Hey guys, this is the disclaimer. Uh, this is a story I wrote a long time ago in an attempt to create an over-the-top parody of action movie Mary Sues. Hopefully I didn't fail. So if you don't think ridiculous profanity and descriptions of over-the-top murders are cool, you'd probably want to not read this.

Story largely written by me, with some additional input from my friend Maia.

The Adventures of Epic Explodinator

A day in the life
Some people explode buildings for a living. Others explode dynamite. Some few explode beings – generally people, sometimes animals and maybe even plants.

I explode minds.

I have the awesomest job ever. Hell yeah.

I used to have a boring name. Something like John Radley or whatever, I don't fuckin' remember, it was boring and lame. But all that's in the past.

IN A WORLD where people live ordinary lives… I live in an action movie trailer.

IN A WORLD gone MAD, where the people needed heroes... DESPERATELY... they got me instead.

I would've called myself Motörhead, but I'm afraid that's reserved for Lemmy. As a wise old man once told me: who would win in a fight between Lemmy and God? Trick question, dumbass, Lemmy IS God. And I didn't want to disrespect Samuel L. Jackson and call myself "badass motherfucker", because I obviously don't deserve it. You don't fuck with Samuel Jackson. The hardest part of my job was the name. I cycled through a ton of brainstormed names. Darkbuster, Bloodgun, Ravenshadow, Voidmaker, Fuckinyourshitupman, Razorface, Knifedick, Bloodclaw, Doombringer, Minister of the Sinister, Corpsebreath, Boommaker, Snaketooth, The Big Cthulhu… and so on. Each of them stupider than the last or sounding like a bad metal band. I mean, really, would you go see a band called Knifedick? No, no you wouldn't, they'd be a crappy goregrind band, the kind of guys who have spent hours memorizing every last Carcass, Napalm Death and Cock and Ball Torture album ever and have thus rendered themselves critically unable to be original. Fuck that. I also toyed with the idea of naming myself "Dickrash" just for laughs, before I slapped myself reflexively because that was just terrible. That not only sounds like a bad extreme metal band, that sounds like the kind of name a guy would make up after spending a day listening to Anal Cunt. Plus, would hot chicks go for a guy named Dickrash?

Then, about the time I was seriously considering "Explodinator", I realized I don't really need one. I can just use my job title. I'm an action movie hero man. But that wouldn't be stupid enough, so I decided to go with "Epic Explodinator" instead. It had that extra "oomph!" to it, you know? Said extra "oomph!" of course being provided by me being too busy punching evil in the face for them to have any time to laugh.

Yeah, as you probably guessed, my life is fucking epically awesome. You bastards WISH you were me. Ha, ha, ha.

You're the sort of people who wake up in the morning all groggy and shit because the sun's shining in your goddamn window and you're cranky without your coffee and you work in a shit 24/7 job that barely pays you and your entire university education and degree has gone to waste and you want to murder yourself.

Me? I wake up in my own personal space station with the sunrise. It's so majestic and beautiful and awe-inspiring and all those gay adjectives that I've set the computer to play Also Sprach Zarathustra every morning. And I never get tired of it. Sometimes I mix it up by playing some Wagner, y'know, Göterdämmerung or Ride of the Valkyries and shit. I sleep in zero gravity completely naked, and it's incredibly rare to sleep without a beautiful love interest woman person that I've saved from certain danger. And when we wake up we have some quick sex while eating before I set off to work. Don't ask how that works, it's SCIENCE (my science, duh). Plus, the fantastic incredibly pleasurable sex TOTALLY makes up for my ageusia, which is what your doctor would call "lack of taste". It's from that time in Vietnam I accidentally got napalmed in the face – had to surgically replace my entire mouth and now I don't have no taste. Which is also great because I can now eat all sorts of totally disgusting shit that makes people vomit a little in their mouths, like haggis. We then embrace and kiss each other very romantically and tenderly and insert cheesy adjectives here according to your own pussy ass imagination as I set off for work and my inevitable temporary girlfriend gets in one of NASA's shuttles to go back home. For free. Me and NASA are homies, you see. I once saved them from evil mutant Martian space Soviets with eye lasers. Now I get to use their spaceships for free. Not like I need it, I've got a rocket. Do most people have a goddamn rocket? Fuckin' NO.

Me? Oh, nothing as impressive. I just enter my Oldsmobile Delta 88, open the shuttle bay doors and just chill and land back on Earth. I have the top down because I can totally breathe in motherfuckin' space even though I don't have no superpowers. I just warp reality like that. I think my name may have been Marty Stu in the past, I'm not sure. I lay back in my chair and drink some coffee and light up a cigarette. And I always. Always. ALWAYS play "Electricity" by Spiritualized at maximum volume on the way down. It just makes things even awesomer.

But, Mr. Epic Explodinator, I hear your dumb ass ask, how can you hear music in space?

Because I'm fucking far out. I have a goddamn powerfist. OBEY THE FIST. Do you have a powerfist? Is your name Blade Starkwolf? Can YOU WARP REALITY? Thought not.

I usually tend to land in the desert, just about the time "Electricity" finishes. It's probably a coincidence, but it's totally sweet. Then, I get out of the Oldsmobile, go around to the trunk and retrieve my motorcycle. You may think that this is a bit silly, what with me just crash-landing on Earth in a goddamn car and then abandoning it for a motorcycle. Well, I've learned my lesson. You see, this one time, a goddamn bank robber who was a complete amateur and probably only decided to do it after hearing The Clash's song "Bankrobber", he was running away from me. I was thinking of just doing the usual, you know, set him on fire with my mind and laugh as I watch him run around screaming like the little bitch he was and completely forgetting how to properly react.

But then Mr. Amateurcock here committed. The. Ultimate. Sin. He was trying to shoot at me while running and he hit. The car.


I captured and subdued Copsandrobbersguy here, rage seething through every pore in my body, adrenaline pumping through my veins even faster than it usually does, all my instincts, no, EVERY CELL IN MY BODY screaming bloody murder. Motherfucker committed the ultimate crime. Give him the ultimate punishment. I wanted to kill him painfully and slowly. I wanted him to suffer. I could've totally killed him with my mind. But serenity prevailed, and I realized… that was not enough. I could kill him painfully, but he'd be dead afterwards.

So instead I gave him the second worst thing ever. I locked him in a room with a moose. Last thing I heard the cuntlicker was committed to the Syd Barrett State Hospital for the Terminally Fucking Madly Insane Total Whackos. It's the sort of hospital for people who've been mad for fucking years, absolutely years, over the edge for yonks, people who've always been mad, who know they've been mad like the most of us, because it's very hard to explain why you're mad, even if you're not mad.

Me? I found my madness a long time ago and I stared at it until it shat itself and vanished in a puff of logic. And that's why I came up with the brilliant plan to crash on Earth in a car and then ride a bike to work. Yeah. I'm so sane I make normal people look insane, hahahaha.

Plus, you can't argue with the simple beauty of riding a big, red, shiny, loud, purely awesome Harley Davidson motorcycle that's been specially customized with parts from a Honda Valkyrie Rune and a dragon, its own specially built by IBM operating system, has buzzsaws for wheels and is powered by a jet turbine from a goddamn 747 through an abandoned highway that stretches into the horizon like it's leading to the end of the world, desert wasteland filled with nothing but sand for miles and miles and sometimes maybe some small vegetation or corpses of people who died of thirst or whatever surrounding you every step of the way, nobody else around, your hair floating in the wind like someone brought a wind machine to film that one scene from your new movie where you need your hair floating in the wind, and you wearing the most bitchingest sunglasses ever, and the camera switches between this wide-lens helicopter shot that manages to make a nice contrast between the completely empty worthless desert and you, a closeup that reveals your awesomeness so completely that any women watching the TV will suddenly experience orgasm, and various other shots that just make you obviously awesome. And something's exploding in the background.

And if that doesn't make you hard enough in the dick, imagine the Renegade theme being played as background music. This only updates the entire thing from "hell yeah!" to "mega fuck yeah!" I should know, since after all I do this everyday. Yes, even imagining camera placements and playing the Renegade theme in my head, as remixed by Ennio Fuckin' Morricone, complete with dramatic voiceover. Now he prowls the badlands, and just about everywhere too. One man hunting outlaws. Jaywalkers, murderers, rapists, molesters, robbers, people who download fucked up Japanese porn. And sometimes, even criminals. The EPIC EXPLODINATOR!

