The Saga of the Thong, and so on and so on...

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Aww, Chev, don't disappoint your fans!

 

Merry Christmas!

The Saga of the Thong, Partie Sept


The worse thing about going to an afternoon movie was having to step out into the bright sunlight after two hours in darkness, thought Manus as he exited from the rear door of the cinema. He was blinded by the blazing late day sun, as it beamed directly into his straining irises. Of course, a moment of blindness was well worth seeing his favorite film, “Timeline”, once again. With a grin, he idly wondered if he could get back tomorrow to see it again, at least before it went to video. He clutched his “Films of Madonna” souvenir cup in his right hand, feeling it slosh due to it’s half charge of flat, watered-down Sprite (he had found that caffeine made him agitated, causing him to play as Chaotic Evil characters and read “The Son of Strife” repeatedly).

He turned the corner and began to walk along the sidewall of the massive multi-plex building. Thankfully, the sun was now mostly at his back and cast a long shadow of himself upon the concrete bastion. He paused for a moment, and playfully bobbed his head up and down, watching as his shadow mimicked his motion in an exaggerated fashion, 25 feet away. He felt a sudden pang of worry, as he noted a second shadow, behind his own, moving toward his at a speed that could only be called a “full tilt run”. If that shadow continued on its present course toward his shadow…there will be a…

“Collision!” shouted Manus, as he dropped to his knees and lowered his head. The figure cleared his cranium, soared through the air, and crashed face first into the unyielding barrier. Manus stood and looked down at the young man, whose eyes seemed to be drifting in different directions, and said “Why the ‘ell you jumpin my back, cobber?” Joacqin only moaned “but Mommy, I don’t want to be the Green Ranger” as he lost consciousness.

Manus had no time to ponder why Joacqin didn’t like the Green Ranger because a cry of “Voor Nederland” alerted him that an additional attack was incoming. He spun in time to see a stout dwarfish looking chap charging him with a nasty looking battle axe raised above his head. Manus was able to see that the axe was covered with scarlet stains, and he somehow knew they weren’t rust. With a moment of regret, he took the only action available to him at the time. He hurled the coveted cup into the face of Faragon, as he curled himself into a ball and attempted to roll himself out of harms way.

The cup shattered as it hit Faragon fully upon the face, spraying the contents all over his roundish nose and into his eyes. The odd mixture of melted ice, flat Sprite and backwashed popcorn and gummy bears had mutated into a strangely toxic brew, which caused almost immediate blindness to Faragon, who howled in frustration as his axe sliced through empty air before clattering to the sidewalk in a metallic “clink-clunk” while his hands involuntarily went to his stinging cheeks.

Manus had no chance to mourn for his lost cup, however, as three more assailants were rapidly approaching. Two stepped forward to flank him, while the third held back, grinning maniacally as he fondled his hockey stick. The attacker to his right appeared to be an ordinary businessman, but on closer inspection, his Ferragamo suit was actually fabricated from mithril and his briefcase was a cleverly disguised heavy flail, which he was already swinging in an expert and deadly manner; DMC’s “Briefcase O’ Death” had left many witless opponents crushed, both in combat and in court.

The attacker on his left looked to be a very formidable character, as he was completely concealed within full plate armor of a distinctive red, white and blue color scheme. Laches held his weapon of choice, the greatsword, before him, angled upward at 45 degrees, his elbows pointed toward his own belt, leaving him perfectly poised to attack with either a downward slash or a stabbing lunge.

Manus immediately regretted leaving his fortress both unarmed and unarmored, his only weapon being a rather small Egyptian Falchion concealed in a sheath up his sleeve. With a flick of his wrist, he dislodged the trusted blade and it slid down his arm until the hilt nestled inside his clenching fist. It was a graceful, beautiful sword, but its slender 20” blade was more suited to opening mail, cleaning fish or gutting the occasional mugger, and was sadly outclassed by the present armament he faced. He rapidly assessed the situation and found virtually no additional assets that could be brought to bear for his benefit.

The moment seemed frozen in time…the briefcase whistling through the air…the subtle clank of Laches’ armor as he adjusted his stance…when suddenly the persistent and annoying ring of a cell phone intruded upon the martial scene. DMC looked perplexed, then exasperated as he set down his briefcase-flail, opened it and removed the offending object; a tiny, silver flip phone. He studied it for a moment, and then rolled his eyes as he said “Sorry fellas, I’m going to have to bow out of this fight. This call’s about my new client, Michael Jackson.” With a flourish, he opened the phone as if it were a switchblade and barked “DMC…Talk!” into the speaker. As he walked away he could be heard to say “I don’t care what Johnnie Cochran says, we have to play the ‘race card’.”

Manus turned to square off against Laches, who said “dmnlkj mmfppr, I’ll tmpt yim mmy byfmelr”. In unison, both Manus and Bel declared “Huhhh?”. Laches dropped his greatsword, leaned its hilt against his thigh, raised the visor of his helm with both hands and said “I said, ‘doesn’t matter, I’ll take him by myself’”. As he dropped the visor and regained his sword, he returned to his menacing stance, which he held only for a moment before his weapon came crashing down toward his victim in a mighty blow.

Manus was glad that he had applied some extra attribute points to Dexterity and chosen Dodge as a feat, for his skills barely allowed him to escape the devastating strike. He leaped backward, but found little respite, as he felt some object blocking his retreat. A glance over his shoulder revealed a large, plastic recycling barrel, but he had no opportunity to appreciate the efforts of the environmentally conscientious, as yet another mighty blow way headed his way. This one came on the horizontal, at chest level with the intention of removing his head and shoulders from the rest of his body, and for the second time in a few minutes, Manus ducked out of harms way as he felt the blade slice the hair off the top of his head.

