CHRISTIE'S CULOCLYSM: THE ASSIZE OF THE ANVIL
By Quillon42
Corporate muscle of so many kinds, and from so many companies, had all converged once more in the terrific tourney known to this syndicate-skinned world as Tekken. The victor of this effervescent contest of combative eliminations would have his or her incorporated endorsee reign as the most righteous, strapping, and enterprising of entities, at least until this time next year.
Many such machineries of manpower, such as the Mishima Zaibatsu, aimed to maintain its perennial influence over the hoi polloi scattered all about, in places such as the economically-depressed anomaly called the Anvil, for example. Others, such as the latter's outlying occupants themselves, sought simply for others to take notice of their existence, and accept that they were not plebes to be ploughed about by those who had been in power over the course of this most recent age.
Still others, such as the fetching, if rather fair "Brazilian" Christie Monteiro, had been caught in between, wedged too cozily betwixt the corporations of the powerful and the desperations of the pitiful. As Christie sat there just now, she seated in a scumbag superbox and transfixed by the confrontation between a Machiavellian Mishima and his canny, Eurasian-"Oasis-Twin-Meets-Enter-The-Dragon"-descended competitor, the woman realized that she could not just continue to idle there and watch as the first would most likely flay the second to mere fibers with twin axes brought most unfairly to the fight.
For certain, she would have to do something assertive, even if meant deploying her most secret and suggestive of weapons. She could not maintain the assumption that the competitive Kazama would come out on top. No doubt existed in her capoeira-savvy cortex that she could not continue to assent silently to this basest of bloodsports.
It was as Kazuya cocked one of his haughty hatchets above the head of a somewhat-stunned Jin, then, the Iron-Fisty father fixing to fling his offspring out of this inimical universe of conglomerate-sponsored adversity, when
[CRRRRRAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS]
[THHHOOOOOOMMMMM]
a supposed Sao Paolina, white in both garb and skin, had leapt from her precarious berth atop the tacky slugfest stadium, she landing squarely in the center of the fierce familial confrontation.
"I am putting a definitive END to this tournament, as of right now!"
And then before the Mishima mofo next to her could so much as hoist a disqualifying tomahawk…
[BLLLLLAAAAANNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN]
the lady threw her arms out wide to either side, she allowing the special steroids peddled by her associational benefactor, Vectrocorp, to kick in to their full potential. The new illegal enhancer on the market, the drugs ingested by the erogenous interloper, they did not provide a boost in muscle, as was the case with all contenders from those in the WWF to those in the WWE and all other three-letter rassling outfits in between…nor for Monteiro did it make for an uptick in body fat, as was the instance with a certain obese entrant introduced in the Iron Fist Tournament Six in the canonical Tekken cosmos.
Nay, the potent products of Vectrocorp instead brought about for the dame an unprecedented surge in the user's voluptuousness—as such, and as with the most recent celluloid treatments of DC Comics' Diana of Themyscira (especially those showcased in a sexist Texas cinema theatre, with screenings shut off for all interested men there), these cellular treatments were really exclusively the domain of women.
But in any case now, both Jin and Kazuya were compelled to juke their respective persons aside in the raucous arena, in order to make way for the expanding undercarriage of the girl who quite literally and abruptly came between them in the heat of their own adrenalin-driven passion.
"Mishimas and all other monsters of our postnational planet," began Christie, her formerly dulcet voice becoming demoniacally distorted as her curves continued to contort chaotically in turn, "I will from this instant on be the contumacious court, judge and jury and executioner of all evils I survey."
The erogenous object of so many gluteal gawkers' admiration then enlarged all the more, the She-Eddy elongating out in height, she now the altitude of various roofs from which Jin so impetuously jumped to escape gunfire not long ago, in an attempt to deliver contraband for a reward of all of like twenty effing dollars.
"I will serve as the tribunal of all who have been heretofore treacherous and meretricious, and I shall dispose of them all like so much sewage into the sludgy sloughs of all ends of the universe."
