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Author Topic: The Phantom Moderator  (Read 57172 times)

Okenido

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Re: The Phantom Moderator
« Reply #45 on: July 04, 2009, 06:52:24 pm »

Don't worry he will come back in five years.
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Kurtulmak

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Re: The Phantom Moderator
« Reply #46 on: July 04, 2009, 09:14:44 pm »

How can I keep away when you little thralls keep heaping up steaming piles of praise?
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Little

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Re: The Phantom Moderator
« Reply #47 on: July 04, 2009, 09:31:01 pm »

"Hah! Is that all you can do?!"

The sword glows as a tidal wave of words flow out of the tip, surging towards Kurtulmak!

"Fear the power of Writing Skillz!"

Jason Larson smiled a smile that didn’t fit his face at all as he bent over the porch, can of gas extended in his hands. The night was dark, the only light he had was from the moon’s pale light, the house was black, and the gasoline smelled good. He stepped back on the dry wood, not worried about any signs he was leaving behind. He poured gas over his muddy foot prints, and takes a step towards the house, splashing gas on the walls of the building. He fumbles a book of matches out of his pocket, dropping the can of gas. He looked up, and the glass glinted. A sliding door. Easy to break, and probably not alarmed. Jason stood still for a moment, weighing his decision. He could leave now, never lighting a single red head, or he could shatter the door. Beyond would be combustible living rooms, flammable kitchens…

He picked up the can of gas and threw it at the glint. The door shattered with a loud noise, and Jason held his breath. He looked at the neighbouring houses, which could be mistaken for abandoned. Nobody looked out, and no lights turned on. He was okay. Jason reaches in through the gaping hole and finds a small lever. He flips it and tugs on a smooth metal handle. The door slides soundlessly. Jason smiles and steps inside, his black business shoes patting down the carpet.

He retrieves the can of gas, and flicks on a light. He squints for a moment or tow,, examining where he was. The room has a large couch, soft carpet, and a TV system with an admirable selection of game systems hooked up to it. On the far side of the room, next to two wooden doors is a large foosball table. On the wall across from the door is a mirror, with a cute note hung above it reading ‘WIPE YOUR SHOES’. Jason looks like a mess. He’s pale, black hair greasy from lack of a shower, and a layer of stubble covering his chin. His tie is loose, red and black pattern covered with pine needles acquired from when Jason leaped through a hedge to reach his jackpot. His office attire is slicked with mud, and his shoes are covered with smears of gas. Jason casts nagging doubts out of his mind and begins pouring gas onto the couch…

Jason ran out of gas after the living room and the hallways, so he raided the garage for more ‘supplies’. After pouring various liquids out of various cans all marked with ‘DANGER: CONTENT FLAMMABLE’ onto the floors and furniture of the dining room, master bedroom, boiler room(which, unbeknownst to Jason, contained a large cylinder filled with roughly five hundred gallons of heating oil) and something that looked like a palace converted to a walk-in closet, Jason fled back out onto the porch. He sniffs, detecting an odd musk under the odour of gas. He realizes it’s the smell of paint-thinner, emanating off him. It’s what he drenched the master bedroom in. Four empty cans of paint thinner lay discarded at the foot of a wooden staircase, numerous empty cans of gas scattered throughout the house, and a few empty cans of 10W30 oil piled on the maple table in the now oil-soaked dining room. Jason snickers, think, ‘The Saudi’s should come and plant a few wells in their dining room.’ He fishes the tattered book of matches back out of his pocket and draws out a single wooden stick. He draws in a shaky breath.

Why was he doing this? He had a job, a nice apartment, and didn’t normally like lighting things on fire in the earliest hours of the morning. He had just been walking to his car when he had spied a nice looking house, and the thought, ‘I wonder what it would look like on fire.’ had flown through his mind like a hurricane. He had looked the driveway, and there were no cars or recent marks. He figured they were on vacation, and before he had even completed the thought, another had popped in. This one was, ‘Just a little fire. Just a little one…’ and Jason had decided he had absolutely no business lighting anything on fire. Jason’s mind threw up a few counter arguments (which Jason, for the life of him, couldn’t remember now) and before he had known it, he was standing on the porch clutching a can of gas.

He sighs, wondered aloud what the hell he was doing, and struck the match. He drops it onto the dry wooden porch and began to run. He feels alive.

___

Jason sat at his desk, gripping a cup of Starbuck’s coffee like it was a life buoy. His little cubicle was messy, and very plain, except for the few pictures Jason had put up. A picture of his family (Mom, Dad, and his brother, Mitch) a few funny quotes, and a calendar with a pictures of beautiful cars. He had groaned when the alarm had woke him up at 7:45 that morning. His head had been pounding, and he smelled like gas, although he couldn’t remember why. When he was taking a shower, he had remembered. In shock, he had almost called 911, but arson was something you get put away for, even if you plead temporary insanity.  While he shaved and put on fresh clothes, he wondered what the hell he was going to do. He had checked the news before leaving, and a suburban house exploding was the top story. Police said they had suspects, and that it was almost certainly arson. The word suspects had sent chills up his spine, not used to the paranoia of that word associated with him. He shudders and spins his chair around to face his monitor. Elder needed a report by tomorrow. Jason cast all thoughts of his crime out of his mind with some difficulty, and tries to focus on his work.

