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The New Dragon: A Bullshido Writing Project of STREET!

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    The New Dragon: A Bullshido Writing Project of STREET!

    Germany looked at the slightly effeminate man standing across from him, the nasal sound of his oponnent's voice aggrivating his hangover, and blinked a few times in response.

    ". . . Chain-what?"


      MEANWHILE...Yoriyoi desu!So?So have I,fortune


        Reyes doesn't catch a reply before the FOOM-train comes barreling at him from straight out of the blue. With his eyes bleary from a putrid hangover, the Hybrid Fighter can barely even see the lightning-fast flurry of nudges before they slam into his chest with the force and fury of a gentle Spring breeze. The raw shock of this unexpected chest massage sobers him up almost instantaneously as the audience screams and howls all around him. Like an instinct, his years of tutelage under the great Shihan DeLucia kick in and he lashes out with a vicious Pancrase palm heel in retaliation. His Hawaiian-shirt clad adversary stumbles back immediately in utter surprise, clutching his cheek as if getting hit in the face is a completely alien concept to him.

        Eddie Chiang: OW! You... You hit me!

        Reyes pauses for a moment, unsure of whether or not to press the assault on such an obvious pussy. The cheering, bloodthirsty crowd, however, implores him to punish the cowering Chunner:

        Spectator: Destroy him! Make the weakling pay for his father's spinelessness!

        Hooker: You are the personification of violence and masculinity!

        The crowd's adulation ignites a fire in the Hybrid Fighter, the likes of which he has never felt before. Before Chiang has a chance to whimper away, Reyes furiously cuts into him like a cock through warm butter. His Hawaiian-shirt garbed adversary's designer sunglasses fly off as the Hybrid Fighter relentlessly palm strikes his skull like a bear swatting salmon. Chiang falls to the floor and weeps like an infant, not even attempting to cover up as Reyes continues his cruel assault.

        Germany Reyes: Bitch-boy, I'm going to tell you what I told your sniveling father: Wing Chun is... For pussies.

        Through a haze of tears, Chiang manages to blurt out an admission of defeat... But Reyes' mind is nowhere near the right state for showing mercy at this point in time. Hauling one of his opponent's spindly legs up in the air, he falls back and slaps on a full-bore kneebar.

        Germany Reyes: Like father, like Chun.

        Chiang bleats like an animal that had just been mauled by a combine as his ligaments horrifically crackle and split apart. Reyes can only faintly hear him, however; the roaring crowd has utterly drowned out all other noise in the warehouse, which the Hybrid Fighter takes as a sign that he's made enough of a statement for his new followers. Pushing aside the mangled flesh-sack of marrow and cartilage, he springs to his feet and glowingly welcomes his fawning admirers with open arms. The rabid Chinese hookers are the first to reach him, each one clawing at a chance to be the first to give him oral sex.


        As his clothing is being ripped from his body, Min clandestinely approaches him from the side and whispers into his ear.

        Min: You did good, son. You'll make an excellent figurehead for our organization.

        Germany Reyes: Do I have any more challengers lined up for today?

        Min: No, but I would like you to attend a meeting later on in the evening. You won't have to speak, but I feel you might prove a useful presence.

        Germany Reyes: What's it about?

        Min: I doubt you'd understand... You see, well, growth is rather stagnant for the Triads on the East Coast, especially New Jersey. We have the manpower to compete with any organization out there, but the technological landscape of gang warfare has changed. One group has a stranglehold on most of the central areas of the state, and we need more firepower to compete with them. That's why we've contacted a Ukrainian arms dealer to see if we can beef our men up with more advanced weaponry. With the right tools, we can wipe the PitFighters off the map for good.

        Germany Reyes: ... The PitFighters?!?


          This shit is fucking awesome.


            Meanwhile meanwhile: Ivanov steps off the plane, ducking low through the doorway he pauses to look over the famed America, the view draws only a contemptuous sneer which is completely unrecognizable from any of his other expressions, America was soft, weak, ripe for the ravaging, he observes a group of men and women in gis in a distant terminal and starts to salivate... But no he has people to meet, the Ukrainians are paying him well to be here and they will surely provide for his... needs.

            He proceeds through customs but due to the quantity of industrial grade alcohol in his luggage is obliged to go through the something to declare line, he growls but concedes. Ahead of him in the queue is a small oriental man covered in tattoos, he is called forwards and steps up to the main counter, "I am Elias Chiang greatest of the Chiang fighting dynasty returned from my elite training in China in preventing the takedown through chain punching to avenge the injury on my family name" he begins breathlessly speaking too fast but without sufficient volume, the young desk attendant frowns in confusion and opens his mouth to reply but Chiang continues "I am here as legally required to declare my hands as lethal weapons, though they are more accurately described as weapons of mass destruction".

