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- Mesa Roja
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A tall, angular and bright purple figure slumbered through the whistling sea of dust and sand that composed the outer disc. The figure's sharp features and bright purple garbs clashed harshly against the smooth red shapes of the towering sand dunes, and quite literally carved a line through the landscape as it's dragged it's feet across the sand, both due to it's quickly rising exhaustion, and as an act of resentment toward the arid hell it found itself in.
It was a man who found himself walking across the outer rims of Mesa Roja. An angry, petulant man. Despite his face being dehydrated enough to make drywall blush, it held the same deeply irritated frown as always, looking more like a caricaturisation of anger than a person. He was a mummy, of anger. On himself a bright purple sport's cap, and his bright purple sweater which at this point he'd tied around his waist, revealing a plain white T-shirt underneath. His huge, broad shoulders betrayed the slumped, disillusioned posture he walked with. This was less because he enjoyed walking like a gorilla with a hernia, and more because he held so much spite for his current situation, that when he suddenly landed feet first on the planet's sandy surface he had decided to wade through the sand surrounding his legs while kicking like a child throwing a tantrum, instead of pulling them out like a reasonable person. Let it burn his legs, let it weight him down. Maybe eventually it'll hurt in equal amount to the iconvenience of being on this dusty piece of flat ass planet.
What also didn't help his posture, was the three real ass human corpses, currently tied with hempen ropes around the ankles, connected to his waist. These three Arabbian jackasses had tried to rob him the day he landed here, or at least that's what he thought. They came in, riding in a blaze of glory atop a giant scorpion, pointing sharp ouchy sticks at him while yelling in a language he didn't understand. He didn't bother to try to understand anyways. While they yelled about their flatword nonsense he was calculating the strength it would take to pierce three adult men and one very large scorpion with a single fist. Turns out? A surprising amount. However he ended up needing both his fists. One to CRUNCH through the scropion's exoskeleton, and one to pierce through the three very internal man-skeletons. He guessed logistics "Just be like that".
If someone saw him now, they'd assume him to be another crazed marauder displaying his gorey, chest-cavity exploded trophies while they disemboweled themselves on the already much too red sand. But they would in fact, only be half right. The hand crafted organic wedding cans served another purpose. A purpose which would become much more aparent as one of the many unnaturally large buzzards circling the area would muster up enough huevos to swoop down and try to snatch one of the bodies while Guideon was distracted. Or at least it looked like he was distracted, though it no longer seemed that way when Guideon used one of his large neandrathal hands to gorilla grip the vulture's neck the moment it made contact with the body.
"AH, TONIGHT'S LUNCH."
With one merciless flick of the wrist he wringed the vulture's fucking neck hard enough to break the sound barrier. It quickly went limp, adding to the death tally.
"OR SOME MIGHT SAY DINNER."
This man was clearly out of his goddamn mind, his bean had been left out in the sun for too long. Vultures don't even taste good, in fact they famously taste horrendous. He did not care, it was not his job to care. For it was not about the taste of the meat, or the quality of the food, it was about actively hurting this planet's wildlife as ungodly retribution for it being itself. In fact if he could shape this desert into a large, muscular heavyweight boxing champion, he would do so only for the opportunity to get to the finals and fight it. And then, as the brawl of the century reaches it's climax, and the audience roars for blood, he would perform an illegal and incredibly life-ruining move on it out of SPITE, and get disqualified immediately after.
After he'd finished indulging in his dehydration induced mirrages, and the short and fickle thrill of snapping a neck, the large man clad in purple rags known as Guideon would continue his newfound daily routine of trudging through sand while keeping himself conscious through sheer power of will. He had been doing this inbetween practicing his new and exciting hobby of cooking vulture on a pin-sized fire until it no longer taste like an unwiped buttcheek for what he felt was a year but was really about two days. He would only ever stop moving at night, to dig a hole near a cactus, cover it with one of the bodies, and sleep in his self-dug blood-filled sand grave. The next morning he'd wake up to a sun that HATED him and sand in his asscrack. My god, it's like living in a five star hotel, and all five of those stars are throwing hot coals directly into his face. The only thing that gave him pause from the thought of fossilizing on the face of this desert was the shadow cast on top of him by another vulture, which would temporarily shield him from the sun.
"WHAT DID MY UNCLE USE TO SAY..." The man would say absolutely nobody "GRASSY ASS."
"EXCEPT."
"EXCEPT THE ASS IS NOT GRASSY. IT'S NOT GRASSY AT ALL. IN FACT IT'S VERY--"
A very sudden stop. Guideon would cease his unenthusiastic walking as he'd feel his foot kick up a rock. A rock which he would watch fall from the very tippy top of the cliff he had almost walked off of, almost creating a cartoony whistling sound in his head from how far it fell. He couldn't tell if he was relieved or disappointed that he didn't plumet to his death. However any possible disappointment would be washed off when he saw the rock impact against the surface of something transparent, creating ripples on the liquid.
"--DRY."
Not a second had passed. Not a wink of an eye nor whistle of a gust of wind before Guideon had willingly jumped off a cliff and directly into a small, flowing body of water meters below. The bodies tied to his waist comically flopped in the wind like wacky inflatable dead men as he reached terminal velocity, arms and legs spread open ready to embrace the sweet touch of lady moisture once more. The splash zone was cosmic, sure to reach the sun. The bodies were practically liquified on impact, dying the water around him a deep crimson red as he plunged himself as deep as he could into the life-granting liquid. Oh yeah, this was sex.
He could no longer hear scrapping whenever one of his buttcheeks tensed up, and he had never known how badly he needed this until today. First would come up his purple sports cap, resting idly on the surface of the water. Then him, floating up face first with a big satisfied grin across his usually dripping with fury visage.
