Excerpt from BRUCE FACEPUNCHER, SECRET SPY (my unfinished Techno Thriller)
Tell me whats you thinks.
[QUOTE]Colonel Hardaway put down the phone with trembling hands. The other night, the top-secret factory had been broken into. The secret weapons he'd invented had fallen into someone else's hands. The wrong hands, since any hands the weapons held would be the wrong hands to hold the weapons with.
The Colonel turned to Bruce Facepuncher. "It's everything I always feared," he said.
Among the Secret Spy Agency, Bruce Facepuncher was easily the best and most violentest agent. He was such a good spy that most people simply knew him as the guy who pushes around the mail cart. Only the most elite spies in the agency knew that he wasn't just some mail guy who makes $8.84 an hour, and even then the people who suspected he was a spy weren't 100% sure.
"What is it?" Bruce Facepuncher said, shuffling the flyers for the office Christmas party, "I mean, wait, I'm um, not a spy. I work in the mail room and do no spying." He shifted his eyes uneasily.
"Can the act, Facepuncher," the Colonel said, "the secret Tiny Atomic Bomb factory has been broken into, and we need to know who's responsible... and they need to be dealt with, if you know what I mean."
Bruce's extreme facepunching ability was a blessing and a curse. While other people might have picked up the ability of punching faces, Bruce was a facepuncher from a long line of facepunchers. Rex Facepuncher, Don Facepuncher, Lil' Jimmy Facepuncher, and Admiral Byron T. Facepuncher III, to be specific.
"Yes, I know, it was foolish of me to build tiny, working atomic bombs to give out as gifts, but it gets harder and harder to shop for people every year," the Colonel said. "[I]You[/I] try finding a good gift for a guy who owns a flying submarine, or a watch that shoots lasers!"
"Have you thought about gift certificates?" Bruce Facepuncher said.
"Yeah," the Colonel continued, "but they're [I]so[/I] impersonal. Wait, what were we talking about?"
"Tiny atomic bombs," Bruce said.
"Oh, right," the Colonel replied, "you go find those things, or something."[/QUOTE]
micheal crichton ain't got shit on you!
I heard Bruce once punched a man in the face so hard, it not only caved in his skull, but an entire dimension of reality. People now are unable to comprehend the idea of Giggotts.
What the fuck IS a giggott?
I don't know.
Damn you Bruce Facepuncher!
"violentest" is my new favorite word
Bruce returned home past midnight with sweat under his armpits and his breath reeking of coffee, exhausted from the fifteen hours he spent formulating a game plan to find the tiny atomic bombs.
Bruce took his tie off and layed it on his chair. He poured himself a bourbon and stared out the window of his fifth floor apartment. He sipped the bourbon and smoked a cigarette. Then he sighed, then he poured himself another bourbon and drank it down. Not knowing what to do, he poured himself yet another bourbon and sighed again.
"Bruce..." his wife whispered from the hallway. She was wearing her silk gown and it showed her curves like a nigger in a snowstorm.
"Honey," Bruce said, "What are you doing up?"
"I waited up for you..." she said.
"Hon-ey. You should have gotten some rest."
"I was worried about you. What's going on? Why are you working late?"
Bruce Facepuncher drank his Bourbon and put his cigarette out.
"I ughhh," he stumbled, "Had a lot of...mail to deliver.
"Bruce you don't have to lie to me."
"What are you talking about? Honey, there was a lot of mail to be delivered. It's my job."
"I'm your wife. I know you're not really a mail guy," though she had to admit, she wasn't entirely 100% sure.
"Right..." he said. Sure, it made enough sense. He lit another cigarette and poured himself a bourbon.
"Sometimes I get so caught up in being a spy...I forget who I really am."
She closed the distance between them and they met for a kiss.
"I'm going to go to bed," she said, "You coming?"
"I'll be right in."
Bruce Facepuncher lit another cigarette, and then put it out upon realization that he already had a lit one in his other hand. He sipped Bourbon from the bottle and looked into the cityscape outside his apartment window.
"I will find those things," Bruce said, "Or something..."
Bruce Facepuncher hasn't punched anyone, in the face or otherwise.
Its starting to make my tummy hurt.
bruce punches his wife in the face whenever she doesnt have dinner ready by the time he gets home.
I can't wait for the spinoff, Doogie Facepuncher, MD.
