Vindictive Lion Man with Two Smoking Barrels
While Bosco and Tommy were making their were to the plausible dangers of Disney World, a character by the name of Johnny Mitch Rocko was sauntering the streets of Ybor city, basically looking for someone to beat down or blow up, but not necessarily a someone. Something would suffice at the moment, as 32-year old Johnny was perpetually pissed. Though Johnny's animalistic features are not as prominent as Bosco's or Tommy's, they were still there. Johnny is a 6'7 battle-hardened man with a few physical characteristics of a lion. He has a wild, spiked red mane and a beard that obscures the chin bones and forms into a goatee. His eyes are always blocked by black, round goggles. His teeth are fang-like, giving the hint that this man obviously prefers his steaks rare. He wears a light-brown leather duster. Underneath the duster is a red, buttoned, sleeveless suit vest made of a thread-like material. He wears baggy, dark brown slacks and standard issue military-boots. He has the ears of a lion, which poke out just a bit above his hair. He also has the tail of a lion, which he lets flail about. He thinks it rather invigorating to decapitate someone via by hand if some asshole thought it humorous to pull on it. It was like bait for imbeciles. Though you do not tend to see it, he is a bit hirsute, but considering the man is part lion that is to be expected. As you can expect, people tend to have a hard time accepting Johnny's lion- like features. Unlike most discarded individuals of society, however, Johnny did not weep and run to the nearest guidance counselor. His special features simply gave him a reason to kick peoples' ass, and that is pretty much what gets Johnny through life. Needless to say, there were not many school systems willing to accept a teenager that came built in with ten four-inch daggers as nails and the strength of...well, a lion. That was peachy too. There were always libraries, and libraries would accept you even if you were a giant, pulsating blob of Smucker's Strawberry Jam with car jacks as hands-just as long as you cleaned off the books and helped a guy change his oil. Johnny learned how to read by holding an English professor at gunpoint, and once he had possessed an ample amount of knowledge of the English language, he blew off the head of the Professor, put him in a tree crusher, and then used him for his special 5-Alarm chili. Johnny felt you could never be too careful with nobles. With a life of violence and reading, Johnny became a multi-faceted homicidal connoisseur. The librarians loved him for assassinating the rambunctious assholes that came into the library and downloaded music that involved repetitious bass thumps and endless double, triple, and quadruple negatives. At the tender age of 17, Johnny was ready to take on the world. Three days later, he single-handedly took over a cat house, wondered why they called it a cat house, then wondered why the fuck did he even care about the name in the first place, and walked out several hours later with a new-found respect for women and their strange ability to find new ways to vacate a male. He also walked out of there with a two-barrel shotgun after beating some elderly bastard's ass that kept mentioning something about 'staying away from his daughters.' Ever since then, Johnny made a living killing livestock, killing people that fat Italians ask him to kill, killing fat Italians, offing Chucke E. Cheese establishments, and pick-pocketing unsuspecting homosexuals in gay bars and pride parades who would think he was copping feel and then find themselves tossed in front of a steam roller. Ironically, Johnny had nothing against homosexuals. He just hated rainbows and Elton John, and because of this fact they all had to die. He also felt people from Greenpeace and the CIA had to die too, as well as the three corpulent men somewhere in Germany that were controlling the world behind the curtains, but most importantly, hippies had to die-especially the ones named Bosco and Tommy. Ten years ago Johnny encountered Bosco and Tommy in a bar in Jersey known as "Your Head in a Paint Mixer." Bosco and Tommy had been relaxing in their stools drinking Michelobs when they suddenly requested to the bartender that CNN be switched to "Rocko's Modern Life." Johnny felt it necessary to know what was going on in his world and what needed killing, and he loathed anything that had his name and was in no way in reference to him-especially a personified wallaby in an Acapulco shirt. 'You goddamn-dirty-Tim-Leary-loving bastards!' Johnny had insulted the two. 'Real bloodbaths involving flesh tearing steel and fire are transpiring and you want to watch a fucking wallaby do his spring cleaning.' The bartender at the time knew that bludgeoning objects would be thrown, so he put on his baseball face guard helmet, unholstered a .50 Desert Eagle and aimed it at Johnny. 'It's my favorite episode you Simba-looking-sonafabitch," the bartender hissed. Both Bosco and Tommy were rather blazed at the moment from the previous partaking of a pipe containing their daily dosage of ganja. They were rather indifferent to Johnny's needs at the moment; they would lose their indifference, however, when Johnny hastily procured his shotgun from his duster and blew the bartender asunder. The bar now had new, pulpy and red wallpaper. 