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I be Bango.

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Character Sheet Part Deux because suddenly as soon as I post we're pretending to care about rules.


Name: Dangerrutito Fontaniuxic
Race: Homo-Superior-As-Fuck
Age: Like 40 but possessed a 27 year old Magical Future Russian guy



Through sheer irrational unreasonable confidence the man known as Danger, Danger Fontaine, prior to his transformation into Dangerrutito Fontaniuxic, was capable of sustaining unreasonable damage and persisting through that damage. Decades of steroid abuse probably helped too. The man known as Danger, Danger Fontaine, prior to his transformation into Dangerrutito Fontaniuxic, was able to violate the boundaries of physics and reason and good taste as easily as Bill Clinton does the institution and boundaries and history and that type shit of an Internship by punching harder, kicking also harder, kicking ass also also harder, and just generally being a kick ass muhfuka of a dude.

Banished Bastard Son:

With the loss of his bastard child B-Rad, banished beyond the realms of sight and sound to a twilight zone, sort of like from the television show called The Twilight Zone, the man then known as Danger, Danger Fontaine bent his will toward achieving more power and doing things more Big Leagueier. Finding that no earthly power could allow him to avenge the loss of his bastard son, and thus his only hope of ever banging his bastard son's mom again (or even remembering what her name was, pretty sure it had an E or an A in it), he sought strength from the stars.

Eventually doing a lot of totally rad type shit culminating in him astrally projecting himself into the body of some very Magical and vaguely Future Russian guy in the future. That guy was also like a Power Ranger or something. Hard to tell. But with that new body he did a lot of deep lore type stuff that culminated in him kinda sort rescuing his bastard child's soul but also kinda sorta fusing his bastard child's soul into a Q-Bramble Blade, also known as a Q-BramBlade, but this specific one was named after his dead and banished and soul fused to a sword bastard son B-Rad. It was named Trilobisekni.

Power Ranger Type Shit:

Magical Future Russian dude was like a Power Ranger, or a God, or Boba Fett, or maybe some kind of tyrannical slave trader or something. Not really clear on that. But now Danger, Danger Fontaine is Dangerrutito Fontainiuxic and has a space ship somewhere in the Double Deep Jeiti and also knows a lot of weird words like Jeiti that didn't exist before but now most fully do exist and it's pretty radical.

Ranger Blaster and weird little sword that is also an ocarina or some shit. Probably like a crossbow. Power Ranger type shit stuff.



Neoborhilliumium Manticulated with obnoxious precision into an Q-Bramble blade, sometimes referred to as a Q-Bramblade, polished to an intrinsically implausible sheen, it was his ultimate adytum. It went by many names. The Blade of Legend. The Sword of Myth. The Katana of Dread. The Loosener of Shackles. The Remover of Bras. The Sabre of the Downtrodden. The Zweihander of the Einhanded. Fucking Cool Sword Bro. Trapped within it the soul of his Bastard Child, B-Rad. Ever pleading in perfect iambic pentameter to be loosed upon the world. It's name was Trilobisekni.

Only one such as he, Dangerrutito Fontaniuxic, could wield such a blade and only with it could any being even dream of performing the famed but also completely unheard of and just super mysterious and secretive manuever known only as the Hiden Doblee Triplut Forbidan Yin Releese Ohm-Mega.

Seriously though this isn't just flavor text. Trilobisekni will not work for anyone else. It'll just go all limp and floppy and useless and no one wants that, trust me brother, I could tell you stories but they're all deeply shameful and telling them makes me cry when I'm alone at night and I end up eating a full pint of Chunke Monke all one in my Superman underoos wondering how come daddy left us. Don't try and steal it is what I'm trying to say. It can probably teleport away from your dumbass or something too. B-Rad already lost his dad once so his disembodied and soul trapped soul probably isn't gonna hang out with you. You nerd. You L7 weenie. I'm not crying you're crying.

Fontaniuxiciccix 4

Atramentously Vantablack like a hole punched through the otherwise, comparatively, actually quite bright total darkness of deep space, the Fontaniuxiciccix is an Alderson Disk, though Dangerrutito Fontainiuxic sometimes calls it an Alfredo Disk. An astronomical megastructure with absurd near limitless power, alas Dangerrutito Fontainiuxic broke the key off in the door to the Extra-Double-Actually-Genocidal Control Room and is now left with less than an Eighth of its facilities. That's still a hell of a lot though. It's like several football fields. Its mass is probably greater than the mass of your sun unless you have just a super humongous sun.

Dangerrutito Fontainiuxic mostly uses it to store his Zords and equipment and trophies and sometimes have a bitching party or two. It also has a really nice snack bar.

Aromatic-Polyamide Weave NOT Power Ranger Suit

All scientifical. Skintight suit of Aromatic-Polyamide Weaved Technical Suit Things. I cannot over emphasize how tight it is. You can see like veins and stuff through it it's so tight. Yet also very resilient. Excellent at heat dispersal allowing him to just plummet from space onto a planet with naught but the faintest, and slightly arousing, warmth.

Like a Black Power Ranger uniform except it's also like hooked into his brain or suit or soul or something (possibly his ass) so it can change colors and designs at his beck and call. It's not alive or anything. Definitely not self aware and slowly consuming his consciousness and biological components for some nefarious future scheme. That's canon, that it's not doing that.

It also has a Recursive Diolunium Dial. What purpose it serves is unclear but Dangerrutito Fontainiuxic is forever fiddle fucking around with it.

Due to his vaguely Russian Future Magic Thaumic Tech and also body Dangeruttito Fontainiuxic is able to interface with his suit just so fucking fast you would be shocked by how fast those two interface. It may have something to do with that rumor about it porting directly up into his butt. But that may just be fake news, I'm not gonna ask him.

Panoptic Hex Texx-Gogs

Also known as his Goggles, Goggs, Goggos, Seers, and Oakleys. They allow him to zoom in, zoom out into Third Person somehow, or "Enhance," whatever that means, and have Night Vision, Thermal Vision, Day Vision, and also a Color Blind mode to ensure full accessibility for the differently abled.

Also just so many other vision modes that the little Thaumic AI or Demon or enslaved genetically grown and ritually bound Proto-Biblical Angel (like the ones that some kind of Four Dimensional Series of Interlocked Rings with eyes all over them constantly ringing or something. The trippy shit that looks like a Yugi-Oh designer smoked meth and worked a bender to come up with) flips through rapidly to acquire and maintain targeting on opponents. Kinda nifty, maybe a war crime, maybe sacrilegious, maybe disproves the existence of God and clarifies that we really are all ultimately out here alone spinning around on a fuck off big dipshit space rock in an unfathomable sea of nothing waiting for pure happenstance to crash another fuck off big dipshit space rock into us and end this miserable fucking experiment once and for all and hallelujah for that am I right, but definitely nifty though.

Outfitted with a Xeogenix Toggle allowing him to instantaneously manipulate the Muon Input through the full spectrum of Muu, carefully so as to avoid a full on Muonnic Conclipse.

Thaumic VocoRecordoer

Integrated into his suit or maybe chest or throat or something, it allows Dangerrutito Fontainiuxic to make his voice sound like less of a bitch. Vital tech.

