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Post by spikeyedjog on Jul 19, 2009 18:33:56 GMT
erm... I'm scared. Can I just hide in the corner and watch through my paws?
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Post by ian on Jul 21, 2009 20:21:36 GMT
Erm no. Fight damn you! Fight!
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Post by steppedonwolf on Jul 21, 2009 20:35:50 GMT
Yeah! C'mon, I'll have ya! You and all yer army! COME ON! WHO'S NEXT? That f*cking penguin, sitting there with his f*cking legs open, saying 'please kick here.' RIGHT, SUNSHINE! ***Boot!*** Spikeyedjog's balls shoot through the top of his head, splattering brains and pieces of cranial bone in a sickening display. lagmonster.com/pingu/
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Post by ian on Jul 28, 2009 20:59:53 GMT
Steppondonwolf is too busy picking bits of penguin flesh out from between his teeth to notice the approach of Ian.
Ian has been busy constructing a scalpel claw hammer. While the claw stays the same, the busy end is no longer blunt. Scalpel blades have been superglued around the edge forming a pretty little silver ring of razorsharp death.
The idiot still hasn't noticed him! Ian shrugs then shouts out 'peek a boo' then swings the hammer in a graceful motion towards Steppendonwolf neck.
The scalpel blades sink in like a hot knife in butter but then DISASTER!
All the blades break off in the neck, Good God, who would have thought that would happen? Still never mind, Ian straddles the dazed Steppendonwolf and proceeds to turns his head into a soupy red mess of brain and skull with the claw end.
-----------------
Note to the newbies, please join in as there is nothing more satisfying then hosing our arena with the contents of your mushed up bodily innards!
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Post by Jim on Aug 6, 2009 21:53:18 GMT
To concerned weith breaking up Steppendonwolf Ian fails to notice an army of cloned Jim, Steppendonwolfws most evil plot ever.
Ravenous from a lack of cake. They devour Ian only stopping to spit out his feet. Never been a fan of stilton
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Post by steppedonwolf on Aug 20, 2009 18:21:26 GMT
A fine result from my cloned army of tractor munching fiends. Now I shall reward thee richly...
I shall free thee from the Curse of Scotchness! (Unholsters flamethrower)
Here is the instrument of cleansing, my brethren. And nothing quite cleanses like fire.
A blazing inferno (is there any other kind?) envelopes The Arena in an apocalyptic display. The wee Jimmy McLeods erupt in flames, their flesh melting and pooling around the scorched bones of Ian Dubya's feet...
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Post by steppedonwolf on Apr 11, 2010 20:03:21 GMT
Can it be a whole seven months since anyone spilled blood in The Arena?
Come on, new blood...come and FIGHT!
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Post by ian on Apr 11, 2010 21:01:22 GMT
Ian wonders into the arena quite by accident, totally forgetting that it was still here. He notices that Steppedonwolf is still in here. Asleep in a corner, covered in cobwebs, smiling.
For no other reason other than convenience, Ian appears to be holding a rather sharp hand axe and predicable actions occur.
He runs over and attempts the bury the blade into body unfortunately. the aggressive arena spiders have already taken care of poor Steppendonwolf.
The axe head passes through the dried husk and embeds into the floor. Ian coughs, wipes the dust out of his eyes and shrugs.
A kill is a kill.
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Post by steppedonwolf on Apr 13, 2010 21:37:46 GMT
Dust to dust...
The dried husk crumbles to dust and blows mournfully across the blood drenched sand of The Arena. Ian sighs happily, secure in the knowledge that he has the seen the last of the seemingly unkillable Steppedonwolf.
But wait! What's this? Ian's eyes bulge in disbelief at the sight taking place before him. The dust of his victim is now blowing wildly across The Arena, twirling, spinning into a vortex of ultimate blackness.
The dust cloud screams like the winds of hell...a scream that is drowned out by the shrieks of terror from Ian as he sees a face form in the middle of the dust cloud.
A face that is disturbingly familiar. The face of Steppedonwolf glowers down at Ian, and then the dust storm is upon him.
Spinning Ian around so violently, subjecting him to forces beyond the ability of mortal man to withstand, Ian's body is torn to pieces and flung over a five mile radius.
Steppedonwolf laughs triumphantly, a force of nature as unstoppable as a desert storm, more powerful than a Djinn...
The Arena is his. For ever.
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Post by steppedonwolf on May 14, 2010 11:36:18 GMT
The dread dust-cloud of Steppedonwolf has taken a holiday from The Arena.
