I surprisingly overcame insurmountable odds, coming away intact with a bit of poise and a bit of chutzpah. Hours later my energy levels were peaking from the scrumptious stylings of Hyper Crush, who once again battered my body into dance floor heaven. To remain low-key and off the radar, I adjusted my appearance to mimic common civilian wear.
I blended in with the crowd effortlessly at first. Holly Valentine looked gorgeous; she was doing something devilishly supernatural, lowering my normally symmetrical inhibitions, and it wasn't the plentiful booze I'd consumed on the way over, but it easily could've been the sweet scent of Holly's flawless skin.
I had my two molls along for extra added protection, figuring my measly shank wouldn't be enough juice to survive the night.
I was blatantly assailed on the dance floor for being recognized as the towering Floyd Sanders, so Roxie took care of him, rubbed him out brutally.
He didn't stay dead for long and became a zombie, but he chilled the Hell out. The focus returned to the music and Donny Fontaine, seminal member of Hyper Crush. He kept the crowd moving with his crafty lyrics on dope beats.
He tore the place to shreds with wicked rhyme flow. Their party anthem "Sex and Drugs" has secured a nomination for song of the year '07. I think we all agreed that future celebrities were performing right under our noses. That called for more Bashing.
I was feeling lucky and blessed, knowing that the Way of the Bash was guiding my every move and overseeing important actions in an objective light. All this, of course, was remedied by the grim mistake of coming across The Detonator.
He was rather snappy, animated, and was speaking with a strangely constructed Cuban accent. My good friend Omar Suarez would've appreciated the stuff he had in pocket. It was then, without warning, that I transformed into the heathen of heathens, the master of disaster, ferocious and frenzied with a pure dose of carnal voltage!
With the untimely exit of Holly, her casted spell sadly wearing off, the burning appearance of Taylor instantly threw me into a lavishly welcomed relapse.
I could feel a sudden surge in my hot-blooded psyche, launching my once coherent thoughts into the proverbial tailspin of scattershot dreams and morbid foolishness. While luxuriating in her presence for a time, I neglected to notice her dog wasn't very appreciative of my big oogly eyes. The dog mauling arrived without an overt signal.
I came away from combat emotionally and physically scarred, knowing that it wouldn't take weeks, it would instead take months to recover properly from coming too close to an intense sort of majesty. I crawled, badly beaten and bloodied, to the feet of the mythical Strawberry Shortcake.
I refuse to beg for anything, but she was sincerely concerned for my well-being, so she pulled out the robust antidote and handed it over.
Minutes later I was back to normal, somewhat drained from the experience, but I needed to find glory forthwith, for the limits of my power slowly begun to surface to the delight of my enemies and foes. To help bring back my rampage, my trusted comrade Devon Ahmad was able to down an entire bottle of Merlot on command.
As I applied the sparkle of my mighty "Trickle-Down Drinking" voodoo, Devon began telling everyone to "Bash or be Bashed," the result being countless ingestions of various intoxicants by awestruck humans. The effect was overwhelming, the targets were duly blasted.
Willful subservience via Bashing is something I look up to, but it's also superior when done responsibly. I was pleased Peacock was around to assist with regulation, and she diligently followed my earlier advice. Over breakfast I told her that Halloween could become an all out war of dramatic proportions.
Some Jedi guy tried to be cool, pulling out his lightsaber haphazardly, surely intent on showing the world that his tepid tricks and marginal swordplay could dominate a place localized by Captain Excess and his minions. Peacock scoffed at his ill-timed drunken mistep.
She worked him over worse than the movingly crippled Fallen Angel.
To fuel further insult to injury, I summoned Ridge Thornway from vacation to engage in his favorite activity: causing bodily dismemberment and mayhem.
Ridge BBQ'd Jedi in special sauce. I declined the taste, as would most rational people. The only other hint of trouble came from Tina Turner of Thunderdome fame, seen here with a thugged out Raj Vasher.
He faced the wheel and won amputation, a much better prize than the reviled "gulag." The highlight, courtesy of Taylor, was forcefully gaining a sponsorship from Radioactive Energy Drink for successfully Bashing others into drunken lushes, a point of personal worth among those in the know.
Being equipped with an endless supply of Radioactive, along with a case of Smirnoff and a black light, I'll certainly be able to infiltrate hallowed lands with the vigor and confidence of a True Basher. I will win.
To quote The Ronda, "My favorite part of Halloween is that girls usually dress up as Slutty [fill in the blank]."