Now the Gordo-Gal was as ginormous as, well, just about the entire stadium…and she made more than certain that her most essential of assets was facing her foes, trained on as many tournament targets as possible.
"You shall now behold not the inconsequential, skeezy skank who was once Christie Monteiro, but rather presently, and permanently…
"THE ASSIZE OF THE ANVIL!"
And with that, the ginga giantess then took to tucking in her smooth stomach (which was now pressed snugly against a ground that was beginning to give under her winsome mass) as the aperture of her posterior began to suck in all the atmosphere around itself, determined to take with it all the teeming teams of turpitude that comprised this entire assembly.
All within the vicious vicinity of Christie's voracious vacuum began to scatter, mostly in vain. For the most part, hapless event spectators were beyond the range of this reckoning most rectal, as by now they were out to about the perimeter of the parking lots, as affrighted as they were by the mere magnification of Christie's deadly dimensions (even if they were perhaps all the more desirable at present). Most of the cruel contestants of the competition, however, were still well within the purveyance of all that would be most anally retained in the ensuing instants.
First among the victims of this dubious doomsnight was honestly the grandest ass of all here, the one who had been literally axing for it all evening. Kazuya did all he could to pace away from the proving ground now, but Christie would most crossly culoblock this attempt on his part.
It was just as the Iron Fist fuck about faced, in fact, that the ineluctable suction of Miss Monteiro's moneymaker dragged the dastard backward. By now
[BADONKADONKACRUMMMBBBLLLLLLE]
the vindictive vixen had been battened down to the arena floor by her badonkadonk indeed that she had begun to break through the Earth's surface. As such, at the moment her upper half had been submerged within the continental crust while her most noticeable nether node hailed heavenward. Given this configuration, all those to be assorbed into the capoeira championess would take a great plunge before suffering under that tragic tuchus.
Kazuya was no exception to such outcomes as of now. Fruitlessly he assayed, he arseayed so hard to avoid his end in this end, but it was to no avail. Wildly the warrior flailed with his axes against the whitebread buns with which he was embattled, but the weapons merely spanged off their silken surfaces. In the ensuing seconds the most mediocre Mishima was shunted into the enormous execrable egress and never seen again.
During these last several desperate seconds of Kazuya's miserable existence, Jin jaunted as far away as he could from the craving crevice, and he made it to the catwalks at the apex of the stadium. He hazarded one more look down at the oversized duff of that delicious duchess, ruefully musing that perhaps in another reality, he could have had a more risque run-in with the ravishing battler.
In any case, though, there he was now, this Bruce Leeam Gallagher that was Kazama-san, he ready to bust through a wonderless wall nearby and parkour his way out of this vile video game of death…
"JIN!"
…when of a sudden he found himself faced with a fearsome frau from his painful past, as she heralded her entrance with a sudden slap to his fugly face.
"You've been gunning for her buttocks?!" shouted Kara, the fighter's forlorn lover from the Anvil as she appeared out of nowhere and whapped him again across the cheeks (the facial cheeks). "You want that spiciest piece of her?!
"You can have it, for all I care now!"
And then an abrupt uppercut from the underappreciated frau, one which might not so much issue from a Kara but rather a Kira or someone else from a most Mortal of tournaments, as Jin took it on the chin and found himself launched off the catwalk, the poser plummeting, plummeting down into what was basically a stage fatality in that super fanny. To be sure, Jin fell head first into that fine fissure of Christie, the man all this time wanting to be in her cooley but now ending up in her colon.
By this juncture, the coloassal cantankerous can was inhaling so much atmosphere into itself that it begun to cause a rift in the very reality in which it existed. It was too bad indeed that Jin would not be around as of now, as at least one of those alternate realities for which he just pined was pressing its way into this semi-weeaboo wasteland.
