Ok. You will be fighting on a random streetcorner in a heavily urban city, with European style architecture...and a Market....filled with food, cheap trinkets and other random crap. I assume this will be a comical insane romp.
It was a beautiful morning in Paris. There was no George W. Bush, and certainly no Ron Jeremy on the streets. Yet. The French citizens casually strolled down their urban paradise. There was no war here, there was no all you can eat buffet, Dan Rather was just a name and not a tyrant, life seemed perfect. Soft classical music filled the ears of the citizens and tourists as they went onward to bliss.
It pulled up.
A mother ****ing Escalade slowly coasted down the middle of the main road, and stopped at the corner where the two traffic-less roads met. The thing was bumpinâ, spinninâ *****inâ, kickinâ some ass. The music sent chills down the spines of the French.
Here I am...
On the road again...
Static, it seems as if someone had put in a new track.
Willie Nelson was heard.
Rapping. ( sucka )
The pig-tailed thugâs voice was the calm before the storm that the French heard, as the terror had filled their mustard minds. (They did smile, because they have mustard named after them.)
The door opened.
The music got louder.
A voice was heard.
âSON OF A *****!!! Whoâs been ****ing with my CD collection?!â
A shiny dress shoe, dress pants overlapping it, made contact with the pavement.
He looked around, the people staring at him with pure terror in their eyes.
All was silent.
âI like the French, âlotta good folks.â
Screams erupted, they knew who it was.
George W. Bush had somehow crossed a body of water in an Escalade and stopped in France.
âI heard there is rumors on the uh..the..Inernets that France has a mustard named after it. Iâd kinda like to try it out.â
If Chaos were a volcano, it would have erupted. One of the locals stopped running, pointed at the monster, and shouted.
âÃconomiser notre moutarde!â
More blood-curling screams had erupted from the streets, except for a circle of locals on the other side of the market street. There were about seven of them, sitting in a circle, hands joined, with a lit wax penis in the middle of them, they were chanting some sort of demonic chant.
âWhatâre you folks doinâ? I want my mustard.â
Dubya strode towards the circle, the chants became louder as he got closer.
âDonnez-nous le phallic!!
âAre you folks doinâ some type of mustard song? Hell, Iâd like to join!â
âDonnez-nous le phallic!!
Dubya stopped, puzzled, the flame on the penis was growing. As was the penis.
âDonnez-nous le phallic!!
Suddenly, a blinding light erupted from the wang of wax, Dubya shielded his squinty eyes.
âThe Hell? I better be gettinâ some oil with this mustard!!!â He shouted, as he stumbled backwards.
Shouts were heard once again, but these were shouts of relief and worship.
Dubyaâs eyesight had returned, and standing in the circle of the chanters, in place of the penis, was none other, than Ron Jeremy.
âThe mustard does not belong to you. I suggest to back down.â
The savior clutched an object sheathed at his waist, and stared at Dubya.
âYou folks donât wanna give up yer mustard, huh? Alright, Iâll whip this olâ penis manâs ass and start my war on condiments you basterds.â
Dubya closed his eyes, inhaled deeply through his nose and took a stance of a martial artist with a stick up his ass.
Ron unsheathed his weapon, it was a mold of his own penis, it was a massive weapon to be reckoned with.
âYou shall fall at the hands of excelsior!!!
Ron leapt into the air, somersaulting over shocked Dubya, and slamming Excelsior onto Dubyaâs Escalade.
The Sports Utility Tank had exploded, in all of itâs dopeness. Dubya had been shocked, and teleported directly in front of Ron.
âNobody destroys any property of mine that contains oil.â Dubya said, undoing his belt, which had his treasured hunk of metal belt-buckle on the front. He jumped back, and slammed his back into the wall, and fell on his face.
âWho put this wall here?!?!! Who put this BUILDING here?! The Berlin wall was taken down for a reason!â Dubya shouted in his pained rage. He quickly got to his feet and twirled around, whipping his belt into the air.
Piles of cow **** were hurled at Ron Jeremy. Not just any cow ****. This cow **** was on ****ing fire. ****ing Fire. Burning Cow ****.
Ron deflected a pile back into Dubyaâs face, bowling him over, but three planted him directly in the sac.
He groaned, grabbed his fellas, and fell to the ground, clutching them.
Dubya stood up, wiped the fecal matter from his face, and threw his weapon down, and his hands into the skies above him. Seriously, his ****ing hands detached and flew above him.
They came down, holding George Bush Sr. They then threw him onto the concrete. George Bush Srâs head was crushed and he died. Dubyaâs hands had reattached.
âWell damn.â Dubya said, as Ron began to stand up.
Without saying a word, he charged at Dubya, Excelsior was over his head. He came down with the wang, as Dubya caught it, and gritted his teeth to stop the oncoming phallic weapon. His eyes began to emit a fiery glow. Operation French Freedom was underway.
He shoved Excelsior back towards Ron, and ripped a brick out of a nearby building. The building collapsed onto them both.
â**** you.â Dubya said, underneath the rubble.