Monday, August 25, 2014

'Chemotheraplay' Pitch Video

Hey, all.

Well, here it is. The following link leads to a pitch video for a satirical video game review show that I tried to get off of the ground about a year ago, after Arby 'n' the Chief ran its course, and failed. It's called Chemotheraplay, and the video contains two differing cuts of the pilot episode that I submitted for approval based on feedback that I had received:

'Chemotheraplay' Pitch Video

I know that many of what remains of my fan base have been waiting a long time to see this, and I'd like to thank them for being so patient. Although this is a little bit nerve-wracking as I'm not entirely used to having a camera on me, it feels good to be uploading content again.

Please check it out, let me know what you think of the cuts in the comments, and if it's a show that you'd like to see more of, perhaps you might consider donating to the crowd-funding page that will be soon to follow.

Cheers!
Jon

Sunday, July 20, 2014

Status, Projects, Plans

Immediately following my last blog update, I was tragically involved in what had to be my several hundredth gruesome car accident.

While being as attentive of the dangerously icy highway as I could possibly be while yet again snorting cocaine off of my steering wheel, blaring Skrillex loud enough to shatter the windows, playing a very complicated game on my mobile in between sending texts to my heroin dealer for a generous hook-up, watching my dash-mounted television with an 80” split-screen display of the new Transformers movie next to a furious, cuss-filled Call of Duty free-for-all multiplayer session on the tiniest map and receiving balls-deep head from a prostitute sitting next to me so that I could occupy the H.O.V. lane (or H.I.V. lane, depending on how you want to look at it), some asshole ahead of me going dangerously below the speed limit came out of nowhere while I was travelling at well over four hundred kilometers per hour in an attempt to make it home on time to watch the 24: Live Another Day finale.

This cunt, who clearly undervalued the gravity of the Jack Bauer Power Hour, smashed the back of his vehicle hard against the front of my speeding car and sent it flipping over nine thousand times along the road, hammering children and grandmothers passing by into oblivion until plummeting into the river and exploding like an atomic bomb.

I’ve just been released from the hospital with flying colors once again, but the doctors strongly advised that I stop dying, and not die more than sixteen or seventeen more times, should it one day become slightly more permanent.

So, what have I been up to?

I can’t help but wonder how people out there picture me at this point; whether or not it’s an image of some overweight Halo nerd, regularly wiping my television screen free of fluid that could either be semen from chronic masturbation or pus having shot out from squeezing severe ‘sackne’, desperate to one day make machinima again and make a glorious comeback.

Although I still have a poor diet, now consisting almost exclusively of sugary kids’ cereal, I’m reasonably and surprisingly ‘fit’ -- in terms of appearance, at least -- and as I write this, I have a thickening beard, the hood of a sweatshirt thrown over my now closely shaved head, and I’m wearing a utiltarian green denim jacket covered in cigarette burns over said sweatshirt. If you were to pass me on the street, you might think that I was about to shank you in the abdomen and run away with your wallet.

I also have little to no interest in making more game-generated content, and I barely ever play video games anymore. The adult in me says that I’m better off -- I’m twenty-six years old now -- but the ever-present child in me is an angry motherfucker.

I haven’t regularly smoked cigarettes in almost a year now, I’m vaping on one of those electronic ones with the maximum strength of nicotine. That and the crippling heroin addiction have done wonders in holding my nicotine cravings at bay.

My most recent development has been my completion of a first draft -- also known as a shit draft -- of my first feature-length script. As I’ve mentioned on the Tweeter, it’s of the action-drama genre; a heist movie, inspired by the films of Michael Mann, among others. A modest amount of characters, a focused story, lots of guns, lots of blood, lots of semen.

Alright, maybe I’ll withhold the semen, save it for the inevitable sequel.

I’m quite a sentimental person, and when I voiced to my friend my intent to have the script bound with braids like a real screenplay and saved among my treasured belongings, he laughed and called me a faggot. I blew a load in his eye.

I realize that I’ve accumulatively written much longer stories in the past, but this is the longest work that I’ve written that isn’t in an episodic format; not to mention actually features real people and environments, as opposed to digital or plastic ones.

I’m also currently working on the pilot episode of an intense action-comedy cartoon series, which I’ve probably written over a hundred outlines of and have yet to hammer out a solid draft:

It would revolve around a character named Paulie Frost -- a small penguin with an attitude and no time for bullshit, who turns from a submissive youngster taking merciless beatings from bullies into -- a decade and a half into the future -- a grizzled, intergalactic travelling mercenary for hire on hopelessly suicidal missions, sporting sunglasses, a bomber’s jacket, a chrome-plated Desert Eagle .50, a grappling hook and a heavy addiction to cigarettes.

