Meowtwo roared like a spiteful pink owl, delusionally thinking he is a crocodile devil; as if his teeth are testosterone chainsaws and his thoughts are shrieking quasars. But it didn't suffice to Jessex. To her the walls were like polar bear rectums placed on a chess board to resemble a horny triangle that clawed at spacetime and sang of platypus vaginas. She thrashed messier, techier and meaner, making Meowtwo so perverted he felched everything. EVERYTHING.
Jamom stared with the adoration of 63 feeble parallelepiped tigers at pizza demons and sushi zombies waging war for no reason. They fought with lead benches, ladders, balalaikas, garmoshkas, devochkas, babushkas, kakashkas and other foreign edibles. The venomous child of Meowtwo killed every food creature by aborting them with its bogey-laden, stinking, hairy, slimy matchsticks then waged war against its parent for no reason either. It was lovingly victimized by clumsy brute maggots, and even helped a repulsive deaf person cross the road once.
Meowtwo made cowboy noises while Tyranirat, so affectionately named by Jamom, just peeled apricots like a hushed, horrible horse shrieking at a very atrocious holiday while reggae played in the background and a octet of ominous uncles cramped to the rhythm. Tyranirat imagined unimaginable cows as it ejected steaming hydrant squash from its foreskull at Meowtwo, who parried by thinking of math porn. Jessex rudely chittered at the tussle, humming Turkish haiku of monstrous rooftops. She admired the liturgy orgy. The sheer view reminded her of Bukhara.
A new challenger appeared. From the darkest corners of chicken hell, the perpetually salty tushface Paul, bedizened in cloths with fur of Furret and Furfrou, emerged while saying things but in fact he was vainly moving his mouth, a futile attempt at spokespersonship. He rode a cloud made of bricks as his eyes were all over the place, transforming everything into its exact opposite. He revealed a piece of rice paper, coughed and spoke out loud a set of rules, which shrieked a tintinnabulation of things that shouldn't happen;
1. If you fart your hardest you'll see the 359 degrees around you, but to see the last one you need to think through a door. But you can't unthink a door now, can you?
2. Bus drivers are the root of all evil and they hate everything wet, despite what their mouths say. Don't listen if they offer somsas, just scream "The Moon is Hitler!" and invade their sexual lives with cucumbers as ugly as possible.
3. The shops of the ocean bottoms exist, and they are God. You can never persuade them to accept mule-scented napkins as a newly applied currency; they will always be busy playing Warcraft, and will always use cheats.
4. You will yawn right now.
5. The sushi demons' and pizza zombies' corpses shall be harvested and constructed into a perfect mansion, under those specifications;
1) 1 inch wide 2) 1251785115331531899990000 parsecs high 3) -Googolplex tons heavy.
4) Impervious to all sorts of natural calamities except earthquakes, for they are my wet dreams and all shall bend to it.
5) If the demon zombies and sushi pizzas resist the recycling process, slap them exactly three times. Make sure it's not two, otherwise they'll post 'Earth is flat' theories on Reddit, and no one will be able to deny them.
6. The sky is a lie. Spit on it every chance you get, for every word it speaks, even to its forgetful liberal parents, is a boiling cauldron of lies. Give the sun and the stars no less heed, they're always sniffle each other's armpits to get high, and do.
As the meanboi imprinted his boiling nipple juice on the paper, Jessex thrashed so hard it caused an absurdly sexy tornado. Paul rewrote the story so it wouldn't be there, then shot Jamom with a pistol.
Jamom's eyes widened. He spat, chuckled and gasped, poking at the hole in his chest with a rusty lead spoon. Kneeling as his powers left him, he licked his bloody leadware and chortled, droning, "T-tastes like...K-karate Chop...". Finally, he fell on his chest, and started writhing like the last maggot on contest of most maggoty maggots. Twisting around his axis, flopping like suffocating fish, doing mental somersaults, dancing like a chaos incarnate bitten by 27 dubstep demons, and just dinosauring his existence in a pile of cupcakes. After minutes of cringe-awkward dancing, he stopped.
Everyone gasped. Jessex totally stopped thrashing and palmed her cheeks. Meowtwo kneeled. "W-what the fuck, dude! We had mindless fun and you ruined it! You malicious shitcunt!" Meowtwo roared in fury, clawing at Jamom's hair. The blue-haired man gargled and choked as a paroxysm of agony racked through all the atoms of his body, causing a tremor which agglutinated pizza demons and sushi zombie into unholy couples, and their children...
Paul teleported away leaving Meowtwo crying over Jamom's placid face...
Clutching the dead man's hair no more, he stood up and cursed in a language of vikings.
He swore revenge.