What Guideon would fail to notice while he basked in the glory of this soul wetting moment, was the huge city in the distance, ever so watchful of the purple man's antics.
It was a man who found himself walking across the outer rims of Mesa Roja. An angry, petulant man. Despite his face being dehydrated enough to make drywall blush, it held the same deeply irritated frown as always, looking more like a caricaturisation of anger than a person. He was a mummy, of anger. On himself a bright purple sport's cap, and his bright purple sweater which at this point he'd tied around his waist, revealing a plain white T-shirt underneath. His huge, broad shoulders betrayed the slumped, disillusioned posture he walked with. This was less because he enjoyed walking like a gorilla with a hernia, and more because he held so much spite for his current situation, that when he suddenly landed feet first on the planet's sandy surface he had decided to wade through the sand surrounding his legs while kicking like a child throwing a tantrum, instead of pulling them out like a reasonable person. Let it burn his legs, let it weight him down. Maybe eventually it'll hurt in equal amount to the iconvenience of being on this dusty piece of flat ass planet.
What also didn't help his posture, was the three real ass human corpses, currently tied with hempen ropes around the ankles, connected to his waist. These three Arabbian jackasses had tried to rob him the day he landed here, or at least that's what he thought. They came in, riding in a blaze of glory atop a giant scorpion, pointing sharp ouchy sticks at him while yelling in a language he didn't understand. He didn't bother to try to understand anyways. While they yelled about their flatword nonsense he was calculating the strength it would take to pierce three adult men and one very large scorpion with a single fist. Turns out? A surprising amount. However he ended up needing both his fists. One to CRUNCH through the scropion's exoskeleton, and one to pierce through the three very internal man-skeletons. He guessed logistics "Just be like that".
If someone saw him now, they'd assume him to be another crazed marauder displaying his gorey, chest-cavity exploded trophies while they disemboweled themselves on the already much too red sand. But they would in fact, only be half right. The hand crafted organic wedding cans served another purpose. A purpose which would become much more aparent as one of the many unnaturally large buzzards circling the area would muster up enough huevos to swoop down and try to snatch one of the bodies while Guideon was distracted. Or at least it looked like he was distracted, though it no longer seemed that way when Guideon used one of his large neandrathal hands to gorilla grip the vulture's neck the moment it made contact with the body.
"AH, TONIGHT'S LUNCH."
With one merciless flick of the wrist he wringed the vulture's fucking neck hard enough to break the sound barrier. It quickly went limp, adding to the death tally.
"OR SOME MIGHT SAY DINNER."
This man was clearly out of his goddamn mind, his bean had been left out in the sun for too long. Vultures don't even taste good, in fact they famously taste horrendous. He did not care, it was not his job to care. For it was not about the taste of the meat, or the quality of the food, it was about actively hurting this planet's wildlife as ungodly retribution for it being itself. In fact if he could shape this desert into a large, muscular heavyweight boxing champion, he would do so only for the opportunity to get to the finals and fight it. And then, as the brawl of the century reaches it's climax, and the audience roars for blood, he would perform an illegal and incredibly life-ruining move on it out of SPITE, and get disqualified immediately after.
After he'd finished indulging in his dehydration induced mirrages, and the short and fickle thrill of snapping a neck, the large man clad in purple rags known as Guideon would continue his newfound daily routine of trudging through sand while keeping himself conscious through sheer power of will. He had been doing this inbetween practicing his new and exciting hobby of cooking vulture on a pin-sized fire until it no longer taste like an unwiped buttcheek for what he felt was a year but was really about two days. He would only ever stop moving at night, to dig a hole near a cactus, cover it with one of the bodies, and sleep in his self-dug blood-filled sand grave. The next morning he'd wake up to a sun that HATED him and sand in his asscrack. My god, it's like living in a five star hotel, and all five of those stars are throwing hot coals directly into his face. The only thing that gave him pause from the thought of fossilizing on the face of this desert was the shadow cast on top of him by another vulture, which would temporarily shield him from the sun.
"WHAT DID MY UNCLE USE TO SAY..." The man would say absolutely nobody "GRASSY ASS."
"EXCEPT."
"EXCEPT THE ASS IS NOT GRASSY. IT'S NOT GRASSY AT ALL. IN FACT IT'S VERY--"
A very sudden stop. Guideon would cease his unenthusiastic walking as he'd feel his foot kick up a rock. A rock which he would watch fall from the very tippy top of the cliff he had almost walked off of, almost creating a cartoony whistling sound in his head from how far it fell. He couldn't tell if he was relieved or disappointed that he didn't plumet to his death. However any possible disappointment would be washed off when he saw the rock impact against the surface of something transparent, creating ripples on the liquid.
"--DRY."
Not a second had passed. Not a wink of an eye nor whistle of a gust of wind before Guideon had willingly jumped off a cliff and directly into a small, flowing body of water meters below. The bodies tied to his waist comically flopped in the wind like wacky inflatable dead men as he reached terminal velocity, arms and legs spread open ready to embrace the sweet touch of lady moisture once more. The splash zone was cosmic, sure to reach the sun. The bodies were practically liquified on impact, dying the water around him a deep crimson red as he plunged himself as deep as he could into the life-granting liquid. Oh yeah, this was sex.
He could no longer hear scrapping whenever one of his buttcheeks tensed up, and he had never known how badly he needed this until today. First would come up his purple sports cap, resting idly on the surface of the water. Then him, floating up face first with a big satisfied grin across his usually dripping with fury visage.
What Guideon would fail to notice while he basked in the glory of this soul wetting moment, was the huge city in the distance, ever so watchful of the purple man's antics.