And then Eddie Van Halen launches into this orgasmically awesome guitar solo and the HEAVIEST FUCKING METAL SONG EVER starts playing, complete with three million orchestras, seven billion goddamn gospel choirs chanting ominous Latin shit, Neil Peart bashing the drums, guitars by Kirk Hammett, Marty Friedman, Scott Williamson, Steve Jones, Kevin Shields, Kim Gordon, Pete Townshend, Jimmy Page, Ritchie Blackmore, David Gilmour, Tony Iommi, Glenn Tipton and K.K. Downing, all playing over MORE EXPLOSIONS and me casually driving from them implacably, not even a hint of sweat on my body and maybe some ruffling of my hair. Goddamnit, it's so PERFECT. Drivin' down Detonation Boulevard, destination KICKASS CITY. The only way I could ever hope to improve such transcendent, such… magnificent perfection, is if I somehow managed to start the voiceover with "IN A WORLD…" I'm still working on that, by the way. And it would kick exponentially more total ASS if I got Tom Waits to do the voiceover. That guy has the awesomest fucking voice ever. He's the reason why I took up smoking, I want to basically rape and destroy my throat enough so I'll end up with the coolest Tom Waits growl ever. Plus, I made cancer my bitch a long time ago, so I'm completely safe.

After fiddling a bit with the magic of GPS and Google Earth, I find the nearest place that I have work to do in. And then I plan a suitable way of going in. Usually I just ride my totally kickass cyberpunk ninja motorbike in, park it somewhere, take off my sunglasses and go in for a bit all low-key and shit, like a predator waiting for his prey, getting information out of the local townspeople, using my Batman-level detective skills to piece together all the bits and pieces of information into one giant scheme-puzzle and planning the ultimate beatdown. But sometimes I do otherwise.

Like, this one time, I was in Chicago. Wait, was it Chicago? Maybe it was Chicago, I honestly don't know, it was one of those cities where the subway runs over ground too. Don't remember exactly why I was in that city that could probably definitely maybe have been Chicago but I'm not betting on it, but I remember that somebody was in trouble. Somebody who happened to be my totally cool and smart and beautiful sister MK. Well MK's not really her name, it's actually Julia, but I thought that just didn't match her totally bitchin' hot cyberpunk awesomeness, so instead I call her MK. Since behind every great man stands an equally great woman, she's got her own special power, namely possessing two specially modified machine guns with infinite ammo that shoot shuriken bullets made out of lightning that are on fire. Two specially modified machine guns with infinite ammo that shoot shuriken bullets made out of lightning that are on fire. Jesus, I always think of all the stuff I could do with two of those. I mean, the ability to warp reality and kill people with my mind and various other parts of my body is cool and all, but it's two machine guns. Shooting shuriken bullets made out of lightning. And. ON. FIRE. Holy shit, that's RIGHTEOUS.

Besides, they used to be mine until MK very nicely asked me if she could have them, like, forever. And I gave them to her because, hey, she's my sister. I can't really be an asshole to her, you know? That would just make me feel like shit (and she will inevitably beat me up). Also, she was strangling me at the same time. I'm kind of a fan of not asphyxiating to death thanks to my sister, okay? Shut up.

That one time, instead of going in by car, I found a much cooler way to enter, using a subway train and gratuitous slow motion. Because anything can be made awesome by gratuitous slow motion, Down Syndrome editing, alcoholic camerawork and EPIC ORCHESTRAL MUSIC. ANYTHING. You think of it, it can be epic – eating a potato chip, writing, getting out bed, brushing your teeth, pissing and shitting, having sex, whatever. And guess what, it's ALWAYS epic with me, baby. I'm more epic than every action movie hero ever combined – no, no, scratch that, I AM the bastard child of everything awesome ever with everything taken TO THE FUCKING LIMIT. Hail to the king, baby.

So to keep a long story short, Epic Explodinator – that's me – and his amazing sister MK totally fucking burninated this criminal dude who was trying to take over a city 'n shit with his gangs. But that was then. Sometimes me and MK work together, sometimes we don't, really depends on the situation and position. I mean, it would be fucking ridiculous to like ring her up on my cell phone and say something like "Hey, sis, I'm in the middle of the fucking Gobi desert walking to this Mongolian village to rip some dude's guts out with my bare hands. Wanna help?" I mean, yeah, I have a cool bike and car, but you have any idea how long it takes to get there? Factor in the tons of hours I had to spend… asking people which way to go and the fact that there's more people to fight means most of the time I end up doing it alone. Hey, I don't mind, neither does MK. Big deal.

Then it's time for the EPIC SHOWDOWN. My favourite tactic here is to get these motherfuckers into a false sense of security. Pretend I'm a moron or otherwise not a threat. Lay low, as it were. And then, once the dickcheeses have been sufficiently convinced that they should ignore me... BOOM! I blow open the doors to their stronghold with a pocket nuclear bomb (that coincidentally never affects me) and I go in, guns blazin'. Like, this one time, there was a huge reception hall right there with a ton of guards. After making sure I properly set the CD player to play "O Fortuna" by Carl Orff – I suggested we use the second movement of Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 3 in D Minor, Op. 30, but the director said it wasn't epic enough –, I immediately jump in, spin 1800, land and then do a roll, because you gotta do the fuckin' combat roll if you're an action movie hero, boy. So, I like rolled into the place and then pulled out my machine guns and just started shooting all over the place. Through the miracle of action movie trailer editing, every single bullet managed to hit somebody. Hell, at one point I was just machine gunning the ceiling and somehow those bullets managed to completely kill some guys in the bathroom on the third floor of the building. I don't know why. I think I have a magic gun, in which case it's totally cool. Fuck, whatever, I wasn't even paying attention by the end. I just emptied two machine guns in about, what, half an hour? Man, you should've fuckin' seen the place by the end. It was just all splattered with blood like some huge Eva Unit had just had its shit royally fucked up by an Angel and was bleedin' all over the place, and there was a ton of blood on the ceiling just drippin' down like it was a Slayer song, guts were strewn all around the bloody place and so were severed heads and hands and legs and bits of corpses. I mean, the special effects were so fuckin' horrible I just had to laugh. I still to this day can't figure out who did them, Peter Jackson or Sam Raimi. I mean, really, for one of the severed heads it was just obvious that was a pig's head. Budget-saving at its best, folks.

Then I realised somebody forgot to give me any additional ammo cartridges. Lesser people might shit themselves in terror at realising they've just wasted all their bullets on simple minions and now they're basically Gordon Freeman having to fight the Nihilanth with the crowbar. But not me, motherfucker, oh hell no. I doused everything in about 500 kilolitres of gasoline and set it on FIRE, because pyromania is AWESOME - ask any ten-year-old in Israel, they set half the country on fire every Lag Baomer. Gleefully. -, and then I slowly went up to the top of the building, detonating shit behind me but always making sure I implacably walk away from the resulting fireball with no damage whatsoever, using up my flamethrowers, throwing rockets and grenades all over the place, and by the end I was right in front of the door holding the Big Evil Dude Of The Week and I had no weapons left – I had just dropped an entire pool table on the second-to-last guard and I had to beat the last guard to death with a ping pong paddle. It took two fucking hours, goddamnit, I need to be more efficient.

So I kicked the door open with my robust penis and I burst into this huge control centre that was all poorly lit and filled with smoke and massive and had this huge computer, like dude was obviously overcompensating for something in making it that big. So the chair turns around and I see this hideous, butt-fuck ugly dude who looked like he had been beaten to near death with the ugly stick at birth. And he has a cat. God fucking Jesus' balls giving Buddha a handjob in a bathtub I HATE VILLAINS WHO HAVE CATS. Fuck you, you living clichés.

And then he starts with the talking. Oh, God with the talking! It's like Ian Fleming wrote him while suffering from brain damage. "Hello there, Mr. Explodinator. I was expect-"

But he doesn't have time to finish his bullshit sentence because I stare at him menacingly, do my "gun fingers" move and shout "BANG!"

And he fucking explodes. Serves ya right, ya fucking cat-liking cock-dribbling anal cunt.

But I count that as my "second-best" kill. See, my best kill was after I just spend 12 hours battling my way through and underground lair and then 8 more hours in the aboveground lair of some evil villain or other, and I finally ended up at the boss with a ton of sweat, blood, scratches, cuts and wounds covering my face. And then I just stared at him and he spontaneously exploded. Hell yeah. Just thinking about it's givin' me some of the ol' mornin' glory.

A night in Shitcargo
Some people come up to me and ask, "Explodinator, you exquisite Adonis figure, have you ever really loved a woman?"

I generally respond first by punching them in the face for quoting Bryan Adams. That's not cool, shitcocks.

Then I actually settle down and answer. Well, it depends what kind of love you're talking about. If you mean romantic love – yes, I may seem like the sort of "love 'em and leave 'em fast" person, as Prince would sing, but rest assured that I have formed really fuckin' deep romantic attachments that were the source of happiness, good times, bad times, and kickass sex. But if you can also refer to platonic love – I've probably said it often, but I have this cool sister named MK who I love dearly and deeply. And my sentiment is most reciprocated – MK loves me just as much, and we're both the sort of people who'd lay their life and limb on the line if the other one of us was in trouble. You fuck with MK, you fuck with me, and vice versa. Two for the price of one, basically – 'tis quite the goddamn bargain.