'I hate that fucking movie,' Johnny snarled. A shotgun blast whizzing by the heads of Bosco and Tommy was enough to snap them out of their stupor. Something would have to be done, and they would not be able to put it off for later like many of their minor responsibilities, like turning the gas off, putting the car in park before stopping, stopping the car before exiting, and making sure the juice they drank was fresh and not that concentrated rubbish. Tommy unholstered his .45 Colt Python and attempted to pistol whip Johnny. Due to the mind- fucking traits of marijuana, Tommy missed, and the momentum of his blow had him twirl and fall to the ground. Johnny blinked. 'It's called pulling the trigger,' Johnny piqued, 'better luck at the pearly gates you Balto-looking-leg-fucker.' Johnny cocked the shotgun and aimed it at Tommy. Bosco, however, assumed his Muy Thai stance. Johnny looked to Bosco dubiously. "Nice style, mine's called Clint Eastwood after a PCP hit," Johnny quipped, his shotgun now at Bosco's head. "Yeah?" Bosco said arrogantly, looked to the right of Johnny, and exclaimed with his eyes wide-open, "LOOK! SALMA HAYEK GREW A CUCUMBER GARDEN AND SHE'S MEASURING THEM BLIND-FOLDED!" 'Bullshit,' Johnny stated, 'Salma Hayek is boffing some rapper wearing a cowboy hat in a hummer, do you really-' Johnny was interrupted by Bosco delivering a series of jabs from both sides, uppercutting him in the jaw causing Johnny to become airborne, leaping over Johnny's propelled body, grabbing his legs, swinging him over his head and slamming his body violently onto a billiards table. For some odd reason, the words "12-HIT COMBO! MAGNIFISCENT" briefly floated above Bosco, and then disappeared. 'Thank you Bloody Roar 2!' Bosco announced. He looked down at Tommy, who was playing patty-cake with himself on the floor. 'Must have been laced,' Bosco supposed. Johnny had not known how these anthropomorphic hippies became so powerful, nor did he know where they got their weaponry, but the thing that angered Johnny the most was that someone had stolen his wallet while he lied unconscious near an eight-ball. This humiliating defeat required vengeance, and meant, "that Kung-Fu fucking tiger and jack-ass wolf" was on his hit list, right under "Will and Grace." Reminiscing made Johnny irascible. He shook his head, grunted, and moved on. He read the shop signs and observed the window displays. Johnny did not believe in moving out of the way for people, so basically he was like a churlish plow through people. Needless to say, he caught a lot of irate comments. He usually ignored these. It was rather fun when they got violent, however, because any fist moving quickly towards Johnny's face would be grabbed and thrown into oncoming traffic. No entertainment for Johnny though. No one would throw the first punch. "Bastards," Johnny complained, "I'd at least get to hurl 20 of you in New York." Johnny chanced to look right. The storeowner would regret this action. In the window were various televisions in an assortment of brands, colors, and sizes. One of them, however, was displaying something that induced homicidal psychosis. He caught a glimpse of it...two animated lions frolicking about in a field to the song of Elton John's "Can You Feel The Love Tonight?" Johnny's eye twitched and he began to cringe. He whipped out his shotgun and pulled back the hammers. Hollow booms and collapsing glass rang out through the city. All of the televisions had been mangled to the point of melted plastic and charred metal and glass. Sparks were flying about, an electrical fire suddenly spread throughout the adjacent stores, and for some inexplicable reason a milk truck exploded. The storeowner was wishing that he had put that 50% off sign sooner. "Does it feel something like that bitch?" Johnny retorted to the now destroyed television. He hid the shotgun in his duster and walked on, feeling a little bit better, but thinking he would have more fun terrorizing a karaoke bar. A fast paced orgy of metal on the Tampa Bay Bridge was a typical sight. The ocean view was magnificent, and it was the only thing remotely interesting at the moment-that, and Tommy sucking the gaseous contents of a whipped cream can. "HOOOOOOOOBAH!" Tommy declared, grinning contently, his claws rapping on the dashboard to Nirvana's "I Know You're Right." He popped open another brewsky, chugged it, inhaled a blunt, chugged the beer, sucked the whip can again, and repeated these actions as if it were some isometric exercise regimen. Bosco shook his head. "It's not a contest you know," Bosco told Tommy. "Maybe so," Tommy gargled while drinking the beer, "but I don't see any reason to take my time either." "Too many years with your fraternity buddies I'm presuming," Bosco deduced. "Where are the blocks of ice you're supposed to drink the scotch off of?" Bosco added humorously. "Tommy gulped the brew down. "Those guys are amateurs. You shouldn't even take any time to be screaming out random vowels if you're a true alcoholic." "Don't get voracious on me," Bosco warned Tommy, "this shit has to last us, and I don't plan to be sober in that demonic fane at any time unless the sandman summons...I'll