He would work alongside a rag-tag team of misfit critters and childhood friends as well as a malfunctioning robot named Fizzle, who would also serve as the on-board artifical intelligence for their tiny, barely-held-together ship.

Paulie, however, beyond mere financial reward, is driven by a greater desire to search the universe for his childhood sweetheart, Penny, who has long been kidnapped and forced into slave labor by a monstrous leopard seal named General Leonard Rex, the leader of an elusive criminal syndicate bent on dominating the universe and spearheading a massive army of lethal, brain-washed soldiers.

On Paulie’s journey of locating and recovering Penny at all costs, he’s forced to do horrific things and is placed in danger of becoming the one thing he and Penny hate the most and have always stood up against -- a bully.

So, there’s that. The action would be brutal and gruesome, but the show would have a strong emotional core.

If I complete a draft, I’ll be taking it to a few kick-ass animators that I know, namely the man who goes by the alias of D Laz, who some of you might be familiar with. Then I’ll likely start a crowd-funding campaign for it. That seems to be the ticket these days, but I can’t help but feel hesitant.

I’ve gotta do something soon, I’m broke as fuck. Seriously.

Sure wish I was getting residual income for the hits I’ve gotten for Machinima; I might have owned a personal collection of fighter jets and my own fucking space shuttle by now.

It probably has sure as hell seemed like it, but I’m not vegetating. Many probably picture me as a giant lump of broccoli laying in a bed by now. The truth is that I’m still very driven towards producing content and I’ve been getting a lot done, it just hasn’t been seeing the light of day, unfortunately.

I haven’t had a place to call my own for almost two months now. I had to move out of my bachelor’s apartment because I couldn’t cut the required amount of rent for much longer.

I could’ve started charging extra money for sucking dicks on the street, but then I would’ve had to swallow.

Thank Christ that I’ve made very kind and close friends throughout my time spent at school working towards a Bachelor of Motion Picture Arts degree -- which, another friend of mine assures me, should prove incredibly useful for rolling a massive blunt with once my schooling is over -- and for the past month and a half I’ve been couch-surfing in a recreational space of a two-story house in co-habitance with a number of said friends.

All of my shit is currently being held in storage in a facility way at the very ass-end of the city, including my desktop computer, which is why I’ve been uploading fuck all as of late. All I’ve had since I’ve moved is my laptop, my notebook, some clothing and a few other essential times with me -- namely my expansive collection of freaky dildos.

I know what you’re thinking: What do you think carrots and hamsters are for?

The good news is that I’ve finally manged to secure a place of my own, but I won’t be getting the keys until the first of August, and I’ll be living with four other guys. I’m not worried -- they’re all great. But the fact remains that, if we’re living together, we’re all obligated to fuck each other, and that might be awkward. Everybody at the the same time, too -- it’ll be like that thrusting pile of naked men in the ‘Gooback’ episode South Park.

Also worth mentioning is the fact that each of us have a distinctive skill-set: I write predominantly, another has written and directed his own feature film already, another is a great camera operator with a wealth of gear, and another is a film lighting technician; and all of us have experience writing, filming and editing on a number of platforms, including Final Cut, Premiere, Avid -- and even Windows Movie Maker and Microsoft Paint, the kings of them all.

Ideally, once we’ve settled into the place, we’d like to establish a work flow and get some content rolling out.

I’ve been getting a few twats on Tweeter and some digimatronic mails in regard to people creating and uploading their own spin-offs and reboots of my old content; Arby ‘n ‘the Chief, among others. I’ve noticed that some fans are pleased with the fact, and others are throwing up torches and pitchforks and expect that I’m just as outraged.

To be honest, I’m flattered that there are people out there who are fond enough of my content to feel compelled to continue it in their own way.

That being said, rules pertaining to intellectual properties are in place for a reason, and all people who have created and uploaded their own versions of my content without my consent will be subject to a $750,000,000,000,000,000,000 fine and the anal insertion of a carnivorous rodent. I don’t make the rules, I just invent them.

In all seriousness -- the above is true.

In slightly more seriousness, I’m not going to attack anybody or slap lawsuits on them for being big fans of my stuff, that’s retarded. Besides, Machinima owns the show anyway.

Speaking of Machinima, and in response to many inquiries -- no, I am currently not working with Machinima anymore; that chapter of my life is closed. At this time I’m not prepared to discuss how that came to be exactly.