Now, lemme tell ya 'bout MK. The first thing ya'll probably notice about her is her appearance. Hold your fucking horses you morons, I'm not just being Captain Obvious here – I know that in anything the first thing you notice is appearance and this is no different with boys and girls – but I'm going somewhere. See, I may have said quite often in the past that MK is incredibly pretty and beautiful and gorgeous and erection-inducing and all that other crap that sounds like I'm talking with my dick instead of my brain (not that there's much difference...). But now that all my multi-coloured galaxy of cocaine and speed and heroin and marijuana and LSD and every other drug ever that I took a few minutes ago is starting to fade and I'm coming back to Earth (well figuratively speaking since right now I'm on my bitchin' spaceship), it's time to step back a bit and gain some perspective.

MK don't look like a supermodel, you know? She's good lookin', but hers is the kind of thing that leans more towards the "pretty" side of the scale rather than "gorgeous". I mean, okay, she's not one of those creepy Hollywood celebrity women who all look somehow perfectly alike with perfectly aligned face, perfect features, perfect everything, Botox injected up the arse, a cake's worth of makeup, shiny teeth and a cunt-load of plastic surgery until they ain't human no more. I always hated those chicks who don't realise when to stop with all the rapefucking their face and they end up looking like dolls, bastardisations, mutants, alien caricatures of women, botched plastic surgeries, fucking pod people. More machine than human. Cyborgs. EVIL cyborgs. When I see these sort of cookiecutter cutesy Barbie dolls I don't want to fuck them, oh for the love of Ellen Ripley no, I reach for my revolver out of reflex because I've got this spine-tingling, hair-raising feeling that with all the things that are slightly off these Stepford wives are gonna snap sometime and skin me alive or something. Ain't nobody fuckin' skins me alive, dude. And I enforce that law with my powerfists, assholes, so you better know who's king 'round here.

I love MK because she's not one of these generic, reconstructed-until-you've-obliterated-humanity women. She's pretty average if I think about it too much. I mean, shit, if you asked me to describe her, I'd probably say something like – oh lessee, normal face slightly symmetrical but not quite, average looking mouth, normal nose, nothing in particular no zits no birthmarks no whatever, fair-ish sort of skin but not so pale as to make you think she's sickly or dying or decomposing or what the fistfuck ever, brownish sorta eyes and hair as black as midnight, shinier than a really shiny polished thingy and about longer than mine, reaching up to slightly under her shoulder. See? Told you - nothing special. You can probably picture a ton of people who look like that. Absolutely no problem with that, y'know, it's better to look nice but like an average human being than be stunning but a pod person, as I always say.

But here's the thing you notice about MK. MK's favourite colour is black. She's absolutely crazy about it. And it kind of makes sense, y'know, black is a nice neutral colour that just happens to be the opposite of white and carries some really excessive baggage sometimes but is really indispensable. Me? Hey, I love bloody red as much as the next action hero especially when it's splattered all over the goddamn place, but I must admit my favourites are blue and green. Yeah, there's just something really lovely and splendidly heart-warming about sitting on a beach and watching an ocean stretch into infinity and meeting the clear blue skies on the horizon, maybe a few clouds gently floating by without disrupting the overall ambiance, slight breeze blowing around with the temperature just perfect, sun behind you or slightly above to not impede any enjoyment, water slowly softly gurgling and splashing in the white sand at your feet... the world's just awesome man, even when you aren't cutting heads left and right and spraying blood everywhere and ripping a man's guts out with your little finger. You can replace ocean with "grass" and it'd be the same thing, really – just as cool. I guess that maximum world-awesomeness fabulosity would then be a perfect vantage point where you can see both the grass and the water. Sounds about right to me.

MK's all about the blackness, to the point that sometimes I think she just takes the advice of that Rolling Stones song way too seriously. You could call her fuckin' monochromatic if you're feeling a bit less charitable, but it don't make it no less true. Anything she wears, it's always that colour. Like, anything. You name it – jackets, trench coats, hats, gloves, T-shirts, dressers, trousers, whatever the hell, it's going to be black. Combine this with her love for long, incredibly sharp fingernails, as in sharper than a fucking katana and about as long as small daggers, and tendency to wear spiky stuff and jewellery, and the result is the really clever thing I love about MK – you notice her with all the black and the sharp fingernails and shit and you're just about convinced 110% that she's evil and gonna murder ya or a maneater or a femme fatale or whatever else the Velvet Underground named a song after. Then you actually sit down and talk with her and holy shit, she's the friendliest, kindest, nicest person you've ever met. Hell, sit me down next to her and she's a saint who would never hurt a living being and loves puppies. I guess I should give myself a medal for managing to make an action movie heroine with machineguns that shoot shuriken bullets made out of lightning and on fire look like an angel in comparison. Goddammit, just thinking about that makes me want to nonchalantly butcher a roomful of mooks in slow-motion and puffing on a cigarette while some Pantera plays in the background. Fuck yeah, my life is great. So, yeah, my sister looks like a dark goddess but is as loveable and angelic as the girl next door, and the whole thing's just nice.

No matter how much we work together however, I am convinced me and MK will never manage to top our epic Night In Shitcargo, as I like to call it – partly because I'm not sure whether it actually took place in Chicago or not, partly because I love bad puns and partly because the place really sucked.

So she was in some sorta trouble and called me for backup. So, like, I was on a subway train, you see, and it entered the aboveground station. The doors opened and everybody got on and off, not noticing that there was an imaginary cameraman filming the doors from the ground level. And at the last moment, after everybody had gotten in but before the doors closed, one pair of legs stepped out. As the train totally whooshed away to the next station, another imaginary dude nearby with a boombox started playing the song "Bad Obsession" by Guns N' Roses (I wanted to use "Voodoo Child (Slight Return)" but Hendrix's dudes said no. I'm gonna use that song to soundtrack my entrance eventually even if I'm gonna have ta choke a bitch). Imaginary cameraman slowly panned up from the legs, giving people a good look at the mysterious figure's nice body and impressive crotch bulge before revealing it to be THE EPIC EXPLODINATOR. I then lit a cigarette and went over to the railing to inspect the city. A few scenery cuts later, I had prepared myself. I put on my sunglasses, crossed my arms and uttered a casual, totally authoritative "Yeah." I then retrieved the special Big Fucking Gun from my back, the one I have that's been totally customized with grenade launcher and flame thrower and bazooka and walked off the platform in exquisite slow-motion, my long hair floating in the wind and giving me an almost messianic look. Yea, I am the Lord thy God, thou shalt not fuck with me if you value not having death, gore and doom rained upon yerself and yer family and shit.

And I walked and walked, all filmed in extremely hot, painfully sexy slow-motion. Down the stairs. Down the street. Somehow casual yet epic at the same time. At one point imaginary cameraman captured me at a slight angle to highlight my roguish good looks, you see, and I was just passing by a guy at that point. And he took one look at me and his head exploded. I didn't even mean for that to happen, but that shit just happens to me all the time. And throughout the montage there was a suspicious amount of ambulances driving around the same places as me for women whose water broke. I wonder why. Later, I heard that the pregnancy rate in that part of the city experienced a bloody impossible 150% increase. I'm still not sure why, but then again I'm too lazy to actually Google it.

I met MK back in this dingy bar, just the perfect location for a cyber babe like her, you know? The kind where there's chains and weird BDSM gear hanging on the walls with crappy lights all around to create a mysterious/disorienting/creepy mood and small rooms which make you feel claustrophobic even if you don't have claustrophobia because let's face it there are just some places that can cause that to normal people who probably don't even pay much attention usually to the Nine Inch Nails Ministry Rammstein Throbbing Gristle KMFDM Skinny Puppy noisy ear rape thing they always play at ear-bleedin' volume just to stop you from thinking and... uh... where was I going with this again? Yeah, the bar was creepy and the music was too loud and it made you feel like The Matrix. Mission fuckin' accomplished I say. That was the point, right? I guess so. MK was busy with something else. As much as a vengeful murderous sniffing-every-drug-in-a-square-metre insane epic ACTION MOVIE (anti)HERO dude I am 24/7 or at least until my medication and resulting mindwarping wears off, I simply can't burst in or interrupt MK. For one, like I've said millions and billions and trillions of times, she's family. You know? You can't really be an asshole to family. Also, she would totally chop my dick off with her fingernails. Or worse. I can't go for that.