have the cocaine for those moments." Tommy squinted. "Ever heard of Foldgers?" Tommy asked. "Fluff," Bosco sneered, veering through traffic precariously and receiving a lot of horn blasts and looks of terror. "Uh, this is a bridge man," Tommy said nervously, "not a good time to be implementing Need for Speed tactics." "Actually, it's the perfect time," Bosco argued, "The water will break our fall." "You know what, you're right," Tommy growled and said sarcastically, "and so will that semi in front of us and the cement below us and the S.U.V. adjacent to us. More will be broken than just the fucking fall my friend." Bosco nodded his head in agreement. "True," Bosco agreed, "but we actually have to hit something first." Bosco floored it. Tommy simply rubbed his head and groaned. He ducked in his seat, stuffed a one-hitter, lit it and inhaled. Tommy at times could be the more logical of the two and also the most depraved, a diabolical combination for a drug-abusing anthropomorphic wolf. He was used to Bosco's spontaneous and dangerous behavior. He honestly thought that Bosco did not need to be doing anything that could increase insanity, and he often wondered why Bosco was not behind a large glass panel rehearsing Shakespeare and craving an adrenal gland to chew on. Bosco continued to weave in and out of traffic, a rather bulky, alacritous sewing needle along the torso of the Tampa Bay Bridge. It was easy for Bosco not to worry about crashing into the watery depths below. He knew how to swim. Tommy only knew how to gulp for water as if it were air, and even that was but a vague memory when an alcoholic beverage was lying around. The movie lingered in Johnny Mitch Rocko's mind. It was an abomination to him. The life of a lion was that of philandering and gluttony, and Johnny was damn happy about this fact, as it was also an exact representation of a human's life as well. How the fuck are they making money off these uninspired formulaic pieces of shitifiscent animation? Johnny gritted his teeth. How did they indeed? The question floated through his mind and he found himself stroking his shotgun as if it were a loveable kitten. Maybe the little shrapnel storm of mine in my duster could give me answers. A notion popped Johnny's mind, and it seemed plausible enough, and then it became a desire to be placated. A little visit will be in order, and there will be no fucking housewarming gifts Walt. Johnny searched for some means of transportation. His mind caught the words Orlando on a Greyhound bus. The cat-like strength came in handy as he jumped atop the bus, his claws penetrating the roof for grip. The people on the bus surely would take no notice, as being in a bus station has been equated to being in your third-world country around the corner. If the police had anything to say about it, he could just hitch a ride with them-and there would be no qualms so long as the coppers were no longer on this physical plane and the radio had been rendered fucked. "Look mommy, it's Balto!" A little girl eyeing Tommy from her window exclaimed. Tommy had just opened a pint of Jim Bean and began quaffing it. The girl's mother laughed jovially. "Oh honey, you have such an imagination." Tommy took notice to the girl eyeing him. At about the same time, Jim Bean's ability to suck all oxygen from your body if ingested incorrectly took effect. Tommy choked and spitted the drink at the girl's window.
"Fuck," Tommy said miserably, wiping his maw. "I shouldn't do that when driving with you-stomach feels like it's been whitewashed with ammonia. I'd bitchslap you for your recklessness if it didn't mean we'd meet certain doom." Bosco giggled insanely. "The hell you laughing about?" Tommy asked in a vexed tone. "The girl next to us is going to have a far different view on wolves thanks to you," Bosco replied smirking. Tommy looked over at the blue Chrysler van next to them and muttered, "Woops." The girl looked at her window curiously. She stared for a few moments, and then it hit her. "Mommy, Balto did what daddy did in the toilet last night when you were at the A.A. meeting."
They eventually passed that blue Chrysler van and left The Tampa Bay Bridge. A mini-version of what appeared to be New York with palm trees came into view. The white, sun-baked road was treacherous to walk upon, and Tommy and Bosco pitied the barefoot pedestrian. A variety of establishments were in view. Billboards displayed the nearing amusement parks and related franchises with them. Hotels were abundant-even the rustic 70 year-old ones with the burnt out neon light with a build that looked more like the New Jersey projects-just with a lot of old white disgruntled men instead of bandana doting black men.
"Not as many pawn shops here," Tommy noted. "The supply and demand of drug abusers has dwindled to nothing-we're in unknown territory."
Bosco nodded. "It's as if the mere presence of Disney World has driven them out. I don't even think Eazy E could survive here."
"Indeed," Tommy agreed, dunking his snout into a small bag of cocaine, snorting, and exclaiming, "HOOOOBEEJOOOWAH!"
Bosco rolled his guys.
"Is that sound effect really necessary?"
"Fuck yes it is," he snapped, dipping his tongue into the bag as if were an industrial size-portion of Pixie Stick powder.
