INTERNET — Fans mourn the loss of absolute video game legend, Billy Mitchell, also known as The King of Kong, who was found dead in his home in Pensacola, Florida Saturday morning. Police Coroners report that Mitchell was shocked to death while replacing King Kong’s native arcade hardware with a “Raspberry Pi” device commonly used in video game emulation and cheating.
Internet Chronicle reporters failed to reach any loved ones or fans who wished to speak about Mitchell’s illustrious video gaming career. However, one enterprising reporter reached out to Mitchell’s therapy eGirl, Meowdalyn, who told reporters, “He knew he was cheating, we all knew he was cheating. I mean whatever. He was still kinda good at games, I guess, but to him it was just a business. He always had to be the King.”
While still the undisputed King of Kong, Mitchell was also often the center of controversy. Famous for alleged “sockpuppeting” on the internet, Mitchell made use of anonymous accounts to infiltrate the chat rooms of his detractors and sow chaos.
“He was a mastermind of psyops,” according to Jake Davis, former lead hacker of LulzSec and Anonymous. “He was in all of our backchannels for the Sony hack, for AntiSec. He’d send us so many bitcoins, too, I think he owned a Waffle House.”
In another dazzling and unlikely feat of heroic journalism, reporters contacted Sabu, the famous snitch who shut down all of Anonymous for five years. “Yeah that guy was a snitch too, just kinda hanging around the FBI buildings like a bum, working with me all along. He’d brag about cheating his ass off in games. Like, he had so many hacks to improve the chances in his favor, he was just popping capacitors in and out. Blowing his own ROMS. I don’t know why he was fucking with an emulator though, that’s lazy. I guess they’re getting better these days, though. Last week he told me they finally fixed the problem with the level loading patterns and he’d have the world record back. The old man could hack an arcade machine, I’ll give him that. His death is a tragedy, so much knowledge lost. Cut one too many corner, then like in Sonichu, Zap. That’s it.”
Reports indicate the Chris Rock and Jada Pinkett Smith are currently fucking, as Will Smith files final divorce papers.
INTERNET — Just weeks after Will Smith slapped Chris Rock at the Academy Awards, the actor and rapper is announcing he will be divorcing his wife of 25 years, Jada Pinkett Smith.
Jada Pinkett Smith was photographed escorting Chris Rock on Hollywood Boulevard Wednesday after their final divorce papers were filed. Rock told paparazzi, “Big Willie’s mistake was I’m into GI Jane. She’s hot! I like it when a woman pops off.”
Rock was later seen striking a paparazzi photographer, who got up in Jada Pinkett Smith’s face with his camera. Rock dramatically slapped the camera and shouted, “You keep my woman outta your lens!” The gaggle of onlookers broke into uproarious laughter.
This second slapping incident follows the suspicious swatting of Chris Rock, which took place just hours after media first reported Rock’s steamy new public affair with Jada Pinkett Smith. Rock was unharmed, and there is no word on official attribution, only a vague message from a hacker group called BigWillieSec, warning Rock that they will “simp slap” him again, if he continues to fuck Jada.
Jada Pinkett Smith announced her affair with Rock on Monday, posting on Instagram that the couple “found love in the midst of controversy,” as they posed in front of the Hollywood sign. Amber Heard, embroiled in another celebrity drama focusing on female on male mind-control and abuse, commented on the Instagram post to congratulate Jada Pinkett Smith on being a “True Queen.”
Evil John Lennon and Sinister Paul McCartney go triple platinum after writing hit banger, “Got to Get You Into My Strife.”
Mark David Chapman demonstrates how a practical joke that seems like a harmless lark can quickly turn deadly.
Chapman sprays them with silly string, which is fun, until an exposed candle ignites the pile of string.
The pop duo embraces, creating a single flame.
What happens next will leave you horrified!
Final images from Earth.
CLASS I BORDERLESS NATION — My table top is lit by some makeshift candlelight. It’s black. A pile of burning what is certainly wax. It’s so I can write. Unrolling my papers, my scattered pages fall to the floor. These are my documents. The candle suffocates me with its black smoke, but it conceals the light.
A screeching interrupts my thoughts. It’s them.
This is where I am. God help us everyone. What’s happened to our world? Here is how I think we got here. This scorched hellscape. This nothing zone where plants no longer grow, and them: In Their Satanic Majesty, they soar in wicked dominion.
Here is what happened.
