han solo listenin' to warren zevon covers in a honky tonk. i can dig it.
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And I think this is the worst Hitler has ever done, but I could be mistaken.
well, there was the holocaust.
Don't forget the grey-outs.
Our tributes scatter, leaving Hitler alone in an empty Cornucopia pretending to be a conqueror, the bodies of the Chicago Cubs, Rio de Janeiro, and sliced up hot wings laying in the dirt nearby. The forest will decide who lives and who dies.
Alec Baldwin flees a baffled conservative.
Broby strikes a blow for journalism, tainting the fake news feed with cyanide and abandoning it to die in the forest. Will Broby set his sights on any of our other journalistic tributes?
Give it up, 2016! Betty has the high ground!
Boris Johnson shows his distaste for all continental Europeans when he Brexits his way into the Cornucopia and kills Hitler. That leaves four dead at the starting point, and the British flag waving over the Cornucopia.
Bernie flips off A Waifu. This is after Birdie Sanders scared her. This might confirm that Birdie is in fact acting as Bernie's familiar in this round. Why they are picking on A Waifu is beyond me. Perhaps she is wealthier than we all realize.
Shifty Kebab is a lone predator, and he hunts solo. Bowser, Muhammad Ali, Dat Boi, and Trump Pepe are pack predators, and we see them team up to strategize.
Lincoln might be scared of the outdoors, but he's still the enterprising frontiersman, and when confronted with a river he uses his resources and hard work to construct a bridge.
Prince finds MSNBC suffering suspicious wounds (did Broby come this way?) Prince is a compassionate artist, and he gently cares for the milquetoast-left organization.
Hillary sees Lincoln building something, and she quickly flies into action copying him. But years in legal and political practice does not produce the same skills as a frontiersman, and Hillary ends up wish a mushy pile of mud. Maybe this'll get her the redneck vote though.
Mevlut the assassin falls into Chapatrap's Chapa Trap and dies. Chapa learns that, though he might not be able to take Putin head on, he can at least kill from a distance with sneaky tricks.
HaleytheRandom shows a better understanding of construction than Hillary Clinton and builds herself a place to stay.
CNN hears about Broby and arms itself.
More hunting parties form. Stefan Karl Stefansson is also a lone hunter, but Mr Rogers, Leoardo DiCaprio, Harambe, David Bowie, and Putin move in a pack.
VarionusNW gives Shoryu Magami a bag of trail mix.
Carrie Fisher, having broken her nose, injures herself in another way, having a hell of a time out of the gate.
Duterte goes straight to the survival business and robs some bees.
Ted Cruz dies as he lived: being a giant shit.
If you are hunting for Pokemon, don't go to Aleppo. This is a public service announcement sponsored by your friendly Hunger Games organization.
BrokenPromise gives Obama an automatic weapon.
The Phantom of the Opera supports the Green Party.
Birdie Sanders sprains his ankle. Not sure why he didn't just fly. If Birdie Sanders is unwilling to use his bird powers, he's not going to survive long.
Keyguyperson gives a gun to the Deplorables.
Breitbart steps on a landmine and dies. Where did that landmine come from? Is it a coincidence, or did Broby plant it? Could he even guess where Breitbart would be?
I like Death's name in this game. Anything Death does sounds poetic. "Death practices his archery" sounds like it is supposed to mean something, even though I don't know quite what.
Arnie punched Carrie Fisher, and now he cuts off Clocktower's hand. Arnie hasn't killed anybody, but he has been a bully.
Meanwhile, after his mistaken run in with David Bowie, Trump has gained a taste for man-pussy, and he finds an unlikely partner.
There they are, the seven most unworthy players in 2016. Look at their faces and boo.
Tuckahoe, New Jersey
The southern New Jersey landscape was green with summer, smelling of pollen and stale water. Rifle fire echoed five miles to the east, where several regiments of the United States Army were feinting at a bridge across the swampy estuary that divided the abandoned small towns of Tuckahoe and Corbin City. While that fight sparked, among the reeds and the trees, Lieutenant-General Mason Sumner led the bulk of his forces through the woods to the west, around the estuary and toward the shallow Tuckahoe river.
To his surprise, there was little resistance here aside from the sniping fire of enemy skirmishers.
The General rode on horseback in the middle of his force. He was a middle aged man, and though his hairline remained intact, what once was a strong jawline now drooped with his jowls. Part of Mason Sumner's success was that his brother, Caden Sumner, was President of the United States. Surrounded by his men, these columns of fresh troops in their undusted dark-blue uniforms and steel helmets, he sat up rigid straight, watching the woods casually, expecting to see turkeys present in more numbers than the enemy.
