ADVENTURES OF KUNTMAN
misterorange
Kamala, you're FIRED!
Faster than an escaped goat from San José...
More powerful than an untreated herpes infection...
Able to derail entire threads with a single post...
Look! Up in the sky!
It’s a dead fish... It’s a rotten head of cabbage... It’s Kuntman!
Yes, it’s Kuntman!
Strange visitor from another planet who came to Earth with a terrible stench far beyond that of mortal men.
Kuntman! Who can plagiarize quotes from any website, bend a wet noodle with his bare hands,
And who, disguised as CJ Kunt, mild mannered reporter for a local metropolitan smut magazine, fights a never-ending battle for trolling, injustice, and the un-American way.
Chapter 1: LET'S HAVE AN ICEE
Downtown Newark, New Jersey. Main offices of the Daily Poontang. 12:45 PM.
José slammed down the worn manilla folder and a few pictures of farm animals in compromising positions slid across his desk onto the floor. "It’s just not fair," he exclaimed as he slumped into his chair and started to cry. "What’s not fair?" asked CJ Kunt, as he bent down to recover the pictures and admire the various animal poses. "Ahh, you know what I mean CJ. The only stories Chief assigns to me are the ones about bestiality or gay bathhouses."
"Well, José, maybe it’s because Chief knows what you’re good at" CJ said with a grin that conveyed his usual smugness. "Come on outside with me and let’s have an Icee. It’ll make you feel better."
As they rode down the elevator, José knew he was NOT going to feel better. In fact, he would feel worse. He hated that goddamn Icee truck outside, and especially the son-of-a-bitch, Doug, who owned it. But who was he to argue with the great CJ Kunt? After all, CJ had once gone too far, and Chief fired his ass. But in a matter of months, he not only returned but moved up the ranks to become a verified member of the staff, which gave him special access to certain areas - simply by posting quotes from historical people. José never saw the relevance of those quotes, but Chief must have thought they were pretty good. Plus, CJ never took anything at face value, which is a good attribute for a reporter. He always insisted on pics, or it never happened.
CJ was the closest thing José had to a friend, and while CJ’s status at the magazine grew, he often took advantage of Jose’s lonely and desperate situation. As they approached the familiar red, white and blue Icee truck, Doug’s eyes lit up with delight, and he greeted them with a devious smile. “Nice to see you fellas again. Sure is a hot one today.” Then directing his attention to José he said, “Go on boy. Back door’s open.” As he crawled into the back of the truck and shut the door behind him, José could see that Doug already had his little string bean pecker sticking out of the white uniform pants, so he got right to work. BBBJCIM was the price for two cold treats from the Icee truck, and Doug was still chatting through the window with CJ while José was down below doing the deed.
Chapter 2: JUST A REGULAR DAY
Down at the corner, a young fellow was passing out flyers for a nearby strip club. The flyer announced that this club had hot girls with big tits, cheap drinks, and never a cover charge. A man who looked sort of scrubby, like he just walked out of a desert, was passing by and the kid handed him one of the flyers. “That’s a fucking club ad!” the man exclaimed. “Yes sir, it sure is,” said the kid with a puzzled look on his face.
Just then, a classy looking dude stepped up. He was wearing a white polyester suit, solid gold cufflinks with the initials “R.D.” and a giant 70’s style beat box on his shoulder blasting Disco music. “Hey kid, give me one of those flyers,” the man said. “And write your sister’s phone number on it because I’ll be taking her OTC tonight!”
Meanwhile, that sad José guy was still sucking and slobbering all over Doug’s limp little dick. His earlier prediction had been correct - he felt disgusted with himself. Who wouldn’t? His life was so pathetic that he’s kneeling on the floor of an ice cream truck, sucking off some guy, just because his so-called “friend” CJ wanted a free snack. And the worst part was that CJ could easily pay for it, especially with his latest job promotion, but he preferred to make José earn his friendship. Hell, CJ knew people on the board of the public library and could have anyone’s internet privileges revoked with a single phone call, so José would need to stay on his good side - whatever it takes.
By any account it was an ordinary and unremarkable afternoon. (Well, except for Doug and José I suppose.) But that was all about to change.
