Post by Swees on May 18, 2016 11:20:16 GMT
...Or Suffer The Wrath of the Hamburgler!
(Heavy Weights On)
(Thread PL: 20,000 (With Weights: 5,000))
Swees had gotten the McBao’s worker to drag in a couch from the furniture store next over, and was languidly reclining while having his third lunch. With the door locked, Swees was the only customer. He was working on his nineteenth Spicy Suplex Burger, Champion-sized.
“H-how is it Mister Swees?” The employee asked, half-hiding behind a plastic platter.
Swees shoved the remaining half of the burger past his fangs, swallowing it with a mighty gulp before releasing an Earth-shaking burp. “It’s okay," Swees allowed. "You’ve started slipping since your sixteenth. But I’ll let it slide.” He leveled his arm cannon upward in a shooing motion. “Go make another.” He pressed the energy throttle on his arm cannon, making it purr threateningly. “And don’t get stingy with the pickles this time.”
The worker dived over the counter, hurriedly scrambling to start cooking.
Swees leaned back, folding one boot over another. All this good Earth eating was making him strong. He could feel it. Even his voracious Hunger hadn’t gone fully overblown in a while. He guessed he’d have to train some, eventually. Burgers and shakes alone couldn’t do the job. He’d have to work out, maybe fight some people. Not for free though. He’d have to get paid.
“Hey uh, what’s your name again?”
“Sencha.” The blonde man replied, glancing over his shoulder nervously as he started to cook the fries. When Swees first jumped him as he was closing shop, the guy had claimed to be some kind of Platter-puss fighting master or some crap like that. The little green alien had warned that any weird moves would result in him getting rayed on max, and Sencha had wisely not tried to put up a fight. He looked burly enough, but unless Swees’s scouter was playing tricks, it was all muscle and no chi.
“Sencha.” Swees said, cracking his neck. “You got any people you don’t like? Anyone you want me to, you know, cut down to size?”
“The p-p-president. He’s humiliated me one too many times!” Sencha declared, holding up his fry cage and turning with a dramatic flourish.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Swees objected. “I’m not going to get wrecked by some superbot.” Who’d Sencha think he was? The Platinum Powerhounds? He was well aware of the Earth leader’s reputation for beating french-fied Saiyans and whatever other weird-power stuff the Galaxy was popping up these days. Ever since the changelings fell, shit started getting whacky, like someone had taken a jar of all the Special Sauce in the galaxy and dumped it all over the worlds. Special Sauce. “Put some extra sauce on my burger this time too. And I mean someone easy. But you know, like, you’re too much of a wimp to beat up. But I could. For a price, I mean. Someone retail level. Get what I’m saying?”
“I don’t make very much money, and I already gave you my wallet.”
Swees sighed. “You got a -- what’s it called? A Check King, right?”
“A checking account.”
“Right. It’s got money in it?”
“Some, but I’m saving it up for going back to school.”
Swees squinted his eyes. “You’d rather go sit in some school than work here?” He gestured to all the crockery-strewn splendor of McBao’s. These Earthlings were really dumb. This place was a food factory! A feast machine! A palace with eats always on. Why settle for less? Besides, all school food in the galaxy was terrible.
“Not enough money in it, I guess.” Sencha said nervously.
“I guess I get that part.” He idly toggled his arm cannon setting to kill, the battered white carapace chugging with the added energy. “So do you have someone for me to collect on, or not?”
He'd really hate to end the day without making any money.
“Well, there is one guy.”
The french fry alarm started to beep, and Swees jabbed a finger. Sencha nervously hustled over, quickly stacking steaming golden fries into a box.
“Where’s this guy live? Does he have any special moves? I don’t like fighting people with those. Guys like that will cost you extra.”
“I don’t think he has any of those.” Sencha said, laughing nervously and hurrying over with the fries. When Swees arched an eyebrow expectantly, he returned with a full new bottle of spicy ketchup. Swees quickly shoveled the fries into his expansive maw, clenching at the ketchup bottle to grease up the cuts of potato as he devoured them. Two seconds this time, not bad. He let out another noxious burp, tossing the bottle onto the growing pile of empties.
“Now go get my burger. And don’t forget the shake. So no specials huh?”
“Not that I know. He has a motorbike though. Races them. His name is Long Jing. He lives near the harbor in West Capitol. He’s a jerk, part of this bike gang I used to be in. The Eightballs. Anyways, he took my bike and took my girl Mushi and said a lot of untrue stuff behind my back.”
Lots of clients had problems like this. Different star system, same story. Revenge was always a commodity. Some fungoid slug had once paid Swees a lot to get back at a jilting lover by throwing salt all over her marital cesspool.
“Uh huh.” Swees agreed. “Go on.”
“Well he said I was on steroids, and that I lost my championship belt in the Pit because of it.” Sencha lowered his head. “And he said I would never win anymore, because I’m a bad person.”