"Observe this." he didn't look when he spoke to his nephew, the twenty five year old Ethan Sumner, a young man with mousy brown hair and the broad, bony facial features of the Sumner men. Soldiers in camouflage jogged by, passing the blue-clad soldiers in column. "Those men who just passed us? Their duty was assigned to them before hand. You know what that is?"
"They are skirmishers." the younger man said. "So I suspect they will skirmish."
"They will cross the river up here slowly and flush out any of the enemy that might be set up there. When you hear them open fire, that means the battle is joined on the western flank."
And so they listened. They still heard the gunfire to the east. Nearby was the sound of horses, men whispering to each other, and birds twittering in the trees. Sunlight broke through the leafy canopy above them and cast light like lasers on the crumbled road below.. Minutes went by and nothing happened. The far away guns were so consistent they blended in with the nature sounds, but no action was opening near by.
It was some time before a scout arrived to relieve them of their tension.
"The river crossing is clear, sir." he reported to the General.
"Okay then." Mason said, mulling his suspicions over in his head. "We'll cross the motherfucker and see what happens."
Nothing happened. The crossing was slow because the ground along the river was swampy, near as they were to where the Tuckahoe river emptied into the embattled estuary.
It was when Mason's horse, struggling for footing on the muddy slope, came out of the reedy bottoms and into the woods, that gunfire erupted nearby. At first it was hard to discern a direction among so many trees.
"Forward in line!" Mason shouted. The men fanned out into the woods in search of the battle. The moving was slow through the summer foliage. Mason joined up with the lead regiment, whose going was made easy by the ruins of the road. They went east, in the direction his skirmishers had been sent, assuming they would find the fight there.
They found it in a field, a mile long and a quarter mile across. Wild wheat grew among weeds here, suggesting it had been farmed within the last decade. In front of them was an old house that showed signs of recent maintenance, and where now a number of US skirmishers found cover and took shots at the shadowed forest ahead.
"They are there in force, sir." a Captain of the skirmishers reported. Around them, the blue-shirted and blue-helmeted infantry formed up and put themselves at the treeline.
"Let's find out what New Jersey is about." Mason said. He rode forward, into the light, close enough to hear bullets smashing into the ground. He pulled his sword, waved it, and...
The infantry had been finding cover and taking aim when he rode up, and all at once they fired, sounding like the doors to hell bursting open. The gunfire continued on down the line, supplemented by the scattered pops of the men in camo. The enemy did not relent that first time. Bullets smashed into flesh now, and men fell into their own pooling blood.
"Tell the men on the left to make a charge." the General commanded. A rider departed north, and the contest ahead continued unchanged.
The birds had stopped singing. All that could be heard was screaming and rifle fire. Mason looked to the north, in the direction where the field tapered to a knife's point. He couldn't see the enemy, though he knew they were there. The only way to judge their disposition was by the rate of fire poured into his own ranks. When the enemy slowed their pace, he recognized the attack was having its effect.
"Go over that field and take them!" he said with another wave of the sword. The infantry did, across the gnarled field of weeds and wheat, bodies dropping in small numbers as they went. Mason stayed behind and watched from the vantage point of the bullet-torn house. The line made it to the other side of the field and were swallowed up by the shadow of forest, leaving their wounded and dead behind.
Beside him, Ethan pulled out a pair of binoculars and looked toward the tree line on the other side of the field. "I can't see anything." he said.
"You cannot know everything in battle." Mason said. "That's how it is an art. You know how many battles in history where won because the grunts and low-ranking officers were good at their jobs?"
"How many?" Ethan snarked.
"Most." Mason replied. "Probably all."
The sound in the forest ahead became that of scattered gunfire, individual screams, and the occasional shout of more than a dozen men in unison celebrating... something. Mason looked down at his nephew and noticed the young man had paled. Could he see a defeat that the old Sumner didn't? But the young man had tilted his binoculars lower than the forest, into the field.
This was the first time Ethan saw the effects of combat. He was no longer watching the battle, he was watching the blue-uniformed corpses in the field. Some were dead; bloodied, gutted, dismembered, beheaded. Most were alive, either bringing themselves back to the friendly treeline, walking or crawling, while the others lay mangled but alive in the field, crying for help, panicking at their wounds, praying or begging for mothers. Mason had seen worse in his youth. He'd been at the Battle of Short Pump when he was young, commanding a regiment, walking among fields stacked with dead. This place had only a scattered number of casualties, their blood splattered on wheat left standing despite the fact a gunfight had just occurred here.