“A girl’s gotta get her rest…”
…A slow spin and Bruce’s wife sways that silk draped ass into the bedroom. She purrs behind her…
“…You gonna sit there and sip that bottle or you gonna come sex me?”
A grunt and grumble and Facepuncher rises from his seat.
“A man’s job is never done.”
And he saunters in behind her, chugging the last gulp of bourbon from the bottle and tossing it spinning across the hardwood floor.
“Time to ride the stallion, baby,” he growls and before he’s over the threshold his belt is loose and his shirt unbuttoned and she slinks under the satin sheets. She whispers…
“…Oh baby, make me purr.”
Then for hours, as dawn rises from darkness and from dawn rises day, they writhe and kiss, contort and scream and in the end they’re left panting, soar and smoking, staring at the skyline. Facepuncher knows the dark and dirty secrets of the city below. He knows that somewhere, right now, a shiny purple papered box with a pretty pink bow is being delivered. And in that box will be a palm-sized atom bomb. But to whom? To where? Why? Wait. What was just happening?
Hold on.
It was something about something small.
A Hamster?
No.
A… Fuck…
“I need to remember what it is I need to find.” Bruce says. “Or something…”
Devouring mountains and shitting boulders since 1978.
Omg.
There is hope, but not for us.
Bruce Facepuncher rolls off his fat wife.
"Baby," she says, "What's wrong?"
Bruce Facepuncher strikes a match off his wife's chin stubble. "What do you mean?"
His wife sighs. "It's just, you're always running around punching people in the face, and you've always done that. But it used to be you'd come home and punch ME in the face. Our relationship has lost its passion."
Bruce pulls smoke in deep. "I'll punch you now." He pulls back his arm. His wife pokes her chin forward, ready for the facial. But just then his pager beeps.
"Shit. I have to go." says Bruce Facepuncher.
His wife walks to the dresser. "Here," she says "if you're going to do some facepunching, at least take your punch glo-"
Bruce Facepuncher snaps his hips and lets his wife have it, right in the jaw. She flips back against the wall and cracks the plaster.
"Oh, Bruce," she says.
"I know," he says. "Love you too."
Bruce Facepuncher picks up his facepunching glove, the one he wears to keep his fists soft for punching his wife, and walks out the door.
[QUOTE=tomstrong83;1002024]
Bruce Facepuncher picks up his facepunching glove, the one he wears to keep his fists soft for punching his wife, and walks out the door.[/QUOTE]
Cool, a Steinbeck-version!
You shuold all date girl with 3 nipples! it heveanly
[QUOTE=Ironman;1002119]You shuold all date girl with 3 nipples! it heveanly[/QUOTE]
Said Yorgi, Bruce Facepuncher's faithful manservant. This retort would normally be met by a resounding facepunch, but Bruce was preoccupied this day. Too much sex and not enough facepunching in the name of freedom. He took his nomex suit and SEAL-class webgear, strapped up, and laid a gloved hand on the door.
"Yorgi," he said. "Pack me a lunch. Tonight - freedom dines alone"
Yorgi pressed the button on the hall wall that caused Michael Bay-style freedom heroic music to pump throughout the house, as Bruce Facepuncher made his way into the glorious American Sunset. Next stop: Terrorville! Passengers: Bruce Facepuncher...and Liberty.
Bruce Facepuncher walks into his office. his chief, Harv FaceScreamer, starts screaming. In his face. "Facepuncher," he shouts, "where's that goddamn paper work?! I got the mayor, the DA, and the entire city council crawling up my ass because of you! You've destroyed 17 cruisers in as many days! All for some little girl!? A little girl is worth half, HALF what one cruiser is worth! I can show you a chart that proves it- you know why? Because I do my goddamn paperwork because I'm not a disgrace to this goddamn department!"
Bruce Facepuncher takes a few deep breaths to calm him down before he pulls his fist out of Facescreamer's face, which he already caved in with his patented Face Punch.
I hate it when people carry on Spike's stories. I want him to carry this one on. Like he did with his zombie one.
Cor, I’ve already spoken to Spike about all of this. It was a misunderstanding. Instead of playing Thread Police with your dollies, go write a story and shut up. If Spike wants this to stop--it stops.
Devouring mountains and shitting boulders since 1978.
I agree with everything Spike says!
It's brilliant.