            The customs agent smiles slightly but trying to keep a straight face says "thank you sir, but that won't be necessary, please enjoy your stay in America" and goes to stamp his passport, Chiang stops him, he produces a small piece of wood from his pocket and holding it one hand turns it into matchsticks with a flurry of blows too fast for the eye to see, the attendant gawps, Chiang continues "I could kill every man in this terminal if I wished, your guns are powerless before my reaping wind style" the customs agent pauses briefly then says "look there is no paperwork or legislation on licensing fists so you may go now", he stamps Chiang's passport, Chiang is enraged and unleashes a flurry of blows at the hapless customs agent he lands at least twenty blows to the man's face before anyone can react, the customs agent's hair is ruffled and his glasses knocked askew.

            Ivanov is angry now, this tiny man is stopping him from satisfying his needs, he steps forward grabs the flailing figure by one arm, spins twice and then like a pitcher throwing a fastball hurls him through the customs gate and across the terminal waiting area, the small figure crumples as he strikes a vending machine across the terminal which promptly topples on his knee, after being thanked by the customs agent Ivanov enters America followed by the screams of the injured man.




                Dan "The Beast" Severn flexed his massive shoulders, rivulets of sweat christening the magnificent pate between his nose and upper lip.

                Pacing back and forth, he savored the crunch of used needles and bottle glass beneath his knee high boots. This was his element.

                The alleyway smelled faintly of piss, sweat and garbage.

                His singlet began to tighten against a burgeoning erection.

                It was a special occasion for The Beast. Were he a mortal man, possessed of a human heart, it would have swelled with emotion as he produced the vintage bottle of Dianabol 1974 from deep within the recesses of his sodden one piece.

                However The Beast, capable of naught but anus busting rage, gnashed his teeth and scowled horribly as he painfully extruded the words;

                "Happy birthday, Mom."
                Last edited by Mr. Machette; 3/11/2015 2:58am, .


                  The filth-sodden vagrant curled up behind the dumpster looks up at the mustachioed madman in confused shock.

                  Hobo: What?

                  Dan Severn: Happy... Birthday... Mom...

                  Awkwardly, the homeless man sit up in the puddle of smegma and mucus he was sleeping in and begins to scoot away from the giant maniac bearing over him. Severn, however, doesn't relent.

                  Dan Severn: HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM!!!

                  Hobo: Listen, mistah, I don't know-GAH!

                  With a devil's strength, the Beast grabs his prey by the throat and lifts him high above the ground. He smiles insidiously as he hears his victim's neck begin to pop and rip. Before he ends up clinically decapitating his meal, however, he hurls the vagrant face-first into a steal dumpster and knocks the man out cold. The hobo ends up landing belly down with the seat of his pants torn, his buttocks exposed for all the world to see.

                  Dan Severn: ... *Squeal*

                  With pupils the size of silver dollars, Severn wordlessly pulls a packet of hot sauce out of his duster and begins slathering the neck of his Dianabol. He's careful to keep the bottle far away from the unending stream of saliva pouring out of his mouth, lest he wash any of the spicy condiment off. Then, in defiance of the mind-bogglingly painful erection threatening to split his trousers at the seam, he straddles his unconscious victim's rear and meticulously begins spreading his grody cheeks apart. With one eye closed like he's aiming a marble, he looks as far as he can into the brown void and attempts to calculate just how deep he can get the bottle in there.

                  And that's when his beeper goes off.

                  Dan Severn: Son of a bitch!

                  The mustachioed pervert pulls out his minuscule electronic device and sees that his partner, Loki Davis, is trying to get in contact with him. With his face beet-red from both arousal and anger, he pulls out his DynaTAC and calls the office.

                  Dan Severn: Davis, if I've told you once I've told you a million times: Don't interrupt me while I'm at brunch!

                  Loki Davis: But sir, this is more important.

                  Severn stares back down at the homeless man's anus.

                  Dan Severn: Nothing is more important.

                  Loki Davis: This is. We just got word that the Triads are at war with the PitFighters.

                  Severn springs up in stunned silence. Frantically he glances down at his mid-morning meal and then up towards the direction of his office, unsure of how to proceed.


                  We set scene in the shadowy alcove that is the top floor of Severn's high rise waste management complex in Newark. Now decked out in his professional attire, the Beast idly presses down on the bottle stuck inside the homeless man splayed across his desk while five ominous men in black suits enter the room. Loki Davis, casually dressed in hard leather and chainmail, fidgets nervously as the dark figures take their seats. Once everyone is situated, the mustachioed hulk takes the floor and greets his associates.

                  Dan Severn: Gentlemen, I believe the time has come for us to wipe TWO threats to our empire off the map!



                    You wanna see justice?

                    You wanna see justice Jersey Style?


                      Hell isn't hot like they say.

                      ... It's tepid.

                      It doesn't smell like fire, brimstone, and death.

                      ... But rather sweat, feces, and Met-Rex Pancake Mix.

                      Delta Jackson: Bitch... Boy...

                      It all comes back to him. The helplessness. The humiliation. The sheer, immovable weight.

                      Delta Jackson: Bitch-boy...