Also allows him to speak directly to anyone on his team through brain waves or some shit. It's a vaguely future Russian Thaumic yada yada type deal. You might want to know more about it but I ain't wanna be telling you none and Dangerrutito doesn't know how it works he just knows that it does work. Dangerrutito is an idiot. Or a genius. Depending on which is most convenient in the moment.

Passive Abilities


A secret passed on to the Magical Future Russian guys people, who are Magical Future Russians, they learned it from Secret Alien Ninjas From The Long Distant But Double Futuristic Past, it allows Dangeerutito Fontainiuxic to counter whatever it is you are trying to do. All of the things. Including that. Sadly as the Magical Future Russian he possessed was the last of his kind, and all the Secret Alien Ninjas From The Long Distant But Double Futuristic Past died in an unfortunate Muonnic Conclipse or some shit who fucking cares the important thing is they're all seriously just dead as fuck, Dangerrutito Fontainiuxic is the last and only practitioner of the Ultima-Counteruuu. This ancient art will die with him.

Special Moves:

Hiden Doblee Triplut Forbidan Yin Releese Ohm-Mega:

shhhhh, it's a secret, a thaumic secret


Not quite remembering the series Power Rangers correctly this is the phrase Dangerrutito Fontainiuxic shouts just before doing some weird weebish hand and finger gestures and whistling a tune to summon one of his Zords. That is a series of increasingly preposterously large and inexplicably humanoid shaped robots that all do mostly the same things he does but more biggly and to increasingly ludicrous proportions. Generally whatever magic space God currently ruling indicates is within Tier. For me. And no one else. Huzzah!

His soul trapped bastard son sword thing, Trilobisekni, also grows way bigger for reasons that are not self evident.

It also has a soul gun (which is powered by the souls of his vanquished enemies or any random disembodied souls he finds wandering around) and is capable of destroying skyscrapers or office buildings in a single shot and/or massive quantities of unarmed civilians if they are all gathered, against their will or otherwise, in a sufficiently small space. destroying entire galaxies in a single shot and/or just like really really messing up your weekend plans. Which would then power the gun up. Very convenient. It is named the Galaxy Gun, due to its power. Or GG for short, which is an acronym.

If that is too powerful he has a series of other gun with names like Universe Gun, Planet Gun, Your Mom's Fat Ass Gun, Country Gun, State Gun, City Gun, City Block Gun, Normal Block Gun, Large Building Gun, Small Building Gun, and Crack Den Gun. Their names are self explanatory.

In this form he is known as Dangerrutito Fontainiuxic Mooora Beeeegaruuuuuu.

Other Stuff That's Important:
(and yes I changed the format, I can't be bothered to do all that for these stupid ass revisions)

Zetaproctal Universal Kinesohypothetical Drive

Dangerrutito Fontainiuxic has a Future Russian Thaumic Zetaproctal Universal Kinesohypothetical Drive. Do not call it a Z Drive or a ZUK Drive. That is reductive and rude. Call it by the full name or shut your mouth. Please and thank you.

His Zetaproctal Universal Kinesohypothetical Drive allows him to move in "sync" with everyone on his team if he so chooses. Precisely how it functions is deliberately unclear but it double definitely does so please just move on now.

Basically Just A Bad Ass You Guys

Dangerrutito Fontainiuxic is a Homo-Superior-As-Fuck. That wasn't just a dumb joke. It is a dumb joke but it's not just that. Meaning like Human But More Better As Fuck, and no other weird stuff. It doesn't mean any weird shit. That's all rumors. It's all hearsay. I object. Side bar. You want the truth? You can't handle the truth! YES THEY DESERVED TO DIE AND I HOPE THEY BURN IN HELL!!

But this means he is like 40 times stronger than the strongest human that ever lived. He can move at whatever the in-Tier maximum is for whatever the Tier he's fighting in is. He's also very intelligent, like he makes 1940 (or whatever I don't do history that's for nerds) Albert Einstein look like 2026 Joe Biden in the brains department. That begs the question why is he locked out of most of his ship but that's a conundrum for another day.

His Shit Is Extra Cool Because All His People Got Assploded Or Sum Shit

It is canon, for now, that all of his people died in a big cataclysmic planet explosion type deal. Maybe a Muonnic Conclipse, I dunno I wasn't paying attention when I wrote this shit. I'll edit it into my character sheet later, after it's been submitted I mean, because that's an OK thing to do. It might have been Super Space AIDs actually. Or they actually did leave the oven on and were pretty much sure they turned it off but they didn't, they left it on and it burned the whole planet down. Or maybe he just killed them all so that no one would be able to hack or decode his cool doohickeys and shit.

Anyway the important thing is there aren't any other living members of vaguely Future Thaumic Quasi-Russian whatever I'm calling this Race alive anywhere. Because of that no one can hack or decode his cool doohickeys and shit. Very convenient.

Oh Neat Me Too

This allows Dangerrutito to do all the blatant absurdly out of any even vaguely reasonable tier stuff that others in any given fight can do. It is either a super helpful ability or completely useless depending on if anyone in the fight tries to like fiddle fuck with space time or manipulate space and dimensions or do some pansdimensional (sp) shit or say they can fight with multiple Gods for days back to back without getting tired or summon portals or be a Star Diety. Shit like that.

Either a super handy catch all or a complete waste of time depending on stuff. Good old stuff.
Admin or not you're still a Poohead to me.

Sounded better in my head.

Congrats. You're around more than just about anyone else so you're a good pick. By default. But that's still a technical victory. And technical victories are the best kind! (That's a Simpsons paraphrase)
Richard Moreau

He cried shamelessly. Shoulders heaving. Head down. Hands in his knees. Snotty nosed. Trying but failing to speak.

"Well Richard? What do you have to say for yourself?"

He shuddered anew with the finality of it all. He knew what was coming. They'd done this before. In the last year. Since the opening. All the empathy was gone. They didn't have to just go along to get along anymore. They had a new solution for the troublesome. They could be made to disappear.

"I...." these would be his last words recorded for posterity. They would ask him if he was done. He would tell them he was. That would be recorded curtly. It didn't matter if he swore or cursed them all the way to the door. It would be recorded as "Former Citizen Moreau confirmed he had completed his final statement and so began his exile on this the 28th Day of September 2093"

There was only one suitable answer.

"I loved her."

His head sank again. Lower, under the weight of all those eyes. They had seen him all his life. All the little wrongs, all the bad habits, all the good deeds too. Everything. But within the next few moments they would never see him again and he would never see them. And she wasn't even here. She could have been, but dammit she wasn't. She was probably with him. Still. Even now. Hand on his gravestone instead of here with him. With her Richard.

"Richard Moreau, have you finished your statement?"

It was Edmund Burke. Once a teacher. Once his teacher. And hers. Now he was the kindly face they put on exile. An expression of embarrassed pity on his face but a stern posture. Maybe it helped them sleep at night.

"Yes. Yes Mr. Burke, I'm quite done."

He'd not give them the show they wanted. He wouldn't be carried out of here kicking and screaming. Not screaming at them, not for himself, not for her. He'd not make it any easier for Mr. Burke either. Sending him out into the wastes to burn, to starve, to die, alone.

"Richard Moreau," Mr. Burke intoned in his familiar voice, "It is the judgement of those gathered here, a panel of your fellow Vault 8 Citizens, that although you were born and raised here to love and respect your fellow man and to be loved and respect in turn, you have turned from these ways. You have been found Guilty of the crime of Murder and you have left your fellow Vault 8 Citizens with no choice but to exile you. It is with a heavy heart that..."

