Whatever Happened to Rev. Payne?

[Richter]

You all remember Payne?  Hell, how could we forget him?  Our favorite freelance bum, author of a thousand WOMPs, purveyor of caustic Scotch wit (Feck off.), and survivor of incredible occurrences. 

He personally de-clogged the WOMP transport tunnel with a single thunderous fart, put down a pint in victory, and belched so loudly it collapsed the other half.  He cunningly did this all at midnight too, so the cave in fell on the day it was the North American Cabal's turn to clean.  Some say that's what laid him low, that the pressure wave of both emissions, dopplering unpredictably in the odd strictures of a custom made MS Paint wormhole, blew his head up like a grape.  This is spurious fiction though, easily refuted by the production of later writings.  Or perhaps it is truth, and he met his first death in the tunnel that day, beginning his cycle of occasional turgid resurrections.

The miracle of repeated resurrections bears examination too.  He's the only person known to be on drinking buddy terms with St. Peter (by necessity, the most jaded bureaucrat of the heavenly host).  Jesus Christ and Rasputin are both pissed at him for spoiling their death-defying antics, and have sworn an ass – whupping upon him.  They have yet to settle this, since tracking Payne down means they'd have to settle with him for their bar tab. 

Some say Pixie killed him and hid his body in the basement.  Again, a rancid fabrication.  Pixie is far too nice to do such a thing.  (He's trussed up in the attic, at worst)

Working chronologically, from Spagbook and WOMP archives (CERTAINLY RELIABLE SOURCES) Payne, at best, died fighting a horrible bar of soap in an anonymous shower – bath.  Cheubs shart themselves at the sight of the horrible wrath writ across his face, and the very curtains of reality tremble at the thought of him locked in such strife.  Payne may still live, and may still return, it's true, but for now, the dossier cannot be completed without more reliable contacts or sightings.

[P3nT4gR4m]

Speaking as someone who has actually stood in the presence of Payne, somone who has touched the hem of his garment (yes that's a euphemism and no, my genitals will probably never function in the correct manner again) I'd just like to say that I'm glad he's dead. Like something out of HP Lovecraft's necronomicon he seems to bend time and space so that, although you know you're looking at a borderline midget who, at best, stands 5 foot tall in his socks, he gives the impression that he's roughly the size of a modest tower block. The illusion is palpable and accompanied by a high pitched buzzing noise that causes waves of paranoia, nausea and vomitting which increase in ferocity the longer you look at him.

Actually, now that I think about it that may have been caused by the drugs but they were paynes drugs, he forced me to take them ... actually ... no, that's right, they were my drugs but Payne was there, goddamnit. Fuck the little bastard 

[Pope Pixie Pickle]

I ated him. he went very nicely with a pinot. 

[Payne]

You all remember Payne?  Hell, how could we forget him?  Our favorite freelance bum, author of a thousand WOMPs, purveyor of caustic Scotch wit (Feck off.), and survivor of incredible occurrences. 

He personally de-clogged the WOMP transport tunnel with a single thunderous fart, put down a pint in victory, and belched so loudly it collapsed the other half.  He cunningly did this all at midnight too, so the cave in fell on the day it was the North American Cabal's turn to clean.  Some say that's what laid him low, that the pressure wave of both emissions, dopplering unpredictably in the odd strictures of a custom made MS Paint wormhole, blew his head up like a grape.  This is spurious fiction though, easily refuted by the production of later writings.  Or perhaps it is truth, and he met his first death in the tunnel that day, beginning his cycle of occasional turgid resurrections.

The miracle of repeated resurrections bears examination too.  He's the only person known to be on drinking buddy terms with St. Peter (by necessity, the most jaded bureaucrat of the heavenly host).  Jesus Christ and Rasputin are both pissed at him for spoiling their death-defying antics, and have sworn an ass – whupping upon him.  They have yet to settle this, since tracking Payne down means they'd have to settle with him for their bar tab. 

