Frank Dieselwang vs. Pumpkin Smashers LLC Part 2

Frank had just finished cleaning out the store with a mighty throw, chucking the 50 pound trash bag of crumbled pumpkin and squash type muck into a dumpster as though it were merely 5 pounds, which was a strong but not guaranteed indicator that Frank was ten times stronger than a normal man, but clearly it can be seen that he is one not to be messed with, in spite of his good humor and being good with children. 

Original content taken by Alexander

Cinderella smiled at him, “I thought you were just here to be the muscle, but it seems you have a really good sensibility when it comes to sanitary practices and a helpful kind manner.”

Frank clapped the pumpkin goop off his hands, and grinned back at her, “No problem Ms. Hubbard, it’s the least that I could do, as a kind person and not because I am a man who is trying to get into your pants,” which was clearly a trustworthy thing to say since he was trustworthy and you’ll have to take the author’s word for it.

Suddenly, a thunderous crash sounding like fifty pumpkins being smashed with steel bats rang from across the street, blasting away the peace and the risk that the reader would be subject to some rather poor conversational writing. As Frank, Cinderella, and that easily forgotten generic side character who I guess we’ll call Bob because it’s faster, looked over, they saw the villains of the story staring them down, wearing various terrible costumes  but all with the logo of a hammer and a pumpkin beneath it, and fire and sparks and clearly the author should commission some art because sometimes a picture is worth a lot, like maybe a bit more than 999 words, but not necessarily more than 1001. 

Frank stared them down through the newly washed window through the stained glass pumpkins and acorn squash that decorated the window, then stepped out of the store to face them. “You must be the Pumpkin Smashing Gang.”

Their leader, who was clearly their leader because of their increased height and shoulder broadness, as well as the totally sweet looking mask that looked like the top half of a smashed Jack O Lantern, bellowed back a correction. “Actually we are the Pumpkin Smashers LLC! We find that the advantages of this structure allow us to be more competitive with other smashing groups due to more favorable tax treatment!”

Frank smirked and pounded his right hand into his left palm, a few times, to make the point clear that they were in for a pounding. “Alright Pumpkin Smashers S Corp, you’re going down!”

The leader picked up their bat and roared back, charging forward with the anger of a train engine that could express the anger of emotion, bat held high, “I said LLC!”

Frank met their charge head on, batting the bat out of the leader’s hand like a bat hit by a bat, with his left hand, and punched their face with a meaty right hand. 

“Well I guess that means, you’re liable to get smacked down,” quipped Frank, belying a deep enough understanding of LLCs to make a relevant joke.

With the a sudden crack, like the kind you see in a plumber’s jeans as they lean underneath your sink, the semi Jack O’ Lantern mask cracked on the leader’s freshly punched face, splitting into two equal approximately equal parts. The leader’s distinctly feminine appearing face was a surprise to Frank momentarily, but that surprise was quickly dashed by the look of menacing snarliness on their face. 

Frank looked at her curiously nonetheless, “Oh, I had no idea you were a woman!”

She growled back at him, “I consider myself a man!”

Frank nodded, relenting, “Then you are a man. Let us duel, man to man in this case, because even though you are a foe I respect your identity!”

The leader nodded back “Thanks, I appreciate that, but unfortunately this pumpkin store needs to be smashed, and you are in the way, so  we will smash you as well!” He growled, “Get him!” The leader pointed a finger forward, at Frank, and not a coincidence. The gang, I mean LLC, charged forward. Belated, it should be mentioned that there were twenty of them, aside from the leader.

Frank easily handled two of them, grabbing their heads and smashing them towards each other like two hands clapping, clocking them together like two heads being hit into each other, and their heads made a dull thudding noise, as dull as a calculus teacher is to a student who really dislikes calculus.

He turned around, setting the manliest of jaws in a deep grimace, bracing for impact with the other 18, which is a number we know of based on arithmetic. 

With a sudden repetitious impact, three heads were slammed with what sounded like a hard hollow object at rapid pace. Frank looked up at his surprising ally, Cinderella “Sugar Pie” Hubbard, brandishing a staff tipped with two laminated pumpkins on the ends. 

She smiled back at him as she held the remaining 15 off if you were keeping count. “By the way, I know Pump-Kin-Do, and I just needed help, not a hero. Thanks for the help!” With that she yelled an amazonian cry and charged into the Fray, Frank laughing behind her as he rushed to support her defense of Gourdness Gracious.

To be continued…. 

Frank Dieselwang vs. the Pumpkin Smashers LLC part 1

The One Stop Squash Store, Gourdness Gracious, was arrayed in shambles, orange flesh and gore covering the room, a testament to the dudebomb that just exploded there, which is not an actual bomb, but definitely a bunch of dudes that went in and went apeshit in it, causing such damage that it appeared like a bomb had went off.

Taken by mikekanyo

"We can't handle another attack like this!" bellowed Cinderella "Sugar Pie" Hubbard, frustration evident on her frustration covered face. "The Pumpkin Smashing Gang We need someone to stop this from happening again!"

Hands on her highly functional hips that don't lie because hips are incapable of expressing thoughts, let alone vocalizing them, Cinderella was a picture of entirely justified anger that would not be derided or looked down upon because of her gender like in other fiction even from well meaning authors.

"Whatever shall we do!" simpered a generic side character who will be forgotten as soon as this sentence ends. "The police won't help because of some convenient reason that requires us to pursue alternative methods of recourse!"