"If this bothers you, Ethan..."
"No." the young man put down his binoculars, looking ashamed. "I'm fine. It's just... new."
Medics reached them and started to tend to the wounded when a running courier burst from the other side. He sprinted across the field, minding the bodies, living and dead, only so much as a runner avoids inanimate obstacles, and paused for a breath under the shade where General Sumner rested. "They are running, sir." he said. "We have their flank."
Mason didn't trade words. He rode forward at a trot with his nephew following behind.
The forest was a running battle. Mason took out his pistol and those with him followed suit, and they rode along the line trying to restore order before a gap in their line formed serious enough for the enemy to take advantage. Not that the enemy seemed capable of taking advantage of anything. Seeing their bodies here for the first time, he knew he wasn't fighting any professional force. They wore common enough clothing, with back-backs and utility belts to store whatever they might need. The only common marker was pale-yellow bands of cloth, usually worn around their arms, though some wrapped them around hats or used larger bands as sashes. This was a militia, not an army, and that they broke now meant they probably broke for good.
Lines were reformed as the fleeing enemy took pot-shots from behind trees. When they started forward, they did so like a rake, taking prisoner the scattered foe where they found them and pushing the rest through the forest. It was, in his mind, the cleanest Battle Mason Sumner had ever saw in his life.
There were places where the forest had over taken old buildings and broke them down, leaving debris near the faint trace of a road, and creating a place for the panicked enemy to lay ambushes. They never held long in the chase except for once. An old railroad ran through the forest intact, providing a barrier for rallying New Jerseyans to lay prone and send a stunning volley into the jogging American troops. The Americans spread out, found cover, or dropped, and the second line fight of the advance started up.
General Sumner wondered how far the chase had taken them. He and his staff rode south, staying behind the line as they went. Bullets whizzed and punched into trees, throwing splinters and dust into the air. They rode until they reached a point where they could see the estuary surrounded by a good wall of reeded marshland. They hadn't linked up with the force pushing against the bridge.
"Colonel Estaban!" he shouted, recognizing the balding commander of the nearest regiment. "Get your men north!"
"The fighting is hairy here, sir!" the Colonel noted.
"Fighting gets that way." Sumner replied. "Go north, effect a push, lets drive these Yawka motherfuckers into the river."
Blue uniforms pulled out of the fight and followed the inside track Sumner had traced in his ride.
"I see what you are doing." Ethan said thoughtfully. "Do you think they are pulling back?"
"For their sake, they better be." Sumner said over the din of rifle fire.
The light from the setting sun was paled by the smoke. Trees were whittled to the yellow wood beneath the bark. From time to time an American would throw a grenade, and the sound would rock across the way, location marked by a jet of sod. But the New Jerseyans held on, withdrawing piecemeal. The battle didn't so much end as peter out, with the last remnants of the enemy chased from the field in the fading light.
"You didn't drive them into the river." Ethan said.
"Plans don't survive contact with the enemy." Mason replied. Their attention turned to the arrival of more troops, the boys he'd sent to feint at the bridge, and their commander, Brigadier General Costen James. General James was a light-skinned black man with a face that was flat, almost feline. Though he was only a few years over forty, his hair was already beginning to grey, and it hung in dreadlocks.
"How was it down there?" Mason asked the younger General.
"Messy." Costen said, his voice deep and quiet. "Spilled more US Army blood than I would have liked, but we pushed them. They picked a good spot considering they were amateurs. But if this is all New Jersey has to offer, we'll be flickin' peanut shells in the Hudson river before the first snowfall."
"That's what I like to hear." Mason said. He then spurred his horse, took a flag from a nearby man, and rode forward waving it as a greeting to the last of the men marching up the road from the bridge. They cheered at the sight of him.
"Alright boys, write home to your girls" Mason shouted with a shit-eating grin on his face. "You were at the Battle of Tuckahoe, on the winning side!"
They cheered the louder for hearing him say it.
The southern New Jersey landscape was green with summer, smelling of pollen and stale water. Rifle fire echoed five miles to the east, where several regiments of the United States Army were feinting at a bridge across the swampy estuary that divided the abandoned small towns of Tuckahoe and Corbin City. While that fight sparked, among the reeds and the trees, Lieutenant-General Mason Sumner led the bulk of his forces through the woods to the west, around the estuary and toward the shallow Tuckahoe river.
