Chapter 2 – Ramsay
The ElectroShnitzel entrance was designed to prevent childhood obesity, with three stick figures depicted in a neon font, each holding up a hand. The fingers of the hand split into three elongated strips which were all abysmally short, reaching 50 meters into the sky like Armstrong's tears. A mummer's farce was depicted on top of the strips, with skinless elephants that had penises for trunks portrayed instead of people. The backs of the elephants were crowned by a three-sided inverted knobler.
Frat boys worked the night, flashing their ladyparts at potential customers. Legates and connoisseurs of the fleshy desires would pay in exchange for being violently beaten by these whore mongers. Sandor contemplated on the unexpected nature of humanity's asscracking while Tyrion wept acid tears which melted the pavement. With every 36 inch hole in the pavement the baby's screams that resonated from somewhere deep underground grew louder. Tyrion wiped the tears from his face with his robot arm and chortled.
The twosome entered the bar, but only while singing the Seventh Warsong of Delirium. The interior was as wide as two football fields, but only two feet long. The ceiling was crafted specifically for victims of cannibalism. It was a custom to side step around the bar with one of your legs on the floor and the other on the ceiling or the orifice of a person next to you. Sandor led his companion to Ramsay Bolton's arranged table, Tyrion's foot fitting firmly inside his nostril.
Ramsass was a terrible excuse for a breakdancer, spending his time drinking distilled solids in the memory of his broken career and lingerie. He was wearing a short skirt and had a .50 calibre anti-material sniper rifle shoved up his ass.
"Please, good friends, sit down," Ramsai said, fidgeting and trying to ignore his natural discomforts.
Ramfaust's table had a large orifice in the centre, leaving only 3 inches of space to be putting things on. The orifice was humming, a large tongue visible every 0.3 seconds.
"Now, what exactly do you want?" Ramsrums asked.
"I am not going to play any games," Sandor warned. "My plan is a precise one. Cersei has ruled for too long. At some point, her ruling karma will unbalance the equilibrium of the population and we will be forced to elect every citizen of the city to rule for seventy years each, before killing each of them and placing their bastard children on the throne. You know what the consequences will be."
Tyrion winced. He remembered what it was like to have pubic hair.
"Cut to the chase, sir," Ramsrees said, picking at the scab behind his eye. "What is it that you want me to do?"
"I need the Red Palace to be flipped upside down and placed with the roof pointing downwards. Afterwards, I will appoint a trustworthy man, perhaps you, to sit on top of the refurbished structure. That way, Cersei will be overruled," Sandor explained.
The silence lasted a second.
"Very well, I can perform the task," Ramseer agreed. "It will be done on the morn. Pleasure meeting you."
As Ramshat began to shake hands with Sandor, Tyrion seized the opportunity.
He pulled the trigger of the rifle.
Suddenly, a coathanger was set lose on the patrons. Cries and prayers to the mankind's dong champions were unheard as blood splattered all over the walls of the bar-stablishment. A long line of ravaged tables tipped over like some giant wooden dominoes encrusted in people's gore blood, releasing a wondering cloudmass of spontaneous agony which pushed Ramcunt into the table orifice.
The orifice laughed.