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HAPPY DESTROY BAG'S LIFE DAY
stories about how u want bags to die posted here
we will be judging, write the best way u think scum bag, bags should die kill that faggot 1st place 2nd 3rd |
I'm gonna go get high then edit this post.
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I will subscribe to this upon returning to my place of residence.
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There will be death. There should be an accomplishment for the best tale.
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i hope he gets tortured to death until every inch of his soul gives up before his body collapses from not being strong enough to handle it
bags could die with that five finger shit from kill bill but i'd rather cripple him and allow him to see what a pathetic faggot he is every day of the year until he notices that he's just an insecure, clumsy barely over minimum wage making netcee pussy faggot keyboard gangsta but before that, i'd inject him w/ AIDS in the neck. i'd also throw him off a bridge and hope he survives, so that i can continue torturing him. his body would go limb after i execute him electric chair style until he's screaming and crying on some "no, i have a wife and kids, i'll give u whatever u want" shit as i rip the ducktape off his mouth with the shit attached to him. i would shoot him in the head, but he'd die quicker so i'd make sure to bring him as close to death w/o dying as possible. if he's alive after everything, i'd pay for a prison and leave those dudes w/o food or anything else for a week and then throw bags into the jail and lock it up while i release all the prison mates so they can rape him to death and subsequently kill any false pride or self-esteem he has built into his gut while they prey on his flesh and bones |
That was very hateful.
Its kinda odd reading these about yourself....lmao MOAR |
I HOPE BAGS HAS A WONDERFUL DAY AND DOES POSITIVE THINGS THROUGHOUT HIS LIFE AND THAT MASTERBATING PHONE LADYS BECOME IN PERSON FUCK DOLLS AND HIS HATEFUL DEMEANOR TOWARDS NERDS AND THE LESS COOL TURNS INTO A LOVE FOR THE AWKWARD AND DIFFERENT AND THAT HE USES HIS POPULARITY TO MAKE THANKSGIVING ALONE APPEAR TO BE AN OK THING IN THE GRAND SCHEME OF THINGS ALSO THAT HIS CHILD GROWS UP AS A NON BOARDER WND DOESNT PICK UP THE BLACKCENT HER FATHER LEARNED FROM IDK WHO MY ONLY GUESS IS CASPER FROM KIDS AND I HOPE BAGS HANGS OUT WITH ME ONE DAY SO I CAN PROVE THAY ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS IS NOT ENOUGH FOR ME TO PUNCH HIM IN HIS MOUTH AND I PRAY THAT HE BECOMES SUCCESSFUL AT WHATEVER HE DOES HIS LIFE EXCEPT I DONT CAUSE GOD ISNT REAL OBVIOUSLY OK PEACE OUT
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It was this or write a speech. Thanks Allen
Bags' newfound usage of milk in order to achieve gains will be his ultimate downfall. Unbeknownst to (relatively) young Anthony, he's developed a slight but definite lactose intolerance. While his stomach has been relatively strong, the dedication to his muscular growth will create a problem his body is unprepared for. What he, at first, shakes off as his body 'getting used to' all of this fuel for his gains is the vanguard for Bags' demise. The sickness is tolerable at first. Our unknowing tragic hero puts himself on what he sees as a 'safe' regimen - half a gallon a day. The flatulence and occasional vomiting are but a small fare for the ride along the path of bodily divinity. On top of that, his love of telling poor college kids 'gosh, if I had that much student debt I might just consider killing myself out of obligation to my family' has lead to an unprecedented amount of sick days saved up, meaning this slight interference won't stop him from receiving the pay he needs for his precious milk. This sickness, however, has stopped him from exercising, but the calories from milk become, in his warped little mind, the 'gains' he so desperately sought after. Years pass. 7, to be exact. Bags is a bloated shell of a man. Pale, grotesque, but with slightly larger lats, he is rushed to what will be his final stay at Harrisburg's finest hospital/mcdonalds (a business model developed by Cashius in 2015, but that's another thread). As the bed gives way to support his massive frame, bags attempts to sit up and reach his phone to post on PRNBIA (we finally managed to merge, but the ensuing site shutdowns and having to re-register left only diode, eddie, and He whose name shall not be spoken as active figures in text. Allen Knight made an account to call bags a faggot but forgot how to spell his password immediately. Ironically enough, it was 'faggot') about some other muscle gaining strategy he read about in Sports Illustrated Kids. In doing so, he makes an awkward turn, wherein the fragile lining of his stomach tears, finally spilling his disgusting acidic mass into the entirety of his torso. His pupils dilate. He defecates. Sweat forms at his brow. He defecates again. He vomits. He defecates again. He reaches for his phone, attempting to make one last video. Defecating again, he manages to hit what he thinks is the 'record' button. But his phone was on camera mode - instead of starting to record he has taken a picture of himself vomiting, while shitting himself. Unaware, he begins his last words. 