Mr. Burke went on a bit longer about the heavy burden of such a choice. About the gravity that their considerations had had and about how though he was to be hereby exiled they would not just throw him to the wastes. He would be provided survival materials. So much of this and this much of that. Whatever they hadn't run out of after outfitting the previous exiles. He wasn't the first. He has heard it before. From the other side of the room. This speech, it wasn't for him. It had never been for the Exile. It was for the others. So they could tell themselves they'd done all they could. He kind of hated them for that. All the fake feelings.

The new stuff came next. The stuff you only saw once. Unless you were Burke and his little team. He'd seen them escort or drag, sometimes even carry, Exiles through that big metal door before but this time it was him and before he even really appreciated that he should remember the moment it was over and he was through. The Blue and Yellow of Vault 8 left behind forever.

He'd never admit it but he missed it immediately. The stupid gleaming happy clean colors he'd grown so sick of. Now it was a long utilitarian hallway stripped of all the niceties. Shades of grey and black. Occasional highlights of yellow but not the Vault happy showy yellow. Purposeful yellow. Tying together this or that bundle of wires at regular intervals. Then he was in front and a second later he was through that big Vault Door he had only seen before in paintings and educational videos.

He'd never admit it but here he pushed back against the escort momentarily. Suddenly more aware that yes this was really really actually happening. It was the dirt walls on the other side that did it. Dirt walls with big concrete beams spaced at regular intervals. He'd expected a shove but instead they just stopped for a moment like it was a normal part of the process. Maybe it was.

"It's alright son," old Mr. Burke who had grown a stomach that pushes his Vault Suit out in a most undignified way said, "Gather yourself up."

He'd never admit it, but he began, "Can. Can we."

"No son. I'm sorry. I'm real sorry. I am. But no, we can't."

"I could.."

"You take a moment now. We can't be too long. They'll send more after us if we take too long and then it'll all go too fast. I hate it when it goes like that. You take that moment but don't take too long now."

He kind of hated him for that. The real feelings. He stood there for a moment waiting for a last second reprieve that never came.

"We need to get a move on now."

A bit further and there was a seam of light shining through a door at the end of the tunnel. A door set between a long length of heavily reinforced steel beams and concrete. With an armed guard on either side. Both holding guns a lot bigger than the pistol Mr. Burke's helpers had discretely on their waists. These weren't discrete and they weren't the old long guns or the six shooters from those old Cooper Howard films. They weren't ray guns from Captain Cosmos . They weren't even those blocky jumping things from Sgt. Granite. He didn't know what to call them but he knew what they were for and the faces on the men holding them told him they knew how to use them.

This was it then. This was the door. Heavy and reinforced. He stood before it as Mr. Burke explained again all of what was in the duffel bag he was being presented. He wasn't really listening. But he did hear one thing. One thing that sounded like maybe it wasn't the regular rigmarole.

"Listen now Richard. We're only a few years from opening up proper. We were supposed to a couple years back but, well, you know how things can be in a Vault. You be careful out there. Find shelter. Try and make friends. You'll never be allowed back in the Vault, but might be we could let you sleep in the little trading hub we want to build. We got a plan Richard and a doohickey. Might be real nice. Come on back in a few years if you can."

Burke gave a nod of the head to the two armed men and each pushed a button resulting in a blast of air and a depressurizing sound as the door unlocked and slowly ratcheted open.

"This is it now Richard. Get that bag comfortable on your shoulders. Take a deep breath. I'm afraid you won't be coming back through that door son but that doesn't mean you can't make something of yourself."

With halting steps he crossed the threshold. Burke offering last pieces of advice from behind him as the door began ratcheting closed once again.

"Try to stay out of the wind. Head South. Boil your water. Make something of yourself son."

And then a faint and weak goodbye.

Richard Moreau began walking, following the old man's advice though he would never acknowledge it. From disaster to massacre to graveyard he traveled, and then again, and then again, from one fresh hell into another. Not making "friends" so much as temporary travel companions. Often losing them when they betrayed him, or he betrayed them, or they were attacked by raiders, or wild animals, or traps set up by some clever but cowardly scavengers.

In just that manner Richard Moreau traveled into the wasteland never to be seen again, and in just that manner a new man was born. A learned wasteland doctor. Doc Grey, Doctor Richard Grey.
Following a missed posting window and a very non-specific complaint we are currently stalled out for an indeterminate time. Waiting for the Bolt team to decide if they still want to do this.
Hexxin an' a Texxin, Dangerrutito Fontainuxic's Goggs were flooding his brain and unconscious and semiconscious and Id and Ego and Super Ego and (given his suit's unique method of interface) very possibly his butthole with multitudinous information. Like so much information. Probably too much really, but that was the benefit of having both all the magic and all the tech.

This could be, and indeed was, all contemplated collaborated and corroborated in an instant. Absolute minimal bureaucracy in his brain.
Future Magic Russian type shit. Super helpful. Only way to get access to this level of magic and tech and also the process by which neoborhilliumium can be manticulated not once, not twice, but indeed thrice into the form of a Q-Bramble Blade, cheekily referred to by those in the know as a Q-BramBlade. It was a deep cut. One lost on you if you weren't in the know about Russian Magic Future type shit. Your loss. It's an oldie but a goodie. A Magic Future Oldie but a goodie.

Only way to have access to a fucken Zord too. Some real Saban type shit, but not like the Saban type shit from when they hit it big and had to just keep making shows and gradually watered their shit down and got all redundant and lame and shit. Like the early Saban type shit when they were just dubbing over some crazy ass weird ass foreign show and replacing all the weird talk with American type shit. That type Saban shit. Speaking of.

Quantemporaneously, and with much alacrity too, Dangerrutitio references his VocoRecordoerings and the data compiled by his Hexx-Texx Goggos. Now, granted, for some weebs Naruto running around with bandages on their feet and hands and little headbands and shit, pretending to be a Street Shark or some shit, this might take ages. If they could even read Future Russian Magic type guy man script. Which was doubtful. Putting it all together, figuring out where it intersects and what that means. But with the help of both magic and technology and bluntness Dangerrutito is able to permeate the membrane of it all and determine the most bestest position for a Z.O.R.D., that is a Zord Orbital Rapid Deployment, and drop it precisely where he wanted it.

Extrapolating, or maybe interpolating, some word like that. Maybe both them words. Extrainterpolating. Some word meaning like inside thinking and combining of factors into one clear simple answer. Whichever word that means basically that, but also has the most letters and syllables and preferably the most complicated pronunciation. That was what the Hexx-Texx Goggs were doing. VocoRecordoer was helping out too. Picking up even the slightest of sound waves. Words sure, but also often just the slight reverberations of foot-steps, rustling leaves, cracking ice. Between the two a great many things that a simple mortal might miss were picked up and catalogued and their ramifications considered. Handy shit. Like some sort of fusion between magic and technology, which is what Dangerrutito was. So that was fitting.

Where to drop the Zord and what to do. A simple question but one with voluminous possible answers and untold potential ramifications. It may turn the tide of the battle. It may accidentally land on Dangerrutito and bring him to a rather ignoble end. If he were doing it on pen and paper he might forget to carry the zero or get confused about precisely how Long Division worked or he might confuse Calculus and Trigonometry and end up manifesting Dangerrutito Fontainiuxic Mooora Beeeegaruuuuuu inside this lame ass planet, likely resulting in one manner of horrific disaster or another. Maybe even a dreaded Muonnic Conclipse. There was so much to consider.