MK eventually finished. I asked her to explain the whole dealie, and she obliged – see, there was this psychotic band of criminals led by a megawhacko who was plannin' to take over the city by allying themselves with every other gang in the city and MK had just foiled their plan and they wanted revenge and they'd already sent a goddamn division to take care of MK and all of them got fuckin' slaughtered by stinkin' lightning shuriken-bullets and now they were assembling their entire goddamn army of onedimensional cardboard-cutout poorly written and poorly characterised nutfaces so they could show up and rape us harder than George Lucas raped Star Wars with the prequels and GODDAMN THIS SOUNDS LIKE THE PLOT OF A SHIT MOVIE (not as shit as the prequels, or even MST3K-grade stuff, but shit none the less).

That out of the way, it was time for the obligatory time-saving lock and load montage. You know the drill – put a ton of cameras in different positions and angles, film the whole sequence then crush and squeeze about 30 minutes to an hour and numerous takes into 5 minutes of montage because if you actually showed the whole thing the audience'd fall into a bloody coma and you don't want that. Unless you're Jean-Luc Godard or some artistic director who can't be bothered with such pedestrian, plebeian concerns like plot, acting, coherence or steady rhythm. So we all got ready for the big showdown – we all grabbed our guns Matrix style from the secret warehouse accessible from the club's basement (...what? there totally was a perfectly secret warehouse!), me keeping my Big Fucking (that also shoots baby ducklings that explode on impact1) handy while grabbing a few more submachineguns and some basic pistols and a few grenades and a plastic knife because why the fuck not and a whole fuck ton of ammo because believe me, you can never have enough ammo and it ain't that infinite. Maybe if I had a gun that ran on sustainable energy – those never run out, right? And MK got her two... okay, I'm going to stop repeating that senselessly now, but you know I mean the shuriken-bullets guns, and she completed this with the predictable choice of one Kalashnikov machinegun, two handguns with silencers and a katana that she always carries with her. So we all got our weapons ready and our clothes 'n shit – it's cold in maybe-Chicago dontchanow so I threw a leather jacket over my usual T-shirt + pants, and MK herself threw a trenchcoat over the formal dress she was already wearing and then put on some gloves and a hat. And you have one guess what colour they were. Exactly - all of them black. Dunno why the dress and all that formal shit though. Maybe she wanted to be dressed to kill? Hahahahah I kill me. I kill me so very much.

When we got outside we found out that holy fuck it was pretty cold, it was raining and the streets were deserted. Standing there in the abandoned rain-soaked streets in a perfect incredibly contrasting chiaroscuro way with the imaginary cameraman placed in that perfect angle slightly below us enough to make us look imposing and authoritative but not ground-level enough to make it look like it was being directed by Leni Riefenstahl, we were the very MODEL of fucking serenity and coolness. Our breath was visible as smoke-reminiscent vapours in the air that appeared and disappeared quickly owing to our presence in the chill, a chill that cut us to the bone and seemed to try to beat us down, almost as if the goddamn weather was conspiring with the psychotic poorly-characterised bad guys. We were both grasping our primary weapons, MK was right next to me, she had lit a cigarette and had her hat pulled over her eyes in a way that both saved them from being rained on because Lord knows rain can be an annoying bitch (and I can verify this personally since I didn't have anything to stop myself getting soakin' bloody wet)and made her look mysteriously alluring and threatening. No doubt this perfect set up would be ruined by some dumbass studio executive who would insist that MK film her scene with less clothes to appear "sexier" and thus sell more tickets because everybody knows guys only buy movie tickets if there's nudity, so it doesn't matter if you have to completely miss the point and FUCK UP A PERFECTLY GOOD SCENE to do so.

The wind was blowing like a windy blowy breeze, except more violent and almost tsunami-like, almost like a tornado except not really a tornado or a hurricane, maybe a twister but very non-destructive, whatever. The point is. It blew very hard but did not manage to dislodge us or get any reaction from us. Some papers rustled in the distance and were blown across the streets because people suck at recycling or they were trying to intimidate us, but the worst the storm managed to do was make our hair and clothes float a bit in the wind – especially me jacket and MK's trenchcoat. In the background, I could hear harsh wind effects and a repeated echoing "dom-dom-dom-dom-dom-dom-dom-dom" bass riff, with dissonant guitars and occasional organs plus a drum fill in the background, it had been repeating for a minute or two. I knew then that THIS WAS THE MOMENT. This was the fucking moment. I gripped my gun and exhaled loudly and turned towards MK and struggled to say a badass or ridiculous yet still badass one liner right before we set out to royally motherfuck the bad guys' shit up.

"Hey, MK?" I said in my growliest, Tom Waits-iest voice.

"Yeah, bro?" she replied nonchalantly, maintaining her cool the whole time.

OK, OK, think, concentrate, make up a witty one liner. Quickly! SCHNELL! SCHNELL, MUTTERFICKER! "You ready to do the fucking Götterdämmerung?"

MK laughed. Mission accomplished! It was a bit clunky and maybe a bit too intellectual (duh, our intended audience of frat boys probably don't know their Wagner from their weiner), but we'll fix it in post-production. That's the other hard and fast rule. ANYTHING CAN BE FIXED IN POST-PRODUCTION. NO EXCEPTIONS.

Dramatic thunder could be heard overhead as Nick Mason recited the electronically processed lyric one of these days I'm going to cut you into little pieces and our totally awesome and ominous choice of Pink Floyd's "One of These Days" entered the explosive, balls-to-the-wall rock-out climax (we had to shave some minutes from the intro, you understand – it's 5:55 minutes long ferchristsakes). We walked authoritatively down the streets, cameras all around the place to capture our unflinching, steely determination as we marched slowly but surely like fucking Angels of Death in all our badass glory, with occasional intercut shots of even MORE dramatic thunder and lightning, long perspective shots reaffirming how empty the streets were to preserve just the right mood of impending apocalyptic DOOM and shots of the psychotic bad guys complaining about the weather, getting a bad feeling about this or whining about how this is gonna suck. As David Gilmour's squealing, high-pitched noisy guitar solo reached its classic conclusion and the song ended to the sounds of wind that it started with, me and MK were in front of the bad guys' stronghold. The Pink Floyd had emboldened us immensely, and while I can't exactly speak for MK's quiet, graceful, feminine sort of fury except in tones of second-hand breathless admiration earned from all the times we've worked together, I for one felt like I could take all these motherfuckers on and kill them with my bare hands through drawing and quartering then dumping an ocean of gasoline and TNT in their godforsaken shitty HQ and turning it into Hiroshima, except without the whole radiation poisoning business and all that followed.

I hated the look of the building the bad dudes had barricaded themselves in. I mean, God fucking forbid they have some dignity and hijack a cool building, maybe... I don't know, one that looked like an unholy rape-induced genetic combination between the Citadel from Half-Life 2 and all of H.P. Lovecraft's worst nightmares. But no, they had to go and recondition a fucking office building sort of place with all sorts of Plexiglas windows and a huge antenna on the top. I know you're in a hurry and on a small budget but for the love of Nietzsche can't you at least hijack a less butt-fuck ugly building than this Communist atrocity of architecture?

The sight of the shit building they had hurriedly turned into an improvised bunker-cum-headquarters Roger Corman-style alone made me want to march right in there and pump those motherfuckers full of lead. Goddamnit, you gotta have standards, you retards! I know you're evil and shit, but come on, have some bloody dignity. But MK must be telepathic or something, because the second I leaned a few millimetres forward and prepared to move she stopped me, putting her hand on my shoulder. She said, "look above", and I was like - argh, great, it's not enough that I'm soaking wet, but now I have to get it in my eyes too.

So we both looked up at the top of the building and saw that at that moment a stray burst of lightning hit the antenna on the top. Within minutes, all the lights in the building had gone out to the sound of lightbulbs breaking, and a guy on the roof to his splattery death.

I smiled. "Sis, you totally did that with your mind, didn't you?" MK laughed, thus obviously confirming my theory.

It later turned out that the splattered poor bastard was not, as we assumed, one of the psychothugs, but instead was our secondary ADR and foley artist. Whatever the hell was he doing up there, we'll never know. Oh well.

The fearless EE and the equally courageous MK finally entered the building through the front door. Wow, that was anticlimactic – must fix that in post-production too. I felt relieved to be in a dry environment, considering we had imbibed and were now leaking so much water we looked like fish-mermaid-thingama-whatevers that got lost on their way to the Marianas Trench and were now in that Faith No More video with the fish that's flopping and suffocating on land. Thanks to the incredible mental cooperation of MK-channeling-Storm-from-the-X-Men the building was almost completely dark – there were some "emergency lights", obviously, but these were mostly red lights that bathed the building alongside the obvious pitch-black darkness and eerie shadows, with the resulting nasty-ass contrast between red and black only serving to accentuate the mood of imminent doom we'd built up and made it look like we were about to film the prison-break scene from Watchmen. It was all so wonderfully noiry and comic book-y, like Frank Miller had suddenly decided to replace white with red. As a bonus the lights were very, tremendously haphazard and the entire corridor had a higher amount of shadowy dark bits just perfect to hide in than actually lit stuff, as if Ridley Scott was put in charge of the lighting design. This would be just perfect for our brutal charge of vengeance and general death-bringing.