'HEY BROS. BAGS HERE... I MAY HAVE SHIT MYSELF' He defecates again. 'I PROBABLY SHIT MYSELF' He vomits, sweat pouring down his rotund face. Hospital staff, patients, and passers-by alike all can hear this with perfect clarity. 'I JUST WANTED TO SAY.... ALLEN KNIGGHHHH.... YOU FUCKIN... YOU FUCKIN....' He defecates again. As his lungs and heart corrode and melt, muscle spasms cause him to hit the 'capture' button multiple times. (Split Eight, upon hacking into Bags' phone recovers them all and sells them to the huffington post for half of an 'Alf' sweater and a special edition Star Wars episode 1 1/3 bubble tape. They later print them in full color on a slow news day.) The room blackens for Bags. Doctors and nurses rushing to his aid become silhouettes, then vague figures, then nothing. He defecates again. Reflecting on his life and the fatal decision and dedication that would define and ultimately end it, Bags realizes that his lats are so sweet. The heart monitor hits a single, monotonous tone that resonates from the highest of registers all the way down to the depths of hell. He defecates one last time. Good night, Bagsworth. |
Lunch was a meatball sub, marinara drizzled over it.
Anthony was sober, yet still screamed at the dude who toasted it. "FUCK! I'm going to fuck this hot milf and need my energy." Anthony was sober, yet still thought he might be getting V. But fuck it, Anthony sat down and ate his sandwich, in Harrisburg, where a swoll I-talian had an advantage over these small-dick WASPs. Not that his sausage was huge, but he was all right with it. And he had the meatballs, too. He knew this one milf named Ally. Her son was autistic. He'd have that pussy so spread another kid might drop with it. The text read, "Hey, when can you break for a minute?" Anthony knew his daughter wouldn't want a retard to visit, so he wasn't going for the playdate angle that usually works. Five minutes passed. She responded, "Let's screw after church." Whoa, Anthony doesn't usually get that kind of reply, so he sent a pic of his bulge with a tissue-stuffer lining his thigh. Today was Thursday, though. FUCK! Anthony's patience was thin. "Hey, can we make it sooner? I might be taken by then." The joke didn't go over well, but he coaxed a response. "Sure, my ex has Tommy tomorrow. Come by at, oh, 6 o'clock." He spent the rest of his night drinking and making a video mag and no-showing a championship match like he's bigger than that. He would have jerked, too, but he needed to be ready for sex. plus his ball sweat was smelling like that sub: spaghetti and death. Anthony listened to Rocky soundtracks to prepare for the date, with his persistent 3 o'clock shadow game, he'd swear he looked great. Axe covered his rotten scrotum. Ally wouldn't know the difference. So he pulled on his jeans, so fly he even forgot to zip it. He walks up to her house about five fifty-three. "Come in." Such a sexy tone. Anthony's thinking, Are you kidding me? Anthony hasn't been laid once since he created his daughter, or so he thinks. She's actually spawn of some black dude named Arian Foster. But whatever. That's neither here nor there, and Ally's both. She's in a tiny nighty, complete with the Cleopatra pose. Anthony approaches, ready to get his fuck game on REAL BIG, and as he goes to kiss her, she reveals a wig. "FUCK YOU BITCH DIE YOU COCKSUCKER I TOLD YOU I WOULD KILL BITCH!" "Wait, Ally? Allen. Allen FUCKING KNIGHT?! YOU DID THIS SHIT?" Allen Knight pulled out the chainsaw under the chair and sliced Anthony in half with one thunderous snare. Anthony had a closed-casket funeral, but there's one positive twist. His daughter met her real father and immediately realized how much more awesome he is. And she plans to thank Allen Knight some day. Sexually. Probably by swallowing dick. |
i hope this pathetic fagg0t endures a year long metamorphosis of transforming from pussy to light weight vagina only to drown in the waste acids of his own cocoon
