Absolute Helmet

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“Ancient Antique Armor Fighter” by Mike (2017)

No, I’m not dead.  I’ve just been really busy working on some things recently, so haven’t posted much.  But fear not!  I have a treat for you (if you’re borderline mental and like outrageous weird literature).  The following is the first couple of chapters of a novel I was once working on that I may get back to one day.  It’s mean.  It’s degenerate.  It’s not very nice at all, and to be perfectly honest about it, it’s a bit of a bastard.  If you are easily offended by four letter words then just ignore this tale altogether.  If, on the other hand, you like living dangerously (or do not care for feeble warnings) then read on and allow your wig to be joyously flipped!


Absolute Helmet

Chapter I

Roland Pilejuice was a piece of shit from the Lower East Side of Pentagon City. He lived in a great big pile of pig manure that he’d stolen straight from a pig’s ass when he was twelve. One day, as Roland lay inside his horrific nest, jerking his pepperoni to the sordid thoughts in his malformed head, a brick was thrown through his bedroom window.

“What the fuck?!” yelped Roland as the brick bounced off the head of his penis, causing the shaft to fracture in the middle like a twig. Before he could do anything more, a junkie bastard with bubonic super AIDS clambered in through the broken window and leapt onto Roland like a pissclam possessed.

“Give me all your heroin!” screamed the little junkie fuck, throttling Roland’s throat like it was a cock and he was an epileptic prostitute.

“Get off me, dickhead!” gurgled Roland before throwing the junkie off him, which was easy to do given that junkies are notoriously feeble and pathetic. Roland stood up and kicked the ass fungus out of the intruder until his head exploded and he got brain mush all over his varookas. “God dammit. What was that all about?”

Throwing on his clothes, which consisted of a t-shirt with “Haemorrhoid Suckers Tour 1992” written on it in feces and a skimpy pair of short shorts stolen from a decomposing hooker he’d found in a dumpster, Roland Pilejuice picked the junkie scumbag up and walked out of his fermented pig muck hovel.

He marched all the way across town until he eventually reached the Doughnut n’ Bacon Pork Chopper Police Compound. It was easy to find, even without directions, as the stench of over-cooked bacon was hard to ignore. Roland stormed up to the front desk, dumped the corpse of the junkie onto the counter and headbutted the stupid little bell, letting the desk sergeant know that he was there.

“Fuck you want?” asked the great big fat pile of sweaty blubber and doughnut crumbs that came waddling out of the back office. He had his penis out. It was poking through his unzipped trousers and it was covered in steaming fresh colon fudge. Apparently, this upstanding member of the police force just bludgeoned a convict up the poop shoot because he could. Cops were as corrupt as shit pickles in Pentagon City.

“Fuck I want? Fuck you think, wank chops?” spat Roland angrily. “This skinny sliver of anabolic dog shit broke into my house and tried to choke me while I battered my rhythm stick!”

“So? You killed the bastard, what’s the problem?” The fat undulating mound of pork put his trotters on his hips, much like an uppity bitch might do when feeling mightily uppity indeed. His penis was still hanging out, dripping shit onto the crumb covered floor of the precinct. It was quite distracting, but not enough to prevent Roland from retorting with increased malice.

So, that’s the eighth time this week! I’m sick of this horseshit flavoured goat crap! I want something done about it, you big fat jelly doughnut guzzling puddle of rimjob paste!”

The sergeant got mad. Like, really fucking mad. His face immediately went deep red like a baboon’s hindquarters and he started sweating more than physically possible. It was so impossible that his entire body swelled up like a pork balloon and he shit his own ass kibble out, along with his intestines, heart, kidneys and semi-digested doughnuts. Then the fat sergeant burst like said pork balloon, showering Roland in bacon bits and bloody waves of annihilated pig.

Roland could tell right there and then that this pig cop wasn’t going to help him. Fuck him. So, thinking on his feet like the industrious little waster he is, he stole a couple of machine guns from the lock up using the exploded cop’s key and exited the building. If the useless police of Pentagon City weren’t going to clean the streets of junkie scumbags, he was.

Chapter II

The man known across the bustling city of bullshit and harrowing misery as Roland Pilejuice was more than just a piece of shit. He was a piece of shit with a cleft palate, a harelip, inverted nipples, a baked bean-shaped head, two left feet, scoliosis, various skin diseases, a fetish for sometimes eating shit and a grudge against junkie fucking bastards who broke into people’s pig shit cabins and snapped their dicks in half with bricks. Roland was going to wipe those bitches out, and he was going to do it with style.

But first, lunch.