All I’ll say is that it wasn’t pleasant.

Working on Arby ‘n’ the Chief was stressful, but there were aspects of that job that I miss. I miss working in my underwear, as well as the rush of completing and submitting a new episode, then being met with lots of immediate feedback, most of which was very positive, constructive and encouraging towards the end of the show’s run.

I started out writing and producing through the same means as these unoffical reboot uploaders -- imitation. I’d watch certain stuff, really like things about it, and then try to recreate it in order to convince myself that I was capable of conveying the same feeling through visuals myself.

Thanks to the fact and after I started figuring out how story-telling works, I was able to evolve my process and begin writing and producing original content -- but that didn’t come until much, much later. Season seven of Arby ‘n’ the Chief is the only season of the show that I’m overall satisfied with. Maybe season five as well.

When I was starting out, I was also infringing my ass off, using tracks from popular music artists and the scores of major motion pictures without consent, and taking beloved Microsoft trademarks and rendering them twisted in what I believed to be a funny context and satirical of the world of video gaming at the time.

I was a stupid kid, and I don’t encourage anybody to follow in my particular footsteps. I’m thankful that I haven’t been legally flayed alive for my ineptitude.

All I’ll say in regard to the inspired uploads is that I can’t accept or announce any of these fan-made Arby ‘n’ the Chief storylines as canon, as I still stand by the way that I ended the show -- much still to the disapproval of many, I’m sure. Sorry.

Believe it or not, I consider it a happy ending for the toys. Perhaps I’m wrong and it’s only revealing of the degree at which I’m fucked in the head, but it’s an ending that I personally felt creatively driven to build towards.

The only thing that bothers me about the inspired content is that, besides Arby ‘n’ the Chief, I think terribly of nearly everything that I’ve ever made -- so, in regretful spite of the appreciation by fans of my old shows, which I am grateful for, it genuinely makes me cringe when people suggest the idea of their live-action reboots and the like.

Notice that I’m not even mentioning the names of those shows; my insecurity and desire to distance myself from that work is that absurd.

As the writer on said shows, I’m very familiar with the processes of thought that went into creating them, and they were bad. My logic and tastes were poor. The fact is, I didn’t know how to write at the time. I was learning.

I’ve talked about this before -- I don’t mean to speak lowly of the terrific performances from other people that I was kindly given to contribute to that old content. I’m just painfully unsatisfied with my abilities at the time, and I honestly don’t believe that the work is worthy of being rebooted. Out of my insecurity, I wouldn’t condone it -- however, if somebody’s going to stop these inspired content creators, it isn’t going to be me.

The one thing that I would suggest is for those people to instead focus their energy on something new and better.

To wrap this up -- I should be settled in my new place sometime in the middle of August, and I have a plan.

Remember Chemotheraplay, that satirical gaming review show I tried to get off of the ground? The pilot was ordered, produced and paid for by Machinima, but it ended up sitting on their servers, never seeing the light of day.

When I inquired about the fate of the show to a contact that I have at Machinima’s offices, and whether I still owned the rights to the intellectual property even though the pilot was paid for, I was told that I could upload the pilot to my own private channel and that the company’s legal team was highly unlikely to cause a problem for me.

I have a censored and an uncensored version of said pilot -- the uncensored version was the first cut that I sent, and it was deemed ‘too extreme’. I can’t help but be proud.

So, once I’m settled, I plan to upload both versions up onto my private YouTube channel and let you be the judge -- so you will eventually be able to see it. And if people like it, I might throw up a donation page on Kickstarter or something like that and offer to produce a full season, or perhaps a show similar to it, all on my own creative terms.

I’ve also been building a wealth of ideas for sketches, short films, feature-length films and more episodic series in my time without a permanent residence that I’ll develop further once I’m settled, so you’ll definitely be seeing content from me eventually.

Many thanks to all of you for your continued support of me. I’m eternally grateful.

Cheers,
Jon

Thursday, May 22, 2014

Godzilla (2014) Leaked Alternate Ending

EXT. STADIUM - DAY

Crowds of people having been evacuated from areas of the city fill the entire arena. We SLOWLY PUSH IN on a large television monitor mounted onto a wall displaying a critical news bulletin --

Under text reading the tag-line 'GODZILLA: PIMP OF THE UNIVERSE?', a shaky camera held from the interior of a news helicopter records live footage of the monstrous GODZILLA, wearing a black leather jacket and a sick wallet chain and throwing up gang signs as he sharply bobs his head to the pounding bass of 'SIMON SAYS' BY PHAROAHE MONCHE blaring from a Godzilla-sized boom box.

