Comments

'MURIKKKA!

acab

Because i have money but not that rich

*AOC hemorrhages

A few rapes vs millions of murders

It’s a great story with heart. Plane and simple. LOL.

Please make it so import have to,do my job.

Or, alternately,
This represents comic book afficianadoes.

Are these really true flowers, smiley skulls? Never seen these before

This is my problem with vice thier too much of a 50/50 on being bias with what they do. Some of vice really want to provide good journalism on important matters such as human trafficking of refugees. Then there's this shit where they just bitch about important shit.

youtu.be/OA3PqJxQkhU also this. You're welcome.

Thought it was Japan but ok.

Forgot to ‚lock the x and y axis to scale‘ on this bad boy... imagine how stretched a movie would look on this thing.... or a maximized window... but yeah, i guess its ok for... ehm... err... looking impressive on a desk?:p

Put it back then!

Its a sunburn i think

Thanos’ warship flying overhead?

#chaotic good

Give me something to eat, the boy repeated with his eyes locked on Kawakami’s. He had no fear. Kawakami thought of the injustice of the boy’s penury. He thought of the lives he’d taken to protect the innocent. To settle the score for the defenseless. To bring fairness to the maligned. Yet, despite his lifetime of efforts to bring goodness to the world, here was this dirty child on his doorstep begging impetuously for food.
'
The way of the shinobi ends with me, Kawakami decided long ago. Perhaps, he thought to himself. Perhaps.
'
Kawakami invited the boy inside. [END]

The way of the shinobi ends with me, Kawakami decided long ago. Kawakami roused himself from his daydream and rose from his chair to prepare himself a cup of tea, his rigid muscles begging him for just a few more moments of rest. He heard a knock as he moved toward the kitchen. Slowly, he turned, shuffled to his door, and opened it.
'
Give me something to eat, the dirty boy in front of him demanded. He stared at Kawakami with steely eyes. His hair was matted. His clothes were soiled. He stunk worse than she looked. They only used to beg in the streets, Kawakami thought to himself. Their hunger is making them bold.

Kawakami remembered when he received the order from the government leader whose son had fallen victim to Sugiyama’s drugs. He remembered how he silently slit the throats of the three bodyguards patrolling Sugiyama’s home before he stealthily scaled the roof and opened his daughter’s bedroom window. He remembered how her eyes widened with fear when he crossed her room in two swift steps and covered her mouth before she could scream. He remembered how she pleaded for mercy with those same eyes once he placed the tip of his kunai beneath her chin. And he remembered the warmth of her blood as it spilled down his forearm after he thrust the kunai upward into her brain.
'
Sugiyama had taken life from many. And for that he had to pay.

Thus, he felt nothing whenever he pierced his targets’ hearts, eviscerated their bowels, or lopped off their heads. Wiping away their lives was as simple as wiping the sweat from his brow. But he felt something when he killed the 14-year old daughter of a notorious pharmaceutical executive, Sugiyama Hirotada, whose company made Cotyoxin, a popular opioid that ‘9 out of 10 doctors recommended.’
'
Sugiyama made his fortune off the drug but made millions more by selling a contaminated version of it on the black market. Countless Japanese became hooked on Cotyoxin, then turned to his black-market equivalent when their prescriptions ran out. He had created a nation of addicts and amassed his fortune on the backs of his countrymen. Sugiyama had taken life from many. And for that, he had to pay.

And so, for him, it did. Thirty years ago, he wrapped his shuriken in cloth and locked them in a box in the attic never to be opened again. Twenty years ago, he donated his swords and shozoku to a prominent museum with a robust wing on feudal Japan. Ten years ago, he burned the last of the sacred scrolls that codified the way of his art. And each day, he pushed the memories of the many lives that he’d taken to the farthest reaches of his mind.
'
Kawakami had assassinated many men in his lifetime – scores of corrupt politicians, dozens of foreign spies, several mob leaders, and handful of other shinobi. All to keep peace among the public and order in the lives of his fellow citizens. He killed to shield the defenseless. He was justice for the forsaken.

[Note: This is fiction. It is a common story line and I did two minutes of actual research on ninja. I just felt like writing this after reading this meme. Anyway, here you go.]
'
Kawakami Jinichi, the last ninja, knew his days were numbered. His ankles screamed once his feet touched the floor in the morning. His bones begged for relief on his afternoon walks. The knots in his back prodded him awake each night. He knew in his old age that his body was bearing the burdens that his soul could no longer carry.
'
The way of the shinobi ends with me, Kawakami decided long ago. The purpose of life is to bring forth more life, he mused, but we ninja bring only death to the world. We are an antithesis to the natural order with no counterbalance. Our path will stop with me.

and we do

It seems like a lot have been falling from a carved tree much work for someone?

Bulimia doesn’t work tried it

I watched in terror as the Mormons writhed in pain until their heavenly bodies fell dead – only to be reanimated and start screaming in agony again because the booze was still in their systems. I saw them rise and fall time and time again, weeping in woe and gnashing their teeth. Heaven was on fire. Babies screamed. The archangels were in a murderous rage. Men and women were conjoined in one endless, moaning body. The entire scene looked like it was straight out of… well…
'
Hell.
'
So, here I am in an elevator with only one button that says ‘DOWN’. It’s been dropping for what feels like longer than I was alive, maybe more. I don’t know what awaits me once the doors open after I get to my final destination. But one thing’s for certain once I get there…
'
The guy that shot that three-pointer ain’t got nothing on me.

It wasn’t until the Mormons that I knew that spiking the punch was the biggest mistake of my afterlife. It wasn’t the archangel brawl that broke out after Michael king-punched Gabriel shouting “God doesn’t love band camp pussies!” It wasn’t the incestuous dance floor orgy with Noah dead center making a literal Ham sandwich with his son and his wife. And it wasn’t when Elijah set Limbo on fire with flat infanticide in his eyes. No, I knew it was a mistake once the Mormons started dropping like flies.
Everyone knew the Mormons didn’t drink. But no one knew it was because of a fatal allergy they all had that was passed down from generation to generation. Turns out they didn’t stay sober out of piety. They stayed sober because a sip of the drink was more lethal to a Latter-Day Saint than being a student in an American public school. Death was all but certain. And apparently, a shot of booze hurt a Mormon more than being shot with a bullet.

I'd like to disagree but... Honestly, I was a sucker for Shego. Can you blame me though?

Umm.. NSFW .. Hello?

Honestly you think of it as horror until the realization of the fact that the show has been meticulously researched and is completely factual

lovely

F

~ in the name of the muffler, the brake, and the holy battery ~

I didn't want my kids to be "the kids whose dad killed himself."

aww poor bb doesn't want his whiskers getting wet

Am I the only one who has an obsessive desire to take a paint scraper to that ball...

Theres no way this is true

My joystick is in my hand...now what

How do you know she saved the koala, and didnt just kill the mother and steal the baby???

The depression didn't start until 1929...

Then I throw it in reverse and enter it all over again