To his surprise, there was little resistance here aside from the sniping fire of enemy skirmishers.
The General rode on horseback in the middle of his force. He was a middle aged man, and though his hairline remained intact, what once was a strong jawline now drooped with his jowls. Part of Mason Sumner's success was that his brother, Caden Sumner, was President of the United States. Surrounded by his men, these columns of fresh troops in their undusted dark-blue uniforms and steel helmets, he sat up rigid straight, watching the woods casually, expecting to see turkeys present in more numbers than the enemy.
"Observe this." he didn't look when he spoke to his nephew, the twenty five year old Ethan Sumner, a young man with mousy brown hair and the broad, bony facial features of the Sumner men. Soldiers in camouflage jogged by, passing the blue-clad soldiers in column. "Those men who just passed us? Their duty was assigned to them before hand. You know what that is?"
"They are skirmishers." the younger man said. "So I suspect they will skirmish."
"They will cross the river up here slowly and flush out any of the enemy that might be set up there. When you hear them open fire, that means the battle is joined on the western flank."
And so they listened. They still heard the gunfire to the east. Nearby was the sound of horses, men whispering to each other, and birds twittering in the trees. Sunlight broke through the leafy canopy above them and cast light like lasers on the crumbled road below.. Minutes went by and nothing happened. The far away guns were so consistent they blended in with the nature sounds, but no action was opening near by.
It was some time before a scout arrived to relieve them of their tension.
"The river crossing is clear, sir." he reported to the General.
"Okay then." Mason said, mulling his suspicions over in his head. "We'll cross the motherfucker and see what happens."
Nothing happened. The crossing was slow because the ground along the river was swampy, near as they were to where the Tuckahoe river emptied into the embattled estuary.
It was when Mason's horse, struggling for footing on the muddy slope, came out of the reedy bottoms and into the woods, that gunfire erupted nearby. At first it was hard to discern a direction among so many trees.
"Forward in line!" Mason shouted. The men fanned out into the woods in search of the battle. The moving was slow through the summer foliage. Mason joined up with the lead regiment, whose going was made easy by the ruins of the road. They went east, in the direction his skirmishers had been sent, assuming they would find the fight there.
They found it in a field, a mile long and a quarter mile across. Wild wheat grew among weeds here, suggesting it had been farmed within the last decade. In front of them was an old house that showed signs of recent maintenance, and where now a number of US skirmishers found cover and took shots at the shadowed forest ahead.
"They are there in force, sir." a Captain of the skirmishers reported. Around them, the blue-shirted and blue-helmeted infantry formed up and put themselves at the treeline.
"Let's find out what New Jersey is about." Mason said. He rode forward, into the light, close enough to hear bullets smashing into the ground. He pulled his sword, waved it, and...
The infantry had been finding cover and taking aim when he rode up, and all at once they fired, sounding like the doors to hell bursting open. The gunfire continued on down the line, supplemented by the scattered pops of the men in camo. The enemy did not relent that first time. Bullets smashed into flesh now, and men fell into their own pooling blood.
"Tell the men on the left to make a charge." the General commanded. A rider departed north, and the contest ahead continued unchanged.
The birds had stopped singing. All that could be heard was screaming and rifle fire. Mason looked to the north, in the direction where the field tapered to a knife's point. He couldn't see the enemy, though he knew they were there. The only way to judge their disposition was by the rate of fire poured into his own ranks. When the enemy slowed their pace, he recognized the attack was having its effect.
"Go over that field and take them!" he said with another wave of the sword. The infantry did, across the gnarled field of weeds and wheat, bodies dropping in small numbers as they went. Mason stayed behind and watched from the vantage point of the bullet-torn house. The line made it to the other side of the field and were swallowed up by the shadow of forest, leaving their wounded and dead behind.
Beside him, Ethan pulled out a pair of binoculars and looked toward the tree line on the other side of the field. "I can't see anything." he said.
"You cannot know everything in battle." Mason said. "That's how it is an art. You know how many battles in history where won because the grunts and low-ranking officers were good at their jobs?"
"How many?" Ethan snarked.
"Most." Mason replied. "Probably all."
The sound in the forest ahead became that of scattered gunfire, individual screams, and the occasional shout of more than a dozen men in unison celebrating... something. Mason looked down at his nephew and noticed the young man had paled. Could he see a defeat that the old Sumner didn't? But the young man had tilted his binoculars lower than the forest, into the field.