"Sweet Mother of Heart Stimulants!" Bosco exclaimed. "You're going to be wired like a stun gun in a Olympic-sized pool of electric eels!"
"Fun fun fun fun fun fun fun," Tommy rambled excitedly, taking out his .45 and firing a shot at a Taco Bell sign. The sign sparked and shorted out.
"WHERE'S THE FUCKING RING? I DEMAND A CIGAR!" Tommy announced, his eyes crazed like that of a 5-year old after clearing out Willy Wonka's factory and then hiding the bodies.
Bosco ears slumped back.
"Oh damn," he muttered despondently.
"HEY! YOU'RE THE ONE PULLING THE DUKES OF HAZZARD TACTICS ON A ROAD INUNDANTED WITH FUTURE COFFIN ACOMMODATERS!"
"Yeah, is that so bad?" Bosco replied. "The undertakers could use some overtime."
"And one of the Sigfreed and Roy tigers could use another piece of ass," Tommy insulted crazily.
Bosco's eyes shifted to Tommy as he stopped at a stoplight.
"One too many hits for you Jack Nicholson," Bosco announced.
Tommy's eyes widened as Ozzy Osbourne's "Bark at the Moon" came on.
"YES!" Tommy screamed gleefully.
Tommy began singing the lyrics to the song in his own, wolf-like howling tone. Bosco ears remained slumped back. Where tigers had a mind- altering substance that was good for the health, wolves had Ozzy Osbourne's "Bark at the Moon" as their theme song. "Eye of the Tiger" never really did anything for Bosco.
Johnny had been banging his head on the roof of the Greyhound Bus for about 15 minutes now. The heat in combination with the duster was beginning to let off the scent of cows with fresh perms. Needless to say, the claws that had dug into the roof and the incessant din had startled a few of the bus passengers. The bus driver reassured them that it was only the spirit of Hitler trying to learn street drums, and that Bubba had found him and that Hitler needed a tether. They all exhaled in relief upon this reassurance.
"WHY DOESN'T THIS BUS JUST RUN THE FUCKING RICED HONDA IN FRONT OF US DOWN?" Johnny snarled. "Survival of the diesel bitches!"
The idea of jumping on one of the bass thumping, gaudy, speeding pieces of foreign hardware, ripping off the roof, and throwing the drivers and passengers into the closest semi with the most apathetic southern driver at the wheel was tempting Johnny to go on a whole other genocide completely. This quickly changed when he saw a billboard for Disney World. Its slogan was something about wishing upon a star, which Johnny knew was physically impossible but wished more people would try it literally anyhow. Johnny despised this anti-physics whimsical bullshit and shot the sign with his shotgun. Mickey and Minnie had been rendered decapitated. He then wondered if he should kill them Richard the Lionheart style.
"Lionheart? HA!" Johnny said to himself. "He should have taken that seven foot sword and shoved it up all their pompous French Asses. That long- haired multi-lingual prick can claim no allegiance from me!"
"Oh lord," Bosco complained, "last thing I need is a bunch of illiterate teenagers blasting some random rap C.D. they found at a yard sale in their mobile hunk of plastic they call "The Shiznit."
Tommy nodded his head. It had drowned out his favorite song. The unknowing impudence of the passengers in the car in front of him would have to be punished. Tommy fired the Colt Python at one of the wing-like attachments at the car. Tommy meant to just blow off this attachment, but the impact of the bullet on the Honda caused the whole vehicle to shatter into a glittering spectacle of fragments. Bosco snickered.
"Well shit," Bosco said bemusedly, "you didn't even the gun for that one. Should have just hurled a beer can at it."
"Oh I couldn't do that," Tommy said in a concerned tone with wide- open red eyes. "I'm environmentally conscience."
They cackled diabolically. So did Johnny on top of the bus that was next to Bosco and Tommy.
"Heh, that was a pretty good shot," Johnny complimented. The bus proceeded to run over the ruins of the Honda and its passengers, which fortunately just happened to be a few empty containers of Tupperware (though the difference between the Tupperware and the suspected passengers would offer no distinction.) Johnny turned to his left to compliment the wonderful aces that destroyed the pansy pocket rocket. His smile slowly transformed into a cringe of rage. There they were-the damned anthropomorphic hippies that had beaten him down in the bar. He would have to find a ride to Orlando another time. It was time to make two checks on his Shit List.
Uh oh! It looks like that wacky wolf and tenacious tiger are in for a world of trouble! Will Bosco and Tommy ward off the lunatic lion? Will firefights and death ensue? Will I stop trying to make the same beginning letters for my adjectives and nouns? Stay tuned! And remember! Only you can prevent sexually transmitted diseases!
