I doubtlessly hope that the material I'm about to present will open some eyes and minds. Here's the story: I am not trying to save the world -- I gave up that pursuit a long time ago. But I am trying to make efforts directed towards broad, long-term social change. I correctly predicted that Mr. Viewtiful-Chris would produce culturally degenerate films and tapes. Alas, I didn't think he'd do that so effectively -- or so soon. He's a pretty good liar most of the time. However, Mr. Viewtiful-Chris tells so many lies, he's bound to trip himself up someday.
If you'll allow me a minor dysphemism, Mr. Viewtiful-Chris is irresponsible -- maybe "baleful" would be a more applicable adjective. Or, to phrase that a little more politely, Mr. Viewtiful-Chris's helots consider his communications a breath of fresh air. I, however, find them more like the fetid odor of Bulverism. I shall not argue that his newsgroup postings are an authentic map of his plan to thrust all of us into scenarios rife with personal animosities and petty resentments. Read them and see for yourself. I laughed so hard I almost cried when Mr. Viewtiful-Chris stated publicly that all minorities are poor, stupid ghetto trash. You just can't make this stuff up -- at least, not without noticing that Mr. Viewtiful-Chris's a financial predator who preys on the elderly, the gullible, and the vulnerable. He seeks their assets to support his own lavish lifestyle. Keep that in mind while I state the following: There can be no argument that the conflation of self-satisfied boneheads and pusillanimous varmints in Mr. Viewtiful-Chris's rodomontades is either dramatic hyperbole or a fatal methodological flaw. I won't dwell on that except to direct your attention to the rapacious manner in which he has been trying to create a world without history, without philosophy, without science, without reason -- a world without beauty of any kind, without art, without literature, without culture.
Even with no further evidence than what I've previously presented I would feel -- and no person on Earth can alter my opinion -- that there is no time and little temptation for those who work hard on their jobs and their responsibilities to introduce a zeitgeist of insurrectionism to our society. You may have detected a hint of sarcasm in the way I phrased that last statement but I assure you that I am not exaggerating the situation. It's good that you're reading this letter. It's good that you're listening to what I'm saying. But reading and listening aren't enough. You must also be willing to help me advocate social change through dialogue, passive resistance, and nonviolence.
Mr. Viewtiful-Chris is battening on us. Let's be sure that I've made myself absolutely clear: The key to Mr. Viewtiful-Chris's soul is his longing for the effortless, irresponsible, automatic consciousness of an animal. He dreads the necessity, the risk, and the responsibility of rational cognition. As a result, Mr. Viewtiful-Chris's intent is to prevent us from asking questions. He doesn't want the details checked. He doesn't want anyone looking for any facts other than the official facts he presents to us. I wonder if this is because most of his "facts" are false.
I wonder what would happen if Mr. Viewtiful-Chris really did outrage the very sensibilities of those who value freedom and fairness. There's a spooky thought. When I first heard about his remarks, I didn't know whether to laugh, because his belief systems are so naive, or cry, because he is trying to erase the memory of all traditions and all history. His mission? To create problems that our grandchildren will have to live with. Even when Mr. Viewtiful-Chris isn't lying, he's using facts, emphasizing facts, bearing down on facts, sliding off facts, quietly ignoring facts, and, above all, interpreting facts in a way that will enable him to limit the terms of debate by declaring certain subjects beyond discussion. He maintains that all any child needs is a big dose of television every day. This is hardly the case. Rather, there is growing evidence that says, to the contrary, that he's a psychologically defective person. He's what the psychiatrists call a constitutional psychopath or a sociopath. Let me end by saying that I know that what I have written in this letter will send many readers (especially any who are big fans of Mr. Viewtiful-Chris) into a tizzy or a tantrum. I am sorry, but I remind them that I find much to disagree with in Mr. Viewtiful-Chris's subliminal psywar campaigns.
SlashFirestorm
"If only that redhead could see you now," Brock laughed. "Maybe I'll look her up when you're in the hospital from all the rectal trauma."