i hope this pathetic fagg0t slides down a giant rusty blade into a an ancient hawaiian volcano, but somehow manages to escape only to find his child at the top of the volcano, who tells him his a pathetic father and then roundhouse kicks him back down to the ashes of his fiery doom i hope this pathetic fagg0t gets crushed to death under a stampede of wild elephants, but somehow manages to survive only to be met with hiennas and vultures picking away at his flesh and the pieces of flab that hang of his rotting corpse i hope this pathetic fagg0t dies from reading his own posts, literally, like he decides to rekindle lost memories of his millions of threads in the discs and after 10 hours of reading his own dickery dies from a lack of lulz i hope & pray this pathetic fagg0t dies Japanese execution style, where they don't tell the condemned when their execution date is so they can spend their entire time contemplating the moment when the executioner comes into his cell, reads his charges and slices his fucking head off with a 100 year old samurai sword, except in bags case they dont have swords and have to use a spoon so it ends up taking up to 12 hours of jamming, hacking and forcefully inserting the spoon into the fagg0t's neck till its completely decapated - but the twist is that he ends up drowing in a pool of his own blood, sweat and saliva before that happens |
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dont need to hope bags died anymore, he just did reading ur shitty post fagg0t |
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hey fuckb0y u called me out in the fast n furious thread pussy
i normally ignore u |
Vote sharp
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I will read these all by the end of the day....
Jesus christ at sharp eights tho....looooll I lold at least 3-4 times irl. |
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Looololololol Even deader@it rhyming @Allen Knight Lold harddd Wow first 2 were great....minus dlb....shit was weak. Ill read sum more tgis afternoon Maybe list quotables too |
And so it was time for Anthony's tight little pink anus to meet my Mastadon. I penetrated him and then cut openings into random areas of his flesh and penetrated him there as well. I drew cocks on his face with a green sharpie marker and wrote " I SUCK HULK DICK" on his forehead, then I took out his camera flip phone and send his boss the picture.
I fapped to your tears Anthony. I then slapped you with my fap hand. I proceeded to start a face book page in your name with your first post saying: "I hate niggers and jews". I fed you peanut butter with a pink plastic kiddie spoon and then witheld you water, my urine became your water. Your tears rained like TLC's waterfalls. I then carted you outside and layed you on your stomach and spun a dirt bike's tire over your back until your flesh melted along your spine, a la Pet Cemetary. I used your flip phone to call your mom and I told her that I was going to finish with her son what I started with her ex-husband (RIP Bags' dad), I fapped to her tears, and then licked my fap hand and gave you a wet willie. you tried to cry out for mercy, but I put my finger over your mouth and said "Shhhhhhhh my pet". I ripped off both of your nipples to get you to tell me your Amazon password, I then spent all your meager savings on matching artistic paintings and drapes for my home, just to be ironic. I kept calling you a little girl and punching you until you started saying that you were indeed a little girl. Then I built a campfire and we cuddled near it. The next morning I awoke you by pouring a hint of hydrochloric acid down into your pee hole and crescent kicking your liver until you coughed up your own bile. I then ate a box of Teddy Grahams. Your boss called and said you were fired, I answered and pretended to be the robot Johnny Five from short circuit and told him "EAT A DICK PUSSY FACE". you were broke and jobless, and your mother was panicking...but I was only getting started. I decided to surgically remove your fingers and toes and replace your fingers with toes and your toes with fingers, then we watched an I Carly marathon. I defecated on your chest and fixed myself a pastrami sandwhich. by this point you were a bloody shit covered urine smelling freak, so I asked you a very simple question: "Was my Verse better?" of course you said, "yes!" I then fapped. that evening I began my final master mind plan: I brought you to a meat freezer to slow the flow of blood, I injected you heavily with pain killers, anasthetic, morphine, etc. and proceeded to cut off your arms and legs. Then I waited. I left you in a sealed coffin for a 3 days and nights until you began to heal from loss of blood. I then took you out of the coffin, put you in a backpack and flicked peas at you. the next day I proceeded to bring you back to the meat freezer, drug you up, and rupture your ear drums, along with cutting out your toungue. I then waited for you to somewhat heal.... once that occured, I dressed up in a Barney the Dinosuar costume with a hole so my Cock could hang out, and had you watch me sick a ravenous wolverine upon your kidnapped mother's vulva. Then I ripped your eyes out. you were then fed by a tube and left in "self-prison" only being able to smell your mothers smarmy rotting vulva meat, and what was left of the murderous wolverine after I sodomized then ate it, as I placed you next to a bucket filled with both. there you will remain. until I can figure out a way to literally suck your frail soul out of your chest. fuck you. I hate you. |
Well then.