The song ends. Godzilla lets out a deafening, pant-wetting roar.

He pulls out an enormous cigarette from his inner jacket pocket, sticks it between his mighty jaws, kneels down and lights the end of it with the flames belching from a devastated children's hospital shrieking with the agonized screams of scalded youth.

He stands upright. Takes a deep drag of his smoke and exhales slowly, savoring it. He pulls out a giant pair of sunglasses hanging from his chest pocket, flicks them open and places them coolly over his eyes. He kneels again slightly to pick up his boom box.

GODZILLA
I guess my work here is done.

Godzilla slowly turns around, smashing his gargantuan tail against the side of a building, crushing dozens of people underneath falling debris in the process. He starts stomping away down the highway, crushing one family-filled car after another.

CRANE SHOT -- a man runs eagerly down the highway in pursuit of Godzilla, struggling to catch his breath; the young, fresh-faced soldier FORD. We PAN DOWN to meet him in a CLOSE-UP --

FORD
Godzilla -- wait!

ANGLE ON Godzilla as he stops in his tracks. He slowly turns his head and tilts it downwards to meet Ford's gaze suavely over the top of the lenses of his glasses.

GODZILLA
What's up, kid?

Ford struggles to find words --

FORD
You saved my ass back there.

Godzilla takes another puff of his cigarette.

GODZILLA
We got lucky.

The injustice of Godzilla's modesty causes Ford's face to clench in disapproval and his eyes to well with tears. He shakes his head.

FORD
Luck didn't have anything to do with it. It was your courage. And your laser beams.

Godzilla and Ford exchange prolonged stares --

Then Godzilla smirks.

GODZILLA
You know what, kid? You're alright.

FORD
You're alright too, Godzilla.

Godzilla sets himself down on one knee and holds his mighty fist out directly in front of Ford.

Ford beams as he curls his own hand into a fist and pounds Godzilla's.

Godzilla withdraws his hand and stands upright again. He turns away.

Ford wipes the tears from his face.

FORD
Where you gonna go?

Godzilla pauses. He tilts his head to one side.

GODZILLA
Wherever I'm needed.

Godzilla then continues stomping his way a little further down the highway and around a corner towards a sick Godzilla-sized motorcycle. He places his boom box on the chopper's rear. Climbs onto the seat. Starts the engine.

Ford, chasing after Godzilla again, turns the same corner --

FORD
Godzilla!

Godzilla pauses again. Looks towards Ford.

Ford gives Godzilla an awkwardly forced thumbs-up.

FORD
Thanks.

Godzilla says nothing for a moment -- then gives a slight nod.

GODZILLA
You got any weed on you?

FORD
No.

GODZILLA
You know where I can get some pussy around here?

FORD
Wouldn't have a clue.

Godzilla scoffs.

GODZILLA
Queer.

He then grabs a hold of the handles of his chopper -- the engine roars to life and the bike obliterates thousands of buildings as Godzilla peels away into a couple of donuts and across the city towards the water. He grinds into the ocean and disappears under its surface with a thundering splash, the sound matched only by the storm of applause from the people of the city.

FADE TO BLACK.


END.

Action Movie in the Year 3000

Synopsis:

It's the year 3000 in the thriving city of Google, its streets buzzing with joyous Google Plus members, as well as armed Twitter mechs blowing the skulls open of anybody who refuses to share a thought as Facebook surveillance drones beep and soar overhead, rapidly downloading and uploading ultra high-definition x-ray images of everybody's genitals. In a grungy apartment, grizzled and profoundly alcoholic ex-Twitter user Twat "Tweetin'" Twitterson, long reputed throughout the world as a master of tweeting, swears away the activity forever after the tragic loss of his now-ex-wife's profile on Twitter in a freak tweeting accident at Twitter's base of operations. Twat is reluctantly dragged into the second act by the rise of an extremely dangerous internet terrorist, wanted by the internet police for broadcasting a threat to begin keeping all of his thoughts to himself -- unless he's granted time off work for a weekend vacation at his cabin, during which he's allowed to turn his iPhone off for a bit. Twat might have a major chip on his shoulder and be suffering from the worst hangover throughout history, but that doesn't stop him from loudly clicking back the hammer of his Magnum revolver for no reason and tweeting like he's never tweeted before in a relentless effort to stop the terrorist. Risking the potential suicide of billions of the terrorist's followers on Twitter as a result of his terrible demands, Twat can't afford to pull any of his punches on this job -- he'll have to make an uneasy alliance with LinkedIn, and go so far as to reactivate his old account on MySpace and face the demons of his past.

