Faith Under Fire
Female Liberation, Liberty, and Octopi
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RULES: You may only add to this story if you are authorized by me or Velk. It will be written a paragraph at a time (including dialog). Please compliment our genius.

Current Authors: Velk, Tik, Trafton

CHAPTER ONE: Pft. Took Me A While To Get This.

It was a cold November night. Spaz Jackrabbit yawned abundantly and decided to go to sleep. Little did he know it, but while he was sleeping a radioactive worm crawled into his large intestine from the naughty end and laid eggs. When the eggs hatched fifteen seconds later, they bit into Spaz Jackrabbit's intestinal lining, instantly changing his DNA so that he was 99.9% invincible to all weapons and magic except those based in rice pudding.

Spaz awakened to a delicate rosy-fingered dawn with a vaguely awkward feeling in his stomach. As he got out of his comfy bed, a ninja pirate appeared out of nowhere and cast Magic Missile on him. Thanks to the events of yesternight, the missiles simply bounced off of Spaz and killed the ninja pirate. Spaz was confused but decided to go downstairs and make himself some toast for breakfast. Hopefully there was still strawberry jam in the pantry. He really liked strawberry jam on white bread even though his psychiatrist had warned him several years ago that white bread causes brain tumours.

Standing there before Spaz was none other than Jazz Jackrabbit.

Spaz ripped off his brother's yamaka and gave it a sniff in one long breath. "It smells fresh," he stated. "The sickness hasn't begun yet." He then, in one swift motion, whipped out his pocket knife, took his bread, and began scraping off the strawberry jam, flinging it onto his brother's face. He began chanting: "गते गत, पारगत, पारसंगत, बोधि स्वाहा." His brother stared at him in shock.

Only in looking back did Jazz see the signs that would have warned him not to do that which happened. He swung at his brother's face as if to slap him, but by some mysterious force he completely missed and instead went hurling with all the vigour of H.M. Quist-Welter towards the toaster. He lurched forward and slammed his head on the kitchen counter's edge. As he sank towards the linoleum he was conscious just long enough to get another face full of strawberry jam.

It was clearly time for the dance-off.

Jazz sighed in maudlin contemplation and tearfully decided that the best course of action clearly involved going to church. Or the tavern. Or perhaps both, though the better option seemed going first to the tavern and then to church. A drunken dance-off would certainly strike fear and trembling into the hearts of even the most sadistic dictators out there in La-La Land. Yes, that would be absolutely fabulous...

Jazz put on his socks two at a time. First, on his foot and then on his two tongues. He stared in contemplation at the window. Never before had he noticed its shine. It must be destroyed. He picked up his brother and defenestrated him angrily. Today was a good day to die. But today would not be the day Spaz died. Although he would eventually, because he's carbon-based. Or is he?

Dethman strolled across rolling fields of dew-kissed grass, humming absentmindedly to himself. The morning sun seared his mortal flesh, but he kept on walking. Life in Middle-Earth could not have been better. But as he paused to admire the rosy-fingered dawn, a rabbit fell from the sky and landed on his head. Dethman slumped onto the damp ground, a whispered curse escaping from his lips as he faded into backness.

"I'm back," Dethman declared, having fully faded into backness.

!

The sheer backness of Dethman momentarily overwhelmed Jazz, who stirred exorbitantly within the shadowy realm of dew-kissed grass and incoherently muttered something along the lines of "as a tower of ivory". After several moments, Jazz finally struggled into a sitting position and stared awkwardly toward Dethman, who merely glared back at him as though eying an old rival or ex-girlfriend. Or iCeD.

"You're just in time," stated Dethman simply, stroking his braided goatee through his fingers. His nails were long and cut to points; it reminded Jazz of being on the bad end of an unfortunate situation. Dethman moved his hands up to his temple where he found his glasses, which he removed. Jazz ticked his head sideways and his jaws dropped in horror. He really was eying his ex-girlfriend. It was iCeD.

"Sup," iCeD said, his voice cracking with pubescent glee. iCeD removed his lensless sunglasses and placed them on the top of his head, which was immaculately trimmed of every hair. Jazz knew at once that this was his time to act. Reaching for his butterknife, he screeched with the fury of a thousand suns and went at Dethman's sweet Persian lover. He knew where to aim - the freakish, unexplained lump at the zenith of his head that would have been his Achilles' heel (if Achilles' heel had been a freakish, unexplained lump on Achilles' head).

Having been killed and defenestrated did not dampen Spaz's spirits at all; to the contrary, he was significantly happier and healthier than ever before. He cheerfully resurrected himself outside the castle and jauntily returned to the kitchen to finish his breakfast, taking care to lick the strawberry jam that had splattered onto the kitchen floor. As he was buttering more bread whilst humming a Gregorian chant, he heard a strange scream from somewhere in the distance.

Spaz looked in the direction from which the scream came and looked down at his bread. He had to make a difficult decision.

Moar

"Rye," he said, his nasal passages flaring with bravado. Bread had become blood and blood had become danger. Bread was all around him, but in the danger form that bread becomes. The secrets of the world were unravelling around him like yarn. He would be the cat to bat that yarn. Oh, yes. Yes, he would.

CHAPTER TWO: Perfect

Thousands of miles away, a chipmunk was drinking gin and juice at the local pub. The bartender, a portly fellow with a nose for trouble (and socks to match), asked the chipmunk, "Whereabouts are you from, sonny?" The chipmunk held his drink up above his face and looked through it towards the distorted image of the bartender. "Out of town?" asked the bartender. The chipmunk set the drink down and threw a handful of change onto the counter top. He jumped up onto his bar stool and began to rap. He crooned:

Rump shaker, spin this G
Gangsters know what it is to be
When they're up in the house
With the ladies so fine
You shake that booty
Your rump is mine
Biznitches

Bread had become blood and blood had become danger.

