A/N : 360? I wish! Nah, Red, i didn't get mine yet and i doubt I'll see the greatness for a second yet. Oh wait, I'm not supposed to respond to reviews, eh, whatcha gonna do FanFiction? (Account Deleted) Hehe, thanks for the reviews so far guys, everything seems to be going good so lets not disrupt the flizzow!
Disclaimer – I do not own any of Team Ninja's Characters or anything else related to Dead or Alive. Also, i do not own any other various Fighting Game Characters that magically appear in this work of fiction. Or do i know anyone named Dennis.
Bass rumbles across the desolate highway through the blazing desert of Nevada atop his knock off hog, red framed with white flames hand painted on. The one hundred degree heat beats down, sending sweat from his obese pores, but still not enough to make him sweat any weight off. From the hawk's eye view above in the clear blue sky, he appears to be a hairless, bad dressed gorilla riding a big wheel.
"Whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas!" Bass repeats to himself for the millionth time, spreading a grin across his hairy face, "That means all the hookers and strippers I pick up can't follow me back to my mansion. They best not start no scandals to mess up my wrestling status..." Bass trails off in thought, wondering just how long he has to catch all the free topless shows of large breasted trophy wives expending their frustrations.
The thought causes a devious giggle rumble from within Bass's massive belly, but he makes sure not to open his mouth. He's swallowed enough flies on this trip, and only about two centimeters of his black glasses aren't covered in unfortunate flying insects. They shouldn't have been in his way, no one messes with the big man and comes out alive.
"Except for that daughter i have..." Bass thinks to himself sullenly, greatly saddened that he was in such a rush that day, he forget to wrap up Bass Junior. The one time he messes up, he ends up with a kid! That chick must've slipped him a roofie or something. Then she straight up left with him the little terrorist that he named Tina all those thirty or forty some years ago. He can never remember how old she is.
Bass attempts to get the past off his mind and reaches down to switch on the radio, pushing in the button and a blast of rock music blows from the speakers, but before he hears any words, the ground seems to shake underneath Bass's massive rear and the muffler coughs its last, crying out in tremendous pain.
Black smoke erupts from the rear pipe as the bike sputters and although Bass puts his fat, thunder thighs to both sides of his crotch-rocket, he cannot use the Flintstones maneuver that he learned while watching his favorite show. Betty's plump ass is hot as hell, but this is the absolute last time he buys a motorcycle from France!
Bass groans through the strenuous strain of moving his massive elephant-esque frame from the stopped bike, and looks it over. Choking and crying, the metal creaks from the burden now being lifted, but its a bit too late. The seat has already collapsed in on itself, the two large, one dollar bill filled saddlebags are the only parts of the bike that are smiling.
"So this is how its gonna be, huh? Suck my ass!" Bass launches his right leg forwards and with his powerful Payless bought boot, strikes the bike center mass and a mushroom cloud of throat clogging, eye tearing smoke erupts upwards from the blown engine. Hacking and coughing, Bass rips off his fly infested glasses and attacks like the raging hippo that he is.
He rolls across the street with clunky swiftness, dodging the bike's attack and grabs the front of the frame, his steroid pulsing veins budging all over his body. He lets out a bellowing yell as he lifts the bike up into the air, his biceps about to explode and he throws the treacherous French made half assed built machine across the yellow line. Every part of the bike imaginable flies off, crashing across the road as the frame slides to a screeching halt.
Huffing and puffing, Bass looks over the destruction he has just caused, and for the first six seconds, he is most impressed, but then the horrid truth dawns on him and his meat encased brain. He's in the middle of Indian Territory and he just littered across their so-called, beautiful green earth. There were probably spirits in the bike that he just disrupted and even more importantly, he killed millions of their reincarnated brethren that were the flies. And not to mention the buffalo he hit on the way and left for dead, although it offered to give him immortal life.
Bass looks around at the abandoned highway, surrounded by desert in every direction, Vegas more than one thousand miles to the south, and immediately, he begins to hear war drums. Bass begins to hyperventilate, his throat constricting like when he got tangled in the ropes and got stuck that one time against Chyna. The drums enclose and Bass's clothes begin to stick to his bulkiness like glue since they aren't made of real leather.
He rips off his black bandanna and mops liquid away from his forehead. Now the spirit worshiping yelling begins and arrows begin to fly through the air. The stampede of horses shakes the ground and Bass falls to the blazing hot concrete, curling up in the fetal position and shivering uncontrollably, knowing of his imminent fate.
"I'm sorry for what my people did, i swear it!" Bass sobs, rocking back and forth, "But Turkey and ya'lls women just taste so good. It's an obsession! So juicy and frothy, like natural gravy all in my beard. I will never fantasize about Tiger Lily again! Please just let me live! You know for damn sure that Peter Pan isn't big enough for her!" Bass hears steps approaching and opens his eyes to look up at the massive dark figure standing above him. An Indian headdress decorating his crown and warpaint covering his face.
"I AM NUMBER ONE!"
"You're right! I'm a loser, you can have the number one spot!" Bass yells, crying and shaking and the man leans down, shaking his head with a frown,
"What i meant was All-State is number one. We even represent crazy, paranoid, overweight white men with no purpose in life." Dennis Haysbert says and grabs Bass by his chunk and lifts him to his feet.
"Oh thank Collin Farrel, its you! Man, you've come to my rescue once more! But we can't take all the Indians alone!" Bass yells, grabbing Dennis around the torso, trying to right himself and the President attempts to keep his footing.
"You've gotta stop body slamming your bike or we're gonna stop coming out here. And that's All-State's stand...dumb ass."
"Man, i've never been so terrified in my life. Other than when Tina threatened to sleep with that colored boy...wait a second, was that you?" Bass looks at Dennis suspiciously and Dennis shakes his head insulted,
"Do i look like a crazy, Muay Thai, bordering bisexual--" Bass interrupts and shakes his hand with a smirk,
"Nah, i guess not, but all you black guys look ali--"
"Say it!" Zack yells as he appears out of nowhere with a chain wrapped around his fist and Bass's eyes widen.
"I dare your punk ass to say it!" Jeffrey McWild yells, holding a large metal pipe and Balrog raises from the ground, slamming his gloved fists into each other,
"Oh yea, tell me where you want it."
Bass looks around terrified, at a complete loss. He was just getting over the Indian attack, and now these Cubans are trying to attack him. He only has one chance to get out of this!
"Okay, but before you do...i didn't know KFC delivered!" Bass points across the stretching highway, and as one, the insulted fighters and Dennis all turn as one.
"Word?" Looking back and seeing nothing, they all spin around with their greatest dream in the world crashed, only to see Bass moving like a damn, burlesque bunny, speeding down the road, leaving skid marks across the highway.
"SAVE ME, TINNNAAA!"