A /BRIT/ CHRISTMAS TALE!
Wessex stared at the black mold. It had expanded to cover his entire house. It was like a thick layer of soot. "How will Father Christmas know where the chimney ends and the flat begins!?", he bemoaned, "I've tried everything to get rid of this mold but it just won't go!" He waddled off to bed dejected, knowing he would not got any presents this year even from his boomoid relatives.
"Wessex" came a whisper in the darkness. He awoke slowly, unsure if he was dreaming. "Wessex" the soft voice spoke again. He jolted out of his stupor: "Who calls me, the weighty Wessex, from his slumber?" There was silence. Was he going mad? His condition worsening? "It is I, the mold . . . " spake the voice. Wessex felt dizzy. This was it. He was dying. "Fear me not", the voice calmly spoke, "for I am thy friend . . . " Wessex stood up from his bed, beginning to sweat anxiously. "I will leave thy home if you but do one task for me", the mold seemed darker than the very night. Wessex was frightened but he boldly asked the mold what task it would have him perform. "Go to the local reservoir, and release my spores into the water. Then I shall leave thy house and spare they whom you call based".
Wessex collected the spores and left for the reservoir that very night. He missed the bus and had to stand by some goths for an hour. They looked vaguely kino but they had the strong odour of loft insulation wafting from them. He began to ponder whether they too would perish in the spore massacre. He began to wonder if he would perish in the spore massacre too. How could he trust the mold? "Billions must die" he said to himself. Besides, we are all dying anyway. Better that he go to Valhalla than perish a NEET. The bus came, spluttering under the starless canopy of Christmas Eve. It was the final service of the night.
The journey was loud. The bus rattled its way through town and up toward the reservoir. He had to get off and walk. He was careful not to drop the spores as he struggled his way up the hill. Standing over the black void of the reservoir, which silently moved before him with an almost magnetic energy, he repeated his mantra: "Billions must die". He also said "nigger" and "kill pakis" as he removed the lid from his tupperware spore box. "Do it . . . release me!" Said the black mold. Wessex hesitated. "Will you really leave my home?" The spore shifted about eagerly in the box. "Yes!", it hissed, "what is one man compared to the entire south east of England!" Wessex nodded in agreement. "And you'll leave based lads alone?" Again, the spores shifted. This time more impatiently. "Yes, yes!" the mold hissed loudly. Without another moments hesitation Wessex released the spores into the reservoir. What did he have to lose?
The moon came out as he slowly ambled home. It was bright. Christmas lights twinkled from the distant town. "Billions must die . . ." He chuckled. What a strange hallucination. None of that was real . . . was it? Arriving home he saw his flat as it was when he moved in. The mold was gone. "I-it was a-all true?" he stammered. He heard something moving in his living room. Running in he saw a black mass leaving the chimney. Was it the mold? "Ho, ho, ho!" bellowed the mass. It was Father Christmas! Wessex couldn't believe it, he was going to get presents after all! "You've been a based lad Wessex, even though it is only two in the morning . . . you may receive your presents!" Wessex jumped up and down for joy! "But where is your sack, Father Christmas? Is it a small present? A Swastika medallion, perhaps?"
Santa warmly smiled and looked passed Wessex. "There is your present!" Wessex turn to see a pale tranny leering over him. He let out a high pitched scream and punched as hard as he could. The tranny was cold and didn't react. It was dead! What's more, who should be holding up it's hideous corpse but . . . the based lads! 22st, the bumbum king, SA, Auslad, bins, panzie, cuc/k/, mancs, Manx, and all the other lads from /brit/ were gathered and smiling! The bumbum king stepped forward: "Greetings, m'lord, we have brought unto thee some fresh Aryan organs. This tranny who put them to ill use has thus lost them. Thou shalt live long and prosperously!" They all applauded as Wessex began to weep with happiness. "Let's have a merry daunce to celebrate!" laughed HRH the bum bum king as he turned up the dial on the radio in his utility belt. "In local news black mold spores were released into Bodmin reservoir this evening but were instantly killed by the fluoride in the water. Police are not investigating further because they said it was probably some based lad trying to kill the niggers and they don't blame him". Wessex chuckled gently, a tear rolling down his cheek. "Can't win 'em all!"
Dorset sadly passed away that night for unrelated reasons.