Chapter 3: ASS ATTACK
The first indication of trouble was the terrible stench that systematically permeated the entire city, block by block. It was an awful yet kind of familiar smell, like when your drunken uncle blows up the bathroom after Thanksgiving dinner, but ten times worse. Maybe a hundred times worse. Traffic came to a screeching halt as cars crashed and piled up on each other. Terrified pedestrians ran for safety, and some were crushed to death in the stampede. Innocent women and children were gagging and vomiting in the street as store owners refused to unlock their doors.
And suddenly, there he was. A man that wasn’t really a man at all. He had arms and legs and a head, but his face was just a big ass crack, and in the middle was what looked like a “big third eye”. But that was no eyeball. It was something like an ass and mouth combined into one hole, and it was spewing out projectile diarrhea and senseless comments at the same time. Who knows what people feared the most? The awful smell, getting sprayed with wet shit, or being forced to listen to the mindless drivel this thing was shouting about. Oh, the humanity!
Chapter 4: THE ESCAPE
From his dick-sucking position beneath the serving window, the sad José guy was somewhat shielded from the mayhem outside the Icee truck, but he knew something was wrong because of the putrid smell and the people screaming for their lives. There was a crack in the truck body near the floor and he decided to peek outside. That’s when he saw a little kid vomiting while simultaneously falling off his bike. José quickly weighed his options. The bike was a "Huffy" and being that he’s the fastest man alive on a Huffy, his chances seemed better than average. He decided to go for it.
He gave Doug’s pathetic little pinky-dick one last slobbery suck, getting it good and wet, and then he grabbed a hunk of dry ice from the truck’s cooler. It stuck to that tiny prick like a magnet. Doug let out a scream that could have shattered glass. The way it felt, he couldn’t tell whether his little shrimp dick was freezing or on fire. José made his escape out the back door of the truck, grabbed the bike and wrestled it away from the poor kid who was trying to get back on, and he was gone in a flash.
CJ Kunt was still yapping like an old washer woman but stopped long enough to ask Doug what the hell was going on. Doug couldn’t respond, he just looked at CJ with a blank stare and then passed out, with the dry ice still eating away at his pathetic little macaroni dick.
Chapter 5: BACKSTORY
CJ hadn’t used his Kuntman powers in a long time. First of all, it’s hard to find a phone booth these days, and there aren’t too many other places to change. More importantly, Kuntman had fallen out of favor with the government and most citizens. The fact that his heroic efforts usually caused more harm than good was mostly tolerated, but people were just sick of all his bullshit. They especially couldn’t stand his stupid fucking quotes, and many people started ignoring him entirely.
Hiding under the disguise of newsman CJ Kunt, he was able to live a reasonably normal life. He could still be a real jerkoff, like the daily mind-fuck activities he played with sad José guy, but people more or less put up with him. The magazine was a perfect place for him to print his stupid quotes, and also his dumb-ass pictures which are literally impossible for anyone to ignore.
But today, CJ’s beloved city was under attack by an out-of-control, diarrhea-blasting, trash-talking giant asshole who was stinking everything up. He knew the only way to overcome an enemy like this was to fight fire with fire. Or as one might say, fight stink with stink.
Chapter 6: NO PHONE BOOTH
CJ ran to the corner where the kid had been handing out club ads. The kid was gone but there were a few flyers on the sidewalk. He followed the directions to the club and breezed through security without paying a cover. He needed a lap dance and he needed it quickly. Actually, he just needed the little room to complete his transformation. He ran up to the first dancer he saw. She was very “nice” and a little bit “spicy”. She took one look at this stupid doofus and told him it would be $100 for 5 minutes and nothing kinky - in fact that’s the air dance price. To that he responded with one of his untimely and irrelevant quotes:
“Like everything metaphysical the harmony between thought and reality is to be found in the grammar of the language.”
~ Ludwig Wittgenstein
~ Austrian-British philosopher
“What the FUCK does that even mean?” the nice and spicy dancer asked. She leaned forward and punched him hard in the throat. “Go fuck yourself,” she said as he crumpled to the floor. Then she gave him a good kick in the balls.
The next dancer was clearly a tranny and introduced him/herself as BBBC. CJ didn’t even have to ask for a dance before BBBC grabbed him and said, “Let’s go sweetie.” Inside the LD booth, CJ removed his business attire to reveal a tightly fitting rubber scuba suit. BBBC was confused by that but couldn’t wait to start homo-humping that butt. He pulled down the zippers, which ran from CJ’s neck all the way to his ankles.
