The Chronicles of Thick Manslice (Part 1 of 2)

CHAPTER ONE

               Sweat glistened on Thick’s Herculean pectoral muscles as a nude Chestia tugged at his 15-inch cock’s forest-like man-fur. Clitora, meanwhile, suckled at his teat while her curvy, moist torso was coddled by Thick’s vascular right arm. That was the least amount of women I’ve ever fucked at the same time, thought Thick.

                “Oh, Thick,” said Chestia. “How does one solitary man attain such proficiency in the art of carnality?”

                “Non-stop fuckin’, bitch. You feel me?”

                Chestia’s affectionate pube tugging was interrupted by a disheveled Antrop, who barged through the door with enough force to break the lock. Sweat dripping off his wrinkled face and panting like an aroused canine, he looked into Thick’s eyes with intense fear.

                “The fuck, nigga?” said Thick. “Me ‘n these bitches just got done gettin’ nasty, motherfucker. Now, you be interruptin’ our post-nasty stank-wallowin’. This shit better be big, bitch. Like Steve Guttenberg big.”

                “Thick,” said Antrop, catching his breath. “It’s Zagox. He’s invaded our arsenal, raided our homes and raped our women. The people of Daelia call upon you for salvation, Master Manslice.”

                “These niggas be some needy-ass motherfuckers. But when duty calls, my ass fuckin’ responds,” said Thick, quoting Gandhi.

                Antrop led Thick down the Hall of the All-Gods, spinning yarns regarding Zagox’s origin story along the way. Thick listened thoughtfully, making sure to store information regarding the villainous bastard in his mind-hole for later use.

                “It all started in the Realm of Wintermaar. Zagox was a simple youngling, and his father had recently obtained the throne of the deceased Hurg Spaerskiszky. A benevolent ruler, he inflicted countless atrocities upon his people, namely the over-regulation of trade routes from Abbersmolg to Bedrevisch, as well as the one-cent price increase of postage stamps that led to thousands dying of unrelated causes. Fed up with his father’s ego, Zagox resolved to-“

                “Man, so, I’ve been thinkin’, man,” interjected Thick. “You think hermaphrodites can impregnate themselves? You feel me? It’s like, they got all the components there, but how the fuck they gonna bend the cock to go in dat stank hole, man? They be needin’ some acute angle dicks up in this motherfucker, motherfucker. Sheeeeit.”

                Antrop continued to lead Thick down the Hall of the All-Gods. Lining the walls were elegant portraits of the All-Gods, from Aabcontyrivikia, the God of non-biodegradable water bottles, to Zyxyxyxyxyxyx, the God of dick lint. While Thick exhibited clear admiration for virtually all of the fine works of art, he momentarily paused to gaze into the mesmerizing eyes of Maratrokl, the god of empathy and love. He realized that this artful fascination of his was likely meant to be a lame attempt by the author at some sort of poorly defined symbolism, and, failing to decipher what such symbolism would be, continued down the Hall.

                The two travelers finally arrived at the Soldier’s Quarters within a fortnight. Antrop’s face lit up as he met eyes with an eccentric looking man in a pilot’s uniform. This was the famed Breadcramp, Thick realized, the revered defender of Daelia who had murdered 70,000 innocent orphans during the Melanesian War. Such carnage was invaluable in Daelia’s victory, as the orphans looked somewhat suspicious, what with their facial sores and whatnot, and were probably working for Al-Qaeda. Despite his own popularity with the Daelians, Thick felt truly honored to be within Breadcramp’s presence.

                “Man, you a cold-ass nigga,” said Thick. Breadcramp began crying tears of joy. His naturally purple afro began perspiring Diet Sierra Mist onto his distinctive face, which elegantly combined George Clooney’s perfectly symmetrical, dashing mug with that of George Zimmerman.

                “Likewise, Thick,” sniffled Breadcramp. “While hacking into the supple flesh of four-year-old parentless Islamians, I would often experience somewhat of an existential nirvana, during which I would think of you, and the immeasurable courage you displayed during the Battle of Waterloo.”

                “Aw, shit, man. That shit was whack, dog. I pop a cap in a nigga’s ass, no fuckin’ problem, man. No fuckin’ problem. Don’t nobody fuck with my shit, feel me?”

                Antrop interjected. “Gentlemen, as Daelia’s two most prolific heroes and/or murderers, you have been commissioned by the All-Father to brutally mutilate the feared Zagox, the most immediate threat to our kingdom and/or country at the moment. And, indeed, that includes the Irish.”

