitous quickly scaled the rocky outcropping, his size not at all indicative of his agility. He brought his axe down clean, shearing the goblin in half from the middle of his head to the center of his chest. Green blood stained the pristine snow.
Twig bent over the corpse to investigate, holding up a crecent badge marked with the words "Niggerfaggot" for all to see. "Who are these 'Niggerfaggots'!?" Caine barked.
"They are men from the far south, young Caine, homosexual in nature and browned in skin, they thrive in a slave society.. in which there is a single king, who owns slaves, who own slaves and so on..." explained Twig. "They are grave enemies of all who are neither niggers, nor faggots"
"These niggerfaggots...fire mages... why do all these people want me dead?" Caine sobbed.
"Answers will come my lad, but first we must seek allies to help us along our way" gnarled Twig. "There is a city of robotic humanoids whose allegience lies in your fathers name, we must rouse them... they will protected you with their LIVES! THEIR FUCKING LIVES!!!!"
"Alright, alright I got it man, lets just roll a joint and a get goin' huh man?" Caine pleaded.
"Agreed" Propensitous chimed, already lighting a fatty.
"Prop, you smoke shitty weed." coughed out Root, in an attempt at some form of communication, despite the legitimacy of his claims or not.
"Fuck you, HORSE!" Growled Propensitous, putting out the joint in the creatures ear.
"ARGHHH. Fucker! Fuck you and the horse your mother rode in on, OH WAIT, that was me, asshole." growled Root.
"Someone get this rambunctious beast another bong hit" Twig proclaimed, a smile twitching across his lips as he unfurled his pack revealing several ounces of Chaos Kush.
"Smoke weed errday" announced Dr Dre and Snoop Dogg from a wormhole to the future which opened up momentarily and then closed forever.
"That's what I'm fucking talking about!" yelled Root.
Twig layed in thought, facing the stars, wondering what he would do to save this young boy in peril, and being high as fuck. Mostly just being high as fuck.
Suddenly, an idea came to him, much like a large dose of Ketamine, or a load of semen in a female's face.
"Caine! Let me see the back of your neck!" yelled Twig.
"Whoa bro, I don't roll like that bro" Caine said with fright.
"No, you fucking faggot, there should be something written there!"
Surely enough, inscribed on the skin of the back of Caine's neck was the trollface.
"The Great Jester of Chance! I knew that bastard was involved in this." Twig snapped, recoiling in shock. Though correct in his assumption, Twig was not pleased to see his prediction coming true.
At that moment Caine let out a yelp of pain and fell to the ground. Visions flooded his mind. He saw the Great Jester of Chance doing the Almighty Trolldance on his brain. And uttering the ancient curse, "U mad bro?!"
Suddenly Propensitous reached into his saddlebags and produced a small golden hammer with an imprint of a hamster upon its hilt.... "HEIL!" "ER!" "BANHAMMAAAAAAARRRR!" Screamed Propensitous, as he heftily swung the blunt object directly into the temple of Caines head.
"Holy fuck man why did you do that?!" Twig exclaimed.
"It is the only way to banish the Great Jester, he heeds no other power in this world." "And besides, he'll be fine... shit's made of foam!" explained Propensitous.
The curse of the Trollface had been avoided temporarily but Caine still bore the mark of the Great Jester. "The curse could only be lifted by a professional. A professional in the art of Figgernaggotry. The ancient discipline which was created by the Grand Shamans of Tootbrink to combat the dark powers of the Niggerfaggots." said Twig, because he knew about such thangs.
"Figgernaggotry is a forgotten art, where would we find such a shaman who practices it?" Root spoke, in a calm voice for once, just to add confusion to the plot.
"At yo mommas house" said Terence Mckenna from behind a tree (Terence McKenna was a tree spirit which often spoke to travellers from behind trees. It was his thang.)
"Of course, my mother, the great Hoot, female lord of horses. She would know of such ancient arts, being the old fat bitch she is." Root mumbled.
"I met your mother loathesome beast and she were naught but a plodding whore" Propensitous clarified.
"Legend says that to disregard the advice of Terence McKenna is the most foolish thing that a traveller can do." said Root. "Those who disregard his advice have bad thangs happen to them."
"This is true" said Twig, and so they set out to find the plodding whore.
They travelled north for eight days until they came to a field which contained hundreds of wild horses.
"WHERE ART THOU O HOOT, MOTHER OF ALL HORSES?" yelled Twig in the most impressive and thundering voice he could muster.
"Mommy?" cried Root.
From the midst of the horses trotted a mangy brown mare with sparkling green eyes. She came to a halt in front of the party and said thus:
"Sup niggas?"
Before anyone could reply Hoot caught sight of the enormous watermelon Caine was currently engorging himself with.
"Awhh lawd... Is dat some watermelon!?" She shreiked, ripping the large melon from his grasp. Caine turned to face the rest of the party and for a second made a face that looked shockingly... disturbingly like that cursed trollface on the back of his neck.
"O Hoot, can you help us?" asked Twig solemly.
The mangy mare continued to suck on the watery rinds of the delicious pink fruit and didn't answer.