Yes, now the gigantic galoot Ganryu emerged upon the catwalk as well, with the juicy Julia Chang unwittingly in tow. The former was clad only in cummerbund and his sumo bloomers, he still proffering to the latter that engagement ring which he presented to Miss Chang at the conclusion of his rendition of the Fifth Iron Fist. Instead of merely making a surreptitious escape this time, though, Chang made more than clear her intention to reject the lonely lummox, as the erotic environmentalist executed her Twisted Sister (from at least Tekken 5) to chuck the cuck, would-be pre-wedding-band and all, off their precarious perch.
"I'M STILL IN LOVE WITH YOU…!"
This grieved aloud by Ganryu as he cast one last gaze upward at his unfulfilled crush; then his very full form crashed inelegantly into the doomful crack of Christie. Indeed, not unlike the sad Smeagol that he was in fact, the Gollum that was Ganryu still held up the rebuffed ring over his head, one still-visible eye gazing greedily at the gem and gold before the jilted one and his jewelry vanished from view.
Above, Julia sighed relief for a second, but then fretted as to how she could abscond from the calamity given that the catwalks were finally beginning to give way as the hindquarters hazard loomed ever larger below. It was then, just as the fabled Eagles rescued the storied shorties from the Shire, that a snazzy stealth bomber barreled in, pausing to ponderously hover in midair meters away. Knowing that the Lord would not provide otherwise, Miss Chang took her chance and hopped on aboard.
Feet from her, the impassive assassin Raven noted her alighting and reacted not at all. Just as with one of his likenesses in our reality, a basketballer who was about to betray the States once more to hang with the leader of a possible nuclear threat, the generic grappler Raven was going to defect from the Fist Tournament, along with all the occupants of his aircraft, and see if the Capcomverse was interested in any new applicants. (The Tekkenites had been to that reality before, of course, with that insipid Pandora plot that could have been concocted by a third trimester fetus).
Within Raven's ride now, Julia refamiliarized herself with her new bombermates. A ponytail in a loud changshan (NB: Feel free to correct this author if he didn't get the name of the Chinese shirt right—he apologizes in advance for his ignorance) approached, while a putz in a tuxedo a few seats away merely smiled at her.
"Lei Wulong," said the chichi changshan charmer; then indicating the tacky tux wearer, "and this is Lee Chaolan. We're leaving the Namcoverse because first of all, we've been wrongly suspected by the higher-ups that Lee here and I are part of the La-Li-Lu-Le-Lo—just because of our names, even though that entity is actually from the Konamiverse. Also, in case you didn't notice, this reality has gone tits…, er, tuchus up."
"Yes," said Julia, anxiously looking out the window at the yawning fleshy yonder beneath her, "I've kind of gathered that myself…"
Riding along with the feisty fighters was a powerful payload in the underbelly of the aircraft. More particularly, all iterations of those automated Mohawk mooks from previous videogamated Iron Fists had been combined into one dirty JOAB (i.e. Jack Of All Bombs)—and Raven and Namcompany here were the somebodies who had to do that very job indeed, of attempting to rout the rump as a favor of severance to the Namcoverse.
As it would so happen, following up on what Julia had just said, there wouldn't really be time for anyone to gather anything more at all…as the occupants of the stealth ship already had their fates sealed by the salaciousness of one of their number as it was. See, the one critical error that Raven had made in this mission…it was entrusting the piloting duties not to someone reliable, like the sherbet-haired Alisa Bosconovitch…but rather to someone regrettable, like the letching shit-headed Craig Marduk.
"Ohhhhh…yeahhh…baby…you got to get with me, girl…"
This the transfixed flier said salivatingly as he stared at the gorgeous gluteal gorge beneath him…then redirected the bomber to dive headlong into it. Atop the craft, Raven had just about enough time to lift his Wesker-fresh shades and
"Shit…"
before
[SRATCHABOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMM]
the bomber burrowed in, a giant jutting skin fold decapitating the Dennis-Rodman-Ronin before he could process the imminent impact any further. As for the plane's occupants, the Lei-Lee-Jul-Jack-Craig were all crushed and vaporized against the vast vavavoom in the pursuing picosecond.