Ash began crying now, because he knew Misty had been watching from the windows the whole time. What's worse was she'd started to draw a crowd, who were all silently watching the scene, munching popcorn and Cheri Berries.
Brock felt his orgasm approach, and thrust in and out of the tender puckered hole as fast as he could...and then, with a loud groan that would make an Exploud envious, released his hot cum into Ash's bowels.
After a few moments of allowing the tight passage to milk out every drop of his seed, Brock pulled out quickly and mercilessly, making Ash grunt in sharp pain.
However, it was then that Brock noticed that his Pokemon hadn't achieved release yet!
"Poor Onix...I'll tell you what. You take him now. I'll fuck his mouth while you do."
Ash's eyes widened in disgust and fear. "But...you just fucked me in the ass!!! You can't be serious!"
Brock looked at him for a minute with a sly smile before he spoke. "I find it somewhat amusing that you're more worried about ass-to-mouth than a GIANT ROCK MONSTER FUCKING YOU IN THE ASS. Maybe that says something about you, my friend."
Before Ash could respond, Onix had released him from his Bind, and slithered over to his backside. Brock moved in front of his collapsed form, already erect again, and lifted Ash's chin up.
"Open wide, my little idiot."
With a sobbing breath, Ash took the cock into his mouth, nearly vomiting at the thought of it being in his asshole minutes before. The taste, the smell! It was like an orgy in his mouth, except made up entirely of Grimers!
However, the humiliation from this oral contact was very quickly overshadowed by the terrible sensation of something very, very hard and rough pressing against his sore, gaping anus.
OH GOD IT'S ONIX!!!
Onix's cock was about five feet long and as thick as an adult human's arm.
Dear. God.
It suddenly pushed its way into Ash's bruised bowels, managing to force an entire foot into him. Onix began to pump, causing Ash to be lifted off the floor. Brock held on to Ash's shoulders tightly, going along for the ride.
It was truly a sight to behold for the crowd that had gathered outside. An Onix was sodomizing a young boy, so hard that he was whipping his mighty stone dick through the air like a tea-stirring rod, with the town's noble gym leader holding onto the boy for dear life (and oral sex).
Ash screamed muffled shouts of pain around Brock's thick, thrusting penis, unable to handle the burning, scouring agony of the thick stone cock bulldozing his bowels. Luckily, it didn't last long; Onix had nearly reached orgasm by grinding on the floor, so within five minutes, he was attaining climax.
A massive twenty-gallon explosion of cum erupted from the tip of Onix's enormous penis, sending Ash flying off of the hard organ with an audible popping noise (think balloon-popping...). The NOBLE TRAINER FROM PALLET and Brock crashed through the front window of the Gym and rolled to a stop on the ground in front of the crowd, where Brock finished himself off in Ash's throat with a series of hard, brutal thrusts.
For a moment, nobody moved; they merely stared at the two cum-soaked and dusty males on the ground, and at the Onix who poked his head through the shattered window, a cigarette in its stony mouth. Then the crowd erupted into cheers, pulling Brock up onto their shoulders and crowdsurfing him away to the Pokemon Center, where the gym leader would receive a hero's welcome and a starring role in Poke-Porn 7: Return of the Ninetales.
Ash lay on the ground alone now, except for Misty, who stood over him with an impassive look on her face.
"Wow."
He didn't respond; he merely lay at her feet, crying, coughing up cum, and wondering if his ass would ever feel normal again.
"Wow wow wow," Misty repeated, and Ash, thinking that maybe she'd been impressed at the show...as humiliating as it was...thought that maybe she'd give him some as a reward or something.
But when he looked up, he saw that her gaze was training on Onix...and his enormous rock penis.
Misty waved a half-hearted farewell to the battered trainer, walking over to the mighty Pokemon, who slithered off with her to the nearest Motel 6.
As the sun beat down on Ash's naked, shattered body, he closed his eyes and sighed in shamed defeat.
But hey, at least now he learned that ground types were immune to electric attacks.