Big Daddy vs Gold Cock: The Final Pimp Story, a loud house fanfic

In November 2017, The Bodacious E and I started an epidemic...an epidemic of pimp stories. My pimp, Big Daddy Lincoln Loud, was set to square off against his pimp, Gold Cock. It never happened. Until now. I had the idea and thought it was funny, so here we are...the Pimp Saga is now officially over.

They met on a mountaintop at dawn, two pimps lookin' fly as fuck: Gold Cock in his chains and jersey, Big Daddy in a crushed purple velvet coat with furry lapels and a dope ass hat. Rings glinted on his fingers and the sunlight reflected on the silver handle of his Pimp Cane. Across the clearing, Gold Cock threw his head back and rolled his neck, limbering up for the big fight. They'd been plannin' this shit for a minute, and decided to do it on neutral turf - in an alternate reality where zombies took over the world. Every ghoul that came within ten miles of them was filled with Pure Respect & Understanding, and didn't try to attack them.

Gold Cock had been here for a week getting ready. He came across an alternate version of himself traveling with Lynn and made them both his hos then fed them to the living dead when he caught them cuddlin' and sayin' they loved each other. Nigga, what? You caught feelin's? Uh-uh, time yo ass went. Big Daddy crossed over from another universe where an alternate version of himself and a Lynn were playin' tiddlywinks of a ship in 1800 or some shit. He got bored one day, went below decks, and whacked the hull with his cane, causing a massive explosion. Last he saw, people was gettin' chopped up by propeller blades.

"You bout to take that L, nigga," Gold Cock said.

"We gon' see, playa," Big Daddy dismissed, "teach yo' lil ass some respect."

The air crackled and shimmered with their combined power. If anyone came along, their eyes would bulge out of their sockets like they was on Mars or some shit. The only gangsta strong enough to survive was Shaggy, but that nigga ass wasn't here.

It was just Big Daddy and Gold Cock, boutta fight at last.

"Keep talkin' that smack, homie," Gold Cock warned, "you ain't do shit but talk."

Big Daddy took his hat off and flung it aside. It landed on the ground with a puff of dust but did not get dirty. Next, he took his diamond stud out his ear, then shrugged out his coat. Beneath he wore a wife beater and a gold chain with THUG in jewel encrusted letters. He was gon' be fair bout this shit; he threw his cane away, and it landed upright in the dirt, kept from falling by respect alone. "Oh, you comin', nigga?" Gold Cock asked. He took off his LA snapback - with the tag still on the bill - and tossed it: It floated gently to the grass, followed by his jersey. His bare chest rippled with Strength and Power, his flexing abs covered in tattoos, the largest of which spelled AMERICAN GANGSTA across his six pack.

"Bring yo'self," Big Daddy said and flexed his Pimp Hand. It glowed with purple fire and shook with unbridled energy. "You the one tryin' to be like me."

Gold Cock rolled his eyes and waved his hand. "Nigga, you on somethin'. Ain't no one wanna be like yo Mickey Mouse ass."

"You say that shit now, nigga, but it true. You a follow-behind, nigga. I'm out here makin' this shit fresh, what'chu doin'? You warmin' it up for later consumption, nigga. I'm Gordon Ramsay...yo' bitch ass Ronald McDonald."

Hot rage spread across Gold Cock's face. He wasn't used to hearin' some wack ass shit like this. Everyone bowed down, but this nigga was buckin' up, and he was bout to get his feelin's hurt. Taking up a fighter's' stance, he balled his fists and squared his shoulders, his knees bending and his muscles tensing. Big Daddy snorted. "Hurry yo' ass up, nigga, I'm tired waitin' on yo punk ass, pussy ass, bitch ass -"

Issuing a low roar that sent shockwaves through the ground and leveled entire cities, Gold Cock charged, each of his steps striking rumbles through the multiverse. In one world, Leni lost her shit and killed her entire family. In another, Eazy E came back to life and dropped a new mixtape. In another still, TheBodaciousE understood where he had trespassed, and called his friend Flagg1991 on the phone to apologize for being 2 busy 4 him. Big Daddy hunched his shoulders and dug his heels into the ground, his fists coming up and his head weaving back and forth. The sound barrier shattered as Gold Cock broke through it, and the earth split down the middle, swallowing millions of zombies like a hungry maw. Big Daddy stood fast, bobbing from side to side. The air grew hot as their conflicting powers came up against one another, like opposite ends of a magnet, and trees went up in flames. Gold Cock was coming faster, faster, twenty feet, fifteen, ten, five, the sky turning red and fire sweeping through the world. The ground shook. Mountains crumbled. Seas tossed, boiled, and crashed over the land. Still, Gold Cock came, three feet, two feet, one...

When he hit Big Daddy, an unstoppable force colliding with an immovable object, every atom in the universe split, and a white flash consumed them. When the smoke cleared, they faced each other on a rock hurtling through space. All around them, worlds exploded into pieces and joined the massive and ever growing asteroid belt. "Goddamn, nigga" Big Daddy said in awe. "We done fucked everything up."

"There's one universe left, homie," Gold Cock said. "The mother universe. The one no one can kill. If we go there, nigga, we can run that shit. We gots be cool, though."

Big Daddy considered. "'Ight, we straight."

He held out his hand, and Gold Cock dabbed it with a grin and a nod. "My nigga. Let's step." He turned, Pimp Slapped space and time, and together they jumped into the rift.

June 1983: Part 3

Lyrics to Ready to Burn by Krokus (1983)

Lincoln Loud sat behind the counter at Flip's with the newspaper open before him: A black and white picture of British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher smiled up and him, and he sneered. He hated Margaret Thatcher. He hated Ronald Reagan too. He hated everything because in 1967, some gooks make him eat bugs then whipped his ass with bamboo sticks.

What he hated most of all, however, was not having customers. "This place is empty as fuck," he complained to himself. The only people in were his daughter Alex and his niece Jessy; they took turns at the Pac-Man cabinet between the bathrooms. Alex, being into that faggot ass metal shit, had a boombox with her, the speakers thumping as blistering music screamed through them.

It's gettin' so late now, I'm headin' for the city

I've got a date and she's so pretty

Jump in my car and no hitchin' for a ride

Gonna hit that high speed all the time

Lincoln sighed in frustration. He loved his daughter, but she had the shittiest goddamn taste in music ever. The last good song ever made came out in 1963; everything else was fucking trash. Hell, everything that happened after '63 was fucking trash. He drew a nostalgic sigh as he remembered the day Kennedy was assassinated: Not only did he get to listen to liberals crying because their little tin god got plugged, but Ronnie Anne also sucked his dick in the back of his '63 Impala. That was the best blowjob ever until the one she gave him when he got home from Vietnam.

Ah, ha, ha, ha