Mortality's forum posts

#1 Edited by Mortality (295 posts) - - Show Bio


Generally when Ambrose took over a body, he was overwhelmed by how NOISY life was: the pumping heart, the violent contractions of muscles, the bellows of the lungs. But here? Silence. Warsman was little more than a malicious homunculus, a golem created to be the destroyer of peoples rather than their guardian. But what was the secret to erasing the vile symbols that gave him life?

Now, Ambrose looked out through Warsman’s eyes; Warsman’s voice sounded around him. Ambrose ignored his insults, exerting all his concentration on forcing Warsman to tear himself apart. Wait, what was this? “While you are in there, feel the sensation of killing someone else - know it AS I DO!” A rifle’s sight passed before Ambrose’s eyes. In the crosshairs was a small figure. Ambrose struggled against Warsman for control, but it was too late…

NO! He was going to be my sidekick. We were going to have amazing adventures together.’ A montage of what might have been played before Ambrose’s mind’s eye: They would have terrified little old ladies. They would have watched Ghostbusters. They would have had a TV show, ‘My Best Friend is a Poltergeist’. They would have teamed up with Scooby Doo. They would have accidentally summoned the spirit of Peter the Great, and would have had to stop him from crashing all the wheelbarrows in America into hedges. Peter the Great’s fondness for wheelbarrows was one of the few things Ambrose remembered of Russian history. But now…now Ambrose just hoped that the little kid whose name he never knew had gone to a better place. Warsman certainly would not.

The mother’s sorrow was like a million hot needles. Her anger burned. But there was something else there…a desire for revenge. It was electric, and Ambrose felt the strength of vengeance coursing through him. A MOTHER’S need for vengeance no less. There were few forces so strong. Ambrose combined the power with his own sorrow, and knew that he could now do what needed to be done.

Ah, but if the two combatants had known a simple fact, none of this might have happened! If they had merely asked themselves a basic question, i.e., what were human families doing on a Chuck E. Cheese’s in the middle of outer space? Well, the answer was simple: They were not human. Not even close. Biologically they were closest to the monster in John Carpenter’s classic horror film, ‘The Thing’. Shape shifting monstrosities, it took more than a few bullets to kill them…

Would you like to see more, untermensch?” Warsman said, and Ambrose could hear the self-satisfaction in his voice. “Wagen Sie es nicht mit mir reden Sie demütig Wurm-Esser, Sie Schemel zum Ruhm. Du bist nichts anderes als ein Tier, eine sinnlose Sache, die nichts Besseres, als in den eigenen Schwanz essen kennt. Werde ich euch aus Ihrer Elend,*” Ambrose snarled, taking the knowledge of the language from Warsman’s own mind. His grammar was poor, like something taken from Google Translate, but the meaning was clear. “You call me untermensch, but you have held back the progress of the world for centuries! You slaughter our thinkers, our visionaries, our children! What is lower than that?” Ambrose began to concentrate his power.

Warsman reached for his gun, but Ambrose had no intention of letting him pick it up again. With everything he had, he was going to release a telekinetic blast, bursting Warsman like a rotten bratwurst. Let him have a taste of Hell, it might do him good.

The child began to stir, wiry tentacles emerging from around the bullet hole. His mother had grown dozens of eyes and razor claws. The rest of the people tore themselves from their sanctuary on the ceiling, all undergoing grotesque metamorphoses. They screamed in synch, a chilling sound. Then they waited to see what would unfold.

*"Don't you dare talk to me you lowly worm-eater, you footstool to glory. You're nothing more than a beast, a mindless thing that knows nothing better than to eat its own tail. I will put you out of your misery."

#2 Edited by Mortality (295 posts) - - Show Bio
#3 Posted by Mortality (295 posts) - - Show Bio

@assault said:

I want you to know Mortality vs Warsman is beautiful and better than you.


#4 Posted by Mortality (295 posts) - - Show Bio


It’s a small world after all.

It’s a small world after all.

It’s a small world after all.

A world of dreams,

A world of fears,

A world of too many bitter tears.

What goes around comes around,

Since it’s a small world after all.

It’s a small world after all.

It’s a small world after all.

It’s a small world after all.

What’s dead is dead and cannot come back

What’s bled has bled and stained the world black

We never learned from history and go round

And round and round ‘til we fall

It’s such a small world after all.

The NoizeBlaster was a total dud by the way. Ambrose didn’t know why he expected any differently. These WERE cheesy prizes after all, it was practically in their warranty that if it didn’t break within the first ten seconds it would be replaced with one that would. Ambrose sighed and threw the NoizeBlaster to the side. Earworms promptly crawled into the rubber matting and began singing ‘If You Want to Be My Lover’ in perfect harmony. Several others crawled to a different square of matting and started a rousing chorus of ‘Feliz Navidad’.