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Lmfaaaaooooo @ certain hahaha he killed it
This thread is A+++, everyones stories are good |
I took a break on veritas at johnny 5....lmfao....wow. will finish later.
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Certain won
Sharp was a close second J metts tried to be positive, stfu don't u have a golden corral u should be torrmentin Now bags has to make an apology thread to everyone |
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its not gay if it is rape. |
@NotMeth, give me an accomplishment.
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^lol i dont think this was official it was just allen knight tormenting bags in one form or another
but as a group this time, to collectively destroyer that ol' bagg0t |
Sidenote: why is the converse symbol on the inside of the shoe?
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I demand an accomplishment. I didn't get one for writing the better Meth-is-gay verses against Fig, either.
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Stamp Ant, Vol. II
Atop the loneliest bluff in North Dakota, the loneliest bluffer adjusts the grey clicker of his curious yellow-rectangular telescope.
"Yes. Tonight." His last Virginia Slim simmers to a glint of an ember where a filter would usually be, had he not cut them off with manicuring scissors. Using a pinch of Elmer's from his combat vest, he affixes the filter in the last spot of the circular pattern around the telescope's lens. Working quickly, he swings the flash module to point directly into the viewfinder, and fashions the magnet at the end of the filters. To the untrained eye, the strangely clad man would appear to be preparing to blind himself. He smirks. The provisional Odak Posible MERA (micro-electron resonance actuator) cost him a pretty penny, even in its scuffed refurbished state. But knowledge is power, and information is money- the $59 lecture series assured him of that when it instructed him on the complex procedure for reversing the polarity of interstellar light. But even $439.40 on eBay is a small price to pay for front row seats to the celestial light show of a lifetime. Checking the viewport for unwanted light, he confirms he can see nothing. Lovely equipment. Thank you based Soviets. The date: December 4th, 2023. Twenty-three hundred hours. Reaching into his mil-spec hi-density nylon fanny pack, the man rummages through the micro-MREs, flint, tinder, 4th ammendment leaflets, ambient preztel Goldfish- there! With calloused fingertips long-worn from consecutive hours of verse-keying, he spreads the hand-drawn astronomy chart open, making sure not to tear any part of the napkin. Using the light of the deadly solar flares undoubtedly hiding behind the clouds in the infraviolet spectrum, he traces the parallax line of the celestial body through the Kupier Belt, around the sun, and back between the pinhole sized gap between the moon and the Earth and- Miss. Wait. Using the adjusted purple orbital path that adjusts for the academia- rejected, press-silenced lowered mass of the moon (due to the garelick-gorgonzola substrate composition that was calculated thanks to the efforts of now discredited "child rapist" Dr. William Nye) the silent stranger repeats the process. An even closer miss. "Flucking..." using the brillo-pad textured artificial tuft of hair on his surgically reduced clavicle, the man erases the line, and doing some quick calculations on his fingers, and rounding a bit, and finally discarding any semblance of math whatsoever, draws a line directly through the 3rd planet. "En-en-en..... en...bye..... rue.....? En.... bye... rue..." A rusted out Chevy Cavalier starts next to the Vitamin Shoppe, its scratchy engine noise obscuring the desperate shout of a desperate man, separated from his fellow man by the oceans of reasonable doubt and eighty square feet of gravel parking zoning. Before the lights turn on! He quickly aims the MERA at the spot where the event will be most viewable. Secretly hoping he sees nothing, he presses the electromagnetic condensor charge button, waits for the spool to end, and quickly punches the image capture toggle and suddenly, blinding white light. The light of Truth. "NBIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU UUU" Grimly affixing the eye-path he hoped he would never have to use, he briefly basks in despondent disbelief. The signs. The YouTube seminars. The minutes upon minutes spent regurgitating unfound theory after unfound theory, and now for the first time in his life he is absolutely certain- -certain that in some imperceptible way, things will never be