This was the first time Ethan saw the effects of combat. He was no longer watching the battle, he was watching the blue-uniformed corpses in the field. Some were dead; bloodied, gutted, dismembered, beheaded. Most were alive, either bringing themselves back to the friendly treeline, walking or crawling, while the others lay mangled but alive in the field, crying for help, panicking at their wounds, praying or begging for mothers. Mason had seen worse in his youth. He'd been at the Battle of Short Pump when he was young, commanding a regiment, walking among fields stacked with dead. This place had only a scattered number of casualties, their blood splattered on wheat left standing despite the fact a gunfight had just occurred here.
"If this bothers you, Ethan..."
"No." the young man put down his binoculars, looking ashamed. "I'm fine. It's just... new."
Medics reached them and started to tend to the wounded when a running courier burst from the other side. He sprinted across the field, minding the bodies, living and dead, only so much as a runner avoids inanimate obstacles, and paused for a breath under the shade where General Sumner rested. "They are running, sir." he said. "We have their flank."
Mason didn't trade words. He rode forward at a trot with his nephew following behind.
The forest was a running battle. Mason took out his pistol and those with him followed suit, and they rode along the line trying to restore order before a gap in their line formed serious enough for the enemy to take advantage. Not that the enemy seemed capable of taking advantage of anything. Seeing their bodies here for the first time, he knew he wasn't fighting any professional force. They wore common enough clothing, with back-backs and utility belts to store whatever they might need. The only common marker was pale-yellow bands of cloth, usually worn around their arms, though some wrapped them around hats or used larger bands as sashes. This was a militia, not an army, and that they broke now meant they probably broke for good.
Lines were reformed as the fleeing enemy took pot-shots from behind trees. When they started forward, they did so like a rake, taking prisoner the scattered foe where they found them and pushing the rest through the forest. It was, in his mind, the cleanest Battle Mason Sumner had ever saw in his life.
There were places where the forest had over taken old buildings and broke them down, leaving debris near the faint trace of a road, and creating a place for the panicked enemy to lay ambushes. They never held long in the chase except for once. An old railroad ran through the forest intact, providing a barrier for rallying New Jerseyans to lay prone and send a stunning volley into the jogging American troops. The Americans spread out, found cover, or dropped, and the second line fight of the advance started up.
General Sumner wondered how far the chase had taken them. He and his staff rode south, staying behind the line as they went. Bullets whizzed and punched into trees, throwing splinters and dust into the air. They rode until they reached a point where they could see the estuary surrounded by a good wall of reeded marshland. They hadn't linked up with the force pushing against the bridge.
"Colonel Estaban!" he shouted, recognizing the balding commander of the nearest regiment. "Get your men north!"
"The fighting is hairy here, sir!" the Colonel noted.
"Fighting gets that way." Sumner replied. "Go north, effect a push, lets drive these Yawka motherfuckers into the river."
Blue uniforms pulled out of the fight and followed the inside track Sumner had traced in his ride.
"I see what you are doing." Ethan said thoughtfully. "Do you think they are pulling back?"
"For their sake, they better be." Sumner said over the din of rifle fire.
The light from the setting sun was paled by the smoke. Trees were whittled to the yellow wood beneath the bark. From time to time an American would throw a grenade, and the sound would rock across the way, location marked by a jet of sod. But the New Jerseyans held on, withdrawing piecemeal. The battle didn't so much end as peter out, with the last remnants of the enemy chased from the field in the fading light.
"You didn't drive them into the river." Ethan said.
"Plans don't survive contact with the enemy." Mason replied. Their attention turned to the arrival of more troops, the boys he'd sent to feint at the bridge, and their commander, Brigadier General Costen James. General James was a light-skinned black man with a face that was flat, almost feline. Though he was only a few years over forty, his hair was already beginning to grey, and it hung in dreadlocks.
"How was it down there?" Mason asked the younger General.
"Messy." Costen said, his voice deep and quiet. "Spilled more US Army blood than I would have liked, but we pushed them. They picked a good spot considering they were amateurs. But if this is all New Jersey has to offer, we'll be flickin' peanut shells in the Hudson river before the first snowfall."
"That's what I like to hear." Mason said. He then spurred his horse, took a flag from a nearby man, and rode forward waving it as a greeting to the last of the men marching up the road from the bridge. They cheered at the sight of him.