Dangerrutito's partners for one. That is those dudes over there and there and there and also over there. They were the ones he was not supposed to kill. At least not until after these other randos were giblets. His orders hadn't said anything about not killing his partners after these pests were paste. Or maybe they had. He hadn't read them.

The opponents and their locations was another thing. Some of them were tricksy little buggers. Or at least tried to be. Their methods may well be effective on this world, with this level of magic and apparent pronounced derth of technology. Somewhat akin to the card sharks of Kyivistanoslov's slums. Playing three card monty or that Find The Ball in the Cup game. Parlor tricks. Slight of hand. Spiritually sourced though they may well be they were mere contrivances. Attempts to mask one's presence were admirable but Dangerrutito wasn't relying on his 20/20 vision to detect them.

That was where the aforementioned Hexx-Texx Goggolos came in. They were able to scan through a variety of different viewmodals searching out disturbances and fluctuations. One might have a normal reading and thus be detected, or no reading and thus be detected, or an altered reading and thus be detected, but there was little hope of just remaining perfectly unseen. Granted one might perhaps maybe figure out a way to evade detection of one mode or another. Specialization was a miraculous thing, but with the Goggles flicking from one mode to another continuously it was likely a losing battle. Particularly for a world so wrapped up in Chi or Qi or Ki. Same shit.

Upon tagging any target or object/entity of interest the systems would track that target and, with that target now solidified conceptually, take a particular interest in obtaining that target in another targeting system. Thusly using each data set to build upon one another and, potentially, not just identify a target in a targeting system they had previously been able to elude or confuse, but in doing so improve the capacity of that system. It was pretty fucking neat all in all.

It allowed Dangerrutito to take note of a random bandaged figure running out, seemingly thinking it was completely hidden despite quite simply not being hidden. It was quick, Dangerrutito Fontainiuxic would give it that, but running across open ground to the lake was not a particularly stealthy move. Not hard to ping that. Didn't even need some umpteen vision modes to latch on to some guy Naruto running through an open field, and once the target was identified, well, it wasn't likely to be lost. Less likely with each passing second. Even when Naruto Runner sent out a few illusory clones, like a small child scattering coins in the hopes that the coins would confuse their parents and save them from a time out, the targeting remained. Sure, there were additional potential targets now, but that wasn't going to undo the acquisition of the original targeting. Naruto Runner wasn't obfuscating any thing any more than the smattering of local flora and fauna were. The attacks he once thought decisively deadly would flail harmlessly as the surprise aspect of his surprise attack was but an illusion, his delusion.

They, the Hexx-Texx Goggs that is, also allowed Dangerrutito to spy something he enjoyed looking at much more than Naruto Runner over there. Dangerrutito had made out a strange silhouette. A most seductive silhouette, which was a strange thing for a silhouette to be but fuck it a man likes what a man likes. A woman's silhouette. Let's get that out of the way right now. It had like...womanly aspects. For a shadow. Or a silhouette. Like boobs. And long hair. And the proper like hip to waist ratio and smaller shoulders. All that type stuff. That was all pretty cool stuff. Dangerrutito liked that kind of stuff. He liked it a lot. A lot more than dude shadow or silhouette type stuff. Not that there was anything wrong with that.

A silhouette, black edged with blue yet somehow a fire in the eyes. Now that didn't come up on the sensors. Not even the Muonn gauge. Dangerrutito could just tell that was there because of like things. Metaphorical type things. The way that they are. Shit like that. Anyway back to the silhouette, quite a karada on that one. Probably. Again, the figure was black edged with a blue silhouette so it was hard to tell but dollars to donuts probably a hard karada. Probably. This one didn't Naruto run, for which Dangerrutito was eternally grateful because that was just silly. This one danced. Dangerrutito did not know the dances but he knew he liked them. She brought her own dancing partners too, like the Naruto Runner dude, though these too were not particularly hard to discern between. As she danced his Goggos had plenty of time to scan her in several viewmodals and iterate again and again until the image developed, creating a rather profound separation between the actual figure and her backup dancers.

These would be the focus of his attacks. At least for now, and they would receive the attention they were due.

The Naruto Runner, Inabikari Muigetsu Totsuka, also known as Komaeda “Azashiro” Seishi, also also known as Keiji Maeda. Dangerrutito didn't know the Naruto Runner's name or that he had been named after a samurai from the long distant past and a corny ass anime character from the less long but still pretty long distant past, but he'd probably get a giggle out of it if he had.

The Dancing Silhouette, Akane Ryuusei, also known as Hard Karada (at least to Dangerrutito). Dangerrutito didn't know that was her name either. He'd have to ask later. Also for her number. And if she liked dogs or not. God he hoped she did.

And maybe that other guy too. Maybe he should focus on that dude because like what the fuck was up with him?

Some Shiny Dude, Yuske Tenyu “X-Star of Vehemente,” Dangerrutito didn't know that was his name either. Or what a X-Star was.

Some Shiny Dude had been hard to see. A distance off and in an elevated position, showing up much like The Dancing Silhouette, aka Hard Karada, initially Dangerrutito had scarcely been able to see him. Had only picked him up as his Goggles started detecting another presence and trying to zero in on it, but now his Goggos had gotten a bead on him and focused in, running through viewmodals, until he could appreciate the shiny crimson metally armor type shit the dude was wearing. Pretty legit. He'd just been standing there for like the longest time. Surveying shit like some kind of surveyor. Dude liked to watch. That was alright. Time to put on a show.

That was exactly what he did. Put on a show. But then also drop a Z.O.R.D. precisely where he wanted it. Just along the edge of the lake so the resultant wave would wash right over where The Naruto Runner was trying his best to be a sneaky snake.

Just as it had been for his arrival, the vantablack membrane of spacetime was penetrated, this time at high speed. Spacetime was gonna be sore in the morning. It was gonna be vantablack and blue. Dangerrutito Fontainiuxic Mooora Beeeegaruuuuuu had been launched by the Fontainiuxiciccix 4 at ludicrous speed and point blank into a really quite small spacetime rip, allowing it to maintain much of it's momentum and just really tearing the shit out of that poor spacetime continuum. It might have to take a break. It probably couldn't continuum.

Double entendres and dumbshittery aside, the violation of spacetime and massive amount of energy pumping into the world immediately began to wreak havoc on the biome. Small happy little birds singing small happy little bird songs and carrying twigs and their young and candies and cards and shit for their spouses died by the hundreds. Incinerated or bisected or just exploded by the sudden change in air pressure. Hundreds more immediately dropping dead from the sheer quantity of plasmatic radioactive waste that Dangerrutito Fontainiuxic Mooora Beeeegaruuuuuu was venting from his rearward waste vent, located on his ass. Never knowing what cruel fate awaited them, or that they would never see their little bird wives and babies and friends and shit again. Never getting an opportunity to tell them they loved them and cherished their memories together and nice type shit like that. Certainly any who survived were traumatized for life. Probably scarred too. PETA, if it existed on this planet, was gonna be pissed. Ozone Layer would probably never recover. This little temple area was basically Australia now but without the hot blondes with cool accents.