A half mile beneath the surface of the Earth, a rather collected Christie (considering the circumstances) reached up with deft ivory digits and plucked the arrowhead shape of the burnt bomber remains from her rear, the fuselage tossed aside like the merest of tissues.
Then the bottom-heaviest babe perked her head up a second, unsettling so much sediment all around her, as she could hear…even feel…the presence of a somewhat kindred spirit nearby.
"Sergei, NO!" cried that ball of bleah known as Bob to the silent Satanspawn nearby, each of the respective heavies holding onto a crease of consummate keister for dearest existence. Sergei Dragunov hesitated a second, pulling back his pistol.
"If you fire, and, like...there's any kind of…gaseous emissions that emanate…we'll all be annihilated!"
Considering Bob's claim, the ruthless rival of Raven then thought another moment…
…then, shrugging his shoulders, dove down toward the overt opening below, crawling on elbows and knees all the way toward it as he was wont to do.
(…and as any red-blooded observer of Kelly Overton in the cinematic masterpiece Tekken would be wont to do in this situation, in all honesty).
Then, as Bob turned away from Dragunov's indifferent dash to his demise, of a sudden an eerie inflection…
Bobbb…Bobbb…
Mister Richards…
He could not help but look down toward the tender trench beneath him, which he did all he could to hold out against here. "What do you want from us?!" he cried, speaking to the immense nether notch because he believed that it was that which had addressed him.
In truth, it was Christie's own voice, coming from under the arena, which spoke. "You and I have been crafted from the same Vectrocorpulent cloth, Bob. Only you see, my Vectrocorpian evolution has been far more fruitful than yours.
"I just wanted you to know that you would be fully embracing the product, in a sense, through your fate. And that there is really no assssscape."
From the crease, Bob knitted his brow frantically in frustration and a bit of confusion.
"…
"…
"…Did you just say that 'there is no asssscape?'"
An awkward beat for an instant.
"…
"…
Christie's velvety voice: "No, I said there was no essssscape."
Bob, insistently: "You said 'assssscape.'"
"No, Bob…I've been stooping pretty low here, literally, but I would never go that…"
"I'm telling you, I heard 'assssscape.'"
"Oh God, just…KISS MY ASS!"
And then it was that
[WHOOOOOSSSSSSHHHHH SSSSSHHHHHEEEEEAAAAAARRRRRR]
the dorsal door of the maximized Miss Monteiro contracted, dragging with it streams of air as well as
"NOOOOOAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!"
the kilograms of beefcake (bundtcake?!) that Bob had built back up since the end of the Sixth Iron Fist. Before he too would be assumed into the endgame enforced by the bleached Brazilian beauty, all that flab would fly away from his frame once more…and he would live out his last several seconds as his slim self again, to skim like the skinniest of swizzle sticks into the supreme seat of the haunch-humongous seductress.
Not too far away upon the expansive layout of this ass scape indeed, two coptery compatriots who were also copulatory companions (in this reality, in any case) were exerting all they could in a futile attempt to asscend from the nates that had been the fates of so many fallen warriors. Yon Yoshimitsu and his clever fox of a cohort Kunimitsu were rising ever so shudderingly from the vitriolic vortex beneath them, solely on the strength of the rotary reserves provided by their own biting blades. (And thus has this author utilized pigstickers as a means of propulsion for the second time this year, the first being his Game of Thrones story entitled Names of Thrones (not to plug shamelessly or anything)).
At any rate, Kuni had climbed almost to the overlarge latticework that hovered just above Christie's once endearing, now endangering end…
…yet, given the enervating experience of having absconded this far, the lethal lady's heli-kunai could carry her no further, her spirit sputtering from all the exhaustion.
"Kuni," prompted Yoshimitsu now, he nearly nipping at his mask-coy mistress's heels with his katana. "We must continue our asscent posthaste, lest we succumb to the beyond in the behind!"
"I can't…I cannot proceed any further, Yoshes."
A muffled curse…then an oath uttered with grim determination.