What happened next was the most terrifying thing BBBC (or anyone) could ever imagine.
Chapter 7: KUNTMAN RISES
As BBBC zipped open the scuba suit, it began to burst apart. The front fell off to reveal a gigantic pussy. To make matters worse, it was hairy as hell, and it smelled like the entire Fulton Fish Market had lost power and refrigeration for two weeks. Within seconds, BBBC had a heart attack and dropped dead. But the transformation would not be complete until CJ Kunt yelled out his special superhero catchphrase.
“I’m a pussy! I’m a big fucking pussy!” CJ shouted, as his entire body started to convulse, like it was having an orgasm. But no, my friends, this was no orgasm. It was the 2nd most painful bodily function after childbirth (or possibly circumcision, but no one remembers that).
CJ’s shoulders were violently forced upwards until they fused together with his ears. Then his chin fell off and his mouth opened wide, becoming one hole with the pussy below it. Finally, there was the most horrific sound like a tree branch cracking in half. As his nose extended downward, it became a giant throbbing clitoris.
The bouncers ran for their lives, but the club owners wanted to protect their investment. Within seconds there were five men with machine guns surrounding Kuntman. Lucky for them, he had only set his kunt to “stun” when he peeled open the lips and the rotten stench knocked everyone out. Then in a single bound Kuntman leaped out through the door and into the street. Big Third Eye was out there somewhere, and now it was time to end this.
Chapter 8: THE SHOWDOWN
“Ahrrrrr….. pfff-ttt… we meet at last, Kuntman” said Big Third Eye, half speaking and half shitting out of the ass-mouth hole in his face. Not waiting for a response, he clenched up his butt cheeks and blasted a stream of diarrhea that was a direct hit. Kuntman gagged but shook it off and switched his kunt to “kill.” This time when he opened the slimy lips nearly everything in a two-block radius died instantly. They say cockroaches can survive a nuclear holocaust - well, they couldn’t survive this. But the Big Third Eye managed to limp away under cover of a gas cloud he shot out of his ass. He was down, but not out.
Kuntman knew he would need help, but unfortunately his reputation in Jersey wasn’t good. Not good at all. In fact, everyone hated that fucking jerkoff.
Chapter 9: The Jersey Boys
“Who do I know in downtown Newark, NJ?” Kuntman wondered. There’s a guy who’s a real Balla and a straight shooter. Tells it like it is. And there’s that dude with all the Cash, always throwing it around. Solid guy, but kind of a sick motherfucker. That Orange character. What the hell is his deal? God only knows. And Sgrayeff, everyone knows he’s a serious player in the Jersey territory. Sgrayeff is a 100% NO BULLSHIT kind of dude. Unfortunately, Kuntman was all bullshit, every day, every hour, every minute.
Regardless, he’d have to take his chances. Perhaps he and Sgrayeff could set aside their long-standing differences for the greater good. Kuntman knew the only way to get this super team together was to plan a TUSCL meet-up like no one had ever seen before - in New Jersey of all places. This would not be an ordinary meet-up in a strip club. Arrangements were made - 4:00 AM under the Bayonne Bridge, in an old dumping ground where it’s rumored Jimmy Hoffa is buried.
All but one agreed to meet.
Chapter 10: THE MEET-UP
It was a clear night with a small crescent moon peeking through the arches of the bridge, and there was a long awkward silence. NJBalla was the first to make his location known. “You’ve got a lot to answer for Kuntman,” he bellowed, his voice echoing off the rocks below the bridge. Then from an abandoned guard shack Cashman shouted, “Why should we help you now Kuntman, you fucking piece of garbage?" "Yeah, fuck your dumb ass Kuntman,” Orange called out from behind a pile of 55-gallon drums. Kuntman responded, “Misterorange, talk to these guys… you know we have to work together and….” Suddenly he stopped, frozen like a deer in the headlights. “NO…. PLEASE DON’T….” he begged as a menacing figure emerged from the darkness. “AHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Kuntman exclaimed as his clitoris was suddenly chopped off by the swing of a heavy-handed axe. Blood was erupting into Newark Bay as if Jersey had just struck oil, and the giant kunt collapsed into a hole full of toxic waste.