At the speed it was travelling Dangerrutito hardly had time to turn toward The Dancing Silhouette before Dangerrutito Fontainiuxic Mooora Beeeegaruuuuuu blasted into the surface just on the edge of the lake. Luckily he did, have time that is. Otherwise he wouldn't have been able to enjoy one of those cool guy moments. He bet he looked just cool as shit.

A giant ZORD, Dangerrutito Fontainiuxic Mooora Beeeegaruuuuuu, landing cacophonously, instantaneously sublimating a large quantity of the lakes water, melting the rest, splashing a large quantity of the melted water out, and creating a huge wave originating opposite the temple and heading toward it. Toward The Naruto Runner and the temple beyond him. That was to say nothing of what it did to the Earth there. Sublimating a good chunk of that too. Taking solid earth and advancing it straight past smaller solids or liquids and straight into gas. Not even a thick gas. Not a fog or even really a mist. It was as though it had just never been there.

Think of all the little squirrels and raccoons and shit. Or the whatever alien type fauna that lived on this weird ass world. The cute ones. All suddenly rendered homeless. And probably dead. Yeah mostly dead. If you can sublimate earthen rock you can sublimate a cute little family of four squirrels sitting around their little squirrel dinner table discussing the latest goings on in squirrel culture. But now they were all dead. And what's more, since Dangerrutito Fontainiuxic Mooora Beeeegaruuuuuu was still venting radioactive plasmatic waste out his ass mounted waste distributor vent so they probably wouldn't be able to return any time soon. Just annihilating the ecosystem like it wasn't anything that mattered. Because well it kinda didn't. It was a fucking travesty. A tragedy. A war crime. Abhorrent. The act had been done and now, like a silent fart in a small room, though the rest of the planet may not immediately notice it in time its spread was inevitable and undeniable. Resistance is futile. War, War Never Changes. Nanu nanu. Etc. It was fucked up. But man did it ever look cool. All behind him too, like he was too cool to watch it. Fuck that looks cool.

"Fuck that probably looks cool," Dangerrutitio Fontainuxic thought as he unholstered his blaster, blew the gunsmoke (which wasn't there since he hadn't fired yet and also because blasters shot blast bolts and therefore did not produce gunsmoke) from it's barrel, and began a dance of his own. There wasn't much to it. It wasn't really a dance. He just kinda shrugged his shoulders a little, did a hip thrust and charged up a blast.

The Naruto Runner would have to contend with the massive wave heading his way, if he hadn't been killed by the initial impact. Or boiled by the immediate change in temperature. Or drowned. Or just had a heart attack when he realized he wasn't hidden. Anyway he had teammates. Like the one guy, or that other guy, or the guy with the thing, or uh. That one other guy that was also there. Dangerrutito's blaster blast was charging up for The Dancing Silhouette.

Surely that big bada boom had gotten her attention, but if it hadn't this would. Probably maybe. The blaster was one of his Rangery type tech deal things. It didn't have a long name and history, and none of his illegitimate children's eternal souls were trapped inside of it, or at least not that he knew of, but it was pretty nifty just the same. A Chekhov Model 7 Master Blaster. A real work of art.

The dance stopped!

The Dancing Silhouette, Akane Ryuusei, aka Hard Karada, aka The Future Mrs. Fontainuixic, and her backup dancers sped off to the side toward where that one duder with the guns and the bitchin' ass car was. Not just that. She was fast. She was really fast. He could track her, but only barely, the indicator for her position moving across his viewscreen fast enough that he had to turn his head and pivot to keep her lined up, couldn't even keep her in his sights. He was no marksman.

Bouncing from tree to tree, Dangerrutito knew just well enough to not try and shoot her on one side of the other, to not try to outshoot his read out but to control his breathing, steady his hand, and focus on the center point, the middle point her tracking indicator kept jumping across. If he had more time he might be able to charge the blast more. To scour her out straight away. Score one for the good guys. Or at least his team. For now. But her hand had begun to crackle with energy and he didn't need to check his read out to know that that was no good.

Focusing in, breathing slow, and pulling the trigger methodically he sent blaster bolts down range to that center point as her indicator bobbed across that point over and over. It wouldn't be enough to fry her. He'd been trying to charge up a big ass blast but she had thrown him off with that little mad dash she'd done. She would survive an uncharged blast bolt, all but certainly. This first blast would be charged up a little but not enough to kill. Probably. He hoped she didn't get hit with the first one anyway. That wouldn't be a good icebreaker. He'd have to make it up to her later either way. Dangerrutito Fontainiuxic wondered what kind of chocolate a Dancing Silhouette would like. Probably caramel. Maybe carmel.
Watched the first season of Fallout, fun show but butchered the lore.
The message had come through his DynaTech v17 Pager. A simple message, as it had to be. It was just a fancy alternate future pager. He was to bisect the tempoverse he had been bumming about in at the ZK Axis at 2763 hours precisely and then recursively corpusclate counterspacewise until he reached well...here. And so here he was. Somewhere. Set to kill a few weirdos and then probably get a really cool reward. That probably should have been hashed out with whoever sent him that message, but he had just jumped at the chance to womp some randoms. Ah well. Next time.

The vantablack semipermeable membrane of spacetime folded into itself behind him, once he had sufficiently cleared the event horizon. Without delay Dangerrutito Fontainuixic got his Hexx Texx-Goggs both Hexxing and Texxing. Picking up life forms to the South and South West. Weebs it would seem. It was always weebs.

"Breaker Breaker One Niner I got like four bogies. All weebs. I repeat all weebs. Come in you guys. My call sign is Omnissiah. Over and out."

It was a reference to a guy from Warhammer. Which is a thing for nerds. But not weeb nerds, normal nerds, which are marginally less nerdy. But it was kind of a fitting reference. Omnissiah. That dude was like a magic technology dude. The rest of the squad would be able to hear his equally informative and nonsensical ramblings thanks to a particularly potent combination of "magic" and Future Russian technology. Called it a Thaumic VocoRecordoer, patent pending. The neat thing is worked both ways. Again magictech. Very technical, very magical.

Situation at hand. Temple thing. Lake dealie. Paths. Trees. Weebish Target rich environment He had seen this before. It was like a Dungeons and Dragons encounter. But with robots and weebs. Therefore it was superior to Dungeons and Dragons. He liked it.

A dumbshit grin spread fully across his dumbshit face in a split second. This was going to be fun.

Hexx-Texx Goggs self modulating their Muon Capacity and scanning through several different viewmodals to best optometrize the battlefields. Thaumic VocoRecordoer thaumically vocorecordoering for them all. Aromatic Polyamide Weave suit weaving all his polyamides very aromatically. Also it was hugging his every curve and crevice like a jilted lover finally reunited with her Romeo but for one night only and then never again until the next time her Romeo gets stood up.

In addition to that, the almost pornographic tightness of the suit I mean, it was adapting to Dangerrutito's environment to help him remain undetected. Not via some sort of Adaptive Camouflage system, although it probably maybe could do that too, but because it was tied in through some mysterious means (quite possibly Dangerrutito's ass) to his mind. Responding to his desire to be just stealthy as fuck. All kinds of sneaky.