Sautéed goomba dicks were on the menu down at Uncle Fudge’s Packed Clam and Filthy Crab Palace. It was a hole, but it was Roland’s favourite hole in the city. Well, besides the holes between old women’s crusty labia, or the ones between big sweaty ass cheeks. Roland, drenched head to toe in fresh piggy offal and wielding two stolen machine guns made his way through town to the old restaurant and ordered a bowl of sautéed goomba penises.

“You got coin for that shit, faggot?” asked the owner. Uncle Fudge was more of an asshole than a friend, but Roland felt close to the salty old fool anyway. They’d had a threesome once with an unidentified dead thing, so it was kind of like they were brothers. Roland loved Uncle Fudge a lot. So he shot him in the kneecaps with one of his new guns.

“Haha! Yes I do, you grizzly old piece of cod shit. Now get me my sautéed dicks before I shoot your forehead into next week”. Roland laughed heartily as he emptied the rest of the clip into the ceiling above a fellow diner and giggled as the plaster fell into her shark shit soup and the LED chandelier fell onto her head with a dull crunch.

A few minutes later and Uncle Fudge crawled back into the restaurant with a platter of goomba cocks, trailing his fragmented kneecaps behind him like some kind of almost-roadkilled skunk. Roland snatched the plate from the owner and pierced the fattest, most succulent goomba sausage with his fork. He brought it to his mouth, inhaled its gravy scent and opened his salivating mouth wide to enjoy the pleasures of a thrilling good chew.

Suddenly, from out of absolutely nowhere, all the windows in the restaurant were obliterated by the sounds of “Bad Medicine” by Bon Jovi being blasted at ear-rapingly high volume.

“What the fuck?!” exclaimed Roland, dropping the fork.

The entire front wall of the building exploded and a hot pink army tank crashed into the diner area. There were high wattage speakers mounted all over the thing, as well as lashings of colourful streamers and party balloons in the shape of mythical creatures, like dickrats. Roland couldn’t understand what he was looking at. He turned to Uncle Fudge for an answer, but there was no answer, only beloved old Uncle Fudge lying beneath one of the treads, popped like a bile-filled grape.

The hatch on top of the tank suddenly flipped open and Roland shit his short shorts in anticipation. To the god damn awesome sounds of eighties’ hair rock, something amazing emerged from the portal. Whatever it was immediately blinded Roland because it was so damn shiny. Shielding his eyes, the bewildered man beheld the thing extending out of the tank like a penis rising up out of a hole in a pair of boxer shorts. It was a helmet. A god damn, chrome-plated, titanium alloy, diarrhoea-inducing, wig-flipping, holy fucking shitting hell epic ass awesome as southern fried fuckery helmet. Roland fainted.

When he eventually came to, Roland noticed that the song was still playing. Maybe it was on repeat. The helmet had extended further out of the hatch and it was now clear that it was not just a helmet, but an entire god damn knight. This epic fucker was now straddling the tank’s cannon like it was some kind of giant phallus and he was holding his arms in the air like a messiah of metal.

“Roland Pilejuice!” boomed the mysterious knight.

“Oh shit,” mumbled Roland under his dog shit scented breath. It knew his name.

Chapter III

The glistening knight with the most amazing helmet ever to be a helmet back flipped off the tank, performed sixteen corkscrew twists on the way down and landed on the floor like a gymnast with high functioning autism. As soon as his feet hit the linoleum, the sound of a previously uninvented guitar riff rocked the room from seemingly nowhere. Roland had completely forgotten about his cold goomba cocks by now.

“Who-who are you?” asked the bewildered man.

The knight slid up to Roland and bedazzled him some more with a close up view of his god damn supreme helmet. “I am Balor Balcbéimnech!” he boomed.

Roland was flabbergasted, like a porn starlet discovering a small fishing vessel inside her on-screen partner during an elbow-deep fisting scene with an otherwise bland and boring storyline. “The Helmet Knight?” he stammered. “You’re Balor Balcbéimnech, the Absolute Helmet himself?!”

“Yes, Roland. It is I, the great and powerful keeper of the Absolute Helmet. I am here to tell you that you are a feeble fuckneck and that your junkie slaying skills are weak”.

“But I just killed one a half hour ago!” interjected Roland.

“Exactly. You killed one. And that was only after it managed to snap your dick in half. You may think that those two machine guns will make it a bit easier to wipe these scumbags off the face of the planet but you’d be wrong. There are many, many more junkies out there. Far more than you have bullets for”.

“So you just crashed in here to make fun of me, call me a fuckneck and make my goomba cocks go cold?”

“No, Roland. I am here so that you may fulfil your destiny”.

 

…To be continued?