The Protein Fueled Rampage
This short story is completely satirical yet canon to The End universe. It is a grammatical nightmare filled with excessive em dashes in honor of my hater's own writing style, the same guy who bashed my book because he didn't understand present-tense writing. Enjoy the comedic actions of the Buff Kids club as they tear up the demon-ridden Plains.
We is the Buff Kids Club. Nine—big ass jacked up ten-year-olds with no name whatsoever. We come to your town to kick ass—and took names. None of us spoke. We walk to a NAAF bunker that some limp muscle survivors have turned into a usable shelter—against the demons that roam the Plains. It is safely tucked away from the disciples and monsters and can held up against some sick-ass Firestorms.
We knocked on the heavy aluminum door—some weakling opens it. This pedantic loser opened his mouth—words come out—but it wasn’t meat—so I didn’t give a shit. I knocked again until he finally opens the door. We walk inside to see the looks we get everywhere—jealousy of our rifle-wielding muscles. No limp bicep fool can hold on to these SSIRs like we could—especially when we ran out of ammo and use them like bats. We heard there was trouble in these parts—and there is a reward for taking care of a nest of runts for these weaklings. If they got meat—we have the muscle to took care of problems.
These losers talked about a leader around these parts—apparently—he is anonymous. Whatever that meant. They all say he don’t know shit anyway. I bet he doesn’t even has abs. We walked up to some nerdy philosopher—he is the one who offered the reward. He asks for our APA references or some shit—we just flex our muscles and growled because they speak for themselves. He looks at us all jealous and shit—then pointed us in the direction of the nest. Now we were talking. Time to killed some shit.
We gets to the place that have those carbo-loading demon freaks inside. It looked like some kind of jumbo gas station with way too many gas pumps and a grocery store inside. Some loony adults used to told us that they had the best meat here. Those runts being here was an insult to that protein-packed heaven that place used to been. They isn’t going to been here long. It was time to do what we done best—fucked shit up. We all grab a handful of brimstone dust off the ground—our favorite pre-workout—and snorted it. That be the stuff right there.
All nine of us kicked the wall of the old convenience store in tandem—it falls right over in a crushing plume of dust and debris. We all letted out a deafening creatine-fueled roar as we jump into the hole we just create. Those wimpy little runts look at us in shock and awe—they wished they had pecs like these. One them jumped to oogle our muscle—my first mate grabs it and immediately grabs it by the ribcage and did an overhead tricep curl while squeezing it to death.
A few more fangirl runts try to attack—but we just did some sick as push-ups on their dead bodies. Soon it was a runt party—we are the guest of honor. In unison—we whipped out our SSIRs—it’s batter up. We smack one of them fuckers straight through the dead fleshy walls and out a window—homeran! It be turning into a real slugfest. BONK—BONK—BONK. They all go flewing out of the store. One by one—they lined up to be the next Buff Kids Club record.
Just like always—there is no demon survivors left. A shelf is left stooding in the middle of the store—exactly nine packs of beef jerky sat on the shelf. Unopened—untouched—pure protein perfection. We snatched up the packs and start ripping into them with our tooths. Most people said that their pitiful—muscleless jaws hurt after just one piece but we chews up the whole bag in one big bite. That’d the stuff.
We walks out of the jumbo gas station—beef jerky still stuck in our tooths—when this massive high demon lands right in front of us. Said it was Lucy Noonsun or something stupid—we’s don’t listen to shitheads anywhos. It have giant horns and a stupid scowl on its face like it think it own the place. It lets out a loud roar—trying to look all tough and shit—but it don’t even has traps—Pitiful. We don’t even blink. In unison—we grabs the high demon by its scrawny wings and slams it to the dirt. It be crying like a baby.
I puts my boot right on its ugly face—time to curb stomped this sissy. CRUNCH—CRUNCH—CRUNCH. It go flewing into the pavement until it ain’t stooding no more. That’d teach him to interrupt our post-workout digestions. It explodes into a dark black flame that felt like a cool springter breeze. It doesn’t even left any meat behind on my boot for some snacks later—bitch. Some ugly screeching pussies screech from the sky—I guess it’d time for another workout.
They all swoop down in like one unit—impressive for some wimpy demons with fairy wings. It do not matter though—we just grab their wings and spin them around—smacking the remaining wusses with their weak brotheren. They must’ve be chickens because that’s what these wings taste like we grab.
As we were enjoying our victory snack—the ground starts to shake—must be from our awesome leg biceps. Some blind looking giant jumped out of the ground—I think people called it a wedgie or something—we doesn’t listen anyway. That massive blind bitch think he tough bursting out of the dirt like that. We don’t care about no subterranean armor—it don’t has no muscle definition anyway.
In unison—we grabs the wedgie by its scrawny neck and its waistband—time to showed him what a real atomic wedgie feel like. We pulls its armor plate straight over its head until it lets out a pathetic sissy screech. SNAP—CRUNCH. It explode into a water fountain that felt like an extra crisp springter breeze. Ahhh—the perfect post-cardio cooldown. I bets he didn’t even has abs under all that dirt. Them claws is good for teethpicks too. There is nothing out here worth any kinds of challenge. Time to start walking back to that bunker and gets us some more meat for the road.
We get closer to the bunker—but we tooks a little detour—we didn’t get lost. Our leg biceps are hurted a little from beating down that wedgie—but our motto is all pain—muscle gains. There is another camp—but it wasn’t in a building—it is outside. Must be some serious muscleheads who lived here if they are able to chump a Firestorm. We gots to go shook their hands—and gets some protein from some fellow beefpies.