Likewise the soul of his banished bastard boy B-Rad responded to the hum of blood and adrenaline through Dangerrutito's body. It couldn't respond much, being just a soul and a soul trapped in a sword at that, but that sword, Trilobieskni by name. Yes, yes that Trilobieskni, the very same. The Blade of Legend. The Sword of Myth. The Katana of Dread. The Loosener of Shackles. The Remover of Bras. The Sabre of the Downtrodden. The Zweihander of the Einhanded. Fucking Cool Sword Bro. That sword. It hummed, metaphorically, very much eager to be let loose upon a weeb or two. Also to get a body again instead of being trapped in a sword.

In summation, as Dangerrutito Fontaniuxic methodically moved through the brush and whispered his sightings to the others, through his Thaumic VocoRecordoer, he was ready. Very ready. To Rumble.

So ready was he, in fact, that he decided he ought to provide his battle brothers, or whatever, with a rousing vocal performance. Whispered of course, Thaumically, via his VocoRecordoer, into each of their brains or ears or some shit. Dangerrutito wasn't super clear on the details of magitech. What he was clear on was the general tune of "Where Did Our Love Go" by The Supremes. Released in 1964. Diana Ross and the Funk Brothers. Dangerrutito was pretty sure Smokey Robinson produced.

A very fitting soundtrack for the lovefest that was about to kick off.


Officer Bobo the HoboRoboPopo, also he is a Bonobo

Race: Monke
Age: Too Old For This Shit
Status: Retired

Blood and oil mixed in the streets of Old New Chinatown. Blood thick and red, oil thin and iridescent. Both reflecting the pulsing neon lights of a thriving palace fit for worshipping sin and debauchery and other fun weekend activities. The bodies had long ago been dragged away to be mulched up or buried respectfully or whatever exactly it was they did with dead hookers these days.

Damn shame. Them hookers. They'd been real lookers.

Large metal feet step slowly, melodramatically through the puddles of water in the alleyway. It had rained last night. Did most nights. More dramatic that way. Kinda Film Noire like. That shit was cool.

One boot, neatly polished to a mirror shine. Black like the soul of the city. One metal prosthetic monke foot. Graphite Composite, ergonomic, comes with several different attachments to cover your prosthetic monkey foot needs whether you're chilling on the beach or going to a formal dinner.

Two chalk outlines gradually fading away. No one gave a shit about those girls. Just two more souls lost in this den of sin. The puddles were quickly eating away at the outer edges of the chalk. The oil wouldn't mix with the water. There was probably some kind of metaphor there about the nature of man and all sorts of high minded philosophical type shit. But Officer Bobo wasn't here to philosophize. He was here to solve a mystery.

The water and oil wouldn't mix, the water just crept around looking for a way in. That kept the blood isolated, but it was coagulating. It would be dried up soon and then the oil would cover it and the water would mix and soon this would just be another stained sidewalk outside a dingy bar and a massage parlor that would massage more than your back if you paid top dollar. Officer Bobo inserted a Robo-finger into one puddle of blood, sucking it up then screwing off the finger and putting it in his pocket. He reached into the other pocket, pulled out an empty Robo-finger and did the same with the other blood puddle. Gotta make sure not to confuse the two pockets. He was on thin ice after the string cheese incident.

Camera pulls up a little showing an isometric view of Bobo and the crime scene.

Bobo the HoboRoboPop Bonobo pulls a fedora out of another pocket. Them old timey detective coats are just covered with pockets. Dusting it off he places it on his monke head, his monke ears sticking way out still. Because monke.

"I'll find those bastards" he promises himself as he gives the puddles one last look. No one kills prostitutes in Bobo's district. Except that guy who killed those two dead prostitutes. But he would find them. He just promised himself.

Camera pulls further back and lowers a little so the scene is seen through an alleyway. Bobo. Puddles. Chalk outline nearly gone. Blood and oil and water all one now. A grim reminder of just how fa-

Oh shit. Bobo is jumping around splashing in the puddles. Well he is a monke.

*End Scene*

Suicide Deluxe

The rain pelted down on the neon-lit streets, creating a reflective sheen on the pavement that mirrored the grim reality of Simian City. The stench of corruption hung in the air like a thick fog, wrapping its greedy tendrils around everything it touched. Bareass Jimmy hadn't felt the weight of a case like this in ages, his fur matted and clinging to his sweaty frame as he trudged through the shadows, searching for answers in a city gone bananas.

The dame who walked into his office wore trouble like a second skin, and it clung to her like a banana cream pie in a monkey's paw. She had legs that went all the way up to her tail, a tail that could wrap around a monkey's heart and squeeze it until it begged for mercy. Her eyes were the color of a moonlit jungle, and they held secrets darker than the deepest pits of the banana mines. She called herself Lola Bananarama, and she had a case that could make even a seasoned detective like Jimminy Chimp peel back the layers of his own sanity.

"Mr. Chimp, I've got a job for you," she purred, her voice smoother than aged whiskey and just as intoxicating. "My husband, Don Banana, has gone missing. The last time I saw him, he was as slippery as a peeled banana in a monkey's hand. I need you to find him, Mr. Chimp. I'll make it worth your while."

Bareass Jimmy squinted through the haze of cigarette smoke that enveloped his office. The dame's story had more holes than a barrel of rotten bananas, but something about the way she said "worth your while" stirred a curiosity deep within him. He took a long drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing like the last flicker of hope in Simian City.

"I'll take the case, doll," he grunted, his voice rougher than a tree bark rubbed the wrong way. "But this city is full of deceit, lies, and dirty monkeys. You better be straight with me, or you'll find yourself knee-deep in a cage at the city zoo."

As Lola Bananarama sashayed out of his office, leaving the lingering scent of her perfume hanging in the air, Bareass Jimmy knew he was in for a wild ride. The trail led him through the twisted alleys of Simian City, where shadows whispered secrets and every monkey had a tail to tell. He questioned low-life informants with names like Two-Timing Tony and Slippery Sam, hoping to peel back the layers of the mystery surrounding Don Banana's disappearance.

The city had become a jungle of crime, with corruption crawling through the branches like a plague of locusts. The streets were littered with the fallen, their bodies sprawled out like discarded banana peels. The deeper Bareass Jimmy delved into the case, the more he realized that the missing Don Banana was just the tip of the iceberg. The city's underbelly was teeming with greed, betrayal, and a thirst for power that would make a king cobra blush.

As he followed the trail of clues, Bareass Jimmy found himself entangled in a web of lies spun by a sinister figure known only as the Monkey Kingpin. This shadowy simian controlled the city's underworld with an iron fist, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. Bareass Jimmy knew he was in deep, but he wasn't one to back down. He was a hotshot detective with a reputation for getting to the bottom of things, even if it meant swinging through the darkest corners of Simian City.

The tension in the air was thicker than a monkey's fur in the rainy season as Bareass Jimmy approached the Monkey Kingpin's lair. The rain had subsided, leaving the city glistening with the remnants of the storm. Lightning flashed in the distance, revealing the silhouette of a hulking ape perched on a throne of stolen bananas. The Monkey Kingpin turned to face Bareass Jimmy, a sinister grin spreading across his face like a monkey with a secret stash of stolen treats.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Bareass Jimmy," the Monkey Kingpin sneered, his voice dripping with malice. "You've been poking your nose where it doesn't belong, detective. This city belongs to me, and anyone who crosses my path ends up as monkey chow."