While Bosco and Tommy were making their were to the plausible dangers of Disney World, a character by the name of Johnny Mitch Rocko was sauntering the streets of Ybor city, basically looking for someone to beat down or blow up, but not necessarily a someone. Something would suffice at the moment, as 32-year old Johnny was perpetually pissed. Though Johnny's animalistic features are not as prominent as Bosco's or Tommy's, they were still there. Johnny is a 6'7 battle-hardened man with a few physical characteristics of a lion. He has a wild, spiked red mane and a beard that obscures the chin bones and forms into a goatee. His eyes are always blocked by black, round goggles. His teeth are fang-like, giving the hint that this man obviously prefers his steaks rare. He wears a light-brown leather duster. Underneath the duster is a red, buttoned, sleeveless suit vest made of a thread-like material. He wears baggy, dark brown slacks and standard issue military-boots. He has the ears of a lion, which poke out just a bit above his hair. He also has the tail of a lion, which he lets flail about. He thinks it rather invigorating to decapitate someone via by hand if some asshole thought it humorous to pull on it. It was like bait for imbeciles. Though you do not tend to see it, he is a bit hirsute, but considering the man is part lion that is to be expected. As you can expect, people tend to have a hard time accepting Johnny's lion- like features. Unlike most discarded individuals of society, however, Johnny did not weep and run to the nearest guidance counselor. His special features simply gave him a reason to kick peoples' ass, and that is pretty much what gets Johnny through life. Needless to say, there were not many school systems willing to accept a teenager that came built in with ten four-inch daggers as nails and the strength of...well, a lion. That was peachy too. There were always libraries, and libraries would accept you even if you were a giant, pulsating blob of Smucker's Strawberry Jam with car jacks as hands-just as long as you cleaned off the books and helped a guy change his oil. Johnny learned how to read by holding an English professor at gunpoint, and once he had possessed an ample amount of knowledge of the English language, he blew off the head of the Professor, put him in a tree crusher, and then used him for his special 5-Alarm chili. Johnny felt you could never be too careful with nobles. With a life of violence and reading, Johnny became a multi-faceted homicidal connoisseur. The librarians loved him for assassinating the rambunctious assholes that came into the library and downloaded music that involved repetitious bass thumps and endless double, triple, and quadruple negatives. At the tender age of 17, Johnny was ready to take on the world. Three days later, he single-handedly took over a cat house, wondered why they called it a cat house, then wondered why the fuck did he even care about the name in the first place, and walked out several hours later with a new-found respect for women and their strange ability to find new ways to vacate a male. He also walked out of there with a two-barrel shotgun after beating some elderly bastard's ass that kept mentioning something about 'staying away from his daughters.' Ever since then, Johnny made a living killing livestock, killing people that fat Italians ask him to kill, killing fat Italians, offing Chucke E. Cheese establishments, and pick-pocketing unsuspecting homosexuals in gay bars and pride parades who would think he was copping feel and then find themselves tossed in front of a steam roller. Ironically, Johnny had nothing against homosexuals. He just hated rainbows and Elton John, and because of this fact they all had to die. He also felt people from Greenpeace and the CIA had to die too, as well as the three corpulent men somewhere in Germany that were controlling the world behind the curtains, but most importantly, hippies had to die-especially the ones named Bosco and Tommy. Ten years ago Johnny encountered Bosco and Tommy in a bar in Jersey known as "Your Head in a Paint Mixer." Bosco and Tommy had been relaxing in their stools drinking Michelobs when they suddenly requested to the bartender that CNN be switched to "Rocko's Modern Life." Johnny felt it necessary to know what was going on in his world and what needed killing, and he loathed anything that had his name and was in no way in reference to him-especially a personified wallaby in an Acapulco shirt. 'You goddamn-dirty-Tim-Leary-loving bastards!' Johnny had insulted the two. 'Real bloodbaths involving flesh tearing steel and fire are transpiring and you want to watch a fucking wallaby do his spring cleaning.' The bartender at the time knew that bludgeoning objects would be thrown, so he put on his baseball face guard helmet, unholstered a .50 Desert Eagle and aimed it at Johnny. 'It's my favorite episode you Simba-looking-sonafabitch," the bartender hissed. Both Bosco and Tommy were rather blazed at the moment from the previous partaking of a pipe containing their daily dosage of ganja. They were rather indifferent to Johnny's needs at the moment; they would lose their indifference, however, when Johnny hastily procured his shotgun from his duster and blew the bartender asunder. The bar now had new, pulpy and red wallpaper. 