Warsman advanced as rhythmically and unfalteringly as soldiers marching over a hill. If this was a bad movie, Ambrose would at this moment use the power of being gay to shoot an all-powerful rainbow blast to counter Warsman’s ghostly beam of hate. And then self-discovery or something, blah blah blah, everyone is hugs and unicorns, the end. This was not a bad movie though, it was real life. People couldn’t shoot rainbows in real life.

What really happened was this: As the beam of pure hatred and sorrow howled towards Ambrose, he ducked behind the prize counter. Visions buffeted him, emotions threatened to consume him. Here, the very edge of the beam, little more than its aura he saw

He saw: A child pulled away from its mother moments before they both sucked in oblivion through traitorous lungs.

He saw: A man with ribs pushing to escape his skin carrying bricks up a ladder to nowhere.

He saw: Bodies crushed to death on airless trains, more killed in the struggle for a breath of air through a split board, a mouthful of snow from the roof.

He saw: Striped pajamas, each bar a mark for a hundred deaths.

He saw: Families made to dig their own graves, shot, left to die there under the gray sky.

He knew: This man, this monster, this Warsman was responsible for so much suffering.

He knew: He had to end him once and for all.

He knew: He had to avenge a genocide

He knew: He was just a kid who got either lucky or unlucky depending on how you looked at it.

He knew: That didn’t matter. Fate chooses its own executors.

He knew: He wasn’t ready to die again, not like this. Before, the first time, it had been like flicking a switch. One moment he was walking down the street with his whole life in front of them, and the next he was dead.

He knew: This was his second chance, and he had to take it.

He knew: He wanted to live.

It took every scrap of courage to yell, “Hey, what’s this? I thought we were friends! Ghost buddies and all that! I was even going to make you friendship bracelets.” He couldn’t give in to the despair and the rage or he would simply fly apart and it would be all over.

A fragment of Heaven had fallen to end the suffering of Warsman. Its name was Ambrose Montgomery Zöega.

He knew what had to be done, and it frightened him. He had to possess Warsman; destroy him from the inside. He couldn’t just rush into things, he had to make sure this went just right. First: some meaningless prattle. “Hey, do you know that book John Dies at the End? Well no spoilers but John-” his voice faded out, and he let loose a death rattle, as if he’d finally given up and discorporated. No such luck for Warsman. Next, he turned himself invisible, and moved under the floor. There was rat poison under the rubber matting. Shuddering, Ambrose passed over and through it, planning to surface under Warsman. This is where things would get tricky. He needed to phase into Warsman and take over. He would coat his brain with ectoplasm, which was a known electrical disruptor. It would act as a mild scrambler, giving Ambrose just enough wiggle room to take control. It would not be an easy fight. He had no doubt Warsman had a mind of Krupp steel.

If he managed to get this far, Ambrose would try to force Warsman to rip his own limbs off, twist his head the wrong way around, anything to make him STAY down. Even if he couldn’t take proper control, being inside Warsman’s body would lend him a degree of protection. If Warsman wanted to hurt Ambrose he would have to cause himself some significant damage, and Ambrose was determined to stay put.

#5 Edited by Mortality (295 posts) - - Show Bio

This song sums up my life perfectly.

#6 Posted by Mortality (295 posts) - - Show Bio

@shadowswordmaster: I know right??? I'm excited for it.


Nope, you're good! Wildcard is two new fighters...Street Samurai and Mighty Magneto. IF for whatever reason an entire round is dropped, as in both fighters didn't post or the one who did post vanished, I'd ask the judges to pick a fighter from the people who lost their fights, but at this point in time it doesn't seem super likely.


I'm having so much fun with it. >_>

#7 Posted by Mortality (295 posts) - - Show Bio

What if I just wrote my whole post using Arctic Monkey quotes

#8 Posted by Mortality (295 posts) - - Show Bio


The astute reader may be asking him or herself: “Why is there a Chuck E. Cheese’s in the depths of outer space?” Well, the answer relies on ‘planet seeding’, in which a hunk of biological or otherwise multiplying material is dropped onto a resource-rich environment and allowed to spread. The original Chuck E. Cheese planet was a natural phenomenon, nearly one possibility in an infinite universe. When, billions of years ago, it passed by primordial Earth, it released spores. These spores buried themselves in the bedrock, and grew dormant. When certain stimuli were present (i.e., chemicals in pizza crust and certain endorphins) the spores began to grow to maturity almost overnight. Meanwhile, the Symaarian Empire had claimed the original Chuck E. Cheese planetoid. Initially used as a torture device, it was later converted into a somewhat unpopular vacation destination and sometimes toll collection facility. When the original destination for Warsman v. Mortality was rendered unavailable at the last minute, the Chuck E. Cheese’s was substituted in. Who would have known that the swamp planet Squornshellous Zeta would be entering one of its century long dry spells just as the tournament was beginning?

