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Welcome to the blog of The Killer Nacho, known to most mortals as Timothy J. Sharpe, a Computer Science graduate of Messiah College and currently a Systems Analyst for Sunoco Logistics. Within this tome of pages, one will find my innermost thoughts about various things concerning things that I enjoy. These subjects include, but are not limited to, roleplaying, gaming, American Football (the NFL), things to do with computers, philosophy, movies that are awesome, TV shows that are awesome, my own writings and creative works, and dangerous Mexican snacks.

Friday, October 8, 2010

Epic Continuity Part II: The King of the Truckers

The lego-people flung about randomly, guided by the white, yet slightly browned with age, string that constrained them. They could deduce judging from their momentum that their master, a tall plump man, was bringing his vessel to a crawling stop. The master had a long, wild beard that was the home to a vast array of petite lifeforms. His eyes were the vibrant color of putrid excrement, and his odor did not differ from this metaphor much. The cloth that covered his torso, while originally white, was littered with stains of coffee, beer, mustard, ketchup, and who knows what else. His most distinguishing feature, however, was a majestic crown crafted from cardboard labeled “Burger King”, a symbol of his unquestioned dominance over them despite the master's obvious shortcomings.

Burger King Bob, as he was christened cleverly by his peers, rolled down his window and looked down upon the gasoline attendant dominantly. He took out his Master's Card and handed it to him, his deep voice bellowing from his lower abdomen, “I require a fill up, Diesel.”

And the gasoline-attendant obeyed without question, understanding the request of the King. Using his lone hand, he tapped a combination of buttons on the control panel, then pulled out the gasoline pump and inserted it into the King's domain. Bob extinguished his engines and lay back, relaxed, in his throne, crookedly staring at the lego-people helplessly hanging above his dashboard. It had been a lengthy and routine journey thus far, but he was making good time. The passenger seat was littered with vacant cans of various brands of energy drinks. Who requires sleep when one has caffeine? He was so wired he could barely blink, and his gasoline tank was filling as slowly as an unconscious Stephen Hawking face-down in the mud without his wheelchair. Becoming impatient and annoyed, he shot up from his resting place and glared at the gasoline attendant, who was lazily slouched in his fold-up seat. The gasoline pump read that the transaction was completed, and yet it seemed that the attendant either did not care enough to act or simply was not aware of its completion. Bob felt his whole entity overflow with rage as he kicked open the door of his domain and barged down onto the cold, black pavement below. The gasoline attendant sprung from his chair, completely astonished by this shocking development.

“My order was complete over a minute ago, dude!” he hollered, the veins on his forehead bulging from skin, as if it were trying to escape from its fleshy prison.

Lazily, the gasoline attendant looked up at the gasoline pump and saw that it was indeed complete, “Si, si.” he sighed.

It was the early evening, and the attendant was entirely exhausted from the prolonged 16-hour shift, so while he began the motion that was required to remove the pump from the truck, he seemed to be making little to no effort to do so with any haste. The fool – thought the lego-people within the King's domain – was he not aware that the King's patience was limited? He had places to be, people to serve, things to deliver. He had no time to wait for anything, or anyone...

The attendant straightened himself, reaching for the buttons on the control pad of the gasoline pump. However, Burger King Bob's patience had already exceeded its rather meager limit. “You have already failed me!” he barked, charging and bull-rushing the man backwards as he pushed the sequence of buttons for himself, removing the pump from his domain and returning it its rightful place by the gasoline control pad, and taking back his Master's Card, which he promptly returned to his wallet. All Bob could think about now is how he loathed the States that required the use of gasoline attendants. His eyes turned back to the one-handed attendant, who was now lying on the firm cement nursing his newly created wound, struggling to pull himself up with his only arm. Bob squinted his eyes and gazed into the attendant's angered and spiteful eyes.

Just then, the attendant froze as if encased in ice, feeling an obscure sensation violate his entirety. Part by part, piece by piece, organ by organ, from the inside out, he could no longer feel... he was once hungry, but now his stomach felt like a void. His heart once beat rapidly, but now it was still. His skin was once invaded from throbbing pain from the fall, but now his skin felt nothing at all. And his single remaining arm began to feel as null as the one he had misplaced, so many years ago. What was this sorcery? He looked up at the angry truck driver one last time, realizing he appeared much taller. Or was it he that was shrinking? His fingers started merging together, and he could feel his skin morphing into an odd exoskeleton. What was happening to him? How could this happen?

Burger King Bob marched triumphantly towards his newest trophy, and picked up the newly formed lego-person. It had a striking resemblance to the gasoline attendant from which it came. It lacked one of its arm pieces, but that was to be expected. He removed a slightly-browned string from his pocket, strolled back up into his domain, and hung it with the rest of his citizens. Looking over to the adjacent convenience store, and realizing that the one-handed attendant had been the only employee currently on duty, he decided to cash in on his newest conquest. After walking casually in the small building, he wasted little time stuffing all of the energy drinks he could fit into a plastic bag. It was then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the Slurpee Machine. Bob loved Slurpees. Just as he was about to pour a deliciously refreshing Cherry Slurpee for himself, he was interrupted by the sound of an angry booming voice bursting from outside.


Bob froze in terror. How could they have found him? How could they have discovered he was behind the mysterious disappearances? No... it was impossible, his power was impossible. He had left no witnesses, ever... There was no way they could know... could they? Bob released a defeated sigh. But before he could leave the small establishment with his hands raised, he peeked through the window and realized that the voices were not directed at him. Instead, they were surrounding an Applebee's across the street. “The hell?” he muttered under his breath.

After a few seconds of relative serenity, all that could be heard within miles was the cracking, blazing sound of a barrage of gunshots. Bob could do nothing else but run to his domain as fast as he could bear, awfully staring in the direction of the flashing light encased within a field of smoke.

The sound of gunshots began to decline, and he knew that it was time for him to make his getaway. He quickly climbed into his domain and turned the ignition key, turning back onto Route 66. He slammed his foot on the acceleration, but was forced to slam on his brakes shortly thereafter, barely noticing the shadow standing before him on the road. It was not a smart idea, since the truck's momentum caused it to topple over. Bob was pinned to his seat by the buckle, trapped within his own domain. The shadow approached the wreckage and began to take the form of a man. It was a rabid, shabby-looking man wearing what appeared to be authentic old western apparel. Strapped to him, to both his front and back, were two children, which he appeared to have used as improvised armor. In his right hand was an antique revolver, still smoking from the recent carnage in which it was involved. The man paused before Bob's domain, his crimson blood-shot eyes fixed upon Bob. Feeling threatened, the King summoned his guards. The once still lego-people who hung there slipped out of the strings that bound them, walking towards the man, forming a defensive parameter around Bob's domain.

Not sure quite how to respond to the threat of tiny plastic miniatures, the man began slowly backing off but then regained his composure, initiating a laugh sounding abnormally like a crazed badger, a noise that could be heard for miles. After laughing for minutes he concluded his maniacal shrieks, facing Burger King Bob again along with a wide smile, revealing his small amount of sharpened teeth.

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