the same as they were at some other point, and that maybe today- maybe tomorrow- maybe in fifty years- a couple people will have died as an indirect result of what he has just seen, though they will all try and cover up the facts that can't be actually defined because they are too factual, in a casual sort of sense. Must warn others .... Daniel closes his eyes, relaxing to the peculiar 13/6 rhythm of independently-signed Don Jagofetti. The cantankerous whirr (he pauses to write this in his purple moleskin pocket notebook) of a First Act's polymer strings daintily pressed into the frets eases his mind. He reclines on the weight bench bolted to the floorboard, and opens the sunroof with the sunroof crowbar. He gives the Cav's lightly rusted ignition key one long turn. It gurgles to life, the wind-shielded spark fluid steaming out from the gas block's water bowl. Thank god. Maybe he CAN get another 1,000 miles out of the exhaust pump. Sighing, he sits up to take a long drag of gelatin whey complex from his wine glass. At that precise moment, his Nokia's 8-bit rendition of "Let's Get Retarded" distracts him from the homeless man pulling apart a disposable camera outside. ANT: hey.bro. hurry the.fcuk up.u got dam fiekd nigger. when does,this consert start? how many cat ladys. will b there?? ya boi Tone know those pussy bishes. pussays rnt gonna. dry hump themselfs Dan laughed. His new lifting buddy was hammered again. How will ever achieve gainz? Dan takes the AAAs out of his Nokia, rubs them together with a bit of spit, and slides them in the fluorescent headlamp. As he uses the REMAX pole to depress the expellerator pedal, Dan gets the chills. Almost as if someone may be watching him from far beyond both the storefronts of downtown Fargo. Maybe it is just the cold wind in his bowl cut. ... A single tear blemishes the thick layer of foundation on the scrawny boy's cheekbone. He quickly smudges it over the rough tissue shining through. Reminders of a time when he would do anything for a quick USB jack. When he craved bars more than candy...if only mumsie had banned digital cookies after 4:30 PM on school nights. He smiles in the last remaining mirror in his trailer. His grin almost as fragile. It strengthens a little, remembering those days as internet prizefighter are behind him. And so are the rhythm enhancing discs that nearly ruined his future. Even so, the memories haunt him. It is the simple things that trigger him- "NINE SHARP" Don blinks. His agent is staring at him oddly. Don Jagofetti glanced down to see his Birkenstocks now somehow resemble Jordan VI's. He feels the familiar pressure of a Pennsylvania Philharmonic Juniors snapback, strapped backwards on his curly locks, and a half buttoned shirt that reeked of microwave crab rangoons. "S-s-sorry Alle-" "Ayeee niqqa I tole you don wear my Crooks jersey no more an now I catch you stumbling round, putting on my ropa jus like you was back on the PHP again-" "Ill be okay out there I p-promise-" "Trust, you better gringo, I finna take off, gossum real biz tonigh. Dum fuck ass nigga you posed to be ready by 9PM sharp" The agent turns and leaves as Don shakily makes his way to the Masa Iinn Motel-Bar. .... The Human Shadow. One-Hit-Off Lah. Natzober. Stubby-Calves Gamblini. Yonkers' Shame. No s'Runny. To his imaginary black friend, Suh Bawcksohn. Jason Bourne went by many names. Perhaps if you are familiar with Harrisburg, PA's Italian mafia you would know his face. But to others, his bumfluff mustache is the last thing they see before they are injected with a lethal dosage of Percocets via blowgun/ sneak out the screen door with the turkey under their coat to Gram's house. Despite all his parents' late-November pregnancy scares growing up, Jason Bourne never had a child of his own. Someday, he too hoped to smell that human odor every husband waits for- the gravy, with overtones of cilantro and minced carrots as his wife's water breaks. The smell he smelled once before. His grip on the Veritonio Taso's custom-made precision blowgun's glass cylinder tightened as he drew back the plunger. "Hey.broham. Team Devest8 cud.really use u. bac;k." Jay Gamblini paused, the free clinic's basement chapel was almost deserted. The wedding-white patio furniture was arranged in a circle around the altar. The bride's family member and sponsor was practicing his toast. Jay finished washing the holy hand-sanitizer from his forehead. "Ant, you know I don't get down with text no more, g. I can't work with psycho's like that Pancak-" Bags held up a hand. Jay nervously turned to see a glimpse of his girlfriend's veil. His eyes hesitated on the roundness in her midsection. "lmaoaoao. pop tart inthe panini press?