I would raze London to the ground for this man.. ..Or, just for being London.

The client requests contain a lot of fetishes, so I just decided to go y'know... full Master, and change my entire house into a dungeon, uh... Dungeon Master. Now with a full dungeon in my house and It's going really well. Fisting is 300 bucks, and usually the guy is pretty much hard on pop to get really relaxed y'know and I have this long latex glove that goes all the way up to my armpit and then I put on a surgical latex glove up to my wrist and, just lube it up, and it's a long process y'know to get your...get your whole arm up there, but it's an intense feeling for the other person. I think for myself too, you go in places that even though it's physical with your hand but for some reason it's also more emotional it's more psychological too, and we both get you know to the same place it's really strange at the same time and I find sessions like that really exhausting.

Do you like SAMURAI? Their early work was a little too grunge for my tastes, but when Blistering Love came out in '05, I think they really came into their own, commercially and artistically. The whole album has a clear, crisp sound, and a new sheen of consummate professionalism that really gives the songs a big boost. Johnny's been compared to Kerry Eurodyne, but I think Johnny has a far more bitter, cynical sense of humor. In '20, SAMURAI released this, A Cool Metal Fire, their most accomplished album. I think their undisputed masterpiece is "A Like Supreme", a song so catchy, most people probably don't listen to the lyrics. But they should, because it's not just about the dangers of corporate colonialism, and the importance of fighting tyranny, it's also a personal statement about the band itself.

You can rely on a huron pilot. As an infantryman the wubwub of the dual rotors is what you want to hear. When you are without support in a compound, surrounded on three sides and with no shells left, the thump of a Huron is what you want to destroy your eardrums and drown out the shouts of your autorifleman for more boxes. You know that the MAN piloting it will land, that they will pick ALL of your squad up. Instinctively you know this because after all, how else could such a massive airframe have dodged the fires to even get here in the first place?

The Eurobongs might stan the sponge of a merlin, say the Huron is heavy, hard to fly. But he knows. The cultured pilot knows that it’s hard to fly, but that’s for a reason. It’s slow, tough to maneuvre. But that’s because it’s a tank, and it’ll carry two squads, each full of pipehitters. Hell, the Huron airframe is so BUILT, you can take a rocket to the engine, crash land in a mountain valley still feel more ready for war than the high speed nerds fresh off the bench of a hummingbird.

The Huron is the patrician’s helicopter. It’s the helicopter for real men. Kids might like to fly stunts with hummingbirds and the ‘pilots’ might say they can only competently land a ghosthawk, but for the real man’s pilot, the infantryman’s pilot, the Huron is the only choice.

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⢠⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡏⠁⠄⣷⣀⠈⠙⠛⠑⠄⠄⠄
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You say Lady Gaga, I say the Blade
You say Miley Cyrus, I say the Blade
You say T-Pain, I say the Blade
You say Eminem, I say the Blade
You say Jonas Brother, I say the Blade
92% of teens have turned to western degeneracy. If you are part of the 8% that still upholds the path of the Dagestani, copy and paste this message to 5 other walls. DON'T LET THE SPIRIT OF THE BLADE DIE!!!!!

-rep camp all game with sparks and afraid from bounty, just low

While you sleep in earthly delight,
hunters roam in Desalle's moonlight.

I had little. I wasn’t destitute; I’d been on hunts that had earned me some Blood Bonds on occasion, but it had been years since I’d experienced prosperous times, and the flow of Blood Bonds that came from a serious session had long dried up

That which remained for me, my precious Nagant rifle, had grown further and further from my grasp, as I’d been forced to lend it to prosperous hunters in order to make ends meet.

Into my home they would impose, bringing shotguns and rifles, and their leather holsters, imprinted with the unmistakeable outline of a Dolch semi-automatic. ‘I want the power to kill people from 300 feet’, they’d enjoin emphatically; ‘ the power wrought only from the latest update’.

My Nagant was back in my single room home, up on the fireside rack where it had started it’s career, but I daren’t touch it. I’d had no choice but to lend out my rifle for money, there had simply been no other option out of starvation, but It’s wood stock had wrought honest hunters from their lives, and to touch the thing now dealt me a constituency formative of a drunk; emetic outbursts that made even the simple touch of varnished arctic wood cause a rising bitterant feeling within my throat.

I peered into the cupboard above my cast iron stove. Behind the door formed of cracked, ruined and blackened wood was nothing: some salted pork, week old, blue mold besotted bread, and some of McAlpine’s bootleg whiskey. The greasy handle, coated in the fat from a hundred fried breakfasts, contaminated my palm.

It was barely a hobo’s feast, but for the next week until I met my friends again, it would have to do.

I closed the cupboard door and wiped my hand on my breast. Maybe the future would be better.

Perhaps, this unscientific existence within a swamp of mobs and autism would come to an end, and, years later, I would be joking of the hilarity of the current situation with my friends.

Perhaps.

The grease stained my bright shirt. As I peered down to glance at the mild yellow shadow that advanced upon my white chest, I considered all sorts of things; laundromats, mothers with washboards, taverns with fresh linens.

None of these was an option for me.

My shirt wouldn’t be clean until spring, and that was if the outlook as positive.

2,090 Achievements is possible for many men, but only a man like Chrisfare could achieve the capture of two hearts at once; both a pure bred Valentine and a Londonistan mutt Alomar.

what am I talking about.

I met Fenrir-Lunaris back in 2006 on a polish ultranationalist IRC message board, where we immediately hit it off for our combined love of cryptic crosswords and victorian treatment of children. We stayed in touch through pager and would link up occasionally to psychologically break down the local orphan kids by pretending to adopt them and then leaving them out on the street. Good times, some really hilarious-to-watch tears and tantrums. Later Fenrir turned up at my local watering hole in Arden Parish, and followed me home to Kalithea with his 6 American friends. It was there that he started asking if I had a fursona while he was putting on this really weird costume that looked like trying to be a wolf, except there was all this leather jabroni stuff on top of it, and then as he's asking if I like what I see, i realise that he's naked and there's no crotch area to this suit once the leather codpiece is removed.

I asked him if he was trying to ♥♥♥♥ with me, but it was then that, with a loud 'SHAAAA' he round house kicked me back, my legs folding and body collapsing onto my mh-9 hummingbird themed bed frame. Terrified, I looked up at the former friend I now contemplated was some sort of deviant as he 'hmmmmm'd for a moment, then exclaimed, saliva dripping from his lips, 'the ♥♥♥♥ did you just say to me, you little ♥♥♥♥?,.. For that, you're going to help me - I need you to help me to not rip the skin' It took everything I had to not just feel ashamed and leave the server, but I inserted him and all 6 of his american friends before finally, after 6 hours I was able to lie back, drink some vodka to wash away the taste, and contemplate what I'd learned about this guy.

+rep belive it or not, despite the nice name and profile picture, this guy is actually a degenerate furry, but $300 x 7 = enough Khor to forget all of your troubles for quite some time.

ШAAA

+rep Next time close your fridge, see ya next time in your Villa

-rep shamelessly using me to raise the average steam level of his friend list

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(*・ω・)ﾉ