After a brief sojourn over Iceland, causing chaos and havoc and blaming it on some unpronounceable volcano, he hath returned, eager to take on any foolish newcomers who dare to enter The Arena.
No-one here. He laughs triumphantly, and his dust-devil minions construct a crown made of the bones from his previous conquests.
He is crowned, king of The Arena, for evermore.
Any challengers?
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Post by darrelljoyce on Jun 15, 2010 1:19:15 GMT
Enraged beyond belief that anyone could think the arena is his 'for evermore,' a snarling Darra charges up his chainsaw and advances on Ade, who's too busy preening to notice the approaching combatant.
Ade whirls round just in time to see his adversary wielding the chainsaw, and his eyes widen in terror as the blades descend. He feints to one side at the last moment, escaping with just shredded clothing.
Ade regains his footing and tries to face down his foe. However, his bowels loosen when he sees the implacable look in Darra's eyes, and his fighting stance is deeply unconvincing ("Oooh, matron!").
While Ade is still considering how best to deal with this opponent, Darra rushes at him, screaming like a banshee and swinging the chainsaw with wild abandon. Unexpectedly, Darra does not lunge for the innards, opting instead to pin Ade to the ground and, Delilah-like, chop off his hair. Ade screams and whimpers pitifully, but Darra will not be diverted, maniacally shearing off hanks of hair in an attempt to humiliate his enemy before proceeding to further degradations. Continuing long after the point where Ade can offer any resistance, Darra finally succeeds in chopping off Ade's locks.
Kicking his adversary to the dusty floor, he throws the hair contemptuously onto the prone form with a dark chuckle.
Before Ade can think what to do next, Darra pounces on him, silencing his pleas for mercy by hitting him on the head with the handle of the chainsaw. Ade's piteous cries are drowned out by Darra's combative growls, and Darra is rendered insensate by the sight of blood pouring from Ade's burgeoning head wounds.
Ade curls up reflexively in a fetal position, desperate to plead for clemency but unable to find the words in his state of confused terror. Darra is relentless, battering his prey mercilessly until Ade is reduced to a state of gibbering incomprehensibility.
At last, bored by the lack of challenge in this engagement, Darra stands and beholds his erstwhile enemy. Ade is a pathetic sight, babbling interminably and cowering like a whipped cur, a dog that has gone to its master for affection and instead been chastised (a GNS reference, btw).
While Ade is still chasing his scattered senses, the mighty Darra dives on him like a tiger pouncing on a gazelle, expertly using the chainsaw to deliver cruel blows to each of his limbs in turn, cutting and scything with unncanny precision so that soon, Ade is reduced to lying on the ground, unable to move his arms or legs due to the mass of severed tendons and arteries, staring up at his nemesis in a portrait of wide-eyed incredulity and dreading the next development.
A grinning Darra decides that it's time to deal the killing blow.
Cackling like a medieval witch, Darra goes in for the kill, firing up the chainsaw before falling on Ade's recumbent form. The deadly whirring blades plunge into Ade's exposed stomach, and Darra screams with delight at the sight of his adversary's kidneys, liver and intestinal tract making their debut in society. Twisting and turning the chainsaw in the cruellest manner possible, Darra thrusts deeper and deeper, revelling in the spectacle of Ade's transformation from triumphant victor to contemptible chainsaw-fodder. Shredded masses of entrails emerge from Ade's stomach in a sticky, gelatinous morass, and Ade is now powerless to put up any defence as his foe presses his advantage, gratuitously slicing and dicing his internal organs in an orgy of destruction.
At long last, there is no sport left. Ade lies, eviscerated, on the arena floor while Darra stands over him, laughing dersively. A decimated Ade is almost unrecognisable, a bloody, pulped heap of flesh, bone and entrails that might once have have been identifiable as a human being.
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Post by steppedonwolf on Jun 15, 2010 19:06:19 GMT
Darra -
[glow=red,2,300]Fjandinn þú[/glow]
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Post by darrelljoyce on Jun 15, 2010 19:32:01 GMT
Darra - [glow=red,2,300] Fjandinn þú[/glow] Que? Oh, and buíochas a ghabháil leat as an meon - má bhí sé ar cheann maith (thank you for the sentiment - if it was a good one), lol. An admission of defeat, maybe? ;p
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Post by steppedonwolf on Jul 27, 2010 17:02:44 GMT
Can someone murder Darra up, please? I can't enter until my murderer has been...well, murderered. Thanks.
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Post by darrelljoyce on Nov 21, 2011 22:32:04 GMT
And I'd quite like to murder Ade again. *dark chuckle* Otherwise, I'll have a go at someone else. Ah, it's good to be back on this forum.
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