Well, it finally happened. The fucker has been telling us to kill him for years and someone finally did it. And boy did they ever do it. Of course, we couldn't be the ones that did it. We liked the rotten bastard too much and, let's face it, we're malicious enough cunts that keeping him alive was just funnier. Some people just don't have senses of humor though, some people just don't have the capacity for fun, and we all know The Good Reverend had a talent for finding precisely that sort.
The day started like any other for our beloved Rain God. He woke up and considered the toilet for a proper few minutes before, in a self control derived from malice, holding it in until he could cause serious damage to not only the plumbing system but also the psyches of his co-workers. Then he yelled at nothing for 49 seconds. What came after I'm actually rather repulsed by so I'll just skip to the important part.
Filthy Assistant, Jim, the inept engineers and the blowhards were all in on it. They found out what badwrong fun is, the Good Reverend way, and they wanted in. Or so they told him. There was a Tea Party rally in the Holy City of Tucson that day, they told him. It was time for them to all join in and shit some deranged hate on the mouthbreathers of their town. Look, one said, we even have these fliers.
Now ordinarily the ruse would have been seen right through, but the lot of them were convening with the Spider and TGRR was all looped out on an extra dose or eight of pills that day. We still aren't sure if he thought he was going to stomp on some teabagger tards or ridicule some pagans in the park or go yell at the Arizona wildfires. So they arrived, this little entourage and the rabble was, as they say, roused. Just before the whole thing came to a close, The Reverend's crew pointed at the mic just sitting there, waiting, and said to him "Do it. This is the time."
All fucked up he walked to that podium and he grabbed the offending mic and opened up his gullet to allow a sermon to be sung. But something was wrong. They weren't angry, like they should be. They weren't listening, even, they were just standing there, eyes hungry and bodies poised.
It's been a long time since anybody was drawn and quartered but suffice it to say the act, and sight ain't pretty. When they hooked up each of The Good Reverend Roger's limbs to the backs of four Rascal scooters I don't think any of them were prepared for the surprising amount of horse power they provide. He was torn grotesquely in the four directions of the compass and they all cheered, however briefly that victory lasted. But of course their subsidized mobility assistance devices were strong enough to haul a land whale, so as he came apart at the seams, all contained therein catapulted out of him with the ferocity of even his most bowl shattering poomps.
The smell was horrible. Fresh meat isn't supposed to stink like that. They didn't know, like we do, that he'd been rotting on the inside for quite a while. Everything was discolored and there was far, far more fecal matter than even I am comfortable with discussing. It shorted the Rascals and it landed in the gaping mouths of the assembled Teabaggers. Filthy Assistant had some unidentifiable stuff strike him in the eye. He wears a patch over it know, not for blindness, but they say he sees things out of it that he just should not.
And that was how it ended, friends.