Swees had to admit, he kind of liked the style of this Long Jing. Steal from a friend, then head them off by ruining their rep. “You want me to kill him, or what?”
Sencha clenched his fists, trembling as he watched Swees’s beef patty and cheese sizzle on the griddle. “I want you to humiliate him! Revenge for all the shame he put me through!!!”
“Alright.” Swees said, a small smile growing on his green face, revealing sharp fangs. “But revenge'll cost you.”
Swees didn’t get racing motorbikes. Sometimes they bet Zeni on the races, but more often than not they just did it for fun. That gave him a sour feeling. These people had no business sense, no pride for their time. He folded his arms, waited idly in the middle of the dark freeway. The lights here in the Harbor District never worked properly since the War, and it was here the racers did their stuff. Finding them was plenty easy. They made a lot of noise on their machines, and half the humans as young as Swees knew where the bike races were.
The whine of the engines climbed as the bikes ascended the onramp. Swees could see their headlamps now, gauzy yellow beads battering down the night. Flames from their engines glistened like forked tongues, and their hooting and hollering echoed across the sleepy city.
The guy Swees needed was right up front. Winning the race. But not for long. He was the tallest and lankyest of them, and fit the description that steroidal nerd Sencha gave to a tee.
When the glow of the headlights finally fell on Swees, Long Jing tried to swerve out of the way. Quick as a sabai-cat, Swees leapt in front of the bike, propping the toe of his boot up and grinding it against the front wheel. Rubber and steel sloughed off, and the harness and seat rattled as the backend swung up into the air. Rider and bike both would have been thrown high into the sky, but Swees was a professional, and applied jusssst the right amount of force to bring the bike to a stately stop.
“Whoa dude, what the f-”
Swees grabbed Long Jing by his hair and lifted him from the bike, floating up into the air. With a quick shot from his cannon he reduced the bike to flaming metal entrails. Reaching behind him, Swees took out a cardboard sign and planted it firmly on the guy’s head, the cardboard tearing around his neck.
I’m a Stoopid it read. Swees took a quick stream of that with his scouter, then flew high up into the dark sky. The scared look and babbling crying was pretty good, but it wasn’t enough for humiliation. He’d have to go somewhere more public. A few of the biker gangs were circling on their motorcycles and yelling curses his way.
“Yeah, yeah! Neener neener I got your leader!” Swees snarled down at them, flipping the bird. “Go drive off a cliff.”
With that he flew off towards the city center, towing a flailing and wailing Long Jing by his leather jacket. Maybe the jacket was worth something. What’d the Earthlings call that?
Two birds, one rock.
(Heavy Weights On)
(Thread PL: 20,000 (With Weights: 5,000))
Swees had gotten the McBao’s worker to drag in a couch from the furniture store next over, and was languidly reclining while having his third lunch. With the door locked, Swees was the only customer. He was working on his nineteenth Spicy Suplex Burger, Champion-sized.
“H-how is it Mister Swees?” The employee asked, half-hiding behind a plastic platter.
Swees shoved the remaining half of the burger past his fangs, swallowing it with a mighty gulp before releasing an Earth-shaking burp. “It’s okay," Swees allowed. "You’ve started slipping since your sixteenth. But I’ll let it slide.” He leveled his arm cannon upward in a shooing motion. “Go make another.” He pressed the energy throttle on his arm cannon, making it purr threateningly. “And don’t get stingy with the pickles this time.”
The worker dived over the counter, hurriedly scrambling to start cooking.
Swees leaned back, folding one boot over another. All this good Earth eating was making him strong. He could feel it. Even his voracious Hunger hadn’t gone fully overblown in a while. He guessed he’d have to train some, eventually. Burgers and shakes alone couldn’t do the job. He’d have to work out, maybe fight some people. Not for free though. He’d have to get paid.
“Hey uh, what’s your name again?”
“Sencha.” The blonde man replied, glancing over his shoulder nervously as he started to cook the fries. When Swees first jumped him as he was closing shop, the guy had claimed to be some kind of Platter-puss fighting master or some crap like that. The little green alien had warned that any weird moves would result in him getting rayed on max, and Sencha had wisely not tried to put up a fight. He looked burly enough, but unless Swees’s scouter was playing tricks, it was all muscle and no chi.
“Sencha.” Swees said, cracking his neck. “You got any people you don’t like? Anyone you want me to, you know, cut down to size?”
“The p-p-president. He’s humiliated me one too many times!” Sencha declared, holding up his fry cage and turning with a dramatic flourish.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Swees objected. “I’m not going to get wrecked by some superbot.” Who’d Sencha think he was? The Platinum Powerhounds? He was well aware of the Earth leader’s reputation for beating french-fied Saiyans and whatever other weird-power stuff the Galaxy was popping up these days. Ever since the changelings fell, shit started getting whacky, like someone had taken a jar of all the Special Sauce in the galaxy and dumped it all over the worlds. Special Sauce. “Put some extra sauce on my burger this time too. And I mean someone easy. But you know, like, you’re too much of a wimp to beat up. But I could. For a price, I mean. Someone retail level. Get what I’m saying?”