"Then…my soul shall serve…as your own personal…ungh…Capcom Cashgrab Cross Tekken Vitality Gem."
"What?! No…!""
But Kuni could not halt the heave of her cryptically-cowled courter as, with the most of the last of his own strength, Yoshimitsu pushed at the soles of the femme's feet, his effort boosting her upward enough to grab a thread of the aforementioned fabric filigree framing Mademoiselle Monteiro's titanic twerker.
Then the cybernetic sucka one more time, bellowing to his belle before falling, falling, finally submitting to the apple bottom afterlife to which he now consigned himself:
"AI SHITERU YO KUNIMITSUHHHHHH!"
"YOSHIMITSAHHHHHHHHH!" yelled Kunimitsu in turn, she too with all the agony of an anime voice thespian (one who would be in an original-subbed and not an English-dubbed production). For the next smattering of beats she could only keep clinging to the bottom of that colossal kitschy tramp-top as she gazed down into that visceral void; not unlike those who elegized a particular ipod an-hero, Kunimitsu's tears herein falling into abyss, albeit here an abyss by ass; she too considering collapsing now within the chaotic chasm, joining the other ninja…but ultimately, minutes thereafter, steeling herself and flying away, venerating Yoshimitsu's sacrifice and vowing vengeance against this baneful, bereaving Brazilian beast another day.
Nearly all the others abjectly within the ambit of this beauteous brawler's boundless britches had now been so absorbed into her hunkering bunker. While there were escapees, such as the foxy kunoichi Kunimitsu just now, as well as Jun Kazama by the way (she'd escaped her own explosion much in the way that the hair horror Heihachi had here), there had been many more who had succumbed to the vixen's voluminous vanilla shaker. The Ursa Major of asskicking known as Kuma had plunged down into the ravishing ravine, just as he had been shifted down into the trapdoor shaft in his Fifth Iron Fist ending; following him with as many terrified cries was Panda, and the fish that was gifted from the former to the latter had followed into the comely cleft as well.
Next to last was that princess of privilege who debuted along with Dragunov in a reckoning of Dark Resurrection. The ebullient heiress, who in these final seconds of her life would be regretting her fruitless foray into hip hop, would go down spitting nonetheless, she assuming the alias Lili Assaggia in tribute to that other white blonde who couldn't rap either.
It was as Lili was tripping down one cheek of the massive teflon tush that she flung out her last freestyle:
"Push my point gotta fizz free joint gotta too crispy I'm'a spring my jaunt, crack crack rap! Word to the pow-pow fool around jewel round teaty no…"
So it went down the drain of the delectable derriere, the rapping Rochefort going out with a whimper, as well as what at least sounded like "When a whey, won a way, win a Wii…" or something similarly unintelligible as she fucked off into the fanny as well.
Finally among all the mofos was the murderous Feng Wei, who sometime after Lili had been submerged, had himself become stuck between the barging buffers, this ghastly goon doing all he could to God-Fist his way out of the patootical predicament. Just as Feng had uttered an open-handed strike through a solar-system-sized cypress tree, at the finish of his own Fifth Iron Fist, here too he was trying to push apart, with frenzied palms, these hefty fleshy flaps which were suffocating him by the second.
Feng could only fling out his wearied, wobbling fingers a bit farther, he unwittingly striking a pose remotely similar to a Tecmo Knight who was to be crushed on a Continue screen between merciless jaws (the trauma of which this author might heal himself by doing a story on in the future, as well as for those unfortunate souls slaughtered in Tecmo Knight's intro)…Feng fighting with as much ferocity as he could muster now…a vision of the teacher he'd taken down in his training appearing before him now, making the man realize his folly of his fractious existence…when suddenly…
[SHHNNNAPPPPPP] [SHHNNNAPPPPPP]
the cockiness-constipated douche discovered at his feet the very fingers, the very forearms that had been working to wrench open Christie's coziest cakes. Feng could only look up to the gods he'd forsaken and wring out a scream in vain as
[SHHHNNNNNN]
the fjord of fudge had folded upon itself entirely, squishing the scoundrel wholly in the process.
