Iris thundered onto the glistening courts of the NBA; her unsheathed toes clacked against the polished wood, reverberating through the feet of the billions of onlookers. A small man named James Harden uplifted his hand, palm shimmering with clam juices. Iris jerked, the shoe polish coating her skin sliding down in rivulets along with her sweat. Inquisitive, she also raised her hand, and then brought it down through the air onto his. She withdrew her hand and sniffed at the lemon-garlic butter now slathered over her own appendage cushion. A rumbling groan erupted from her sternum and she smacked Harden over his cheek, his beard reaching upward and wrapping around her fingers.
"Foul!" A referee backflipped from beneath the hat he wore over his head. "You do not smackity-smack your own teammate, you dusty Volkswagen!"
"I do not understand 'swaggin''," said Iris – er… Now, Dwight Howard.
You see, Dwight Howard had reconciled Iris' appearance to make her appear as close to him as possible, matching her strikingly pallid skin to his own complexion with shoe polish, shaved her head, and, in the span of time between his transfer from the Lakers to the Rockets, forced her to starve and work out. She was losing that infatuation and wondered in her private time how she could ever be married to a man like Dwight. Seriously, what man smacked his penis against the television when his Soap Opera had an unfavorable plot twist? The static would spark from the antennae and shock him through his testicles, and yet, he continued to clapturbate/masterclap.
She never loved him. She never would. But she had in the past? What a silly decision that was. What a dirty birdy she had been.
"The game will start-… NOW" screeched the referee, twisting his body in the Macarena. His voice shattered the walls, and his legs shrunk into his pelvis, his pelvis into his torso, torso into pecs, and pecs into his neck. He disappeared.
Iris tackled the man across from her and starting relieving herself onto his face to claim her territory. They were now mating partners for life. They both abounded towards the goal, holding hands tightly and skipping as if in the Home on the Range© VHS tape, and surrounded one of the shortest players, asserting dominance with their massive height. He attempts to fight back, wielding tightly a jasmine infused battle axe, convulsing rapidly on the ground. The circle around him begin chanting in tongues, and use their sharped incisors folded into their neck-beards to tear the near-midget to billions of small bite-sized pieces. They stuff the remains into the carcass of a gutted mattress.
At one point, twelve men from the Chicago Bulls stacked on top of each other's shoulders, their buttcheeks falling from their bodies, onto the ground beneath. The man at the bottom was eaten alive by the crawfish they had been storing into the body since the age of twelve. The shellfish just now ascended to their cannibalistic final form, and the bottom man was sacrificed. The rest of the team rose into the heavens and threw their bodies down into the hoop of Angel Gabriel's halo, getting the ultimate Slam Dunk ™.
They scored 11,43 points.
Iris was now crawling on her elbows and knees across the court, sniffing for unwanted predators, such as Large Giraffes and also twelve different breeds of Swiffer mops. They had now transitioned into the Capture the Flag portion of the game. All the by-stander's earlobes slapped hard against the ground to the tune of Minor Threat's complete discography in excitement as "Dwight Howard" began to spread her legs, releasing the birds and last night's dinner of Long John Silver's (again) into the air. Many children cried.
A large angry gay bacteria emerged from the foliage nearby and slurped over Iris' feet urgently. Iris began to lie down and do bicycle kicks (as she had been taught by Dwight Howard incase this situation ever occurred (she had been training with him to learn how to play the sport of Basketball (which is obviously what she is currently playing))) to remove the attacker.
Suddenly, the formless mass shed its' skin like a lame ass snake and became Howard Dwight, eyes fizzing over with puss and liquid anger.
"Dwight Howard! Finally, I have found you!" The appalled pooping plebian in front of Howard did not smell like Dwight at all, or even really look that much like him, but Howard was so blinded by gripping madness and the seventeen pairs of sunglasses he was wearing (he can do this because of his big ole ears) that he did not give a single care. He screeched, calling the Bird Army he had been training while in recovery from his near death experience, and they swarmed in, somehow filling the earth-sized stadium with their sheer size and force.
As before, the by-standers yodeled and rolled, Gold Digger by Kanye West protruding from their oral facial holes, and huddled beneath the seats, which were actually brochures.