"A must-see film. You'll find yourself so connected with Twat that you'll leave the theater feeling like a Twat yourself."


- Cameron Shuttersnap, Amazing Director

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

Writer Wanted

WRITER WANTED

Are you a lover of literature and film? Are you creative? Do you have a flair for the written word? Well, we have an open position among our creative team that might be just right for you!

Responsibilities:

- Cleaning the office. We will supply lemon Pledge. Its cost will be deducted from your earnings.

- Scrubbing the toilets. Overtime will be guaranteed following the staff's Mexican dinner nights. You are to supply your own respirator, boots and umbrella.

- Getting rid of that weird squeak in Dave's office door. Seriously, it's really annoying.

- Cleaning the office windows from the outside. The ones on the five hundredth floor and upwards could use a decent wipe in particular. Washing platforms are unavailable. If you are unable to supply your own safety harness, fishing line can be supplied for a small fee. Consider tying your clothing together for a rope.

- Picking toe-nail clippings out from the thick carpet while serving your back as a temporary foot stool. Dave collects them. Don't ask me why.

- Writing four award-winning screenplays per week, although five would be appreciated.

- Feeding the cat. Not that the fat cunt needs it.

Requirements:

- Master's degrees in physics, chemistry, astronomy, biology, computer science, mathematics, engineering, health science, behavioral science and social science from a minimum of ten institutions. Additional degrees are encouraged.

- 45+ years of experience writing award-winning material.

- Having read every book ever written.

Unfortunately, we won't be able to pay you for a period likely lasting several years due to some technical issues, but Dave regularly keeps the kitchen's refrigerator stocked with Mr. Freeze, and he says that you'll be able to take one per day for as long as you like. However, he includes that the ice cream sandwiches are his alone, and strictly off-limits.

To those unimpressed by the benefits of this exciting opportunity, I say, let's face it: writers are a bunch of faggots, really. They sit around on their asses, pretending that they're thinking really hard. The gig is typically just an excuse to slack off. They're hardly actual people, if you think about it. They're all introverted social disasters and idealistic pains in the ass. I'm not quite sure why they haven't all been rounded up and gutted like cattle for being so utterly useless.

Due to the volume of applications we expect, we may not be able to respond to them all.

If interested, please don't hesitate to contact us.

E-mail: 0o_XxX_Pu$$y_$lAyEr_239067283907_XxX_o0@yahoo.com

Note: Serious applications only.

Friday, April 18, 2014

I'm gonna be a cool dad.

Alberta is introducing new tanning bed legislation this year that might restrict people under eighteen from using them. That's fucking bullshit. I want my children birthed under a tanning bed. They've gotta work on their tans as soon as possible. I'm gonna have the sexiest goddamn babies that have ever walked the earth.

As soon as they're pushed out and they're left to soak up those glorious rays for about -- I'd say four hours -- there won't be any time left to mop up the blood or carefully cut the umbilical cords. I'll just chew them right off, 'cause I've gotta get them down to the gym for some P90X, and real fucking fast. Gotta work those pectorals.

Now, I know what you're thinking at this point.

Jesus Christ, dude.

That's fucking awesome. How much will your kids be able to bench?

I'll start them off at around forty pounds, give or take. By the end of the workout, we'll have worked our way up to four hundred. Think whatever you want about that, but I'm not raising any fucking pussies.

As soon as that's over, I'll quickly dunk the kids into a prepared bath full of Giorgio Armani, 'cause then I've gotta haul their asses down to Le Chateau. Gotta get them some tight-fitting collared shirts and pop those collars straight the fuck up, as they should be. The kids won't have much hair, obviously -- but there's no harm in some product to make whatever's there look fucking fabulous. Torn, faded jeans? No shit. Sports sunglasses with orange tint? You bet your fucking ass. And dope-ass silver watches just like Jordan Belfort's. If the kids haven't spent enough time under the bed, it's nothing a spray-on tan can't fix.

Then it's straight to the night clubs to load the kids up with absinthe shots, parade them around and get them some sweet-ass poon already. Then we'll get home and if they've gotten ten chicks' phone numbers by the end of the night, I'll throw on Wolf of Wall Street for them as a reward before I put them to bed. I think that it's important for kids to have strong role models. If they start to fall asleep, I'll just press their faces against the television and duct tape their heads to it. If they've gotten fifteen numbers, I'll buy them Grand Theft Auto V on the way home. They can play that for a few hours after the movie. They'll need their rest for the beauty pageants and UFC cage fights that I'll have signed them up for.