/?,?" Jay chuckled. "A little boy. Felt that herb kick for the first time today." "what os the name?" Jay looked Bags in the eyes. "An-... Glockoa" "whatever.faget u fuckindf coward. log off.nigga" Jay didnt wave goodbye, but began to walk to the aisle, head straight forward. "Jared Wilfred Gamblini. Do you take Ashlynne Madrid Montoya to be your legally bound domestic partner?" "I- BANG BANG The double-tapped metallic thuds shattered the Maxima's limo tinted windshield and then pierced the driver's jugular in quick succession. Not many men could perform such a double shot at that sort of range. Then again, not many men had felt the steel of over 10,000 needles between their tar-stained teeth. Jason removed the Denny's headset and uniform, and stepped over the bodies of its former employees. Jason quickly walked around to the drivethrough, and pulled the wiry Brazilian from his matte gray Nisan Maxima. He picked up his head to confirm the identity. Those beady eyes. That stupid amount of J. Crew in his hair. Jason slammed Allen Knight's head against the Nissan's Infiniti G35 replica rims, and then dragged him to the dumpster. Ripping out the syringe from Allen's sweaty neck, he sucked the needle for that last taste of sweet, sweet suboxone. "Breathe EZ, g." Looking at the picture of Allen and a chubby student loan manager high-fiving over a spit-roasted Cambodian housewife, Gamblini grimaced and kicked the Nissan Maxima's inline-four to life. The lime-green underglow illuminated the ground from the mismatched Infiniti body kit to the pool of blood beneath the Denny's drive through menu. Allen's order of six quarter pounders w/ no cheese, no lettuce, no tomato, no ketchup, no mustard, no top bun, extra peppers and double-salted sat forlornly on the counter. "You're next, u fucking lame herb" ..... Masaii McDermot strolled around to the back-lot of his motel's bar, sweating profusely. The whole crew back together again. Team Devest8. What is Bags planning? The fishing line used to make his traps and back really pop through his Church Youth Group v-neck was beginning to cut into his backfat. Almost the whole crew. Masaii felt for the boomerang in his shoulder holster. It felt good in his feminine hands. Suddenly, blood rained on his Sketchers boat shoes. He moved to draw his boomerang, but the needle pinned his hand to his moobs. Panicking, he fell backwards. In front of him in a LetsBeef leather moto jacket stood Him. "Y-y-you're dead-" "WHO IS TREADSTONE?!" Masaii squirmed backwards. Gamblini pulled out his crack lighter and a plastic fork that had been covered with tin-foil to resemble a spoon. "What are you doing to the gas tank?!" Gamblini flicked the on lighter and wrapped the switch down with an old tourniquet. "Idk bro get off my dick you fuckin herb." Masaii was too woozy to stop him. "You cant... you... herb.... my wife, Mb'duli...save her...for only... ten cents a day...... pls srs no troll.... her HIV meds...." He made an effort to stand, but a horrible desire to vote for himself in some insignificant competition overwhelmed his senses. Jason Bourne looked in the window at Ant. His jowls shaking like a plump 3x10^-5 mg bag of Quaker Kush, due to minor seismic activity somewhere within 300 miles. Without breaking eye contact with the man whose approval he lusted after for over ten years, Jason threw the lighter at the gas tank "V/ destroy her" ( RIP BAGS ) | 1982- 2023 | |He was a real faggit| |
Destroy Bags' Life Day is long gone. That was tasteless. Do you wear Santa hats in May?
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Holy shit. .. .
I feel like split may have ethered me inti the afterlife.....guessing by the pength of that piece Will read later.....am excited lol. |
hold on
i write a short story about bags shitting himself and bags shits himself not 1 week later @Chyeahhh Guevara help me see the truth hidden underneath all this |
I read splits entire story
Wow. Lol. Shit is like tarrentino made a NC movie. Spolier alert Gamble kills me, massaii and allen knight Im kinda confused as to what happened between pancake and chyeahh tho....lol..... Explain? @Split Eight |
Then again, not many men had felt the steel of over 10,000 needles between their tar-stained teeth.
Fucking goneeee Ripping out the syringe from Allen's sweaty neck, he sucked the needle for that last taste of sweet, sweet suboxone. "Breathe EZ, g." Fucking destroyed lmmmaaooo That whole stories gold |
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Im sayin tho....did pancake kill chyyyinnn?
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