Some say Pixie killed him and hid his body in the basement.  Again, a rancid fabrication.  Pixie is far too nice to do such a thing.  (He's trussed up in the attic, at worst)

Working chronologically, from Spagbook and WOMP archives (CERTAINLY RELIABLE SOURCES) Payne, at best, died fighting a horrible bar of soap in an anonymous shower – bath.  Cheubs shart themselves at the sight of the horrible wrath writ across his face, and the very curtains of reality tremble at the thought of him locked in such strife.  Payne may still live, and may still return, it's true, but for now, the dossier cannot be completed without more reliable contacts or sightings.

Lies.

Cunning lies, to be sure. but lies never the less.

I am currently working on a new project (you may have heard rumours about it, I'm calling it Atheism 2.0 - Dawkins is not invited to the party.)

I whill, however take time out of my busy development schedule to correct your sladerous misinformation, to wit:

Every day is the North American Cabals day to clean the WOMP tube. Specifically, every day is Richters turn to clean the WOMP tube. Perhaps if he didn't drink so much of the patented devil brew that is Death Coffee, it wouldn't get clogged so much in the first place. Additionally, I note that its time dilation effects are weakening lately. This too, I blame on Richter.

Secondly, as my head is made from 30% titanium, I feel that no matter the lattice structure of any MS Paint Wormhole, no dopplering effect would be sufficient to blow it up. That's right. I have metal in my head, but I'm not greasy and long haird and doing all that "YAR METAL SIGN DEVIL HORNS" business. Deal with it.

Jesus is a pussy. Ever since he came off the powder (the morning after his infamous Temple blow out) he hasn't been the same. Fucking emo "Oh father why hast thou forsaken me?" Daddy just got sick of the fucking MCR, amirite? Anyway, Grigori and I have an agreement in place that we shall never settle our respective debts to eachother. We are trying to figure out a new system of economics based entirely in pintage, and alcohol volume. I'm sure you can see that 'Bar Tabs' are entirely insufficient for measurement in such a system.

Lastly, Pixie has neither locked me in the basement, or hidden me in the attic. In fact she has recently been helping me in my scientific attempts to further cyborgify myself. We are currently running 25% mechanisation, based on an old example of an exo-skeleton I designed. Pixie wants to replace the scaffolding tubes and the brabus V8 with something sexier, but at least we agree on the duct tape. And the go faster stripes. The picture wo which you are referring was an early experiment in fully articulated prehensile steel laminate tongue replacement. It unfornutaely failed.

Peace, Brother. I shall rise again, will ye, nil ye.

[Payne]

Speaking as someone who has actually stood in the presence of Payne, somone who has touched the hem of his garment (yes that's a euphemism and no, my genitals will probably never function in the correct manner again) I'd just like to say that I'm glad he's dead. Like something out of HP Lovecraft's necronomicon he seems to bend time and space so that, although you know you're looking at a borderline midget who, at best, stands 5 foot tall in his socks, he gives the impression that he's roughly the size of a modest tower block. The illusion is palpable and accompanied by a high pitched buzzing noise that causes waves of paranoia, nausea and vomitting which increase in ferocity the longer you look at him.

Actually, now that I think about it that may have been caused by the drugs but they were paynes drugs, he forced me to take them ... actually ... no, that's right, they were my drugs but Payne was there, goddamnit. Fuck the little bastard 

FACT: He asked for it.

TRUFACT: He was willing to accept the baggy of talc powder, as long as I spat in it.

PROVEDINTHELARGEHADRONCOLLIDERFACT: He cried for 3 weeks after, like a little girl cries when her puppy goes missing. He was fucked. up. F'realz.

[Payne]

I ated him. he went very nicely with a pinot. 

It's cause I'm Scottish.

We traditionally have good relations with the Italians.

[Pope Pixie Pickle]

also we robotically augmented his penis.

[Luna]

also we robotically augmented his penis.