"Hoot!" cried Twig angrily.
"What choo want nigga?" asked Hoot.
"We required your aid in lifting a curse from this here young Caine." said Twig pointing towards Caine.
Root shifted awkwardly, conscious of the fact that his mother had not taken any notice of him yet. On reflection he realised that because Hoot was the biggest horse-whore in the world and the mother of all horses he didn't expect her to remember him. Inside he
'd.
"Whats in it for my brown ass?" asked Hoot. Licking watermelon juices off her cheeks with a foot long tongue.
"We will bring you many many watermelonz" said Caine, thinking fast.
"How many?" asked Hoot.
"Billions and billions" said Carl Segan from inside a nearby horse (Carl Segan was a concious bacterial infection which often offered its numerical opinions on nearby conversations). (citation needed)
And so she grinned. And grinned, she did. A wide, flapping, gargantuan, glistening monster of a grin that needed no explanation, Hoot would do whatever was possible in her formidable power to assist those who have been marked by the Great Jester. Years and aeons later it is said that one Ythan styled that which is known as the 'Awesome Face' after that moment.
Then without warning Hoot disappeared in a puff of DMT smoke and was replaced by a blue skinned, green haired being who wore a loincloth of wolf skin and held a long pipe in his left hand. He did a jig and bowed to the party before him.
"Mad Larkin?!" cried Twig, in surprise.
"T'is I" nodded Larkin. "Sup."
"What is the meaning of this shit?" asked Root incredulously. A feeling of dread filled him to see his mother replaced by such a weird looking being.
"I am your mother, Root." said Mad Larkin. "U mad?"
"How is this possible?" asked Caine.
"It's quite simple" said, Mad Larkin. "I am a shapeshifter. I like to run around the fields and do thangs as a horse. I find it gives me a sense of freedom that even flying high as an eagle does not provide."
"You're stalling." said Root.
"You're right" said the shapeshifter. "That was quicker than the others."
"Others? Wut other you niggerfaggot."
"I am no niggerfaggot" said Larkin. "Far from it. I was trained in the ancient arts of Figgernaggotry, by the greatest figgernaggot of them all, Grand Shaman of Tootbrink, Arnold Schwarzenegger the Younger"
"Aye, but you're limey!" said Propensitous, and all present knew it were true. Including the invisible, but equally present transdimentional hyperbeings that happened to be evesdropping onto the coversation cuz they were bored and huffed too much transdimentional hyperjenkem. It is a rare thing for mere mortals to get their attention.. shit was about to get real.
"Ye an' what ov it mate? Ye gonna make me come down the bloody abseil, catch a barney, get a banger and chase ye over to barrister? Look bloke, you're just being cack handed now and I'm not a cat for hire so what of it? Ye I'm limey mate." said Larkin in a grimy english snarl. "You bovvered, mate?"
And all present were not bovvered.
Then Propensitous came forward and said "Oh great and noble Mad Larkin, with penis so much larger than mine. Can thou helpest us?"
"What is the nature of thine ailment O tinypenis'd Prop?"
"Our companion here, Caine, is suffering the curse of the Great Jester of Change. He has been branded with the mark of the trollface. And the curse of "U mad bro?" The dreaded troll dance does but whirl about in his brain, and the glint in his eye turns from that of childish innocence to pure maleficent mischief" cried Propensitous, tears filling his eyes not only because he just took a huge bong rip, but because the gargantuan penii of larkin and caine were so very blinding that water promptly spouted forth from the ground in a magical geyser of Earth-semen which drenched the party (including Prop's eyes, which is why they filled with tears).
Night had begun to settle rapidly among the mountains and the first stars of the night had begun to appear, bright becons of fire amongst the cold black spaces of the heavens. A man known for his extremely shiny foil hat, known only as deadhearts, may have pointed out the shapes of the stars seemingly forming a heavenly opera; a ban hammer fighting a great masked face in the sky.
Unfortunately he was too spun out to realise that the heavenly opera was the formation of a transdimentional hyperportal that was about to open up in the heavens and unleash the full glory of... Wait. Something was wrong. Suddenly, the transdimentional hyperportal began fuming jenkane, and a loud cry was heard from within. Prisoner#1 and his gang of quantum hillbillies emerged from the portal with a yelp and a gallon of moonshine.
Instantly, Prisoner#1 took to sodomizing the poor horse Root, as is customary in the deep woods of Georgia.
Root, being no stranger to uninvited sodomy activated his cybernetic anti-rape implants, instantly burying a 12 inch spine down the length of Prisoner#1's phallus. Quickly he jerked back grunting, blood spraying wildly in every direction as 4 inch blades slid silently from Root's hooves. Pris's phallus being made of liquid metal, regained its shape instantly however, and gave out a striking laugh.