I just want to be a cool dad, you know? It's hard to walk the line between a cool one and an irresponsible one, but I think I've found a balance.

Saturday, April 5, 2014

Children's Story Writing

Hey, guys.

So, with Arby 'n' the Chief over and my new game review show apparently tanking, I've made a significant career decision today. I've decided to write stories for young children. People have considered my subject matter too sensitive and extreme in the past, but I'm determined to prove them wrong by demonstrating my versatility! Let me know what you think, and please share it with your children.

Love,
Jon.

Cuddles and the Kite

A Children's Story
Written by Jon Graham

There once was a bright-eyed and delightfully fuzzy young rabbit named Cuddles. He lived in a cozy little wooden cottage in a beautiful meadow.

One sunny morning, he awoke excitedly in his bed. His eyes darted to his rabbit calendar on the wall of his room. It was his birthday today!

“Oh, boy!” Cuddles shouted joyously.

With a happy bounce to his steps, he hippity-hopped his way out of bed, out of his room and down the stairs in the cutest way possible.

At the foot of the stairs, he found his mother and father waiting for him.

“Happy birthday, Cuddles!” they exclaimed at once. Cuddles’ mother was holding a gift. Cuddles beamed.

She handed him the gift. He looked at it as if unwrapping it with his eyes. “Go on,” his father said. “Open it!”

Cuddles opened the gift excitedly. Inside, he found a kite.

“Golly, a kite!” He blurted out with glee. “A kite of my very own!”

Cuddles’ parents exchanged smiles and loving nuzzles.

His mother then gave him a light, encouraging nudge towards the front door of the cottage. “Go outside and play, Cuddles!” she said. “Just be back before it gets dark!”

Cuddles, hugging his new kite as if it were the most precious thing in the world to him, giggled like mad as he hippity-hopped his way outside and across the meadow.

“The breeze is just right!” Cuddles said to himself as he released his kite to the wind. It soared towards the bright blue sky and its fat, fluffy clouds.

“This is my new favorite toy!” he said loudly, at the height of happiness.

But then Cuddles suddenly lost his grip of the kite’s string, and the kite began to fly into the distance. 

“Oh, no!” Cuddles whined as he hippity-hopped after it.

The kite then flew into the top of an enormous tree and got stuck. Cuddles hopped to a stop at the foot of the tree and looked up at his trapped kite. His eyes welled with tears.

“My kite!” He croaked, his voice broken with grief. “How will I get it back?”

An ear-piercing bang then echoed through the meadow, and Cuddles squealed in pain as his torso was suddenly blown apart by a speeding hollow-point bullet. The surrounding grass and flowers were showered with darkened blood and chunks of his entrails.

Cuddles, only barely clinging to life, his limbs twitching ever so slightly and his eyes wide, teary and slowly being drained of life, fought and choked for every last bit of his breath as a hunter then emerged from the nearby woodland, jogging towards Cuddles as he reloaded his rifle and guffawed with twisted pleasure.

He gazed hungrily at his downed prey before turning towards his two hunter friends who then also, in pursuit, scuttled into the meadow from the trees. “Hah!” The shooter shouted with pride. “Told you fucking faggots that I’d get him!”

He then picked up Cuddles by his rear feet. Cuddles’ body dangled limply as the young rabbit continued to choke for air.

With tremendous force and a loud grunt, the shooter then swung Cuddles over his head and cracked the bunny’s skull against a large rock. Cuddles’ neck snapped sickeningly and his skull was cracked wide open like a giant egg, causing his brain to plop out messily onto the grass like a yolk.

The shooter then dropped Cuddle’s corpse and turned to face his two pals as they caught up to him. He proceeded to unfasten his belt, and then dropped his cargo pants and underwear. “Alright, a bet’s a bet,” he said. “Now get on your knees and suck my cock.”

The two hunters groaned as they then got down on their knees. One of them cupped the shooter’s scrotum and sucked on his larger testicle, as the other ran his tongue up and down the length of the shooter's formidable, pulsating shaft and stuck his finger in his anus, sensually massaging his prostate.

“Ah, yeah,” he moaned in pleasure. “Just like that, bitches. Just like that. You’re gonna make me cum so fucking hard.”

It wasn’t long until he did, and Cuddles’ bloody, fractured face was splattered with a copious amount of semen.

THE END