Evil John Lennon, man as he was, stood upright, never smoked at all, and has a proclivity for being exceptionally kind to his women and wives.
Sinister Paul. Now here was a man with his shit together. Tattooed and ugly, the “Badboy of Great Britain” Paul McCartney drank it, shot it, snorted it or worse. On his free time, he savagely tortures good souls in Hell.
Together with Rude Ringo and George “Rotten Crotch” Harrison, they wrote the number-one charting hit masterpiece “Got To Get You Into My Strife.” A fun jingle about pulling others into their dark underworld, when played backwards, its psychedelic harmonies become nightmarish spells that when heard, turned rabid fans tame, at the band’s command.
They used this to gain control of the Western Territories, decimating it as they claimed more, until so little of the nations remained, borders all but became meaningless.
Ringo said, “I should get paid for all the time I stand around, slapping my hips and my thighs, like I’m playing the drums, innit.”
John, exhaling cleaner air than what he breathed in, took off his sunglasses, and he turned to me, done signing my book.
“Next,” John said.
Even today, I crave the dismissal. I looked back at John one last time, knowing he was the Devil himself.
Paul, too. The son of a bitch that swooped down from the sky, and with his talons spread open wide swooped down, and scooped out my eyes.
I must have unlocked their powers. No, it certainly happened then. As I “sought revenge” for my ego bruising, I burst and hoped to surprise them. Hoped to catch them unawares in a playful bit of fun, just to let them know, I’m down with the Devil, and I really like their hateful style. I stopped by the party store, and picked up two cans of Silly String. What a gag!
I met them at a candlelit ritual, held every full moon. The town gathered here. As I struck out alone, deep in the forest is where first I saw it: Two flat pink ribbons, rippling in the night, sailed over me like some twirling owl.
As I got closer, the din of voices carried. Familiar voices. I crept in closer. I heard the voices of a teller, a teacher, my wife and a preacher. Not sure what that was about, it will come to me later. There! Ringo was dancing. Paul played the lute, and Linda, still missing that leg, danced. What a hoot.
I sensed an owl watching me as I approached closer, and closer to John, locked arm-in-arm with his band-mate Evil Paul, at an unbridled Satanic ritual pentagram dance. Around the candlelit center they’d go. The owl’s gaze turned, next, to them. All at once, the chanting stopped, everyone turned suddenly and they all looked at me. Heck, I like the Devil.
Surprise! I yelled, and I jumped out from a shadow. I hosed those Brits down with my silly string, blasting both at one time. Everyone turned to me, dumbfounded.
Ain’t I a stinka?
A familiar voice, the airy, nasally, unmistakable voice of John Lennon spoke to me.
“Mark David Chapman?” John asked.
I froze.
“You know me?” I said.
“Of course,” John replied. “I remember everybody I dismiss from my presence. Come here you old brute.”
He tried to pull me in for a hug, but I back away, not wanting to get silly string on my expensive 19th Century peacoat.
Being good-natured as he was, Evil John took it well enough in stride, that is until he took one step backward and – unable to see – stepped on a candle. His clothing ignited and in an instant, his entire body, including the face, was fully engulfed in flames. The fire clung to the string, and melted on his skin like a bubbling napalm jelly.
That is when Paul must have felt the calling. John turned to his songwriting partner and, burning calmly, opened his arms. They hugged. One laughed to the other, as they embraced and both started to burn.
The owl flew away.
Just like that, the party exploded into dance, and as the bodies were writhing, and as the devils came entranced, the fires of old Hell itself seemed to be rising, climbing through the dirt. A beast cried out, demonstrating the true source of thunder.
Now as I lay here suffering, waiting for the night creatures to take me, or the windstorm of bloodsands to weather down my flesh, the scene plays out, over and over again in my head. My instincts drag me to life. Meanwhile, I pray Death may snatch me from this living nightmare, cast like projections from the eyes of the Devil himself, burned onto film of the ritual fires, and rolling into me like four blurry waterfalls, peeking over the ridge.
They arestill out there. I still hear their wings beating on the horizon.
They knowwhere I am.
They hunt.
This fine literary work is brought to you proudly by TerrorMax, a Lebal Drocer Product.
INTERNET — Fans mourn the loss of absolute video game legend, Billy Mitchell, also known as The King of Kong, who was found dead in his home in Pensacola, Florida Saturday morning. Police Coroners report that Mitchell was shocked to death while replacing King Kong’s native arcade hardware with a “Raspberry Pi” device commonly used in video game emulation and cheating.