“I don’t make very much money, and I already gave you my wallet.”
Swees sighed. “You got a -- what’s it called? A Check King, right?”
“A checking account.”
“Right. It’s got money in it?”
“Some, but I’m saving it up for going back to school.”
Swees squinted his eyes. “You’d rather go sit in some school than work here?” He gestured to all the crockery-strewn splendor of McBao’s. These Earthlings were really dumb. This place was a food factory! A feast machine! A palace with eats always on. Why settle for less? Besides, all school food in the galaxy was terrible.
“Not enough money in it, I guess.” Sencha said nervously.
“I guess I get that part.” He idly toggled his arm cannon setting to kill, the battered white carapace chugging with the added energy. “So do you have someone for me to collect on, or not?”
He'd really hate to end the day without making any money.
“Well, there is one guy.”
The french fry alarm started to beep, and Swees jabbed a finger. Sencha nervously hustled over, quickly stacking steaming golden fries into a box.
“Where’s this guy live? Does he have any special moves? I don’t like fighting people with those. Guys like that will cost you extra.”
“I don’t think he has any of those.” Sencha said, laughing nervously and hurrying over with the fries. When Swees arched an eyebrow expectantly, he returned with a full new bottle of spicy ketchup. Swees quickly shoveled the fries into his expansive maw, clenching at the ketchup bottle to grease up the cuts of potato as he devoured them. Two seconds this time, not bad. He let out another noxious burp, tossing the bottle onto the growing pile of empties.
“Now go get my burger. And don’t forget the shake. So no specials huh?”
“Not that I know. He has a motorbike though. Races them. His name is Long Jing. He lives near the harbor in West Capitol. He’s a jerk, part of this bike gang I used to be in. The Eightballs. Anyways, he took my bike and took my girl Mushi and said a lot of untrue stuff behind my back.”
Lots of clients had problems like this. Different star system, same story. Revenge was always a commodity. Some fungoid slug had once paid Swees a lot to get back at a jilting lover by throwing salt all over her marital cesspool.
“Uh huh.” Swees agreed. “Go on.”
“Well he said I was on steroids, and that I lost my championship belt in the Pit because of it.” Sencha lowered his head. “And he said I would never win anymore, because I’m a bad person.”
Swees had to admit, he kind of liked the style of this Long Jing. Steal from a friend, then head them off by ruining their rep. “You want me to kill him, or what?”
Sencha clenched his fists, trembling as he watched Swees’s beef patty and cheese sizzle on the griddle. “I want you to humiliate him! Revenge for all the shame he put me through!!!”
“Alright.” Swees said, a small smile growing on his green face, revealing sharp fangs. “But revenge'll cost you.”
Swees didn’t get racing motorbikes. Sometimes they bet Zeni on the races, but more often than not they just did it for fun. That gave him a sour feeling. These people had no business sense, no pride for their time. He folded his arms, waited idly in the middle of the dark freeway. The lights here in the Harbor District never worked properly since the War, and it was here the racers did their stuff. Finding them was plenty easy. They made a lot of noise on their machines, and half the humans as young as Swees knew where the bike races were.
The whine of the engines climbed as the bikes ascended the onramp. Swees could see their headlamps now, gauzy yellow beads battering down the night. Flames from their engines glistened like forked tongues, and their hooting and hollering echoed across the sleepy city.
The guy Swees needed was right up front. Winning the race. But not for long. He was the tallest and lankyest of them, and fit the description that steroidal nerd Sencha gave to a tee.
When the glow of the headlights finally fell on Swees, Long Jing tried to swerve out of the way. Quick as a sabai-cat, Swees leapt in front of the bike, propping the toe of his boot up and grinding it against the front wheel. Rubber and steel sloughed off, and the harness and seat rattled as the backend swung up into the air. Rider and bike both would have been thrown high into the sky, but Swees was a professional, and applied jusssst the right amount of force to bring the bike to a stately stop.
“Whoa dude, what the f-”
Swees grabbed Long Jing by his hair and lifted him from the bike, floating up into the air. With a quick shot from his cannon he reduced the bike to flaming metal entrails. Reaching behind him, Swees took out a cardboard sign and planted it firmly on the guy’s head, the cardboard tearing around his neck.
I’m a Stoopid it read. Swees took a quick stream of that with his scouter, then flew high up into the dark sky. The scared look and babbling crying was pretty good, but it wasn’t enough for humiliation. He’d have to go somewhere more public. A few of the biker gangs were circling on their motorcycles and yelling curses his way.
“Yeah, yeah! Neener neener I got your leader!” Swees snarled down at them, flipping the bird. “Go drive off a cliff.”
With that he flew off towards the city center, towing a flailing and wailing Long Jing by his leather jacket. Maybe the jacket was worth something. What’d the Earthlings call that?
Two birds, one rock.
)
