There is a legend, that is told, and has been told since many moons ago, when the world was still covered by its warranty, but was otherwise much as we know it now, only with less tat, before the audience was set ablaze, and shocking truths were revealed. It is a legend oft sung from the tops of mountains, hollered from beachfront properties, and boringly recited and analysed to death by the people in legend club.
I could tell you about legend club, but then I'd have to abduct you to the secret facility and beat you with a rubber hose until some part of you falls off, or I get tired of doing that and leave, probably to do something more productive with my time.
Because time is space, space is relative, and anything, be it time, space, or relatives, can be converted into money with enough grit, determination, and toughness. Tough like an old leather boot - the kind one often fishes out of the soup of the day if they were foolish enough to go to the dingy diner behind the gas station, instead of going to the far nicer place next to that strip mall. You know, the one that opened across from the laundromat and the adult-entertainment and dildo store.
Yeah, that one.
And much like chewing on an old boot, our story may involve the loss of teeth, the spilling of hot soup all over one's crotch, or making a fool of yourself as you choke to death on an old, soupy boot. It turns out, they don't taste like chicken. Don't digest like chicken either.
For ours is a tale of derring-do, of the buckling of swashes and the brandishing of butterknives; it is the tale of a salesman, with a box of tat and the forum moderator with nothing better to do at that particular sequence of moments. It is the tale containing a bad mixtape, a fistful of Mark VI Man-throwable War Cake, a riot, another riot, rebellion, rats, more dead weasels than you can shake a wad of bills at, hope, love, tragedy, drama, excitement, the crimes which are bad, and also the crimes which are good. It is the tale of a heist, and a quest, and possibly some kind of adventure as well.*
It is a tale, sponsored by GrandLink Solutions - your source for brand-name network switches that "fell off the back of a truck" and varying lengths of questionably banjaxed CAT5e cabling. GrandLink Solutions: It's cheap, yo!
Our legend begins with a story, and like any good story, it begins with a protagonist - a vaguely humanoid lump of an entity, topped with a mop of hair-like matting, who at this very moment in time was engaged in the time-honoured tradition of knife-rioting, having stabbed at least three mopeds and two-fifths of a person this morning already, and it was not yet ten o'clock. The year was 1986, and frankly, all of the shit about to go down.
So check it...
When the going gets tough, the tough go home - to regroup, rearm, resupply, and reheat some of last night's leftovers because it turns out you work up a mighty appetite hurling yourself down streets and up alleyways all throughout the boroughs, stomping on rats and frantically flailing sharp lengths of steel at passers-by in a six day drug-fuelled bender, and all you'd set out to do was pop down to the store for some crackers and cheese before things had to go and get all pear shaped and complicated and FSCKING ANNOYING >:C
As the saying is spoken, by the saying speakers over in saying club, who frankly are a bunch of chumps and we'd have them any day of the week, the early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets into a convoluted honour duel over the cheese, and ends up having to kill a man with a can of baked beans, and then can that man the same as those beans, and sell him at a slight markup, because not many people are selling canned man these days and it's a lucrative market.
And that, of course, was where the ninjas got involved. In them, our dashing hero recognised the elite skills only only obtains from the secretive dojo of the great master "Big Cock" Johnson, which had recently opened a new franchise in the strip mall across from the dildo store, and had been advertising in the paper its affordable lessons in the "da real krotty" which was used on "da streetz".
Thus, our protagonist knew he would require backup, and so he escaped from the store, leaping onto his trusty bike, which wasn't really all that trustworthy and hadn't been his until a few seconds ago, when he'd been forced to use one of his "secret techniques" - poking the previous owner in the Qi and blowing his arms off at fifteen paces, before removing him from the seat with a spinning back-kick, and pedalling away with the force of a weasel being electrocuted via a rectally inserted hamster delivering four hundred and fifty seven volts. In other words, fast bike getaway top speed avoid death.
REMOVE NINJAS FROM THE PREMISES
Thus spoke the ancient scroll of wisdom, which was actually from last week, and also newspaper, and everyone knew the title was ironic, since these things were all fake news. Their politicans had told them so. But this wisdom was in the classifieds section, and took the form of a short rant, sponsored by the fine folks at $PRODUCT_PLACEMENT_COMPANY_NAME. It seemed promising, and thus he made the call, frantically forcing these damn near valueless coins into a payphone so as to get ripped off by the telco even more quickly.
"Yes hello, and hi also," spoke the voice, and they did sound like it, "SPEAK WORDS INTO THE MAGIC BOX AND I SHALL HEAR THEM!"
"Greetings and hello," were the words that our protagonist spoke, "and also hi."
He did two lines off the back of the payphone handset and smoked a blunt to ensure that he wasn't playing cheeky japes on the phoneline again, having gotten in trouble doing that in the past, but we're not here to recount the legend of the situation involving the chickens, the light aircraft, and the flammable materials. P R O P A N E. Our hero put on a pair of sunglasses, so as to be prepared for the moment when he dramatically removed his sunglasses, which was the very next thing he did.
And then he spoke those words - oh, those words! The words that, in some way, set all of this in motion.
"I've got a bit of a ninja problem."
"Don't worry," said the voice on the other end of the magic box, "I'll be right there."
Then, he was right there, having moved with the speed of ten thousand geese, to arrive just as our hero stepped out of the phonebooth - because these things still existed in the days of yore, apparently, and dramatically put on his sunglasses. His backup - a man so large that he was frankly just three T-72s wearing a trenchcoat - handed him a hockey club, and then, they went to work.
That was when it happened, and when it happened, it happened suddenly, in the form of two people suddenly walking into a strip mall and setting about beating a bunch of brightly dressed ninjas out of recognizable shape using repurposed sporting equipment and elbow grease. Mightily did our heroes strike down upon the ninjas, smiting them about the heads dozens of times apiece, and leaving many of them in states of disrepair, knocked full of dents, bits of them falling off, dropping around the place.
Reaching the big coolers, in which was contained the cheese, well known to be the core area of the supermarket, did our brave adventurers encounter what must've been the mightiest of the ninjas - weedier looking than the rest of them, more pimply and with a worse body odour, and O, what a belt on him: caked with a armour-like sheet of old grease and cheeto dust, bedecked with its own smaller belts, in such an array of colours that the whole thing resembled a very scummy and unpleasant rainbow.
The ninja attacked, hollering obnoxiously while starting to frenetically grab and throw varying blocks of cheese. Our heroes advanced, parrying the occasional brick of cheddar before setting upon the ninja with hockey bat and cricket bar and pummeling him righteously, beating and bludgeoning the unfortunate fool until he had been reduced to an occasionally-twitching pile upon the linoleum.
Their task complete, or so they thought, they decided to leg it before the fuzz showed up, but as it turns out there was little chance of that - the knife-riots were by now in full swing, with significant mobilisation across all districts. The streets were packed, and it was a jungle out there. The government jackboots had been counterattacking with a combination of tazers and rude language, and in response, the rioters had deployed a likely stolen cache of cake. The first volley levelled half a city block, and it would only get worse from there.
Our heroes shared a glance. The plan was a simple one: Get the guns, get the money, and get out while the getting was good.
*May or may not contain any of these things. Product may differ from what it shown on packaging. Use only as directed.
sudo rm -rf --no-preserve-root /