Some chatter could be heard in the room to the left. I offered to let MK take care of it, and she accepted. She quickly burst into the room and fired a quick salvo of about 5.000 bullets give or take a few, moving so fast as to take only about 15 seconds. Man, and my best record for turning a normal person into a bullet sandwich is about 20 – I need to work. I could hear in the distance that so very fucking annoying BREEH BREEH BREEH alarm sound that all bad guy's lairs inevitably have because they're too goddamn cheap to spring money to get some ORIGINAL stinkin' sounds – the only way it could get worse was if they're so poor they use the Wilhelm scream for everybody when they die. Fuck that. So it just so happened that we had landed in the secondary control room, so I have to give a huge high-five to the designers here, heck of a job you did putting the control room right outside the exit. We figured out from some easy-to-understand Hollywood GraphicsTM that the rest of the building was just as shoddy – from the corridor on it was just one huge big-ass open space for the rest of the floor, another long corridor on the way to the second floor, and further variations on this incredibly simple plan with occasional cubicle farms that they hadn't fixed yet up until the last floor where the big-ass Bad Dude had his special HQ. Where he undoubtedly gets to sit around looking at screens while people turn knobs making it seem like they're doing something in a huge, Freudian-ish sort of room that's desperately trying to make up for his very small penis and love of child molestation. The GraphicsTM told us most of the rooms had been fortified hastily and were teeming with security people with guns, and some of them even had lights back on. Just the way I like it.

MK had seen the plan and was already back in the main corridor which led to a large double door about a few metres ahead. She was fixing her clothes and reloadin' her gun or something, I dunno, wasn't paying attention. I noticed a small CD player and collection of CDs, and with our foley artist now gone it was my job to improvise something quick that would soundtrack our big Stalin-level bloodbath. Given that the small CD collection was really gay and had lots of pussy shit like Sarah McLachlan and Celine Dion and whatever, there were only two CDs here I could use: The White Album and Led Zeppelin IV. I anguished over whether I would put on "Helter Skelter" by The Beatles or "When the Levee Breaks" by Led Zeppelin. "Helter" seemed to be the perfect match, what with its incredibly noisy proto-metal guitar shredding, Paul's rock god screaming, Ringo's pounding, steady drumming and the creepy harmonies of John and George in the background. Plus, those fakeout fade-outs would make a good gag. But it was only 3 minutes long. Hey, guess this is what you get for being fast. As for "Levee", hands down it's kickass – what am I saying, of course it's kickass, it's Led Fucking Zeppelin! They never recorded anything shit (at least before Presence). It's got Jimmy Page violently fucking his guitar in awesome ways, Robert Plant being Robert Plant, JPJ bein' JPJ and Bonzo going bonzo on the drumkit. And it was longer than "Helter"! But I thought it was a bit slow, to be honest, and it might not work that well with the PULSE-POUNDING EPIC EYESOCKET-FUCKING ACTION.

Eventually I just chose "Levee" and I went back into the corridor clutching the remote control for the boombox. I took my rightful place near MK, standing slightly in the shadows in order to make myself appear artfully FUCKING TERRIFYING. MK casually asked what took me so long in between puffing on her cancer stick that she'd replaced, and I just showed her the remote and said "Zoso". She understood.

The camera was placed in front of us right next to the door, showing us right in front of the corridor's narrow entrance somewhat in the dark. I pressed "play" and then threw the remote behind me. Tightly clutching my BFG, I lowered my head and imitated the Kubrick stare, giving my best impression of a dude who's totally gone fishin' over the rainbow looney on the grass fuckin' funny-farm level insane. I thought it was a nice contrast to MK's reserved, feminine coolness, y'know? I think theoretically like that. I'm intellectual, motherfuckers, you better represent. As John Bonham commenced brutally beating his drums in 4/4 until they screamed for fucking mercy like they were in Guantanamo, The Excellent EE (that's me) and Marvellous MK marched in slow-motion, radiating as much determination and either controlled (MK) or barely restrained fury (me), towards the door.

Just as Jimmy and JPJ entered the fray and proceeded to brutally sexually rape and torture their own instruments in a way that was so very METAL, me and MK kicked down the door and entered the huge hall. Just as I expected, it was actually better lit and you could see things (what a novel concept!), in this case the sheer number of security guard dudes with guns who were just waiting to be slaughtered like lambs without even knowing it. Some of them even took refuge behind like some filing cabinets or machinery or whatever. You ignorant cannon fodder, I so look forward to turning you into human Swiss cheese sandwiches.

The split-fucking-second the giant metal door collapsed to the ground, me and MK immediately pointed our guns forward and, before the guys in the room could react, they found themselves trying to occupy the same space as approximately one million billion bullets. Per second. The front rank quickly got shredded to bits, with remaining survivors taking the fucking hint already and running away screaming like little girls. Barely five seconds elapsed before I yawned and got bored with just serving a huge waterfall of steely bullet-shaped pointy death to those morons free of charge, so I decided that maybe it was time to get a bit creative. And since everybody else decided to say "to hell with cover!" in a fit of suicidal overconfidence and just try to bum-rush us like they were imitating the old World War One Franco-British strategy of making their forces get out of their trenches and walk very slowly towards the enemy, I would have plenty of opportunity to do it.

So thanks to sheer strength in numbers, it was inevitable that, you know, ignoring the masses of your goddamned co-gun-carriers who are dying like lemmings before even getting to us, the security-guard-mook-whatevers would eventually get a bit closer to us. But that didn't take place because I got so bored I jumped in the air, executed a flip, spun around twice and landed in the bad dudes' mist, where I proceeded to execute a totally necessary barrel roll and handstand from which I kicked and punched dudes backwards. A circular sort of space was now freed with a small radius around me, and while those guys were still joining the great gig in the sky at a rapid pace and leaving behind a bloody Michigan Lake of blood and guts thanks to me and my sister's unfailingly laser-level precise shooting, they were close enough to me for me to get really creative. Or as creative as I can get.

As I was reflexively, almost subconsciously shooting bad guys left and right while taking care not to accidentally give the cameraman a headshot and orienting my brainpower towards coming up with more original ways to kill people and I cursed myself for not having the foresight to ask Quentin Tarantino, Peter Jackson, Ted Raimi or Rob Rodriguez to help me with the death scenes, one guy somehow managed to get up to me with a bazooka and launched it straight at my face. It exploded. My head leaned back for a second. All the bad guys thought I was dead, even if my hands were still pulling the triggers.


I straightened my head back again, carrying only a small cut on my right cheek, and I totally did my best impression of Robert Patrick in Terminator 2: Judgement Day by doing the finger-"no" sign while looking absolutely fucking ripshit PISSED.

Dude-who-shot-me could only muster an "OH SHIT" face as I thrust my hand backwards before punching him in the chest as hard as I could. The force of the punch hit him so hard that it dislocated his body backwards a few centimetres in such a way that his entire circulatory system somehow managed to break out of his body and skeleton and stay in the same place. Since this guy operates according to Chuck Jones rules of action-reaction, it was only when he noticed his circulatory system, complete with fuckin' heart and veins and all being right in front of him and completely outside his body that it just exploded, spraying a geyser's worth of blood on everyone in the hall. It splattered me pretty hard across the clothes and hands, and it very cleverly managed to splash MK's face very slightly in a way that totally made her look like even more of a badass heroine.

The dude could barely muster enough vocal strength to shout "MY BLOOD! HE PUNCHED OUT ALL MY BLOOD!" before dying. Chuck Jones rules, man.


While I continued shooting at everybody frantically, I decided that since I was getting started, it would be a better idea to run and jump and barrel roll around. It was much more efficient than just standing there shooting and waiting for everybody else to die. I mean, for fuck's sake, that always works in real life with me but not video games – I always end up dyin' at least once in Half-Life 2 because those goddamn Combines keep shootin' at me and I END UP LOSING HEALTH! What the fuck, Valve?! You totally can't die if you stand still and shoot people! I'm living fucking proof of that!