"Alright boys, write home to your girls" Mason shouted with a shit-eating grin on his face. "You were at the Battle of Tuckahoe, on the winning side!"
They cheered the louder for hearing him say it.
2016 passes from us with the grace of an Elephant in heat, and as we watch it trample villages of indigenous children, we reflect on a solid year of hardcore Hunger Games and what it has meant to our lives. There has been joy, drama, banal pop culture references, and blood poured into these games. Today we gather here to watch some of the all time greats, both of our games and of the year in general, duke it out to see who will rule in 2016.
Forty eight pedestals surround a steel sculpture; a cornucopia, its design not unlike a lazy modern-art installation you might see next to a Midwestern Community College. In its center, pouring out like R. Lee Ermey's yard sale, is a selection of survival equipment and esoteric weaponry. The pedestals rise, our tributes enter the arena, the horn sounds, and the games begin.
Lincoln, the mighty woodsman, the man who nearly dominated the Election Year games, quakes in his oversized boots at the sight of trees. His survival now seems dubious.
Prince finds a tasty taco and flits gracefully out of sight.
The Chicago Cubs lust for a gym bag but the Trump Pepe grabs it first, then proceeds to strangle the entire baseball team. That means the Chicago Cubs are the first blood, and the last-place loser of the 2016 games. Legend has it an old curse prevents the Cubs from winning anything until the next time Bill Murray is sad.
BREAKING NEWS: CNN BASHES RIO!
Citizens wonder if a sudden increase in bludgeoning deaths is related to sales of assault-maces.
Chapa is in the games because he was a champion in the first half of the year, but his prior success doesn't protect him from Putin, who breaks his nose for some fuckin' carbs.
Shifty Kebab finds a large fork and, knowing how to use cooking utensils, decides to go with that. The Basket of Deplorables finds alcohol and a rag, maybe for Molotovs, or maybe just to sniff.
Trump sees everybody grabbing stuff and he goes to grab the only thing he knows how, but he fails at this and gropes a dude. Their thumbnails tell us everything we need to know about the aftermath of the exchange.
Hitler annexes the cornucopia while Bowser runs off with some water.
Hillary walks up to the podium. "Lincoln is scared of the outdoors? I too have been scared of those outdoors. Great leaders in the past have been scared of places outside of American buildings, and I agree with them, the outdoors is scary. I have seen the outdoors. My parents both had some outdoors back in the midwest, where they nurtured me from infancy to adulthood as is typical for American parents to do. If you make me your President, I promise to follow in the footsteps of Great Americans by quaking in fear at the sight of things out of doors."
Dat Boi makes a memetic introduction that instantly endures him to the audience. He's like a friend we haven't seen since highschool, unicycling in from the early summer, when college didn't have us down, when Brexit hadn't stunned the world, when Bernie was still in the running and a Trump presidency seemed impossible. There he returns, telling us jokes like those days never left, reminding us of a world where everything was jokes. If he wins, our youth wins, and who doesn't want that?
Birdie Sanders scares a Waifu somehow. Are Waifu's typically scared of cantankerous leftist songbirds? Is that the mouse to their elephant?
Gene Wilder finds alcohol, but Fake News finds some explosives. Though I don't know if I should trust fake news on this. Did they find a bag full of explosives, or just a few firecrackers? Was there even a bag?
Duterte and Johnson grab swords. Arnold has no use for pansy weapons, but instead wants bread, and he is willing to punch a girl for it.
HaleytheRandom does the most barbaric thing imaginable: using a utensil when handling hot wings. Leonardo, The Phantom, and Alec Baldwin gather the supplies and, like typical liberal actors, they socialism the supplies amongst each other.
The survivors scatter into the woods, except Hitler who settles obstinately into the Cornucopia and declares it lebensraum while nearby the corpses of all the Chicago Cubs lay dead among the cut-up remains of hot wings. Two dead, forty six to go.
I have already ran the games, so no more events.
In
In a huge publicity stunt by your favorite video game company, you find out that your favorite character, the avatar above, is gay. How do you react?
→
7 yrs ago
Forum: Spam Forum
Complain about the sexualization of underaged characters.
<Snipped quote by Vilageidiotx>
He's had that for a while.
might of been a reference to how he suggested Soryu and you initially used him without his consent, if I had to guess.
oh yeh. i should have guessed that.
(Player1) makes plans to build a wall to keep the other contestants away
heh, beat you to it. added a "Build a wall" event last night.
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