"You poor liberal faggots can't hurt my massive dick!" Shouted Pris. Root stepped back, stunned. Yet there was still hope for the party. The trollface on Caine's neck, the distilled essence of Mongo_Lloyd, began to glow, and as it brightened Pris began to shrink back. "NOooooooooooOooo, PUB TROLLS!" Having exited quantum hyperspace, Pris found himself unable to sodomize Caine with his banhammer. As Pris cowered, Larkin seeing the weaked Prisoner1 summoned the power of Figgernaggotry and channelled all his energy into a lightning bolt which surged forth and struck Pris in his delapidated liquid metal penor and atomised it. The blast threw Pris back into the hyperdimentional wormhole from whence he came. All that was left were the tell tale signs of a Pris-rape. The stains of mercury jism on the ground. And a deeply disturbed and forever haunted horse, one of the many victims of quantum rape. Many years hence, Root suffered post traumatic stress syndrome and commited suicide in a bath tub. (One of those bath tubs you see in fields for animals to drink out of.) But not before playing hella Halo 3 with his bros on x-box live.
Suddenly Twig noticed that the spot in which Pris previously stood was not empty... there was a small, crippled child. Inscribed in blood upon his face, if you could call it that because it lacked eyes and a nose, simply a mouth... was the words NEWLORD... Shadow of Pris.
Not yet aware of the prophecy which would bring him to his destiny, deep within the furthest reaches of hyperspace, and once and for all destroy the now dickless Pris, his father. Swiftly, before his gaping mouth could utter a single word, Twig spurred Root ahead and in a single sweeping motion the affronted horse sliced the child from shoulder to hip spilling his rotting entrails upon the red dust of the hills.
And Larkin said: "Caine, thy affliction is one most terrible and is beyond my skill to heal. We must take you to the elves of Penisfletch for proper spiritual healing."
Caine nodded solemly. Root wept silently, the pain in his savaged anus almost too much to bare. Propensitous revelled in the aftermath of a successful ejactulation (onto the corpse of the child). And Twig grunted for no reason in particular.
"But before we set out. I must insist you join me in the smoking of my herb. The magical strain of Mega-tyranosaurus Velociraptor Kush." said Larkin, producing a pouch from which issued the dankest of dank smells imaginable.
And so they sat, and they smoked, and they got hella high and eventually fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
In the morning they set out. As the travellers rode on, it was eventual that they came to a turn in the path. Flying down from the heavens before the weary bunch, a vanguard against the gloom, was Biff Tannen! "Halt! Before venturing into Diablo's lair, go to the Hellforge with Mephisto's soulstone. Place the stone on the hellforge, and use the hellforge hammer to destroy it."
Disregarding what Biff Tannen said, the party quickly rode through the pass and immediately found themselves in the presence of a far greater danger...
All that could be seen was the lip of a massive bottle of ranch dressing. The putrid odour filled the nostrils of the party, who were promptly overcome by a debilitating wave of nausea. "Ughhhh, it's disgusting! What explanation is there for this!?" Said Caine. Thunderous laughter shook the hills as a massive eye rose up to examine the puny group. "WHO GOES THERE," the voice demanded. So the prophecies were true. The eye could only belong to the all powerful god known only as Ythair in the cryptic tongues of years long past. Known by some as the Buttermilk Behemoth, or in the cold northern lands, He Who Stalks the Hidden Valley.
A cracked and gargantuan hand slowly and deliberately moved over the group. The lucky ones simply soiled themselves. The hand moved to pick up Biff Tannen, who screamed and struggled in vain as Ythair's towering finger eviscerated him. The corpse was dipped in ranch dressing and plugged.
Caine was next. Ythair swept him into the air, dropping him from seven miles high onto his massive penis, where he was instantly gutted. The remains were fed to Acidic_Sloth and Shroomism, ravenous moderators caged below Ythair's throne.
Then it came time for Twig's judgment. Ythair laughed as the pathetic subject screamed hopelessly. Twig was placed at the bottom of a pit, with only one other inhabitant. Deadhearts. Over the course of several days, Deadhearts tirelessly bombarded Twig with senseless political posts until he dessicated.
Next was Root, the faithful steed. His cybernetic implants now useless, Ythair raped his every pore with tendrils of disgusting coagulated ranch, meticulously coded during hot sweaty hours in his bedroom. The subsequent jism deluge flooded Roots poor, frequently raped innards and lungs and killed him.
Propensitous was to be next. Seeing the gruesome slaughter of his friends, he attempted to charge his laser-axe, only to be instantly struck down by a bullet from prisoner#1, who stood upon a hilltop. Hundreds of ravenous cocksuckers from Off Topic Discussion flocked to the corpse, whereupon an orgy was held in the name of great Ythair.
Finally, Mad Larkin would meet his demise. Ythair threw him to the ground. Cowering in fear, Larkin tried to stand, but Ythair instantly disrobed the poor creature and began to DSHSB with all his godly fury. Larkin stood no chance. The DS'd corpse was tossed into the Romper Room, where it serves as a spectacle for all subjects of the mighty Ythair to behold, amongst 30 threads titled "sunset_mission is a transcendental cocksucker"
When the smoke parted, all that were left witness were the transdimentional hyperbeing that have just now arrived due to the wormhole traffic. And so they gazed upon the scene before them and said "Nigga please." The Device was armed and all that was now wasnt.
~To Be Continued!~
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