'I hate that fucking movie,' Johnny snarled. A shotgun blast whizzing by the heads of Bosco and Tommy was enough to snap them out of their stupor. Something would have to be done, and they would not be able to put it off for later like many of their minor responsibilities, like turning the gas off, putting the car in park before stopping, stopping the car before exiting, and making sure the juice they drank was fresh and not that concentrated rubbish. Tommy unholstered his .45 Colt Python and attempted to pistol whip Johnny. Due to the mind- fucking traits of marijuana, Tommy missed, and the momentum of his blow had him twirl and fall to the ground. Johnny blinked. 'It's called pulling the trigger,' Johnny piqued, 'better luck at the pearly gates you Balto-looking-leg-fucker.' Johnny cocked the shotgun and aimed it at Tommy. Bosco, however, assumed his Muy Thai stance. Johnny looked to Bosco dubiously. "Nice style, mine's called Clint Eastwood after a PCP hit," Johnny quipped, his shotgun now at Bosco's head. "Yeah?" Bosco said arrogantly, looked to the right of Johnny, and exclaimed with his eyes wide-open, "LOOK! SALMA HAYEK GREW A CUCUMBER GARDEN AND SHE'S MEASURING THEM BLIND-FOLDED!" 'Bullshit,' Johnny stated, 'Salma Hayek is boffing some rapper wearing a cowboy hat in a hummer, do you really-' Johnny was interrupted by Bosco delivering a series of jabs from both sides, uppercutting him in the jaw causing Johnny to become airborne, leaping over Johnny's propelled body, grabbing his legs, swinging him over his head and slamming his body violently onto a billiards table. For some odd reason, the words "12-HIT COMBO! MAGNIFISCENT" briefly floated above Bosco, and then disappeared. 'Thank you Bloody Roar 2!' Bosco announced. He looked down at Tommy, who was playing patty-cake with himself on the floor. 'Must have been laced,' Bosco supposed. Johnny had not known how these anthropomorphic hippies became so powerful, nor did he know where they got their weaponry, but the thing that angered Johnny the most was that someone had stolen his wallet while he lied unconscious near an eight-ball. This humiliating defeat required vengeance, and meant, "that Kung-Fu fucking tiger and jack-ass wolf" was on his hit list, right under "Will and Grace." Reminiscing made Johnny irascible. He shook his head, grunted, and moved on. He read the shop signs and observed the window displays. Johnny did not believe in moving out of the way for people, so basically he was like a churlish plow through people. Needless to say, he caught a lot of irate comments. He usually ignored these. It was rather fun when they got violent, however, because any fist moving quickly towards Johnny's face would be grabbed and thrown into oncoming traffic. No entertainment for Johnny though. No one would throw the first punch. "Bastards," Johnny complained, "I'd at least get to hurl 20 of you in New York." Johnny chanced to look right. The storeowner would regret this action. In the window were various televisions in an assortment of brands, colors, and sizes. One of them, however, was displaying something that induced homicidal psychosis. He caught a glimpse of it...two animated lions frolicking about in a field to the song of Elton John's "Can You Feel The Love Tonight?" Johnny's eye twitched and he began to cringe. He whipped out his shotgun and pulled back the hammers. Hollow booms and collapsing glass rang out through the city. All of the televisions had been mangled to the point of melted plastic and charred metal and glass. Sparks were flying about, an electrical fire suddenly spread throughout the adjacent stores, and for some inexplicable reason a milk truck exploded. The storeowner was wishing that he had put that 50% off sign sooner. "Does it feel something like that bitch?" Johnny retorted to the now destroyed television. He hid the shotgun in his duster and walked on, feeling a little bit better, but thinking he would have more fun terrorizing a karaoke bar. A fast paced orgy of metal on the Tampa Bay Bridge was a typical sight. The ocean view was magnificent, and it was the only thing remotely interesting at the moment-that, and Tommy sucking the gaseous contents of a whipped cream can. "HOOOOOOOOBAH!" Tommy declared, grinning contently, his claws rapping on the dashboard to Nirvana's "I Know You're Right." He popped open another brewsky, chugged it, inhaled a blunt, chugged the beer, sucked the whip can again, and repeated these actions as if it were some isometric exercise regimen. Bosco shook his head. "It's not a contest you know," Bosco told Tommy. "Maybe so," Tommy gargled while drinking the beer, "but I don't see any reason to take my time either." "Too many years with your fraternity buddies I'm presuming," Bosco deduced. "Where are the blocks of ice you're supposed to drink the scotch off of?" Bosco added humorously. "Tommy gulped the brew down. "Those guys are amateurs. You shouldn't even take any time to be screaming out random vowels if you're a true alcoholic." "Don't get voracious on me," Bosco warned Tommy, "this shit has to last us, and I don't plan to be sober in that demonic fane at any time unless the sandman summons...I'll have the