I ran up against a nearby wall and jumped off it backwards (that and back flipping are two of the few acrobatic moves I can do, after all), totally managing to stab about three guys who were behind me with the sharp end of my gun. I then quickly switched it to "bazooka" setting and pressed "fire". The camera didn't film them getting totally blown up, not because of fuckin' censorship but because the CGI we used looked too fake and not ridiculous enough to get included, so the audience had to settle for a close-up of my unflinching face and body getting splattered with some more blood and a bit of brain cortex (or as much brain cortex as you can get when you're a one-dimensional villain security mook), Arnold Schwarzenegger-style. The director wanted to change this in post-production to jack up the contrast and give the whole scene a red filter, and I respectfully and very calmly communicated my disagreement by strangling him to near death. I mean, this ain't a fuckin' comic, and a red filter would look just ugly. Plus, we spent money to get the lights to work right after the lightning blew them up just so you could get EE and MK slaughtering EVERYONE in all its brilliant, Technicolour, jizz-in-your-pants-inducing magnificence, and I wasn't gonna let that go to waste thanks to shitty camera effects.

And don't worry, I may have been talking about myself a lot right now, but MK was also now in a nice circle's radius surrounded by evil dudes and was being awesome. The reason I haven't said much about her is that, well, I get really creative and intellectual and shit with my murdering to compensate for the fact that her style of fighting's much better than mine. Yeah, I know Sigmund Freud could probably get entire fucking books made just by interviewing me alone, but it's true! Me fighting can be basically summed up as "run around, shoot everything, flail wildly, scream really cheesy one liners and threats and shit, GET CREATIVE." I mean, hell, I can run and jump and all that, but I'm just an action hero. My sister, though? Totally new level there – objectively and scientifically speaking, my awesomeness level is equal to the distance between the Sun and Pluto (on a related note, PLUTO IS A FUCKING PLANET), while MK's loops around the Milky Way and right back again and I'm not just saying that because I'm tripping absolute cock-sucking balls on LSD while staring at the night sky. Totally not, whatever the hell gave you that idea? I mean, it's not enough for her to look cooler and better than me, what with all the blackness and all that, but she's fighting better than me too. She moves faster than the eye or a really high-speed camera can see (we had to lock the CERN and NASA guys in a room for them to make special supersonic near-light-speed cameras just to film her), has the reflexes of something with really really fucking fast reflexes, and I'm talking faster than the Flash from the Justice League fast just so you know I mean FAST, can cut anything to Swiss cheese with her nails or anything sharp and oh man I didn't mention the FIGHTING. See, me and MK used to spend our days religiously watching horror, sci-fi, action, and most importantly, lots and lots and lots and lots and LOTS of Hong Kong action films. We memorised those martial arts movies inside-out. But MK went the extra mile, y'see, and actually somehow practiced and mastered all those moves she learned second-hand from Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee, and then she went and got even better. So, basically, she's like ballet, except with BRUTAL MURDER. Jesus, even with guns she moves like she's doing some weird unholy awesome hybrid of every martial art ever invented – yes, even Krav Maga. You should see her moves – they're so amazingly graceful and fluid and elegant and noble and feminine and all those other faggy adjectives film critics always use because they've taken English Language classes in university that I feel like I'm losing a bit of my incredible self-confidence just by looking at them. And my barely restrained fury may be eye-explodingly effective and so manly it gets chicks pregnant but it just can't. Fucking. COMPETE. With her sheer restraint and collected nature. Hell, we're talking about a woman who barely even breaks a sweat, never shows any exertion and always has this permanent calm, serene tranquillity going on, no matter whether she's bludgeoning people to death with spoons or going on dates with hot dudes – hell, add a big dollop of good sense of humour and the world's entire supply of charisma and charm (everybody else just borrows it from her in liquid form for 5 cents apiece) and you might be getting close to what I'm sayin'. We're dealin' with Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon level awesome shit here, and I like think that maybe in a past life MK was like this Hong Kong actress who studied at the Beijing Opera and shit and had a long career of balletic asskickery and indelible reserve who NEVER ever used wires or any sort of special effects trickery and always insisted on doing all of her stunts, stunts that surpass Jackie Chan in sheer suicidal daring before retiring at age 50 and spending the rest of her time being the baddest mom who ever walked God's green Earth, so amazing a creature was she that even God in Heaven had to sometimes stop for a second and say to himself, "dude, did I just create that?"

Or, y'know, maybe in the past life she was this totally cool royal queen who ruled some land and everybody loved her 'cos she was awesome and presided over a golden age. Why not both at the same time? A karate-kicking kung fu queen of cool beloved by everybody.

I mean, shit, her movies earn more than mine, and she always has to restrain herself when working together in order not to make me look too bad.

Did I mention she always carries a katana even if she has machine guns that shoot shuriken-bullets made out of lightning that are on fire? Just BECAUSE?

Now you probably understand how Freud could make entire books about my fucked-up brain psychology (my penis psychology's working just fine, though, thanks for asking, ladies).



So quickly enough the last guy from the floor just like, died and we didn't have anybody else to fight. When the last one of those fuckers collapsed in pretentious arty slightly-slow motion and arms outstretched like he's Jesus Christ, I was just so pissed by his sheer fucking nerve to do a Jesus Christ pose that's only reserved for us that I crushed the bloody, lifeless corpse's dick with my foot. The alarm was still droning in the background like the sound of a fire drill that's like fingernails scratching against a blackboard in your brain making it SO VERY FUCKING ANNOYING that I just flipped one of my BFGs around with one hand, closed my eyes and precision-aimed in such a way as to break the alarm. But this only served to get me even BADDER, y'see all this bloody slaughter had just gotten me fired up, I was on a fucking ROLL and just getting started because I hadn't been creative enough. But fucking hell, I had just gotten started and it was all about to get much more brutal and therefore COMPLETELY FUCKING AWESOME.

I frantically rushed up the stairs and through the corridor leading up to the next floor, with MK walking unfazed behind me. There were no mooks in the corridor, presumably they had all retreated to fortify the next corridor in which case this was awesome because I would just get to slaughter all of them at once in huge open spaces like a game of Doom instead of wastin' my fuckin' time picking them out from their hiding places in corridors 'n shit like I'm in fuckin' Alien or whatever – wide-open spaces for battles kick the ass of tight cramped conditions any day. At least those tight conditions necessitate too much planning and tactics and shit and I don't have the goddamn patience for that when I can just burst in and feed some fucker bazooka for lunch. Up the ass. Plus, the corridors were all red and black again, which only makes it a good thing because I managed to perfectly time our rampage and the lull was now in that small bit about 3:05 minutes into "Levee" where it goes into this instrumental break with JPJ, Jimmy and Bonzo still torturing their instruments in an utmost METAL way while Rob stops wailing about levees for a second and instead provides a bitchin' harmonica solo. By my estimates, we had one minute before the vocal bits resumed and after that it was just 3 minutes. We would have to move fast. I reloaded my gun while on the move and made a mental note to myself to suggest to the director that, y'know, Led Zeppelin are the HAMMER OF THE GODS and all that but I'm really starting to think that it's all a bit too heavy-handed. I mean, come on, "When the Levee Breaks" soundtracking us slowly ascending to the top of the building in order to FUCKING KILL the chief bad dude like we're a cross between Steve Ballmer and the fuckin' Terminator? Maybe we could be a bit more subtle? Well, it could've gone worse – some dumbass director I worked with earlier once tried to soundtrack a goddamn lock and load montage with "Smoke on the Water"! Now I admit, "Smoke on the Water" has an epic riff that anybody can play and its apocalyptic, doom-laden ominousness can be ignored sometimes by people, but I didn't think it worked and I let the director know by threatening to shoot him in the face and rape and murder his wife if he didn't change it. Fucker then took away my steroids for the day, so I went through with that and then I rode a purple unicorn to the land where I listened to my milk and the ultraviolence was pretty and I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together and it's no hanging matter it's no capital crime

AANYWAY me and MK were rushing down the corridor, filmed at artful Dutch angles to increase the tension and communicate very subtly to the audience that THOSE GUYS ARE SO GONNA GET RAPED 'n shit. We were like Neo and Trinity – no, scratch that, Ares and Pallas Fuckin' Athena, man. Although if I think about it a bit harder, that's probably not a very flattering comparison since, yes, Pallas-Athena was the goddess of war and wisdom and was very beautiful and was probably the most likeable person on Olympus considering she wasn't as royally fucked up or as stupid as other gods like Zeus – I mean, come on dude, you fuck anything that moves, you have to expect the resulting offspring might regard you as a bit of a deadbeat dad. And Hera's your goddamn sister! What are you, a fucking hentai character? JESUS. Also, Paris? You fucking brought destruction upon Troy because you were stupid, hope you're happy for yourself. Fuckin' hell, man, I would've picked Athena right away. Okay, getting laid with the hottest chick ever and success and fame sound cool and all, but we're talkin' 'bout wisdom and martial prowess here, dude. Plus, whatever you picked the other two goddesses would be totally pissed, so it's better to side with Athena and piss off Hera and Aphrodite. Hera was okay sometimes but she was also an epic bitch who kept trying to kill Hercules and once was such a bitch Zeus had her chained to the sky because he was a fuckin' pimpmeister, and Aphrodite's married to fuckin' Hephaestus, or as I like to call him, Yousouglyyoucan'tgetlaidstus. Also, we all know what happened to her when she tried to cheat on Hephaestus (and let's not get started on that one time he tried to rape Athena – homie got fucked, metaphorically speaking). So, bottom line, Athena was way cool and one of the only decent characters in all of Olympus with the smallest record of stupid or cruel shit alongside Hestia (who got kicked off to bring Dionysus aboard – totally understandable, have you seen Dionysus' parties? Motherfucker's the OG of parties, is what I'm sayin') and Demeter (I mean, really, stealing Persephone? Diiiiiiiiick move, Hades. OK, I'll grant punishing that guy with eternal starvation was a bit overdoing it, but there wasn't much else), but Ares? Ares was a motherfucker. God of war, but not of wisdom, so you can guess his deal pretty quick – he was a retard. Hell, he was so retarded that Retardos, god of retards, thought he was a fuckin' retard. He's more retarded than Sean Penn in I Am Sam, ferfuckssakes. I'll be honest though, being god of bloodlust has got to have advantages, but he was a major dumbass moron. No wonder Athena always owned him and made him her bitch.