Sgrayeff’s silhouette was now clearly visible in the moonlight. He threw down the bloody axe and laughed as the corpse rotted in the smoldering pit of acid. He had known better than to trust a scumbag like CJKunt, CJKent_band, Kuntman, or whatever he calls himself. “That fucker is permanently banned,” said Sgrayeff. “He’s never coming back.”
The others could only shake their heads. Being from Jersey, seeing a body disintegrate in toxic waste was nothing unusual, however none of them had ever seen a giant mutant cunt bleed out from its severed clitoris before. But enough of that, there was more work to be done. The asshole (literally) Big Third Eye was still out there stinking up the neighborhood.
Chapter 11: WHAT TO DO?
So, it was Balla, Cash and Orange, bravely but cautiously following behind Sgreyeff, pitchforks and swords drawn, making their way north and across the Bay Bridge toward Newark Liberty International Airport. All agreed the airport would be Big Third Eye’s most likely target for destruction. But how the hell would they ever find him?
Well, it turns out Cashman had an ace up his sleeve. That sneaky son-of-a-bitch pulled out his 90’s style flip phone and dialed 800-468-7448. In case you didn’t notice, that’s 800-GOT-SHIT which is the number for Mack Truck’s shit business. Mackey rolled up in about 12 minutes, which is impressive for a shit truck.
“Y’all know me, know how I earn a living” Mack Truck said. “I’ll catch this bird for ‘ya, but it ain’t gonna be easy. That’s a bad fucking asshole right there. Not like going down the pond chasin’ blue gills or tommy cots. This asshole, he’ll swallow ‘ya whole. But I value my neck a lot more than 3,000 bucks. I’ll find him for three… but I’ll catch him and kill him, for ten.”
10,000 bucks was a pretty tall order. Cashman reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a big bundle of 20's. It was $2,000. "Aww fuck it," Cash said. "This is just the spare change I was gonna spend tonight at the club. And hold on a minute." Cashman reached into the window of his car and pulled another three grand out of the glove compartment. "Almost forgot I had this," he said. Well, they were still short, and so Misterorange reached out to the only person he knew could help. “Yeah Chief... CJKunt is dead... Yeah, that's right... he's fucking dead! Now get the shit out of your ears and listen to me. The only way to bring down Big Third Eye is to hire this bounty hunter Mack Truck. It’s gonna cost ten grand, and we're 5,000 short.” The Chief wired the money immediately.
Chapter 12: THE HUNT
Mack Truck’s killing machine was a 1960’s era fire truck. Jesus, the Ghostbusters had a better vehicle. After a few repairs, they moved out.
It wasn’t hard to pick up Big Third Eye’s trail. That asshole was smelling up the whole city. And with Mack Truck’s equipment we were onto him like stink on shit, so to speak. Mackie chased him down and just as he started up the truck’s vacuum hose, BTE fired a blast of diarrhea that melted the tires. The truck lurched sideways as Mackie slipped on a shit puddle and slid straight in between BTE’s giant ass cheeks. He was devoured feet-first and the blood-curdling screams continued until his head disappeared inside the big throbbing asshole.
Big Third Eye was cornered, and we needed someone to go in and take him out, mano a mano. “I’ll do it,” said NJBalla. The truth is that Balla was the obvious choice. He’s a hardened clubber, used to the filthy kind of scum you’ll find at Marcet, Ragtime, 5th Avenue, or the former Bottoms Up, and he happily stepped up to the challenge.
When Big Third Eye saw Balla coming he bent over in a defensive posture and blasted a kill fart. That shot of gas would have ended any ordinary man, but Balla held his breath and shoved his sword deep up into that anus/mouth/whatever-it-is. Then he calmly asked, “entrails in, or entrails out?” Without waiting for a response, NJBalla gutted him like a fish. Big Third Eye's intestines and Mack Truck’s half-digested remains spilled out all over the sidewalk. That big stinking asshole was finally dead, but the entire neighborhood had to be quarantined for 6 months. The horror… the horror.
After that, we all went home for much needed showers and then met up again at Titillations for some good clean fun, relatively speaking that is. We were joined by Desertscrub, who turned out to be a pretty nice guy, even though he swears this entire story is a club ad.
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Very well done!
Have you sent the manuscript to Spielberg yet?