cocaine for those moments." Tommy squinted. "Ever heard of Foldgers?" Tommy asked. "Fluff," Bosco sneered, veering through traffic precariously and receiving a lot of horn blasts and looks of terror. "Uh, this is a bridge man," Tommy said nervously, "not a good time to be implementing Need for Speed tactics." "Actually, it's the perfect time," Bosco argued, "The water will break our fall." "You know what, you're right," Tommy growled and said sarcastically, "and so will that semi in front of us and the cement below us and the S.U.V. adjacent to us. More will be broken than just the fucking fall my friend." Bosco nodded his head in agreement. "True," Bosco agreed, "but we actually have to hit something first." Bosco floored it. Tommy simply rubbed his head and groaned. He ducked in his seat, stuffed a one-hitter, lit it and inhaled. Tommy at times could be the more logical of the two and also the most depraved, a diabolical combination for a drug-abusing anthropomorphic wolf. He was used to Bosco's spontaneous and dangerous behavior. He honestly thought that Bosco did not need to be doing anything that could increase insanity, and he often wondered why Bosco was not behind a large glass panel rehearsing Shakespeare and craving an adrenal gland to chew on. Bosco continued to weave in and out of traffic, a rather bulky, alacritous sewing needle along the torso of the Tampa Bay Bridge. It was easy for Bosco not to worry about crashing into the watery depths below. He knew how to swim. Tommy only knew how to gulp for water as if it were air, and even that was but a vague memory when an alcoholic beverage was lying around. The movie lingered in Johnny Mitch Rocko's mind. It was an abomination to him. The life of a lion was that of philandering and gluttony, and Johnny was damn happy about this fact, as it was also an exact representation of a human's life as well. How the fuck are they making money off these uninspired formulaic pieces of shitifiscent animation? Johnny gritted his teeth. How did they indeed? The question floated through his mind and he found himself stroking his shotgun as if it were a loveable kitten. Maybe the little shrapnel storm of mine in my duster could give me answers. A notion popped Johnny's mind, and it seemed plausible enough, and then it became a desire to be placated. A little visit will be in order, and there will be no fucking housewarming gifts Walt. Johnny searched for some means of transportation. His mind caught the words Orlando on a Greyhound bus. The cat-like strength came in handy as he jumped atop the bus, his claws penetrating the roof for grip. The people on the bus surely would take no notice, as being in a bus station has been equated to being in your third-world country around the corner. If the police had anything to say about it, he could just hitch a ride with them-and there would be no qualms so long as the coppers were no longer on this physical plane and the radio had been rendered fucked. "Look mommy, it's Balto!" A little girl eyeing Tommy from her window exclaimed. Tommy had just opened a pint of Jim Bean and began quaffing it. The girl's mother laughed jovially. "Oh honey, you have such an imagination." Tommy took notice to the girl eyeing him. At about the same time, Jim Bean's ability to suck all oxygen from your body if ingested incorrectly took effect. Tommy choked and spitted the drink at the girl's window.
"Fuck," Tommy said miserably, wiping his maw. "I shouldn't do that when driving with you-stomach feels like it's been whitewashed with ammonia. I'd bitchslap you for your recklessness if it didn't mean we'd meet certain doom." Bosco giggled insanely. "The hell you laughing about?" Tommy asked in a vexed tone. "The girl next to us is going to have a far different view on wolves thanks to you," Bosco replied smirking. Tommy looked over at the blue Chrysler van next to them and muttered, "Woops." The girl looked at her window curiously. She stared for a few moments, and then it hit her. "Mommy, Balto did what daddy did in the toilet last night when you were at the A.A. meeting."
They eventually passed that blue Chrysler van and left The Tampa Bay Bridge. A mini-version of what appeared to be New York with palm trees came into view. The white, sun-baked road was treacherous to walk upon, and Tommy and Bosco pitied the barefoot pedestrian. A variety of establishments were in view. Billboards displayed the nearing amusement parks and related franchises with them. Hotels were abundant-even the rustic 70 year-old ones with the burnt out neon light with a build that looked more like the New Jersey projects-just with a lot of old white disgruntled men instead of bandana doting black men.
"Not as many pawn shops here," Tommy noted. "The supply and demand of drug abusers has dwindled to nothing-we're in unknown territory."
Bosco nodded. "It's as if the mere presence of Disney World has driven them out. I don't even think Eazy E could survive here."
"Indeed," Tommy agreed, dunking his snout into a small bag of cocaine, snorting, and exclaiming, "HOOOOBEEJOOOWAH!"
Bosco rolled his guys.
"Is that sound effect really necessary?"
"Fuck yes it is," he snapped, dipping his tongue into the bag as if were an industrial size-portion of Pixie Stick powder.