And in all that time it took me to overthink Greek mythology, me and MK got to the next floor. I stopped on the corner right before entering and asked, "hey, sis, you want to do the grand opening?"

"Of course!"

Hey, gotta give her more camera time. Yeah, it's my movie, and she's got her own too, but that's just respect. I'm the motherfuckin' OG of respect, better recognize.

So MK executed this epic combat roll, much the same way I do except somehow not completely clumsy, entered the room, crouched, pointed her hands in both directions and began shooting 'tards left 'n right. Like, even before they could react to it. Fuck, before I could react to it. So I just ran in the room, assumed my position in the back and announced my presence to everybody with a most eloquent BAZOOKA TO THE MOTHERFUCKIN' HEAD, BITCHES. Yeah. We resumed our brilliant, mind-blowingly simple strategy of "shoot people 'till they die", keeping a safe distance. At least for the first five seconds. Then I got bored.

I wanted a better vantage point for the murder, and I happened to notice one filing cabinet leaning against the wall. I sheathed my guns back in the special storage thingy on my back that's totally not an IV bag full of a multicoloured galaxy of cocaine, heroin, LSD, steroids and every drug ever invented by man and ran fast, jumping onto the top of the cabinet.

I then jumped forward into the crowd of hapless idiots who couldn't even hit me because they had graduated from the Imperial Stormtrooper Marksmanship Academy, extending my fists in the air like I was bloody Superman 'n shit. The director totally smelled a great scene when he could see it and told the cyborg cameradude to immediately zoom in to my face and push the "global slow-motion" button, maybe spin around for a bit to establish that this is supposed to be AWESOME and find the right angle.

In slow-motion, I totally spotted the perfect victim. Grinning, I lowered my body somewhat so that my scrotum was positioned just right. Through the magic of thrusting back and forward, I slapped the guy in the face with my very erect and manly penis. He could only scream a very slowed-down "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" as I totally whacked him across the face, causing him to tumble backward and remain paralyzed for life.

Bitches don't know 'bout my magic dick. And remember ladies, I'm totally available. Especially my dick. He's a pimp.

I could totally match this display of awe-inducing stupendousness, but I decided to hold back for the next room. That would be my crowning moment of EPIC WIN. Also, MK had decided to join the fun, and while I was busy dick-slapping a dude so hard he got canceraids, she had gotten in close and was now using GUN FU. Can't fuck with that, man.

We quickly exhausted that supply of fresh meat too, with MK capping it all with an absolute exclamation mark as she dived in tasteful slow motion and applied the secret MEGA DEATH maneuver, where she supersonically shot the last guy in the body with approximately 10.000 shuriken-bullets, one for every joint or something like that, don't look at me I suck at anatomy. I mean, I'm the sort of guy who believes that the liver's that thing you can totally live without, y'know, trade it on the black market for $5.000 cash and spend 'em all on hookers, blow, alcohol and the Urotsukidoji: Legend of Overfiend box set. And I sometimes forget that the centre of my body is not my dick. And due to the combined electric voltage, motherfucker totally caught fire then lit bright blue because in movies electricity's always blue and makes this "KZZZZT" sound and just exploded completely. He spilled about what I estimate to be 30.000 litres of blood or so, I dunno, I kinda suck with the metric system, like maybe he had enough blood in there for about 12 people and the bastard hogged it all for himself and never thought to donate.

I mean, shit, I always donate the blood of people I kill to hospitals. That they have to scoop it up off the floor, separate it from the bits of brain and cranium and bones and then maybe clean it up, put it through filters, y'know, something like that, that's not my problem.

I just couldn't resist complimenting MK on her brilliant killing skills. "Dude, MK, that was epic right there man, awesome job!"

"Thanks, bro-"

"No, really, I mean it. I mean, exploding a guy's head like in Scanners – one thing. Electrocuting and burning and exploding him to death? Cosmic awesome. I can already see his tombsto-"

"Expy, you know, we still have two floors left…"

"Yeah, but I'm in no rush." I then dramatically cocked my gun. "Time to take it to the danger zone, eh?"

MK made this humorously exaggerated eye roll recognizing that my one liner was pretty silly and somehow stereotypically Canadian for some reason. But I could tell from her body language she thought it was funny in a stupid, so-bad-it's-good sort of way. Man, I totally need to hire more people to write my dialogue. Even if most of them end up choked, beaten to death or exploded for giving me shit lines. GONNA NEED MORE SCRIPT.

(Also, only MK calls me Expy. Ever. Anyone else can be prepared to talk to the gun. Or suck it down Kurt Cobain-style, bitches, you know where it's at)

We ran up to the next floor. This time there were some isolated, hopeless cuntshits who thought they maybe stood an isolated chance of somehow killing a brother and sister that two floors' worth of people armed with guns adding up to more than the population of Rwanda couldn't. Oh, the self-delusion. I'd pity you if I wasn't so busy totally killing ya. Nothing personal, y'know? It's just business and all that. We picked 'em off quick.

The next floor was going to be our masterpiece, I could just feel it. And we didn't even have to rush it 'cos we weren't pressed for time – there was still enough Led Zeppelin left to last us an entire action sequence. The entrance to the floor this time was a stairway leading down for some reason, maybe the designers wanted a bit of variety, I dunno. But it was perfect for a dynamic entry. And by "dynamic entry" I mean "me and MK totally jumping hella high in the air, with MK landing gracefully while I assumed 'position FIST' and punched and kicked the floor simultaneously on impact, creating a shockwave that totally knocked all the security dudes down to the ground".

That's my specialty, y'know. No really, it's on my business card. EPIC EXPLODINATOR, THE Action Movie Hero. Has an awesome action movie heroine sister named MK. Can explode anything with his mind. Makes the peoples fall down. Contact today at 01-562-FIST-FUCK.

The guys got up pretty quickly though. We were now in the middle of the room, completely surrounded and outnumbered. Of course, we were just pretending to be this to fuck with their heads before their inevitable torturous death. And also, we wanted to get this cool panoramic shot that required a cameraman to climb up on a rickety scaffold and film us from above being completely surrounded by a circle of goons. There was also another guy to film us in complete close-up with maybe some spinning around to make it clear to any idiots in the audience that, hey, WE'RE SURROUNDED.

Not that that ever stopped us.

EE and MK here totally assumed the obligatory badass pose that you assume in these situations, namely absolutely standing with our backs to each other and assuming a pose that was so obvious we might as well have been holding up signs saying "YOU ARE ABOUT TO FUCKING DIE. HORRIBLY AND PAINFULLY. THIS IS YOUR LAST GODDAMN CHANCE TO TURN BACK, YOU RETARDED FUCKHEADS."

And they never take it up.

MK suddenly put her SBLF guns back into the storagey stringy thingy on her back used to hold guns in a diagonal, perpendicular sort of manner whose name escapes me at the moment, and instead drew out her katana. "Hey, bro?" she said offhandedly.

"Yeah?" I replied, turning my eyes around as much as I could without losing sight of the front.

"I'm bored. Up for something different?"


I decided to inaugurate the battle by spitting on a guy's face. MK very generously handed me a match, bless her sweet little telepathic heart, and I lit it and threw it at the dude. IN SLOW MOTION.

Guy caught fire and burned to death, running around the ranks enough to pass it on to others and cause panic.

Man, Napoleon totally shoulda hired me as a general, I would've fuckin' killed the Brits, like, Steve Ballmer-style fuckin' kill, y'know?

