CHAPTRE 3 OFMANBALL CHRONICAL

The moon, previously introduced as 'conflict' within a conventional narrative structure but long since forgotten, began to obliterate the atmosphere with cataclysmic weather explosions and hollywoodscienceometric anomalies, flames licking across its features, its jaw set grimly as it weathered the storm.


Obama looked up at the moon and narrowed his eyes. "I will have to assemble a moderate liberal think tank in order to work out how best to make the Moon feel welcome, and to ensure that its delicate and beautiful culture is not offended by anything within our own that can be outlawed and suppressed. In the mean time," He summoned a portal and stepped into hell, "It's your problem." He zipped up his pants, yelled a copywrited incantation which, for legal reasons, cannot be committed to paper, and vanished in a puff of sulfurous fumes.


Manballs wished he'd voted republican, and pointed at the moon dramatically. The camera twitched and spasmed as it tried, and failed, to properly capture the sheer awesomity of the moment.


"YOUR FACE LOOKS LIKE SHIT." He yelled at the moon with unbridled ferocity and sex appeal. The camera got stuck on his foot and there was a flurry of v-phys penetration errors and a lot of dust went flying everywhere.


It stopped its descent and fixed its eyes upon him, its mountainous pupils contracting with rage.


"WHAT'D YOU SAY?" It demanded in a voice so deep and resonant that it caused Africa and Barry White's voice box to be swallowed by their respective faults. The former was a line due to its deep, throbbing, sensual and earthy nature, and the latter was YOUR FAULT, provided you are white and moderately wealthy.


Manballs drew his twin M60s and used one to light a cigarette.


"YOU HEARD ME, FAGBAIT."


The moon resumed its descent in earnest, bearing its enormous tomb stone teeth in a murderous snarl.


Manballs pointed his m60s at the ground and pulled their triggers, the recoil propelling him into the air at over nine thousand meters per second.


He grinned back at the moon, his facial features exaggerated, a dramatic technique used to communicate EXTREME manliness, and intensity lines blotted out the sun as lazy animators tried and failed to properly immerse their audience.


"I'M GONNA SHOW YOU HEAVY FATHER FUCKER."


He impacted into the moon's face with sufficient force to rip the fabric of reality asunder. As purple eldritch lightning and the blood of gods oozed from the tear in space and time, the moon was catapulted, with a terribly voice acted autotuned moan of agony set to Friday by Rebecca Black, back into its original orbit, minus several of its teeth.


It was then that the real problems began. For as manball zipped up his pants, mankind's oldest enemy lunged out of the void that had held it for generations, hungry for the non-specific bodily fluid of heroes.