ITINERANT EMBLEMS AND INTREPID TIMBERS: A RATHER ABRUPT IF EROGENOUS UPROOTING
By Quillon42
Never had greed for green overcome any individuals as much as the couple of carcass conquerors who had just alighted into the Promenade zone of the perilous Zenobia.
Presently the punctilious pair of eager S.T.A.R.S. emeriti indeed that had been Christopher Redfield and Jillian Valentine were penetrating the perimeter of that Potemkin eatery area actually saturated with slimy Ooze offerings, the two searching for Herbs as the erstwhile supply for each was now dreadfully dwindling.
Forsooth, fervently combing through that foulest of fjord-crossing food courts now were these wraith-wayfarers. Placidly the paramilitary champ Chris now beheld the beauteous features of the femme next to him, Jill's magnificent mien now appearing to project animalistic ardor, particularly because her pretty puss resembled, in this author's unerring estimation, not unlike that of the Chipette Jeanette Miller sans spectacles (one could espy this especially near the commencement of Jill's Mediterranean errand when she utters the "Ninety-Four Minutes" line to her portly partner Parker).
Just after the ex-Air-Force artillery aficionado had emptied a full clip of eye contact into the almond achene irises of his trusty beloved, he noticed something rather lush amidst the fakest ferns situated atop the floor divider. And just as there was the jaunty prompting by the vim-brimming Valentine at the start of the first (and honestly best) version of the riotous Residential rollick, now Redfield here most randily:
"Llloooook, Jilllllllllllllll!"
In tacit reply, J-Mill…um, Jill radiated rodentlike passion as she proceeded to the patch her soldier soulmate pointed out, she pawing at the area with savvy hands and perusing with snazzy Genesis device until she unearthed as much health-restoring hashish as she could find.
Minutes into this joint eureka upon the government-sanctioned-mary-jane-motherlode, Chrissian and Jillopher were undoing the Level 1-A Armor that each wore and having at one another most ravenously, much more thoroughly than any gaiting goo in this goshforsaken gulf ever could hope to get at either of them.
Flirtingly the mistress of unlocking brushed an Herb against the cedar chest of her ordinarily-overly-austere compadre, then tossed the same aside as her longtime-acquainted lover took her for sensual safecracking. Now Redfield's redwood arms encapsulated this siren of the Spencer Mansion shales, now did this rowdiest of recruits reach with the firm firs of his hands upon the overwhelmingly supple arbor of her ample ass, verily those same chinquapin cheeks clapping as his starkest of sycamores planted itself well within her. During, while winding down, and after the chafing course of their ardent Arklay helicopter hover, the fervent fantasia of their Fox Park train commute, the ravishing tangle of their elevating-platform-whatever-the-fuck-it-is-near-the-underground-laboratory-frequented-by-William-Birkin, Chris ran the unbroken shotgun of his timbery tongue against the tapioca topiary of his bio-militia maiden's thighs, then along the sylvan smoothness of her bellota belly.
She screamed and screeched for Chris most avidly now, did Jill, she portraying once more the operative in her emotional element which many observers from the reader's vantage had noted time and again through manuscripts and montages online focusing on her potential for powerful feels (although Dave Seville's most famously debonair of fauna daughters did not appear to donate one iota of feces at the graphic passing of Joseph Frost at the outset of the Gamecubic rendition of their initial mission (unlike, to be fair, her impassioned cry for the bandanaed blunderer in the abovementioned original Sony story)…because God and the other benevolent maker Mikami both know that Strong Female Characters showing any kind of appreciable affect is necessary the woefully worst of looks).
At any rate, these calid Zenobian chronicles progressed from Deca to Bucco and now apparently to Tuco as there had of a sudden entered a perditious jerk in a parachute jumpsuit. Now the unreliably-knifing hero Redfield looked upon the other man's glabrous face…
"W…
"Ww…Walter White?!"
Nay, but the bespectacled boogeyman before the mercenaries of the macabre was not in fact that bastard who Broke so Badly, but rather a Velcro-clad Veltro terrorist who wielded something shiny in his hand, aught that caught the eyes of these explorers of the unliving unknown.
"Chris," began a most erotically gelling Jill, "That's the badge we've been searching for…the one that can get you to the scattergun you've been looking out for…"
Oh, but it hadn't been, in fact, that critical item acting as such a key to said undeniable armament. And the nefarious Jack Norman here would make this abundantly clear as he would perpetrate a line reminiscent of the Cranston character he so resembled.
"This," said the verdantly-bedecked villain, as he held up the tinny trinket, "is not the Crest."
And then with the most arduous hurl that a geriatric gangsta such as himself could effect,
[BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM]
the criminal codger threw the curio to the tile, causing an explosion…
…
…that was not in fact concussive but one which was in fact transportive. Instants following and the two Alpha Teamsters found themselves upon the same shoreline whereupon Jill and the pudge of power that was Parker had principally embarked on their Revelational voyage.
Around them now as well were those disgusting oversized slithering sour patch kids known as Globsters. Herein the salty beach nits extended out with their teeth and what passed for appendages otherwise as a screen propped up upon a crate nearby crackled to life.
"We here at Veltro would like you to know that the whole televised terroristic broadcasts go both ways," taunted the noodge that was Norman now. "Not unlike what one can maybe call a most bestiality-based Lionel Starkweather, I will now derive pleasure from the snuff of your devourment."
Unwilling to become the jawed-upon James Earl Cashes for the intimate amusement of this seeming-Jesse-Pinkman-partner-in-crime, the resourceful Redfield now whipped out a small gunmetal gray insignia of his own, and before his enemy's wrinkled visage could even register it
[BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM]
the rangers of the rancid had now ended up almost half a planet away, upon far more frigid environs.
Before Jill could utter a single bewildered syllable now, Chris:
"Turns out I have one of those precious little toys of my own; how do you think that Jessica and I got from up here at the Valkoinen Mokki Airstrip in Finland to Club Med Undead so quickly?"
Really Chris did not even look to the face of the fabulous female adjacent to him…particularly because his attention was so drawn to the fact that the acorns of her areolas had become so erect in this ever apocalyptic cold.
Now these would be bombastic boulders to take on with punches ever so passionate, emanating from lips parched for so many Resident sequelae for the dutybound demigoddess's companionship.