                “Truly, it is our pleasure, old chum,” said Breadcramp.

                “Indeed, nigga,” added Thick.

CHAPTER TWO

                The two warriors promptly entered Breadcramp’s SR-71 AK-47 KONY-2012 Fighter Jet and set sail for Zagox’s whereabouts. However, about ten minutes after their departure, Breadcramp had a troubling thought.

                “Master Manslice, do tell, have you any knowledge regarding the feared Zagox’s whereabouts? For you see, quite honestly, I’m flying somewhat aimlessly at the moment.”

                “Nah, man. I thought that was programmed into the compass or some shit.”

                Breadcramp’s heart rate went up even further once he glanced at the jet’s fuel level.

                “Fiddlesticks,” he cursed. “It appears as though I neglected to put fuel in the jet, a semi-essential aspect of aviation. We’ll have to make an emergency landing.”

                Breadcramp expertly piloted the jet straight into the ground, resulting in an explosion that wiped out a nearby village. The two warriors, however, left unscathed, thanks to their insistence on wearing goggles.

                “My dearest Thick,” said Breadcramp, “it appears as though our epic journey has led us, oddly enough, to ambulatory transportation. Indeed, our trek will henceforth be somewhat of an homage to the primitive hunter-gatherers of the 1700’s, the dawn of mankind. It is indeed ironic that, while we began in the sky, we end on the earth. For you see, Thick, for all of our triumphs as a species, we must always remind ourselves that, in the end, we are forever slaves to our benevolent, eternal emperor -  Gravity.”

                “Dat shit cray,” mused Thick.

                “We shall now soldier on, Thick. While I do, indeed, know a man who could perhaps be of assistance in our present predicament, finding him requires navigating the Daelian Woods, which, as I’m sure you’re aware, are beyond treacherous.”

                “Well then dafuq you standin’ around fo’, stank hoe? Zagox needs his motherfuckin’ asshole waxed, but, like, violently. If you feel me.”

                The two soldiered on. They encountered many obstacles along their journey, including a beehive and one of those trees with roots that stick way out in front.

                After fifteen grueling minutes, they finally arrived at their destination. A broken down outhouse bordering a patch of poison ivy, it was hardly what Thick was anticipating.

                “The fuck’s this shit?” he queried.

                “This is known as Arby’s Manor. It houses a dear friend of mine from my college years, Drong Migstrif. While eccentric, the man is brilliant beyond measure. He’s able to compose a map to wherever or whomever one’s heart desires within two to three seconds based on intuition alone. He surely would have been studied by scientists had anyone given a shit.”

                “Let’s meet this motherfucker. This shit better be good, if you feel me.” Thick ripped the door off, revealing a four hundred pound man in nothing but a size-10 jean skirt wallowing in a pile of his own feces, a pad of paper hanging to his side. His scraggly, lazily maintained beard resembled pubic hair, and his smooth, recently washed pubic hair resembled regular hair.

                “Hmmph,” he stated.

                “Drong, my esteemed chum,” said Breadcramp, “my acquaintance and I, whom you may know as the great Thick Manslice, Hero of the North and/or Northeast, have been, for the last half-hour, embarking on a long and arduous journey to the whereabouts of the feared Zagox. It was soon resolved, however, that such a quest should perhaps not continue if the whereabouts of the aforementioned Zagox are unknown. Therefore, I call upon you, my comically oversized cohort, for assistance.”

                “Hrrmph.” Drong ripped off a piece of paper and vomited upon it, creating a crude but legible map to the feared Zagox. He then handed it to Breadcramp, who paid him in three used tampons he had at hand.

                Thick, meanwhile, was fuming with rage. He had never been a fan of the Jews, and, while Drong showed no signs of being Jewish, he still had skin, as most Jews do. While he attempted to suppress the rage in an effort to remain civil, he soon realized that its presence overwhelmed him, and would inevitably find its way into reality.

                Thick pulled a shotgun from his ass and shot Drong in the face. His body slumped over as his newly formed neckhole created a waterfall of blood onto his breasts that dripped down to his jean shorts. His brains and head-meat now painted the walls of Arby’s Manor.

                “My God, Thick! Have you no shame? This man, this honorable man, has proven himself invaluable in our quest to confront Zagox, and you repay him with… with this?!? Good God, Master Manslice! I highly suggest you explain yourself, you vile fool.”

                “Man, I, like, deducified he was in Al Qaeda, man,” said Thick. “Or some shit.”

                “Ah, yes. Fair enough. Off we go!”