I pulled out my flamethrower and immediately started INCINERATIN' these fuckin' nancywannabecrapeaters left, right, up and down. Because the only thing better than shooting people is FIRE-ING them, ahahahahahaha oh my god I would make a great standup comedian. I really would. Or a comic book writer. Fuck yeah. I'd, like, be all deep and I'd be held in the same esteem as Alan Moore, Grant Morrison, Neil Gaiman and Gail Simone.

So these morons could barely do anything as I deep-fried them worse than that time I accidentally stuck a dog in a microwave and it exploded and I had to buy a new one when it turned out that, unlike other things, I couldn't fix it just by punching it hard. At the same time, MK was totally mowing down guys all over the place with her katana. Sliced arms, legs, heads, lung tissue, stomachs with undigested food and acid and vomit in them, bladders, spleens, penises and livers like huge triangles of DOOM flew through the air along with a veritable fountain-puddle-stream-oceany amount of blood and whatever the hell was formerly in the human body but was now out of the proverbial closet, hahahahahaha. Oh, and she was also at the same time repelling the bullets from the few suicidal, deluded dupes who thought they could so much as step to her by hitting them so hard with the katana that they totally flew back into the guys who shot them in the first place. So you could say they were hoist by their own petard… er, bullets. Yeah, that one needs a bit of work... peturdlets? Bulltard? Bupetallets? Petullets?

I had just about finished roasting my side of the room into delicious corpse meat when through the magic of peripheral vision I thought something was happening. I turned my eyes to the left and, just as well, more fucking people were coming. Jesus. Don't these guys ever quit?! MK saw that too and retreated into the back-to-back position, still clutching her katana. We allowed the bastards to surround us while planning our next move. Nobody dared to even advance on us. Some sort of sanity seemed to succeed somehow this once.

So I said, "Sis, how's about we do the spinning?"

"You sure?"

"Pffft, am I sure… of course I'm sure! Everything's better with spinning!"

"Heh, I guess you're right about that. Okay then!"

We both turned around quickly to face each other and MK stretched her katana forward. I grabbed on to it, without even bleeding or getting larcerations or cuts or whatever. I'm made of platinum, y'know. I'm a platinum pimp. Platinum is my homeboy, my bitch, my eternal companion, my PENIS IN THE HEAD WHAT. MK then jumped in the air and I totally started spinning around while she would walk and kick every dude within the radius like this was like some Matrix movie starring Jackie Chan or whatever, I don't know. This went on for a minute or so, maybe 30 seconds minimum, before I suggested a flip around. So I somehow managed to concentrate my aim and toss MK with her katana in the air, and she managed to move and backflip around so I caught her by her feet this time and resumed the spinning, but this time with SUPER MEGA SPLATTERING KATANA ACTION. Oh my god, I think I just came.

By the time we were done there was only one guy left. I somehow kinesthetically deduced that MK wanted to finish him off like Mortal Kombat, y'know, 'cos everyone wants to finish somebody off like Mortal Kombat at least once in their lives. So I managed to orient the spin and threw her forward with all my strength. She ascended pretty high in the air before landing smoothly right in front of the last death-row condemned convict person dude.

With the cameraman right behind him, MK very silently sliced him across the face with her katana in such a way as to knock it towards the right. Then the face slowly peeled and fell off the body, and the rest of the body collapsed too. She sheathed her katana again and we both moved on to the final boss, as it were. And we fully managed to synchronise ourselves with the Zeppelin, so everything's cool.

The final room was more bigger and cavernous-er, as if someone was obviously compensating for something. I took this to be a good cue to shout out something. Which I did.


I have no idea why I shouted "Murdock", it just sounded like a good name to shout. It's like, "murder" + "cock" = "Murdock". See? Scientifically grand. Also, the reverb here was like a cathedral in a basement in a hall in a grand canyon. Woohooo-ooo-ooo-ooo. Or, should I say, Oooo-eeeee-oooooo-oooooooo-oooooo-nyaaaa-naaaaaaa-naaaa-naaaa-na-na-naaa-na-naaaaaaa?

And then Murder-cock here showed up in a humongous mecha like he had just watched too much Neon Genesis Evangelion and brought it from an unscrupulous space pirate with a purple face and no eyes. Oh, yeah, I can totally see the pitch. "The Grolgoth! It can kill, crush, destroy, torture and pull ears! In short, it does everything, except the dishes! Buy now and we'll throw in a free army of flying monkeys! They can totally punch fish until they explode. Honest."

So Murder-cock decided it would be a good moment to gloat and start the clichéd evilbadguy speech. You know. "Ah, the Epic Explodinator and Marvellous MK. I was expecting you fine, fine folks. Now, I'm going to tell you my evil plan right before killing you and-"

I couldn't take anymore. Its clichéness was hurting my brain in the physics. People who use clichés should be thrown up against the wall and shot when the revolution comes. Unoriginal bastards.

I shouted as loud as I could. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH! SUCK A FUCKING COOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOCK!" I immediately opened fire on the mecha with my BFG running on all three options at once, and MK joined in with her SBLF gun. Luckily it had a very obvious weak spot what with being made in China by 12-month old foetuses who probably work 23 hours a day in a factory and get paid about 1 cent per hour, so we aimed for that. And pretty soon it blew up.

But Dickrash Useless wasn't dead yet. Nope, he had the nerve to EMERGE FROM THE FUCKING WRECKAGE. Then he ran and got into a nearby helicopter and was preparing to leave through a huge window nearby.

Was preparing. MK ran up to him and karate kicked the helicopter in the rear, making it explode. Bastard collapsed some stories until hitting the ground and he STILL REFUSED TO FUCKING DIE. He got out of the wreckage AGAIN and staggered away.


Me and MK were at the edge of the window, and looked at each other and televisionpathically communicated our thoughts to each other's brains. We concentrated our brains and wills hard and managed to turn the gravity around us to Moon gravity for a few seconds. We then jumped, and floated through the air in a way the director made sure to capture with multiple cameras floating in the air like he was James Cameron or something, and then we finally landed on the ground. Dude must've shit his pants in terror at the fearsome sight of us gently floating through the air and landing like we were on the Moon 'n shit, 'cos he just cracked open the window of the nearest car and got in and tried to drive away fast. We followed close behind, and by some amazing, one-in-a-fuckin'-million coincidence, we landed right next to where I parked my massive motorcycle. Me and MK quickly got on it and we chased the HELL out of that motherfucker's truck-car-thing.

The chase scene was mostly long and boring and I can't really make it interesting here because I barely even remember it apart from the fact that the director thought it would be a good idea to use "Wollt ihr das Bett in Flammen sehen?" by Rammstein as the soundtrack – hey, can't argue with Rammstein, man, they're fuckin' Rammstein –, but at one point because he wasn't keeping his eyes on the road, evil mecha-guy crashed his truck into a tree. Stinkin' Sunday driver, whose dick you sucked to get yer shit licence, huh?

Dude tried to run again but we caught him pretty quick and we did the epic finishing maneuver. Namely, MK utterly stabbed him in the chest with her katana then she lifted him in the air, and I crouched below him, mustering all the strength I could from every tiny cell and extremity of my body, focusing it all into my fist, then with a mighty rebel yell I thrust myself upwards erotically, almost orgasmically and punched him in the dick from below. The punch was so hard he remained petrified for 5 seconds with some slight cracking noises heard, then his body split in half right there and then.

I can't lie to you, awe-inspiring audience of cool people. We were both tired. And exhausted. And completely dead beat. Fatigued, pooped, weary, worn out, drained, plain fuckin' beat. Not to mention that our clothes and faces were now more than half red thanks to all the gallons and megalitres and buckets worth of blood we tossed around like it was a wet T-shirt context except with blood. Eat yer fuckin' heart out, Peter Jackson, we've got more than you now. Whatcha gonna do 'bout it? fMy arms were pretty much jello without the Biafra by now, and I couldn't feel my legs. I still had legs, though, far as I knew, and that makes the whole difference, doesn't it?

We were relieved for all this to be over, so much so that we didn't bother with the obligatory EPIC larger-than-life ending. Me and MK embraced, still caked in so much blood as to make it look like it was just bad makeup or maybe Halloween night and we were going as zombies, and walked into the horizon hand-in-hand while the camera remained steady. As we slowly moved further away and gradually disappeared from view and the screen faded to black, the ending credits rolled. And there was a standing ovation in the theatre from an audience that had come to the opening and had just had THEIR MINDS BLOWN.

Besides, call me a big softie, but what's more romantic than a guy and a girl romantically embracing and sweetly kissing each other then walking hand-in-hand into the sunset, ready to make the world their fuckin' bitch, after like having mowed down millions of people or zombies or deadites or mutants or whatever and being completely splattered with entrails and blood and every bit of body known to man and a few known only to animals and larvae?