Chapter 3
Jazz and Spaz Jackrabbit were married on a Saturday morning. The reception was attended by their friends and family, and U.S. Senator Robert C. Byrd (D-W.Va.). But something was suspicious about this West Virginian. He was not what he seemed. He was something else. Something that he didn't seem to be, but was.

The minister spoke:

"If anyone here believes that this two should not be married, speak your peace," he said, his spittle flying like syphilis in a Guatemalan bordello.

Suddenly, in a flash, U.S. Senator Robert C. Byrd (D-W.Va.) ripped his old, scaly flesh from his body. His realistically rubbery mask removed, his true identity was revealed. In front of the wedding procession, right next to the bowl of red drink, stood none other than Dethman.

With a horrible screech, Dethman flung the punch bowl at the minister with twitching hands. "My mother is well! My mother is well!" he screamed, his decaying eyes filled with purest insanity and the remnants of what could have at one time been stale breadcrumbs. Having thoroughly soaked the disturbed minister with crimson liquid, he gradually sank onto the ground, his body periodically convulsing.

Dethman shook his head and continued in a ragged whisper, "I can't bear to see this. I used to be in a relationship with Jazz during high school, but it got complicated and we haven't spoken since."

U.S. Senator Robert C. Byrd (D-W.Va.)

Spaz clutched Jazz's wrists and scream voraciously, "I always knew it was true!" He kicked Jazz away and deftly produced his trusty liquor flask. He chugged the contents and stuck out his tongue to light it on fire. He was now, of course, breathing flames. He coughed at the minister causing his hair to ignite, and the whole congregation gasped. It was as though the vile dough of destruction would never stop rising from the yeast of romance.

All at once the lights dimmed low and the room paused in silence. From a corner came none other than Steven Wakeman, dressed in riot gear with a cigar hanging out his mouth. A spotlight flashed on as he walked towards the alter. All eyes turned towards famed missionary of truth. He outstretched his arms towards the ceiling and began speaking those words that lie very near to all of our hearts.

"Never gonna give you up
Never gonna let you down
Never gonna run around and desert you..."

Wakeman's voice was so passionate and his words so touching that all within promptly burst into tears. He flung off his burdensome riot mask, accidentally hitting Spaz in the process, and beamed at the emotional crowd, his angelic face suddenly alight with an unearthly psychdelic glow of a nature that could previously only be dreamt of by filthy, utterly wasted hippies who had been tripping on LSD for weeks. Spaz scowled at the bright-faced benevolent leader, evidently perturbed that he was rudely interrupted whilst in the process of breathing fire. He extinguished the flames from his charred tongue and crankily muttered a mixture of gibberish and obscenities under his hot breath.

Wakeman, who had evidently overheard the bitter curses, merely turned and gazed curiously at the angry rabbit, as though awed by what he had heard.

For a moment, the earth stood still. No one noticed. Why would you? If the earth stood still, nothing would actually change. And yet still it stood. A bead of sweat formed on Spaz's fluffy brow. His heart raced faster. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. He checked his watch. It was a Tuesday.

A Tuesday. Perhaps, to the layman, a day like any other. But to this grizzled warrior, Tuesday was a hell that would never stop burning. It was a mosquito bite that would never stop itching. It was a toilet that would never stop running, no matter how much you jiggle the handle.

Tuesday. Many years ago, it was the fateful morning when Spaz's father went to the store for sour cream, never to return. A sour cream indeed -- whipped with the whisks of injustice, and milked from the udders of hate. And the taco upon which that sour cream would stand garnish...was revenge.

He absentmindedly ran his trembling fingers through the tufts of matted fur on his head and plucked an old hunk of something from the depths of orange. Whatever it was, it possessed a violently emerald hue. He brought the mysterious object closer to his bloodshot eye and suddenly realised that it was cheese. Then he remembered. Cheese was green on Tuesdays, greener than purest envy and recently moistened moss and even the revolting toxic sludge that sewage facilities casually dump into the choking waterways like one dumps a used-up lover's concreted corpse into the polluted green depths of the sighing ocean. Tuesdays brought out the green in cheese; Tuesdays brought out the green in his perpetually haggard eyes. Tuesdays were vile days for dairy products, but especially cheese.

Tuesday. His father. Cheese. Tuesday.

Never gonna give you up.

Suddenly he became painfully aware of who was responsible for his father's untimely disappearance so many green Tuesdays ago, and before he knew it, words began flowing from his twitching mouth. "It -- it was you!" he sputtered, pointing a shaking finger at the angelic-visaged Wakeman. "You -- you killed my father! On a Tuesday!"

Tuesday. His father. Cheese. Tuesday.

Wakeman's tongue bristled like so many toothbrushes in the breeze. "Tuesday," he said, relishing the taste of the word in his mouth, "was yesterday." This was it, the moment of reckoning. Wakeman's face took the form of boiled cabbage - delicate, wrinkly, and cabbageous.

But Spaz had other plans. "It IS yesterday," he shouted, "TOMORROW!" Everyone paused and looked at one another. Somewhere, a chipmunk was drinking. A pigeon was soiling a little boy's head. Greek women at a fair were smashing grapes in a large wooden crate with their feet.

Milk was curdling.

Wakeman's head exploded into a thousand pieces of lettuce; a lettuce fit for tacos.

MY TONGUE ITCHES

The end.

waiting for a sequel!