Ambrose’s plan had seemingly gone off without a hitch. Many of Warsman’s entrails lay scattered on the floor, some of them still pulsating grotesquely. “Wait, is this some kind of PG-13 movie? Isn’t there supposed to be some blood or something?” Ambrose asked, holding what he thought was probably the pancreas in his hands. Considering Warsman’s stoic demeanor, it seemed that his innards perhaps were more for decoration than for actually keeping him alive or anything like that. Ambrose was admittedly considerably more comfortable with things this way. He’d take ‘movie gore’ over actually disemboweling a guy any day. He didn’t really know how he’d live with himself tearing a guy to pieces with that. Ha! He couldn’t live with himself, he was already dead. That joke never got old.

"You remind me of Mengele, except for the fact that you are operating on an ubermensch instead of a subhuman animal," growled Warsman. Withdrawing his ghostly hands back into his borrowed human form, Ambrose shifted uncomfortably. “I feel like you think that’s a complement, and it’s really not. Why can’t you just say I have nice hair, or remind you of your cousin, or something vaguely normal like that?” Ambrose was distracted by his human body, which seemed to be going through acute shock of some sort. Considering the vague aroma of burnt barbeque rising off it, Ambrose thought he probably could guess the cause. No big deal really…he gently gripped the heart with his spectral hands and squeezed a few times in synch with the frenzied beating. Despite the fact that this was basically the opposite of any sort of accepted medical procedure it seemed to do the trick. The heart started beating regularly again, and the intense pain faded back into Ambrose’s peripheries.

While Ambrose was housekeeping, Warsman had been busy. “Are those brass knuckles?” Ambrose wondered aloud. Then it hit him. The blows screamed, cries of hatred and sorrow lingering in the air. While Warsman’s fists pummeled Ambrose’s human body, something else hit the specter within. He was thrown from his vessel.

Immediately, Ambrose’s senses dulled. It was like he was moving through gelatin. Sounds were muted and seemed somehow…slow. Everything looked like it was under a magnifying glass with a fine network of cracks. Ambrose called this series of sensory changes ‘ghost vision’. Being an incorporeal being, he didn’t possess proper sensory organs, rather falling back on the memory of senses.

Ambrose hadn’t felt pain like this since he was in Hell. Something was tearing at his very soul, burning like acid. He looked at the area that would be his torso, and saw a glowing red welt. It resembled a baseball-sized cigarette burn. There was another by his shoulder. Something lived in Warsman’s brass knuckles, and it HATED Ambrose.

The welts were growing, fueled by the anger of the unknown beings. Desperate, Ambrose reached out to them, speaking in the language of souls. “Why do you hate?” For a moment there was silence, and then they were legion. “Because we hurt.

Why do you hurt?

Because they hate us.” Ambrose got visions of a gray world drained of all hope. He could smell death and ash.

But I don’t hate you.” It was impossible to lie in the spirit language, for it was not one of the serpentine tongue, but of human essence. “He hates you.” Ambrose said, indicating Warsman.

Time was running out. The burning blebs had nearly reached each other. “Let me tell you a story

The story Ambrose told to those sorry ghosts was this: Once upon a time there was a young man, who did not quite conform to the ideals of his particular society. In a soundless montage, he was kicked out of his home, his school, and effectively his life. Sitting on the curb, he stared at the leaves drifting into the gutter. The water trickling by became the tape running through a VHS. The tapes carried happiness. The shining black ribbon bound him to others who shared his interest and accepted him as he was. The young tried to help those who had fallen down and had nothing to pull them back up. Sometimes people tried to hurt the young man, but he was able to escape serious harm. But then, through no fault of his own or anyone’s really, he died. Roll end credits. This was Ambrose’s story.

The hatred dulled. Ambrose’s burns cooled, and he could feel his soul stabilizing. “So…will you help me?”

The plan was this: The tormented souls Warsman had bound would turn against him, slamming the weaponized ion whatchamacallits into his own face. As Ambrose absolutely intended to say if this worked, “Stop hitting yourself! Stop hitting yourself! Why are you hitting yourself?

Meanwhile, Ambrose had an important job to do. He caused all the game machines to spew forth tickets. Gingerly (for ashen bits of his soul still threatened to flake away), he darted over to the ticket counter. “Hi! Um…can I have that NoizeBlaster and uh…those!” Ambrose pointed to a pair of fake glasses with a mustache attached. The expressionless lady behind the counter pushed Ambrose’s prizes over. It took him two tries to pick them up. He sometimes forgot that he didn’t completely exist on the material plane.

Placing the glasses on his face, he hoisted the Blaster. He doubted the ghosts, vengeful as they were would keep Warsman busy for long. This though…he had heard of them. The NoizeBlaster could shoot weaponized earworms. These distracted first the conscious, and then the reflexive processes of the brain. First the song was just annoying. Quickly it escalated to crippling, as functions such as breathing were disabled. Finally, in weak-minded individuals, the ever-looping song delivered by the NoizeBlaster consumed the mind. Or so Ambrose had heard. Given his luck it would probably just play ‘It’s a Small World’ loudly on repeat.

#9 Posted by Mortality (295 posts) - - Show Bio

Dial H.

#10 Posted by Mortality (295 posts) - - Show Bio




The Wake




Wolverine and the X-Men