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He eased his Triumph to a stop, his head buzzing from the road noise, four Coronas he had before leaving and more importantly - the buzz of victory.
"Everything is coming up Tomlinson", Patrick said to himself. He was rather satisfied with his string of successes lately, after what he had to admit was a period of what could generously be referred to as bad luck.
Most recently, a minor but persistent thorn in his side had been dealt with; a victim of his own success. He had been hosting a weekly podcast - really, nothing more than a circle jerk if Patrick were to be honest with himself - that pored over the minutea of his life, ridiculing every poor decision and stroke of bad luck he had encountered.
But this person had underestimated Patrick and overestimated himself. He got too big for the show, and soon was devoured by the very crowd that he had courted. Patrick sneered at this thought. "I guess that my kung fu was superior after all, child", he said to himself as he placed his helmet upon his handlebars and dismounted his bike.
Then there was the other victory - the other neutralized enemy, which had brought Patrick here to a cemetery in the dead of night. Jon Snyder - Pringles Can John as he was lovingly referred to by friends, family and his adoring public - the man who had stolen Patrick's wife, his child, and his self confidence. Patrick had always vowed that he would live long enough to shit on Jon's grave should he outlive him.
Well, as science would have it, PCJ had died not two weeks ago. And here Patrick was, in the same cemetery which housed his remains, his stomach churning and bubbling like a mad scientist's laboratory with an ungodly concoction of beer and meatloaf swirling about inside. Patrick patted his swollen stomach lovingly.
Almost magic time. Just had to find the son of a bitch first. He took out his lucky pen flashlight, which had served him so well so many times before on such bad faith missions. He activated the light and clasped it between his teeth, using it as a beacon in his search.
He searched row upon row of neglected and overgrown graves, his intestines rumbling in protest at their delayed release, until finally he turned a corner, and without intending to he gasped in shock.
There it was.
A huge, smooth, mushroom shaped marble tombstone gleamed beautifully in the moonlight, a slight, almost imperceptible crack adorning it all ready at its apex. In beautiful script the legend inscribed upon it read -
"BIG" JON SNYDER. GONE NOW, REMEMBERED ALWAYS. OUR LOVE FOR YOU GROWS AND SWELLS.
Beside this were the dates of his birth and his passing, along with a beautifully rendered Pringles can, which must have taken a deft hand to chisel. But more than this was the sheer amount of flowers and memorials which covered the gravesite. It was nothing short of awe inspiring - and more troubling, it presented a problem to Patrick, as it left him very little room in which to conduct his business.
His bowels unloaded with one more angry rumble of slurs and epithets, letting him know that his time was short. Patrick flashed his light upon one particularly lavish flower arrangement which read - "To Jon : You never needed a blue checkmark to be verified. Love, Elon" - and hunched over, scooting it aside, groaning with the effort.
Finally, a patch of earth was visible. It would have to do. Hurriedly, Patrick fumbled with his hands, unbuckling his belt, and lowering his pants. Fortunately for him, he was unencumbered with the burden of underwear and instantly his bare, white cratered ass was visible in the night. His pitiful shriveled turtle dick twitched, momentarily awakening from it's slumber of disuse. Patrick squatted, and relaxed, preparing to cover Jon's grave with his version of Hooligans Soup of the Day.
"Patrick!"
He stopped. He picked the flashlight up and shone it around, but saw nothing - and more importantly, nobody. Shrugging it off, he sighed, and returned his attention to the business at hand.
"PATRICK TOMLINSON!"
The voice boomed this time, and sounded close. Really close. Patrick spun the flashlight behind him and bolted to his feet in shock at the sight of a big, broad, bald bulk of manhood standing behind him, cast in an unearthly ethereal glow. He was garbed in the cloak and flowing robes of a Jedi, a lightsaber dangling at his hip. Patrick couldn't believe his eyes, and gulped in shock.
"J-Jon?! Is that you?!"
The spirit before him smiled warmly. "In the flesh - well, so to speak".
"You were a Jedi?!"
Jon chuckles warmly. "Me? Heck no! But my cock was a Jedi Master".
Patrick's eyes darted downward to PCJ's groin, and saw that his penis was also cloaked in flowing Jedi robes, with a lightsaber scaled to proportion dangling at it's side. His cock seemed to growl like an apex predator, and Pat's shriveled cock whimpered in deference, retreating into Patrick's body cavity. Flummoxed, Pat pulled his pants back up.
"But - but how? How are you here? You died, child!"
PCJ sighed, his hands clasped behind his back as he circled Pat, looking for the right words. "Look Patrick, I have seen your high school transcripts, so I will try and put this in a way you understand. Life and death aren't as binary as you might think. True, my body is at peace, resting within this very earth. But when a man is truly loved, and adored, his spirit will live on. And I don't think that I need to tell you how much Adrienne loved me".
Patrick snorted with anger, then sneered defiantly. "Well child, be that as it may, let me just remind you that I had her first!".
PCJ looked over at Patrick, his eyebrows playfully arched. "Oh? That's true, I suppose. But you know, the GoBots were first to market ahead of the Transformers. Who won that one?"
Patrick's brow furrowed in anger. "You are mentally ill, stlaker. You have been instructed to ceas- *urk*!"
Patrick fell to his knees, clutching at his throat as his face reddened. His throat was constricting, and he was struggling to breathe.
"Your copypasta has no power over me, Patrick. We talk as men here, or we don't talk at all. Do you understand me?"
Patrick nodded his head in agreement frantically, and finally his breath returned to him. He fell forward onto his hands and knees, panting and making a mental note of this felony spectral assault.
PCJ's feet stood before him as he looked down with Patrick with utter disdain. "Stand up, Patrick. I have some things that I would like to show you."