Bareass Jimmy squared his shoulders, his nerves replaced by a steely resolve. "I've seen my fair share of dirty monkeys in this city, but you're the filthiest of them all, Kingpin. Don Banana's disappearance is just the beginning. Your reign of terror ends tonight."

The tension in the air reached a breaking point as the two simians faced off in a showdown that would determine the fate of Simian City. Lightning flashed, illuminating the glint of a hidden blade in the Monkey Kingpin's paw. Bareass Jimmy knew that this would be a fight for the ages, a battle between good and evil in a city gone bananas.

As the first punches were thrown, the rain began to fall again, washing away the sins of Simian City. The streets would never be the same, but Bareass Jimmy had peeled back the layers of corruption and exposed the dark heart of the Monkey Kingpin. The city might still be a jungle, but at least the bananas were a little sweeter without the taste of treachery lingering in the air.

With the Monkey Kingpin defeated and the rain-soaked streets finally breathing a sigh of relief, Bareass Jimmy emerged from the shadows of the city, his fur matted and his fedora pulled low over his eyes. He had left a trail of chaos behind him, but justice had been served in Simian City. As he walked through the desolate streets, he couldn't shake the feeling that the city's troubles ran deeper than even he could fathom.

In the heart of the city, he stumbled upon a dimly lit alley, the kind that seemed to swallow the light whole. It was there, amid the flickering neon signs and the distant hum of the city, that Bareass Jimmy encountered a peculiar figure – Bobo The RoboHoboPopo Banobo. The metallic sheen of Bobo's limbs glinted in the faint light, and the whir of gears replaced the usual sounds of the urban jungle.

"Well I'll be a monkey's uncle. It's Bobo. You know these are my streets now. You were supposed to retire!"


Of all the rundown prostitute bloodied back alleys he had to walk down this one. Bareass Jimmy. New monke on the beat. Big Time Bareass as they called him. Well as Bobo called him. When he was drunk in the BoboMobile. Parked along the river. In his underwear. Listening to Motley Crue. Solving the mystery of what lay in the bottom of a bottle. Another case solved.

"I'm too old for this Bareass, looks like you are too. Two dead tarsiers. Barely out of their teens. Tragic."

Bobo, the HoboRoboPopo Bonobo, gestures toward the rapidly vanishing remnants of the chalk outline as a few last flakes of still dry chalk are lifted up by the water, oil, and blood, and slowly become sodden and disappear beneath the surface.

"You wouldn't know anything about that would you, Jimmy?"

Bobo had been hearing rumors. The streets had ears. And lips. Not literal ones, it's a metaphor. Word on the street was Bareass Jimmy could be Bought in a Jiffy. That's a metaphor too. And maybe not true. It would be just like those lowlife local chimps to try and turn the department against itself.

Still. It was awful convenient. Bareass Jimmy happening upon this scene just now, just after Bobo had secured potential DNA evidence. Maybe he was meant to stop Bobo. Bobo narrowed his eyes and his monke ears flattened against the sides of his monke head.

"No evidence left when I got here," it was a fib and Momma Chee Chee ain't raise no fool and it just might save his tail, "Who you thinking? KongPin? Don Banana? Ol' One Paw? Hairless George? BattleChimp Potemkin?"

Babbling so, but also trying to gather intel, Bobo the HoboRoboPopo Bonobo tries to casually assess the scene. Dumpsters. Trash cans. Wet oily asphalt. Fire escapes. Lots of doors, probably largely locked. Pallets resting against walls. Lots of potential weapons. Lots of escape routes. If those two tarsier tarts were a little stronger they might have gotten away...wait...surely they could have...

Suicide Deluxe

Bobo, the HoboRoboPopo Bonobo, seemed to be eying Bareass Jimmy with suspicion, his metallic limbs reflecting the dim light of the alley. The rain continued to pour, washing away Simian City's sins, but the crime scene's stench lingered like a bad banana.

"Bobo," Jimmy grunted, his fedora pulled low over his eyes, "I ain't got time for your robo-doubts. I stumbled upon this mess, just like I stumbled upon your rusty self."

Jimmy took a deep breath, the air heavy with the scent of wet fur and blood, and launched into the tale of the Monkey Kingpin's demise.

"You see, the Kingpin thought he could rule this city with an iron paw. But Bareass Jimmy don't take orders from no one, especially not a dirty monkey with delusions of grandeur. I followed the trail, peeled back the layers of deceit, and it led me straight to the Kingpin's lair."

The rain continued its rhythmic dance on the pavement, drowning out the distant sounds of the city.

"Things got hairy, Bobo. The Kingpin wasn't alone. He had his goons, his lackeys, all ready to protect their banana-obsessed boss. But Jimmy ain't one to back down. We clashed like a couple of enraged gorillas in the concrete jungle, fists flying, fur flying, and bananas going squish underfoot."

Jimmy paused, reliving the intensity of the showdown. The memory of the Monkey Kingpin's sinister grin and the glint of his hidden blade sent shivers down his spine.

"But in the end, it was just me and the Kingpin. The rain-soaked streets were the witness to our final dance. He went down harder than a chimpanzee on a slip 'n slide, and Simian City can breathe a little easier now."

"Now, I don't expect you to believe me, Bobo. You're a cynical piece of machinery, and I respect that. But you can check the Kingpin's lair yourself. You'll find his rotting corpse, a fitting end for a dirty monkey who thought he could rule this city with fear and corruption."

Jimmy met Bobo's gaze, his eyes wearing a mix of weariness and determination. The rain continued its relentless descent, the drops tapping a chaotic rhythm on the metal surfaces around them.

"You might be a RoboHoboPopo, but you ain't above the law, Bobo. I did what needed to be done. Now, if you want to keep playing detective, we can do it together. But if you're gonna stand there doubting every word I say, you might as well find a new alley to rust in."

With that, Jimmy sparked up a banana-flavored cigarillo, the waterlogged fur on his back sticking uncomfortably. The city may be a jungle of crime, but he had just pruned one of its most poisonous vines.


"That was a nice speech Jimmy. Real nice. I like the cut of your jib see. Sounds like you had a proper dust up in there with that no good two timing monkey's uncle."

He hadn't liked the rust cracks. It was a real problem. You wouldn't believe the lengths a monkey gotta go to to get some some Brasso out here. Specially one like Bobo. A HoboRoboPopo Bonobo, down on his luck?


One look at him and they assume he's deep in his cups. Full blown alcoholic ape. Swinging from the chandeliers. Riding in the pink elephant parade. Probably the ringleader. With a little hat. Maybe pedaling a tricycle. Maybe juggling. Or playing a little fucking drum like on of those stupid little drummer monkey toys. Fuck Bobo hated those. So stereotypical...oh shit...Bobo had lost his train of thought.

Distract from his distraction. That hadn't happened. All part of the plan. Yeah yeah. Part of the plan.

Bobo smiles really sly like. Like a real wise ape, and pulls out a little smoke of his own. Big shit eating grin stretching out across his face.

"Genuine Congos Jimmy," he explains pulling an oddly thick yellow cigar from one of his many old timey detective coat pockets and lighting it up. It takes a bit. He'd have to explain.

"It takes a bit," Bobo explained.

His thoughts returning to the rust. The fucking rust. So hard to get out. You had to use Brasso. That was the ticket. But they'd never sell it to Bobo. Too worried he'd start making Brass Monkeys. Never liked those. Whiskey and Brasso, they tasted like ass-o. Too funky those Brass Monkeys.