We walks right up to the tents—ready to shook hands with some fellow beefpies—but then we sees the stupid spiky armor. No—it ain’t no muscleheads. It be the disciples haha. What a bunch of frauds! They didn’t chump no Firestorm—they was probably just hiding in the dirt like little screeching pussies. Our hurted leg biceps got real mad. We grabs the first wuss right by its stick arms and rip them out of their sockets and beat it to death with its own noodle arms. BONK—SLAP—BONK. The other disciples starts shaking in their little spiky boots. They doesn’t know noodle-beating was a tier-one combat style.
We beated up one of the distuples with its own tent and tossed her scrawny ass into the campfire. SZZZZL. She go flewing into the logs like a piece of low-quality protein. The campfire explode into a dark black flame that felt like a cool springter breeze. Ahhh—refreshing. The rest of them wusses better start running before we uses the whole campsite for our next set of tricep dips. Just when we is got warmed up—a crack of purple light and a loud roars in the distance like a majestic lioelephant. Those fake broskis run towards the sound like we aints good enough to whip their asses. Whatever—time look for some post-workout food anywho.
We scrounge around there camp for what feels like an minhour—of course—they don’t not have nothing tasty here. We keep walked toward the camp—ready for our reward. We did way too much worked—if they don’t have no meat—we are going to beat their pedantic asses. They better have the grill fired up and the steaks seasoned—because our hurted leg biceps did not survive a wedgie—a lioelephant—and 100 plus grammatical errors just to eat wimpy vegetables. This time we is for real—we are gone to the camp. We told you we aints lost!
We looked in the distance and see it—the camp—finally within our eighty-seven muscular fingers when suddenly—them demon poodles are standing between us and our meat. They think they look real tough with their curly fire hair—but they just standing in the way of our digestion. Our hurted leg biceps got so mad they forgot they was hurted. In unison—we flexes all eighty-seven of our fingers and gets ready to chump these wimpy mutts. No noodle-legged dog is stealing our reward. The big poodle howled—a group of three of them came charged at us. We hopped over them with bare effort and YOINK them by the tails. BONK—YIP—BONK. We beats them so hard that the rest of the poodle pack looked at each other—wondering why they didn’t has no muscles. Of course—they go ranning away—should be calicos and not poodles—pussies.
We was walking down the dusty road—our chest biceps still vibrating from chumping them fake disciples when suddenly a group of scrawny wasteland scavengers jumped out from behind a ruined car. They had rusty pipes and spiky helmets and looked like they missed every single leg day since the apocalypse started. Pitiful. The leader of the wusses pointed a rusty pistol at my first mate and opened his mouth to say some pedantic nonsense about toll roads and taxes. Words came out but it wasn t steak so we did not give a single shit. He didn’t even notice that my first mate was currently balancing a 400-pound boulder on his traps just to keep his core engaged during our active recovery walk.
In unison—we letted out a synchronized—creatine-fueled roar that shattered the remaining windshields on their wimpy little car. The leader got so scared his little arm noodles started shaking like wet spaghetti. He fired his wimpy little gun but the bullet just bounced right off my left pec bicep and went flewing into the sky. It felt like a crisp springter breeze. My first mate tossed the 400-pound boulder straight at their vehicle and crushed it into a tiny metal pancake. CRUNCH—BONK—SMASH. The scavengers looked at each other wondering why they didn t has no muscles to lift heavy rocks.
One of the wusses tried to run away—but we reaching out with ourz muscular fingers and grabbed him by his waistband. Time for a tier-one mid-apocalypse atomic wedgie. I pulled his dirty underwear straight over his spiky helmet until he let out a pathetic sissy screech and went ranning into the bushes like a screeching calico. The rest of his little fan club realized they was completely outmatched by our superior workout routine. They dropped their rusty pipes and started doing apologies in a very wimpy language that wasn’t fluent creatinese. We don’t accept apologies from people who don’t even has abs under their armor.
We checked their flattened car to see if they had any post-workout macros hidden in the trunk. Of course—they don’t not have nothing tasty here—just some wimpy canned beans and dirt. Gross. Carbo-loading trash. We kicked the entire crushed car carcass down the hill and watched it smash into a pack of low-quality runts in the distance. Homeran! Another Buff Kids Club record locked down. Our hurted leg biceps was feeling real proud of that set but our stomachs was still growling for the main reward. We told you we aints lost and we is definitely ready to eat some real meat.
We gets back to the gate and knocked on the big metal gate. The same loser answers and scoffed in jealousy. We walk on back to where that whakadoo philofisher is—mmm fish. He is stood there—confused when we tossing the head of a runt at his foots. We flex our traps and biceps in his face while growling in creatinese. HURRR—GARRR—SHAKE. The whakadoo philofisher start shaking in his little academic boots because he don’t understand the ancient language of the gym. He probably think we are asking about books—but we were actually telling his scrawny ass to handed over the fried fish right now. He going over to his fancy little bookshelf and pulls out something we had not saw in a fortday—a container of pure protein powder. Fuck yeah! We looking over to a shelf and see a laptop sat there. On the screen in the bottom is a little red circle with the number 184. We don’t gave no shits about grammar! We started smash that thing into little bits. BUFF KIDS CLUB!
“Aren’t those the group of people we saw taking down Vargath?” Alastor nudges my arm.
I look over to see the group of jacked-up children jumping on an old laptop that was already cracked and dead before they even touched it. “Those are—children?” I ask, raising my eyebrows as I look on in horror.
Alastor sucks air through his teeth, “Dafuq?”
The End