END PART ONE
"Everything is coming up Tomlinson", Patrick said to himself. He was rather satisfied with his string of successes lately, after what he had to admit was a period of what could generously be referred to as bad luck.
Most recently, a minor but persistent thorn in his side had been dealt with; a victim of his own success. He had been hosting a weekly podcast - really, nothing more than a circle jerk if Patrick were to be honest with himself - that pored over the minutea of his life, ridiculing every poor decision and stroke of bad luck he had encountered.
But this person had underestimated Patrick and overestimated himself. He got too big for the show, and soon was devoured by the very crowd that he had courted. Patrick sneered at this thought. "I guess that my kung fu was superior after all, child", he said to himself as he placed his helmet upon his handlebars and dismounted his bike.
Then there was the other victory - the other neutralized enemy, which had brought Patrick here to a cemetery in the dead of night. Jon Snyder - Pringles Can John as he was lovingly referred to by friends, family and his adoring public - the man who had stolen Patrick's wife, his child, and his self confidence. Patrick had always vowed that he would live long enough to shit on Jon's grave should he outlive him.
Well, as science would have it, PCJ had died not two weeks ago. And here Patrick was, in the same cemetery which housed his remains, his stomach churning and bubbling like a mad scientist's laboratory with an ungodly concoction of beer and meatloaf swirling about inside. Patrick patted his swollen stomach lovingly.
Almost magic time. Just had to find the son of a bitch first. He took out his lucky pen flashlight, which had served him so well so many times before on such bad faith missions. He activated the light and clasped it between his teeth, using it as a beacon in his search.
He searched row upon row of neglected and overgrown graves, his intestines rumbling in protest at their delayed release, until finally he turned a corner, and without intending to he gasped in shock.
There it was.
A huge, smooth, mushroom shaped marble tombstone gleamed beautifully in the moonlight, a slight, almost imperceptible crack adorning it all ready at its apex. In beautiful script the legend inscribed upon it read -
"BIG" JON SNYDER. GONE NOW, REMEMBERED ALWAYS. OUR LOVE FOR YOU GROWS AND SWELLS.
Beside this were the dates of his birth and his passing, along with a beautifully rendered Pringles can, which must have taken a deft hand to chisel. But more than this was the sheer amount of flowers and memorials which covered the gravesite. It was nothing short of awe inspiring - and more troubling, it presented a problem to Patrick, as it left him very little room in which to conduct his business.
His bowels unloaded with one more angry rumble of slurs and epithets, letting him know that his time was short. Patrick flashed his light upon one particularly lavish flower arrangement which read - "To Jon : You never needed a blue checkmark to be verified. Love, Elon" - and hunched over, scooting it aside, groaning with the effort.
Finally, a patch of earth was visible. It would have to do. Hurriedly, Patrick fumbled with his hands, unbuckling his belt, and lowering his pants. Fortunately for him, he was unencumbered with the burden of underwear and instantly his bare, white cratered ass was visible in the night. His pitiful shriveled turtle dick twitched, momentarily awakening from it's slumber of disuse. Patrick squatted, and relaxed, preparing to cover Jon's grave with his version of Hooligans Soup of the Day.
"Patrick!"
He stopped. He picked the flashlight up and shone it around, but saw nothing - and more importantly, nobody. Shrugging it off, he sighed, and returned his attention to the business at hand.
"PATRICK TOMLINSON!"
The voice boomed this time, and sounded close. Really close. Patrick spun the flashlight behind him and bolted to his feet in shock at the sight of a big, broad, bald bulk of manhood standing behind him, cast in an unearthly ethereal glow. He was garbed in the cloak and flowing robes of a Jedi, a lightsaber dangling at his hip. Patrick couldn't believe his eyes, and gulped in shock.
"J-Jon?! Is that you?!"
The spirit before him smiled warmly. "In the flesh - well, so to speak".
"You were a Jedi?!"
Jon chuckles warmly. "Me? Heck no! But my cock was a Jedi Master".
Patrick's eyes darted downward to PCJ's groin, and saw that his penis was also cloaked in flowing Jedi robes, with a lightsaber scaled to proportion dangling at it's side. His cock seemed to growl like an apex predator, and Pat's shriveled cock whimpered in deference, retreating into Patrick's body cavity. Flummoxed, Pat pulled his pants back up.
"But - but how? How are you here? You died, child!"
PCJ sighed, his hands clasped behind his back as he circled Pat, looking for the right words. "Look Patrick, I have seen your high school transcripts, so I will try and put this in a way you understand. Life and death aren't as binary as you might think. True, my body is at peace, resting within this very earth. But when a man is truly loved, and adored, his spirit will live on. And I don't think that I need to tell you how much Adrienne loved me".
Patrick snorted with anger, then sneered defiantly. "Well child, be that as it may, let me just remind you that I had her first!".
PCJ looked over at Patrick, his eyebrows playfully arched. "Oh? That's true, I suppose. But you know, the GoBots were first to market ahead of the Transformers. Who won that one?"
Patrick's brow furrowed in anger. "You are mentally ill, stlaker. You have been instructed to ceas- *urk*!"
Patrick fell to his knees, clutching at his throat as his face reddened. His throat was constricting, and he was struggling to breathe.
"Your copypasta has no power over me, Patrick. We talk as men here, or we don't talk at all. Do you understand me?"
Patrick nodded his head in agreement frantically, and finally his breath returned to him. He fell forward onto his hands and knees, panting and making a mental note of this felony spectral assault.
PCJ's feet stood before him as he looked down with Patrick with utter disdain. "Stand up, Patrick. I have some things that I would like to show you."
END PART ONE