"Sweet Mother of Heart Stimulants!" Bosco exclaimed. "You're going to be wired like a stun gun in a Olympic-sized pool of electric eels!"
"Fun fun fun fun fun fun fun," Tommy rambled excitedly, taking out his .45 and firing a shot at a Taco Bell sign. The sign sparked and shorted out.
"WHERE'S THE FUCKING RING? I DEMAND A CIGAR!" Tommy announced, his eyes crazed like that of a 5-year old after clearing out Willy Wonka's factory and then hiding the bodies.
Bosco ears slumped back.
"Oh damn," he muttered despondently.
"HEY! YOU'RE THE ONE PULLING THE DUKES OF HAZZARD TACTICS ON A ROAD INUNDANTED WITH FUTURE COFFIN ACOMMODATERS!"
"Yeah, is that so bad?" Bosco replied. "The undertakers could use some overtime."
"And one of the Sigfreed and Roy tigers could use another piece of ass," Tommy insulted crazily.
Bosco's eyes shifted to Tommy as he stopped at a stoplight.
"One too many hits for you Jack Nicholson," Bosco announced.
Tommy's eyes widened as Ozzy Osbourne's "Bark at the Moon" came on.
"YES!" Tommy screamed gleefully.
Tommy began singing the lyrics to the song in his own, wolf-like howling tone. Bosco ears remained slumped back. Where tigers had a mind- altering substance that was good for the health, wolves had Ozzy Osbourne's "Bark at the Moon" as their theme song. "Eye of the Tiger" never really did anything for Bosco.
Johnny had been banging his head on the roof of the Greyhound Bus for about 15 minutes now. The heat in combination with the duster was beginning to let off the scent of cows with fresh perms. Needless to say, the claws that had dug into the roof and the incessant din had startled a few of the bus passengers. The bus driver reassured them that it was only the spirit of Hitler trying to learn street drums, and that Bubba had found him and that Hitler needed a tether. They all exhaled in relief upon this reassurance.
"WHY DOESN'T THIS BUS JUST RUN THE FUCKING RICED HONDA IN FRONT OF US DOWN?" Johnny snarled. "Survival of the diesel bitches!"
The idea of jumping on one of the bass thumping, gaudy, speeding pieces of foreign hardware, ripping off the roof, and throwing the drivers and passengers into the closest semi with the most apathetic southern driver at the wheel was tempting Johnny to go on a whole other genocide completely. This quickly changed when he saw a billboard for Disney World. Its slogan was something about wishing upon a star, which Johnny knew was physically impossible but wished more people would try it literally anyhow. Johnny despised this anti-physics whimsical bullshit and shot the sign with his shotgun. Mickey and Minnie had been rendered decapitated. He then wondered if he should kill them Richard the Lionheart style.
"Lionheart? HA!" Johnny said to himself. "He should have taken that seven foot sword and shoved it up all their pompous French Asses. That long- haired multi-lingual prick can claim no allegiance from me!"
"Oh lord," Bosco complained, "last thing I need is a bunch of illiterate teenagers blasting some random rap C.D. they found at a yard sale in their mobile hunk of plastic they call "The Shiznit."
Tommy nodded his head. It had drowned out his favorite song. The unknowing impudence of the passengers in the car in front of him would have to be punished. Tommy fired the Colt Python at one of the wing-like attachments at the car. Tommy meant to just blow off this attachment, but the impact of the bullet on the Honda caused the whole vehicle to shatter into a glittering spectacle of fragments. Bosco snickered.
"Well shit," Bosco said bemusedly, "you didn't even the gun for that one. Should have just hurled a beer can at it."
"Oh I couldn't do that," Tommy said in a concerned tone with wide- open red eyes. "I'm environmentally conscience."
They cackled diabolically. So did Johnny on top of the bus that was next to Bosco and Tommy.
"Heh, that was a pretty good shot," Johnny complimented. The bus proceeded to run over the ruins of the Honda and its passengers, which fortunately just happened to be a few empty containers of Tupperware (though the difference between the Tupperware and the suspected passengers would offer no distinction.) Johnny turned to his left to compliment the wonderful aces that destroyed the pansy pocket rocket. His smile slowly transformed into a cringe of rage. There they were-the damned anthropomorphic hippies that had beaten him down in the bar. He would have to find a ride to Orlando another time. It was time to make two checks on his Shit List.
Uh oh! It looks like that wacky wolf and tenacious tiger are in for a world of trouble! Will Bosco and Tommy ward off the lunatic lion? Will firefights and death ensue? Will I stop trying to make the same beginning letters for my adjectives and nouns? Stay tuned! And remember! Only you can prevent sexually transmitted diseases!