                      The pressure is unbearable. It's like having an entire planet on top of you. You think you'd be able to get out, you think you'd be able to move at least an inch. But once you go under... Then do you know all hope is lost.

                      Delta Jackson: Bitch-boy!

                      The taunts never stop ringing. Their bite is even worse than the mosquitos'. He's being devoured, both from within and without. And there's nothing he can do. Every fiber of his being... Is flaccid.

                      Delta Jackson: BITCH-BOY!!!

                      He feels his chest compress. His dying breath leaves his body like the last bit of air from a deflating balloon.

                      Delta Jackson: BITCH-BOY!!!

                      Delta Jackson: BITCH-BOY!!!

                      Delta Jackson: WAKE UP!!!

                      Germany Reyes: Huh?

                      With a sudden jolt, the Hybrid Fighter finds himself back inside the old Dragon's tacky office. Min is standing at the doorway, dressed professionally in a blue tunic suit and slacks. He gazes down upon his pupil with a mild but very apparent look of impatience, obviously being more accustomed to the atomic clock-esque punctuality of his Triad soldiers. Wiping a sliver of drool off his chin, the American wearily staggers to his feet and zips up his trousers.

                      Min: The arms dealer is waiting in the conference room, as I told you he would be at this time.

                      Germany Reyes: Oh, I'm sorry, Min. I must've passed out while getting blown.

                      Min: Understandable. Just try to fix yourself up and keep quiet once we get in there.

                      Still shivering from the nightmare that had engulfed him, the novice Dragon follows his mentor down the metal staircase and out into the concrete fortress that is the headquarters of the Camden Triads. The two make their way across the main floor of the warehouse, where Min has to shoo away several ravenous ho'ers from Reyes before they can finally make it to the meeting. The conference area is surprisingly spacious, far bigger and more professional than one would expect in an inner city gang hideout. It's immediately apparent to Reyes that the elder Chiang did NOT have a hand in choosing this room's decor, as every painting and ornament on the walls actually looks like it actually belongs. The cushioned chairs here are also far more nap-worthy than the one he had been sleeping on before.

                      Ivanov Blagoi: Shall we begin discussing our terms, gentlemen?


                        Originally posted by Holy Moment View Post

                        You wanna see justice?

                        You wanna see justice Jersey Style?
                        Is that... is that house wife revenge porn?


                          Originally posted by Holy Moment View Post

                          You wanna see justice?

                          You wanna see justice Jersey Style?
                          Did you catch Bo Svenson in that trailer? He was the reverend killed in the Bride's chapel in Kill Bill.

                          Little known facts...he's a 4th dan judoka, got his shodan training at the Kodokan itself, and was a heavyweight judo champ in the 60s.


                            Originally posted by Hadzu View Post
                            . . .
                            No sooner had Chris and Thomas finalized their plans for the evening than Chris threw down the phone to start getting himself ready. He had to get some cash, definitely, and if he would be out in public could probably do with throwing himself in the shower for a while. . .

                            "Christopher?" a woman's voice barked from the other side of his door, breaking the otaku's train of thought.

                            "What is it, okosan?!"

                            "Chris? Open the door, I'd like to talk." came the reply, "It's about Nancy."

                            Doing his best to make it clear he wanted to be doing anything other than having this conversation, Chris cracked his room's door open to talk with his mother.

                            Nancy was Chris' younger cousin. She had spent several weeks as a guest of their household recently, much to the young man's displeasure (given her clearly being the bastard love-child of Tomoko Kuroki* and Yang Wen-li**.) The two of them had never been on great terms with one another, but Nancy's newfound love of HEMA had only put their relationship under more strain. . .

                            "Something about Nancy?" Chris groaned.

                            "Listen," his mother went on, "your cousin hasn't actually been out of the house in most of four days now. She's been complaining to me about how bored she is, and how she isn't sure what to do with herself here."

                            "And just how does any of that have anything to do with me?" the man-child replied sharply.

                            "Because I am telling you to take her somewhere. Both of you have been at home for way too long for it to be healthy, and need to go do something. So I am leaving some cash for you on the dining room table and telling you to go do it today. Together."

                            Nancy sat on the floor of her room, listening to her recording of yandere boys being verbally abusive and flipping through her copy of MS. I.33***, trying to steel herself for. . . Something. She wasn't really sure what, yet. All she knew was that Aunt-Ivy was going force her to spend several hours in the company of her wapanese cousin, and that she wasn't going to enjoy it.

                            'Japan is pretty alright, I guess.' thought Nancy as she closed the book, 'They produce some pretty amazing stuff, and I love my Bishōnen as much as the next girl. . . But why can't Chris just accept that their MA's are crap?'



                              Originally posted by Eudemic View Post
                              (given her clearly being the bastard love-child of Tomoko Kuroki
                              The Watashi Ga Motenai No Wa Dou Kangaetemo Omaera Ga Warui!-reference alone is enough for you to have earned a spot in my heart. And yes, I do have that entire name memorized. For reasons, you see.



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