The weapon struck the plastic drum, cleanly slicing off the lid as the base toppled over, spilling its contents on the ground, and with a bright ringing tone struck the concrete wall. A spark flew, and the steel vibrated as for a brief moment as Laches lost his grip on the greatsword while he struggled to regain the feeling in his hands. Manus seized the moment.

Grabbing up the empty drum, he raised it in the air and dropped it over Laches head, where it concealed everything from the knees up. He then retrieved the unattended greatsword, stabbed it through the plastic, between Laches legs and out the far side of the barrel. A sturdy shove toppled the bin and Laches, leaving him trapped on the ground, his steel shod feet kicking helplessly. There was no time to celebrate victory however, as Bel’s evil laugh drifted toward him.

“Ha, well done, you seem to have dispatched all of my men in a most handy matter. It matters not, for now you will have to deal with ‘Daddy’”. Sir Bel advanced menacingly, manipulating a hidden band on his hockey stick, transforming it into a deadly two-bladed sword. And what a sword…in the hands of a master, as Bel was, it was as deadly a melee weapon that anyone ever had the misfortune to face. The razor sharp blades whizzed through the air, each pass drawing nearer to some part of Manus that would bleed uncontrollably. He could block one swipe with his falchion, but was vulnerable to the return blow, his only defense to maintain a futile repetition of “block-dodge, block-dodge”. He found himself forced backward, closer and closer to a row of parked automobiles, until he could feel the front bumper of one of the cars pressed against the back of his calves. There was no further retreat. He could block one more strike, but the following swing would find flesh. Faced with a rather bleak and disparate future, Manus made a desperate and daring move.

Blocking the next blow with his blade, he then threw himself into the air and backward with all of his might, landing upon the hood of the vehicle. As Bel swooped upward with his riposte, expecting to sink his thirsty steel deeply into his enemy’s groin, he encountered only air where an instant before Manus had stood. Bel struck deeply into this void, his weapon probing and penetrating the chromed grille of the automobile to firmly lodge in the radiator. The moment that he spent tugging his ensnared hockey stick from the mechanical trap, was all the chance Manus needed. From his advantageous position of height, he kicked out, squarely connecting with Bel’s glass jaw, causing him to fall in an insensate heap to the pavement.

He looked around, at the fallen and the vanquished, plagued by the nagging question “Why?” His reverie was interrupted by a piercing shriek, and he turned to see another figure approaching. This one looked far different from his other attackers. It moved with speed and incredible agility, as it vaulted and somersaulted over parked cars, with gymnastic grace that could only be described as “Spiderman-ish”. On second thought, pondered Manus, make that “Catwoman-ish”, as the new arrival was decidedly female. Satiana flew over the last car, passed over Manus’ head, to land soundlessly and lithely beside Bel. She carried no weapons, indeed only a few gaily wrapped packages were tucked under one arm, as she looked down upon a now groggy Sir Belisarius, who spat blood and growled “where the hell have you been?!”

“Shopping” said Satiana, in a sunny tone, “watch these for me would you, love” she cooed as she set her parcels down beside Bel, careful to avoid the puddle of blood.

Manus jumped down off the hood of the car, his hands outward in supplication, his sword harmlessly dangling from his right hand. “Oh no, wait a minute, I can’t hit a girl!”

Satiana gave him a saucy smile and a wink and said, “That’s too bad, it would’ve been more fun if you’d tried”

Manus thought he could see the blur of her first punch, but as she used “Stunning Fist”, he never saw the “Flurry of Blows” that laid him flat.


Manus awoke to find himself securely held. Joacqin, Faragon, DMC, and Laches each firmly held one of his limbs, ensuring that he could not escape. Satiana stood several feet away, glaring at him as she tried to fix a broken nail. Sir Belisarius loomed directly over him, his gaze angry and purposeful. From his index finger dangled a tiny piece of fabric. Its elasticity was provoking, its minimalness was taunting, its potential exposure was terrifying; Manus knew without word that this was the dreaded SP thong.

Bel spoke, an unneeded tooth dropping out as his mouth opened, “I would like to introduce you to my leetle friend…and now, Aussie, put on the thong and pose!”

Manus imagined a future of ridicule as he saw his “cheeks” displayed for all eternity in glossy print, the jokes, the shame, the anathema that would be brought upon his noble family. It was an ugly and hopeless situation, with no conceivable escape. Then he remembered a recent debate in AoDA, and with determination and resolve he snarled through clenched teeth “I…will…not…wear…the…thong…because…it…doesn’t…EXIST!”

With a barely perceptible “poof” and a slight flash, the thong disappeared. The Enforcers degenerated into a confused uproar, as the members searched for the missing garment. In the commotion, Manus made good his escape, wisely vowing to never attend the cinema again without proper protection. The thong was later found in DMC’s briefcase, along with some other underclothes that would be best ‘not mentioned’, but by that time, Manus was long gone.

The Enforcers returned, dejected to the Elk Lodge in Compton. Satiana, miffed at the group’s incompetence, parted ways to stay and try the surf at the Great Barrier Reef. The thong, that inimitable symbol of frustration and defeat, had still not been worn.


To Be Continued

 

Well done. However, a word of advice to Bel & Co. - you're supposed to kill people after you've got them to wear the thong, not before.

 

Looks like that's the image limit... 'Nuff said.

 

*claps* Brilliant, absolutely brilliant.

Where's that mention you promised me? *poke*

 

Does anyone want a resolution?

since Manus left the boards I have felt drained of inspiration.

Shall we determine for all time "Who wears the thong"?

 

@H.S. - of course we want a resolution (or at least, I do). I thought I made that clear here.