By now all within the vicinity of the venal venue had either fled or been fed to the fundament of that most fannytastic yet formidable fighter by the moniker or Monteiro. Satisfied with the welter of wayward warriors whom she had ingested most indecently, Christie now contracted, she shrinking down to her usual height, approximately two yards of yumminess from toes to tip.
This just in time for the magnificent mixer-upper to encounter a fellow countryperson and Capoeira combatant. Indeed it was Eddy now—not the broken down hobo-looking one from the film, but rather the dapper dandy from the games here—the man recognizing this albino impostor unwaveringly, for whatever reason, as his own friend and lover.
"Christie," he began, running up to his charming mistress with major concern, "What happened here? Are you alright?"
In reply, the coquettish carioca threw her arms around the other. "Yes, all is well…for now. But we must act quickly, as I have utilized my axe (NB: Not the weapon, but rather the Capoeira term for "energy") to contain great evils within myself. In memory of my grandfather, to honor him, you and I must work to seal the portal into which these spirits have all alighted."
Eddy could all but comprehend what Christie was saying here…but when she punctuated her plea with a lithe hand upon the gold between the greens underneath his torso, he utterly understood.
A couple of hours later and a bad boy Brazilian would bencao, bencao, bencao against this bleached branca from the back, she executing evocative moves in turn as she did with an undeserving Anvilite on the dance floor days before, but here her desires definitively more fulfilled than they ever would have been with Jin.
And from that moment onward, the creamier cinematic Christie would assume an incredible burden of keeping that klatch of corrupt souls within her dutiful, beautiful caboose, just as the daring dwarf Puck from Marvel's Alpha Flight had maintained the mad spirit Raazer within his own hobbity husk for the greater good of humanity. To be certain in addition, Senhorita Monteiro's magnanimous sacrifice would not go unknown in her reality, or in others to boot—even if the reception of such was not always warmly received.
"Boss," said the mysterious reporter from the Seventh Iron Fist (whom this author only knows about from reading wikis, as he does not yet have this game and such) to said reporter's employer, as the media chief oversaw the efforts of many other video game fact checkers and fact hunters (yes, the latter like Guru Larry, whom this author has just gotten into, and thinks is pretty good…although he sounds too happy when doing his bit on Youtube, as if he's Captain Kangaroo in the midst of a handjob).
But anyway, that Tekken 7 reporter: "Boss, at the last cinematic Iron First Tourney, Christie Monteiro went and took all her opponents up the ass!"
…
…
Naught but a shrug and a snarky glance from the head editor an instant or three later.
"And that's supposed to be news?!"
EPILOGUE
In the midst of Tekken's digitized digs, Eddy was now attempting to similarly seal the portal of Christie's far more fawn-fleshed counterpart. The two had been foisting many floreios upon one another, all on a flowery futon, a nude Mister Gordo macaco-flipping into the naked Miss Monteiro's open arms, they feinting cabecadas into impassioned kisses, his tongue trapping itself between her tortei-soft thighs, his features planting against the beige baba de moҫa of her sweaty belly, his callused hands caressing and clamping down upon her wondrous walnut-hued wazoo. Eddy then energetically esquivaed away an instant, in a bid to bang against the sepia belle's bon bon…but his entry was met with a less than enthusiastic reaction from his Portuguese-tongued paramour, at least compared to that of her far paler imitation in the cinematic reality.
"Eddy, go ease…go easy on me…what th…"
And then, before the goodly Gordo could proceed any further with his prurient prodding, Christie curled and whirled away, she then engaging Edd anew with her bombastic bronze Belém-sized bosoms, she ensnaring his entire torso between them and executing a tesoura takedown to fling him off the futon.
He then attempted to rise, but a mahogany rack the magnitude of Rio pinned him down to the floor. Between the bistre breasts bearing down, he could barely make out her inflection.
"Take it a bit easier, Eddy; this is supposed to be a jogo, not a joust!"