"Genuine banana peel," he mumbled around the cigar, fiddle fucking with his old lighter until it finally sparked up.

Bobo takes a deep draw, surprised to be enjoying a moment with the New Chimp on the Block, and decides to give a little respect where it's due. Old chimps can still learn new tricks right?

"You can be a pain in my ass Jimmy, I miss the force, never should retired shoulda died with my boots on...well my robo-boots on...doesn't have the same sound to it...."

Bobo wasn't good at this whole compliment thing.

Walking up to the young Buck and doing a little Smokey smoke trick, inhaling through the mouth and out through the nose Bobo fidgeted with his badge before finally putting a little compliment together.

"Good work Jimmy. Sending that cretinous Kingpin to the Big Banana Boat in the sky. That's some good work."

It wasn't much of a compliment. Bobo was really more for the solo work.

Bobo the HoboRoboPopo Bonobo Preferred To Go Solo.

In the near future though he would be happy to have company. As while he was making that little rhyme in his head about preferring to go solo some monkey rat bastard had whipped a bottle of Howler Head straight at his head.

He was lucky it had only dislodged his hat...but there were four of them and they looked pissed.

As their eyes shifted from Bobo to Bareass and then to the bare spot where the tarsier tarts had been dumped Bobo had no doubt things were about to get interesting.


Bareass Jimmy took a long drag from his banana flavored cigarillo, watching Bobo fumble with his cigar and rust issues. The rain continued its persistent drumming, but the tension in the alley seemed to rise with the smoke.

"Well, Bobo, you might need some Brasso for those rust problems, but I've got a different kind of polish for the streets of Simian City. It's called justice," Jimmy replied, the corners of his mouth curling into a wry smile.

He listened as Bobo rambled about Brass Monkeys and his reluctance to retire, a sentiment Jimmy could understand. The streets had a way of calling you back, even when you thought you were done.

"Yeah, retirement's for chimps who've lost their edge. You and I, we've still got a few swings in the trees left in us," Jimmy said, giving a nod of agreement.

As Bobo complimented him on taking down the Monkey Kingpin, Jimmy couldn't help but appreciate the rare moment of camaraderie. He flicked his cigarillo into a puddle, the ember fizzling out as he turned his attention to the approaching trouble.

"Thanks, Bobo. But it looks like we've got company," he said, noting the angry eyes of the approaching simians.

Jimmy cracked his knuckles, a grin spreading across his face like a monkey who'd just found a banana stash. The rain-soaked streets were about to witness another showdown, and Bareass Jimmy was ready for whatever the city had to throw at him.

5 Years Prior

Bareass Jimmy's mind briefly drifted back to a time when the rain-soaked streets were replaced by the polished halls of the Simian City Police Academy. It was a memory that crept in like a shadow, a flashback to the day he graduated from the academy. As he stood on the stage, freshly minted badge pinned to his chest, the applause of the audience echoed in his ears.

Among the sea of familiar faces, Jimmy's eyes had caught a glimpse of an unusual figure in the audience. Bobo, the HoboRoboPopo Bonobo, was there, his metallic limbs standing out like a silver beacon in a sea of uniformed chimps. Jimmy remembered the distinct hum of gears and the clink of metal against metal as Bobo offered a salute of respect, a gesture that stood out amidst the cheers and claps of the crowd.

At the time, Jimmy had been a rookie, full of idealism and the burning desire to make Simian City a better place. Bobo's presence had been a mystery, a symbol of the city's quirks and unspoken tales. Little did Jimmy know that their paths would cross again, that he'd find himself in a rain-soaked alley, facing down trouble with the same Bonobo who had acknowledged his graduation.

The memory flashed like lightning, illuminating the connection between the seasoned detective and the old RoboHoboPopo. In the chaos of the present, Jimmy couldn't help but appreciate the strange twists that fate had woven into the fabric of Simian City.

"Let's show these punks that the streets of Simian City are no place for monkey business," Jimmy declared, his fedora tilted low as he stepped forward to face the oncoming storm. The rain, the rust, and the echoes of the Monkey Kingpin's demise all converged in this dark alley, where justice swung like a vine, unpredictable and fierce.

As the first bottle sailed through the air, Jimmy's instincts kicked in. He ducked and weaved, his movements fluid like a monkey in the treetops. The bottle smashed against the wall, shards scattering like fallen leaves.

"Looks like the party's just getting started, Bobo," Jimmy called over his shoulder, ready to dance through the rain-soaked chaos of Simian City once again.


Can't teach an old homeless robot monkey new tricks. Pretty sure that was how the saying went. It was an apt if oddly specific bit of wisdom. Maybe when Bobo was neither Hobo nor Robo he could have dipped ducked and dodged like that. Not anymore. He swiped at the bottle that came his way. Not quick enough to grab it or agile enough dodge it, but he was able to redirect it. Slightly.

The bottle crashed against the wall and splintered into a thousand shards of glass. Like the shattered hopes of the this teenaged tars-

A wet thud as another bottle cracked hard against the fleshy side of Bobo's head. Cut his scalp, cut his lip, and it hurt too.

He shook it off and a devious grin spread across his face as the blood dripped down. Shiny white teeth bared, though the white gradually reddened as his split lip leaked crimson.

Bobo was vaguely aware of the two chimps that were converging on Bareass Jimmy and the bandana wearing orangutan jumping from one fire escape to another as it made its way down to the alley. That would be trouble. Later. Bareass could handle his shit. Bobo had trouble all his own.

Three chimps. The two bottle throwers a bit further back but a third very much in Bobo's face. Performing a dropkick. At his face. Bobo didn't have time to do much of anything but take the hit in his chest and bounce against the wall.

"Oww," Bobo replied.

Then it was on.

Dropkick Murphy, as Bobo named the Dropkicking Monkey, did a little breakdance spin kick move to get up off the alley floor after landing that dropkick. It was pretty impressive. But he made a fatal mistake.

Dropkick Murphy bent down to retrieve his goofy little Boston Irish hat. Not nearly as nice a hat as Bobo's and certainly not worth the beating Bobo laid out. As Dropkick Murphy bent down to retrieve his scally cap Bobo grabbed him by the ears and swung him bodily against the wall, then as Dropkick Murphy scrambled to regain his footing while gripping the bleeding sides of his head Bobo snap kicked him hard with a mighty metallic monkey foot. Trapped between a wall and a MechaMonkey Dropkick Murphy could do little in the near future but whimper and wail and wish he'd shipped out to Boston.

The other two chimps paused a second to assess if their monkey mate was dead or just injured, allowing Bobo to get a head on the orangutan who was now just hanging off the side of one of the fire escapes hooting and hollering and gesturing around with those long orangutan arms of his. Weird fucker.

As the other two chimps decided they couldn't do much for their mangled monkey mate Murphy Bobo reached for a small step ladder and prepared himself. He'd seen Rumble in the Bronx before. He had an idea.
I might have been incorrect in that. Time will tell.

If not, once it's official, I say we declare mutiny and attack each other. With the unwritten understanding that I will come out victorious.
There's been a delay. RL issues. Hopefully soon, but whenever everyone has the time and mindset to be comfortable starting up.

Scratch that, seems other side has two deserters.
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