The cockatoos picked at her hair, attacking first, her scalp melting. She shrieked in terror, but really was singing because her throat muscles had been trained only to sing when she was scared (and thus, during a scary movie, would burst into song and many movie theatre goers would shank her neck flab) and guacamole spilled from her nostrils. But maybe it was actually mucus.
Gems shone from the emerald islands in sunlight in Sri Lanka as Joakim Noah threw his weight against the door.
Suddenly, as though water had been spilled over her, the shoe polish fell from her carcass, revealing the Dwight Howard as Iris. Howard fell to his knees, the bones cracking against the court. All was silent except for the flutter of birds exiting the stadium in peace. Howard grabbed Iris' face in his hands.
"My rove," he whimpered, tearing her head from her neck. She did not wake up. "Oh, I regret… It has been years… I did not recognize you." He noticed something shining softly between the folds of Iris deflating neck fat. He tugged it away forcefully, gripping so tight that the sharp edge of the heart pendant sliced a gap into his soft, penetrable skin, while at the same time beheading Iris' corpse, again, for she was also a hydra. Her massive face ball rolled away sadly and out the door, not pausing to rest until it toppled into the coast. Iris had always loved the ocean, mostly because of all the collective fish piss inside of it.
Howard leaned in to study the expensive piece of jewelry, squinting to read the tiny print engraved on the back. In beautifully scripted letters, painstakingly detailed (obviously carved by the delicate hand of Iris) it read, "My heart belongs to Howard Dwight, love of my lives." Howard considered lamenting, but then the necklace trigger self-destructed and he blew up.
Dwight ran into the stadium. He was watching from home on his sexy TV because he is sexy and also claustrophobic and also peoplephobic. He beholded the grand mess of things Iris had made. Bystanders were trampling others in a panic to escape the now continuous explosions, which were causing the stadium to collapse in on itself like a basket-black hole. They could not exit anywhere because Gandhi, in his stupidity and greed, had locked everyone, including himself, inside, to boost viewings. Gandhi is a very aggressive person. It Is probably from being alive for 2 hundred years.
Dwight ran to Howard and hissed at him, then uplifted his boopie and slapped him hard across the kneecap with it. "You stubbly monster!" Then, with thundering realization, he knew he was dead, for his chest was no longer rising and falling in heavy movements. (That means he was not breathing.)
Thick gurgling rose through his throat, phlegm liquid and wet in his gullet. He was shocked, heart stuttering the same as a woman's hand after drinking many moldy coffee beans. He staggered back, hand over his chest. His fingers inflated to basketball size once more. He fell to his knees and cried. He had loved Iris even though she was stupid! And now Howard had killed her!
As he cartwheeled to her corpse, a sound thumped once, twice through the building.
He craned his neck back like an owl covered in grease, and stared as the wall of writhing humanity parted to make way for a man he had come to hate.
Joakim Noah's lips and cheeks were covered in red abrasions. Cuts decorated his slender neck, his jawline mottled with purpling bruises. His eyes were reddened, dark bags beneath his eyes like swollen rings from lack of sleep. Whip marks covered his body. He reeked of sweat and excrement. He stepped forward, body rail thin from its previously muscled form after long amounts of endless torture.
He brought his hands in front of him, one curling into a fist, the other cupping it and cracking the knuckles of said fist. Then they switched. He glared with all of the anger of a boy who grew with opportunity, only for it to be taken away by a maniac.
Dwight Howard pooped his pants.
Joakim stalked forward, jaw grit, teeth grinding which sounded like paving slabs rubbed together.
"Nnnnno?" Inquired Dwight, his temples excreting the wetness much like his brother's vagina. "Do not."
Joakim ran forward with what little strength he carried in the legs that had once carried him so far across the courts, and swung his foot into the underside of Dwight's Crimson-Chin like Chin and grinned at the resulting crack, his teeth splattering out onto the floorboards beneath him. Withdrawing a pencil carrying the weight of SO MANY SWORDS from his pocket, he flipped it so the pointed end stuck upwards, gripping it by the handle, and stuck it through the blackened, shriveled heart of Dwight Howard.