Suddenly, the door swung open, pushed open by a tanned rough callused hand that bespoke of a lifetime of being in the outdoors, hard work, and probably punching things. This hand was followed by a similarly tanned, rough, but not callused forearm, then a bicep, and a shoulder, and finally a head.

This head, belonged to Frank Dieselwang.

"I hear you have a problem, that needs to be squashed."

"Actually, squash is our business, but we do need a man of your...qualifications, " Cinderella's eyes flicked up and down his well sculpted frame, which appeared to be carved out of mahogany, and detailed like a luxury car that just got detailed. She also checked out his package.

Frank smiled at her correction, his masculinity not being so fragile that the tiniest correction would make him fly off the handle like some people, not naming names, and nodded. "We'll get this shop back in order, or my name isn't Frank Dieselwang."

Which it was.

Frank Dieselwang & The CDC & The Toxic Dude Outbreak - Finale

With a superhuman effort, Frank Dieselwang and Shellandra Foreheart-Stiner Coldcrusher, but you can call her Shelly, applied their brainpower to the situation at hand, taking a respite from an intense skirmish, as evidenced by the smell of Axe and the plethora of  torn Ed Hardy shirts scattered across the nice guy blasted landscape.

Taken by Michael Sauers

Aside from a bit of sweat, and lack of shirt, and slightly elevated heartrate which caused his enormous pectorals and laser etched abdominals to heave just so, Frank was perfectly whole, and he looked on next to Shelly as she stared down the huge 90s style computer terminal at the top of the building they found themselves in after a metric ton of fighting.

Frank Dieselwang and that one guy who doesn't like Social Justice

Frank Dieselwang bounced his pectorals intimidatingly at the dudebro wearing the gaming T shirt, a trilby that he ignorantly called a fedora.

"You broke the code of conduct, and you were warned and you still kept on being abusive. You should have been kicked out long ago!"

"SJWs and Feminists are winning I dema....!" Frank's fist of great social justice smashed into the dudebro's jaw, blasting the dudebro into the sky, Team Rocket style.

Frank rubbed fist lightly, mostly to wipe off the day's worth of cheek sweat that he had touched.

He sighed, "I can't wait for Big Bad Con 2016, this would probably not happen there."

(OOC Author's Note: Sorry for the short post everyone, I had a great weekend at Big Bad Con! If you're a Bay Area Local, you should check it out)

Breinded Uther and the Wryters Bloch (feat. Frank Dieselwang)

Breinded Uther stared blankly across the way, resigned. The bridge to his path to freedom, and escape was blocked. Armed with several energy drinks, two pilot pens and an inspirational quote, he was unable to muster his energies to fight the most vicious of foes ahead of him, the Enemy of Creation, the Eater of Inspiration, the Wryters Bloch.

Breinded looked behind him, the streets of paved text behind him, a testament to his good works, but he could not see a path behind the Wryters Bloch to get to the promised land of Dedlein.

“Please…. I just want to pass.”

The Wryters Bloch merely stared back, placid, unmoving, but unsurpassable. There would be nothing to fear, no attack, no derision, aside from the plague of self doubt that is spawned from your inaction in the face of it.

Breinded slumped a little harder. “Someone, someone please help me.”

Like a blast of lightning shot from a cannon that was modified to shoot lightning thanks to rubber and other things, Frank Dieselwang, arms flexed as tight as olympic swimmers in the most tensed part of a butterfly stroke, burst in, wearing a Muse shirt because he just left a Muse concert, which was not at all some kind of reference to writing. With a roar and swing, he blasted the Wryters Bloch, Bane of Beauty, the Warden against Wordcount, into dissipating nothingness.

Breinded looked up, and Frank turned back, eyes firm and manly, hand held out. “I won’t carry you to Dedlein, but I believe you can get there with your own two feet. Will you get there?”

Breinded took Frank’s hand and looked up with thanks, “Thank you, I think I’ll be able to make it.”

Frank Dieselwang and the Somewhat Anachronistic Bootlegger

"Nyah nyah, you'll never get away with this copper! Nyah!' said that not at all dated mafioso armed with a tommy gun and a fedora but not in the nice guy sort of way, as he menaced Frank Dieselwang with the aforementioned tommy gun.

"We'll see about that Caponata Coglione!" Frank Dieselwang declared right back, suddenly taking his shirt off for really no discernable reason, baring himself in the mid afternoon sun, his nipples aimed aggressively towards his aggressor. The size and firmness of his erect nipples clearly demonstrated a physical opposition and willingness to fight for his beliefs and justice.

Frank Dieselwang and the Sumo Earl (or maybe Duke)

With a thunderous roar, the Earl of Sumo shouted at Frank Dieselwang "I AM THE EARL OF SUMO," in a loud way, which was perhaps a bit of a redundant sentence the author realized after failing to proof it the first time. The volume was of the power to shatter mugs, shattering all mugs within a 100 yard vicinity, yet all of the glasses within that vicinity remained untouched, because it was a mug shattering shout, not a glass shattering shout. There was also a glass mug, which was kind of strange but not unheard of, and it crack a bit to be unusable but it didn't exactly shatter.

Sumo Taxi, taken by Richard Pluck

Frank Dieselwang & the CDC vs. the Toxic Dude Outbreak, Part the Second

"You're starting to turn into your moth..." began a young man wearing a Limp Bizkit shirt, before Frank shoulder checked into a dumpster.

Frank began to show slight signs of exertion, which for him meant that sweat was dripping at a slightly increased rate from his hot, sculpted torso, glistening and highlighting the creases in his abdominals. He flexed his chest, causing his pectorals to bounce up and down at an andante tempo, much like Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 21.