Lady and The Tramp II: Scamp's Adventure: Buster vs. Christine
Furdom never be the same . . .
In a dank alleyway off of George Street in Westfield, MA in southern New England, Buster the Doberman held Angel the Pomeranian pinned down by two heavy front paws, while his twelve-inch curved delicacy member, he continued to force with a great earnestness into the small pup's unwilling mouth. The two constituents were far back enough in the alley to where no streetlight nor human or animal sight could catch or maintain vision of the sexual abuse unfolding deep within the midnight vacancy.
"HOW YOU LIKE THAT, BITCH, HUH? YOU LIKE WHAT DADDY HAS, DON'T YOU, YOU MOTHERFUCKING CUNT ASS BITCH!" shrieked Buster as he bitch-punched Angel deep at the top of her head, attempting to brain damage her, to leave her a mumbling slut, just good for breeding Doberanains, and sucking Buster's creamy, delectable cock. "YOU ARE A LAST- CLASS, SLEAZY CUNT, AND IF YOU DON'T MAKE ME CUM RIGHT NOW, I WILL KILL YOU, YOU WORTHLESS BITCH!"
It was then that two dual-headed lights popped bright, aiming their intensity right at the two canines. They belonged to the spirit and soul of a certain 1958 Plymouth Fury, once killed by a Petunia and a couple of straight punks, yet ran back to life by a starry angel named Furdom.
Christine smiled with a glorious sneer through her ridiculous and wide silver grille. Behind the extra-large pizza wheel sat Arnie Cunningham, re-born for his sins of betraying his family, his friends, and his own self to serve justice upon all the evildoers of Furdom.
With a freak shriek, Buster's lungs caught fire, and his penis and balls seemed to shrink within his lower body. Angel, dazed and confused, but recognizing some form of grace for her own life
(maybe?)
staggered upwards and glanced towards the lights. With a small opening of her muzzle, she groaned a half-scream and fell on her left side, two ribs promising to exit the flesh and fur of her once-glorious cream surface.
Inside Christine, Arnie Cunningham kept it tuned on the ancient oldies; however, nowadays, the occasional 90s alternative came on. Tonight, though, it was pure oldies, and "Hang on, Sloopy" by The McCoys was the drink. "YOU SHITTER," hollered Cunningham through the open, driver's-side window , and stepped hard on the gas. Cunningham and Christine roared off in a red blaze down through the narrow alleyway, as Buster passed a large wet shit all over his back feet and Angel, while trying to make for the dumpster on the left side of the alleyway fifty feet ahead of him to escape the oncoming wrath.
Christine purred a cruel eighty-five, throwing trash and cans and howling awake the decent citizens of Westfield. Lady and Tramp could hear the gnashing of Arnie and his she-demon finding revenge for the wreck of Angel.
"OHHH, GOOODDDD, NOOOO!!!!!" bellowed Buster, who zigzagged for the dumpster, around boxes filled with junk. As the Fury pulled past Angel, Arnie reached way out of his window with great speed and lifted a shaken and shocked arm and pulled her up, laying her gentle on the passenger chair. "It's ok, now," he whispered to her, as he geared down on his prey.
"FUCK YOU!" Buster gave one last shouting plea, as he made to leap for the open dumpster.
But he was too late.
In mid-leap, Buster met with Christine's front window, causing most of his teeth, his nose, and eyes to become new blood-soaked hood ornaments. Still pressing the gas, Christine allowed herself to slam full into the brickwall three hundred feet ahead, grinding the unrecognizable meat into an undesirable pile of gristle and burned shit.
"That's what we do with shit, Angel . . . leave it for someone with a shovel to pick it up. You'll be no one's bitch no more. At least, unwilling."
With a greater fury than before, Christine pulled out of the six hundred foot alleyway, turned left with a boisterous, rubbery screech of tires, and smoked off down Main Street towards downtown. Arnie reached over towards Angel and touched over her soft, healing her ribs in an instant. "You're better now, Angel". In an immediate flash, Angel rose up and started to dance, her eyes blinking, fluffy tail wagging.
"Where are we?"
"You're in my world now, sister. And everything smells just fine. Even better than pussy."
To the greatest writing guru in the world,
Master Stephen King,
May your light shine forever.