"How does it feel," he kneeled down, grabbing his torturer's face in his hands, smile malicious, "to be down and out of luck?"
With that, Dwight gave one last wheeze, one last fart, and his eyebrows slithered off of his face and onto his knees, signifying death.
Just then. the top of the stadium shattered loudly, glass raining down with a mottled tingling noise that, when mixed with the terrified screams of those facing their deaths, Joakim decided sounded like the child's choir of Hell. The shards flew towards Joakim's now shaved head at top speed, but they passed right through him, as Joakim was now invincible and impervious to pain or the mortal world. A magnificent, shimmering beam of light blasted down and enveloped Joakim's sickly form, carrying him up to the sky, flames enveloping everything around him, a cruel world now cruelly burning to death, paying for the horrible crimes of humanity (Family Guy and bacon).
A voice softly simmered through the haze and drifted into Joakim's mind, melodious and pure.
"Joakiiiiiiim," it whispered.
"God?" questioned Joakim, in awe.
A short, white, bald man, wearing nothing but circular spectacles, a white bed sheet, and birkenstocks, appeared before him in a shower of sparkles.
"My name is David Cross, but your kind calls me a number of names: God, Allah, Yahweh, and many others. That is not important right now. Noah, my child, you have faced many perils over your imprisonment. This is all my plan, of course, and you must forgive me."
Joakim frowned two times.
"Do not mistake me; I do not enjoy inflicting pain on my subjects, especially one as great as you, but I had to make sure you were the right man for the job, because it is a very big and important job."
Joakim cocked his eyebrow two times in interest.
"Noah, I need you to gather up one kind of every breed of cat, and hide away while I cleanse this earth of the heathen you had the misfortune to have as your brothers. When I am done, after many days, you will come out and produce a new race to dominate this earth, of all colors, shapes, and sizes, and you will make it beautiful. I trust in you, Noah. I know you can do this."
Joakim pondered. "Will I have to fornicate with the cats?" He thought about a sick cat/human hybrid but he did not want to fornicate with the cats.
Crossgod laughed. "No, my son. I have given you specifically the power of asexual reproduction. You can grow many tiny people from your penis, any kind you choose. When they are big enough they will detach and become a fully grown person, to do away with the cretin that are 'children.' I am kind and smart in this way, and have thought of everything, even allowing cats the power of speech and high thinking. "
After considering the proposition, Joakim decided why the hell not so he said okay. Crossgod looked pleased and began sprinkling a shitload of catnip everywhere in the sky, and a bunch of cats came flying from the ruins of earth. They surrounded Joakim and created a giant catspaceship. Joakim blasted off into space and orbited earth for forty days and nights as Crossgod used an extremely large and red fire extinguisher to extinguish the now scorched earth.
Joakim and the cats hung out and played board games on the catship while they waited. Even though the cats did mostly not really like board games they still played with Joakim because he was a god to them.
When Joakim finally landed, everything was still and covered in white foam.
He stepped out of the ship, now fit and hot again from all the sweet space crunches he did while he was waiting. Cats flew out around him, going out to explore their new home and do a lot of important gardening. Everything was sparkly and new. The earth had been cleansed of its sins.
Crossgod appeared before Joakim one last time. Joakim was bored and chewed on his fingernails but Crossgod looked pretty serious so Joakim kind of paid attention.
"Joakim, go out unto the world. You can use your hands to create whatever you like. There will be no more poverty, no world hunger. You may live whatever lifestyle you want, without want or fear of death or old age. Tell the story of your perils. Lead them wisely. I am counting on you. Do not fail me."
Crossgod exploded in a really gay explosion and Joakim was alone.
He did not know what new thing to make first, so he decided on something that would bring comfort. His old house sprung up before him. He glided through the living room, the kitchen, caressing familiar items and smiling softly. He shed his clothes with pure will, phasing through the translucent glass doors and into his backyard.
He drifted to softly meet the grass, blades tantalizingly tickling his toes. A soft breeze ruffled the scruffy patch of hair on his chiseled faced.
Joakim entered the pool gracefully, not missing a single marble, gold encrusted step.
