Gangsta challenge

Sonic the hedgehog - rap-master with no equal.
No one can step up to his plate and leave alive. His rap's are death for mortal ears. Ya best b' packin', o' els' yall end up dead - Knuckles, master nigger.

It is said that one in a gazillion million trillion has the power to change the world. Sonic's powers are beyond that one, and he gave up looking for his equal a long time ago - Robotnik, fat loser.

Sweat's pouring down my forehead, as I drive my ultra-expensive, superpimped ferrari GT82X167186O down the local highway.

I'm the man - the man with the hoes. Ten of them, to be precise, all crammed into a pussywagon for four.

Behind, I can hear their dying gasps, as they desperately try to fill their lungs with air.
Wagon smells like pussy and cheap perfume - just the way a gangster loves it.

My gold-plated shades, worth a small fortune, firmly attached to my face. I kid ya not - they've grown into a part of me.

Each time we hit a pump in the road, the tons of golden chain I wear bounce everywhere, knocking my hoes senseless.

The car, on the other hand, is made of niggerinium, and it's impervious to all forms of damage.

"Oh, Sonic!" it's Gina - the blonde bitch, with the triple d's, and hotpants, "you're so rugged and manly. Can I touch your gat?"

My reply is calm, not betraying my emotions.
"Sure, Gina, you can touch my gat," I reach for it, then hold it towards her.

"But that's the wron-" fat boom, and smell of gunpowder, plus lots of chunky bits and red everywhere. Cause, as anyone knows, no one, and I do mean no one, touches a nigger's gat.

We're out of my wagon, because I've decided to take a fucking stroll - because I can.

Any whitey I see, I cap - right through the wallet. That's his weak point.

"Yo!" a challenger appears behind me.

One quick spin delivere the truth.

Dressed in suede, a cowboyhat, with a thorned crown, and christmaslights.

"Yo think ya nigga 'nough ta take me on, bro!?" this challanger doesn't stand a chance against me.

"Aight, aight. Aight, nigga. Aight," our battlecry. This could be tough, and now, we're past the point of no return.

It's time to measure.
Who's.
The biggest man.

I drop my pants, and women everywhere explode in red showers of gore, just from me having brandish my non-erect piece of manliness.

"Is that all you've got?" the stranger chuckles, then folds his arms across his chest.

I suck in air, focus my inner spirits - the spirits of the ancients. Powers given to my by the astral niggers at birth.
"No," my crotch starts to rumble, "not quite!" The ground starts to crack, and thunder strikes the world.

A cock, so immense it bogles the mind, shoots ouf of my crotch, cutting through buildings, bridges, seas, cars, little kids, and crushing America.

"That's impressive," the stranger comments. He's stroking his chin some, for one reason or another, "but check out mine."

The world itself takes on a divine light, and I can the angels singing, and the stranger's pants explodes, shooting out a veiny cock the likes of which I've never even imagined existed. It cuts mine in half, spurting blood a hundred million kilometers into space, paininting the moon red - then.

The cock itself pentrates the mood, and it seems to be endless.
Not even the sun is spared - speared on that veiny sword of divene flesh.

It doesn't end, and, soon, it's beyond me. Beyond all of us. It is not of this world.

"Cock," the stranget chants the word, "absolutum." Then my entire body turns to cum.

VT2 - 2009