___

Mark Johnson looked over the scorched remains of what used to be an auto-repair shop with a shake of his head. You could hardly tell it used to be a building, let alone a repair shop. They had cordoned off the area, and were combing it for clues. This was the fourth arson in the past three months, and Mark was getting worried. Each time was a more intense blaze, more calculated. Although Mark had busted bigger cases then this, it still made him nervous when an arsonist was out there. He ducks under the yellow tape and walks over to a rookie, who was kneeled over and looking at a section of black earth intently. He walks up to the rookie (who obviously wasn’t with his Arson Unit, his men were much more professional) and flashes a winning smile.

“Mark Johnson, Arson Unit. What’d you find there?”
The rookie looks up, picking up what looks like what used to be part of a blasting cap. He gently rubs off a thin layer of charcoal, and smiles. A blearily smudge is on the piece of plastic.

“Mr. Johnson, I think I found a fingerprint.”

___

Jason taps a few keys on the time frantically. His forehead was beaded with sticky drops of sweat. This was his fifth ‘outing’ as he called them. Each time, the rush was bigger, and each time was a little more complex. He had gone from gas and matches to blasting caps and professional accelerants to timed charges. Each one drained his bank account progressively more as his equipment became more difficult to acquire, but Jason had stopped caring. He was on the roof of General Auto’s regional manufacturing and administration plant. He had attached a charge to one of the six massive oil tanks that powered the plant. He was ten stories up, and he could hear the faint blare of cars below. He felt giddy. He flicked the timer, set it for ten minutes and pressed the START button. He ran to the rickety elevator that had brought him up here, and it took him down five stories. He calmly stepped out of the rickety elevator and entered the normal one beside it. A businessman holding a black suitcase ran to catch the elevator. Jason cursed under his breath as the man run in, the doors reopening as they detected movement. The doors shut as the man ran his curious eyes over Jason.

The man says, “You don’t look so good. You okay?”
Jason replies, “Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah…”

Jason sighs with relief as the man leaves on the fourth floor. He looks at his watch, eight minutes and ten seconds left. He rushes out of the elevator as it reaches the first floor, pushing past several well-attired businessmen and a few rough-looking engineers. The small group looks after him as he darts around the corner. He looks around, and spots what he was looking for: a fire-alarm. He pulls it and starts running towards the front exit. He knows the assembly lines and computers would shut down, and the building would be evacuated. He would never actually kill someone. Jason sprints towards the exit, being joined by a panicking horde of office workers. He glances at his watch as he gets outside. Six minutes left.

___

Five minutes later, the large crowd that was formed of the evacuees was getting restless. Several line workers were loudly wondering if they got overtime pay for the time they wasted, while administration workers were complaining about missed appointments. Jason worriedly glanced at his watch. Less than thirty seconds left. As he eagerly watched the building, a hand clasps his shoulder. Jason spins around, startled. A kind looking man is holding out a wallet and smiling calmly. A card labelled with ‘Sergeant-Johnson’ is next to a gleaming police badge. The undercover cop says, “Mark Johnson, with the Arson Unit. Mr. Larson, we have a few questions that we’d like answered-”
 
The building shatters in a cataclysmic explosion of fire, spraying debris into the crowd. Several people scream, and the crowd lurches away from the building as fast as possible. Jason decides to run with them, but before he can do so, he is tackled by three more undercover cops. His head slams into the pavement. His head feels dizzy, but he can still feel his arms being handcuffed. Jason sighs as debris rains down and the pillar of fire slowly begins to diminish.

___

Jason Larson was sentenced to twenty years in prison for five charges of arson, destruction of personal property, possession of illegal materials, multiple charges related to debris wounds, and resisting arrest. He begged temporary insanity, but it was not granted. The media covered his case, and wrote him off as another insane arsonist. Their coverage matched the attitude. The police searched his filthy apartment and found twelve more charges…

Jason’s closing statement in the case was, “I don’t know what came over me. I would’ve never harmed anyone, I swear…”

He was unavailable for interview, which isn’t good, because I woke up last night smelling like gas. The news is covering a massive fire which consumed multiple beach houses, and I can’t recall where I was last night. The voices in my head aren’t my own…

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Kurtulmak

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Re: The Phantom Moderator
« Reply #48 on: July 04, 2009, 10:48:55 pm »

The grand Dio de Koboldi has this to say about your words:  Perhaps it would be worth Kurtulmak's time if it was about kobolds pwning gnomes or something.  The main character is a sissy.  Man-up next time!  Maybe drive a dump-truck full of napalm into a bank or something.
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Duke 2.0

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Re: The Phantom Moderator
« Reply #49 on: July 04, 2009, 10:55:46 pm »

*Golf Clap*
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I would bet money Andrew has edited things retroactively, except I can't prove anything because it was edited retroactively.
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Little

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Re: The Phantom Moderator
« Reply #50 on: July 04, 2009, 11:30:20 pm »

Bah! I shall craft a tale of immoral intrigue, haphazard morals, and a massive explosion! You shall be annihilated!   >:(

The room was dim, and all Aahil Bari could see was dim shapes. He was terrified, and he felt dizzy. He was certain he had been drugged with something. God, he had been so stupid! A passport problem was obviously a setup in retrospect, but he had fallen for it like an ignorant fool. He opened his mouth and let out a long, tired, sigh. He had been taken to Custom, and had been sat down in a room across from two stern-looking Customs Officers. Then one had said, “It’s him.” And he had been smashed on the head with something. Then he had woken up in the trunk of a car, and they thudded across a pot-hole riddled road, each hole slamming Aahil against the hard metal of the trunk. When light had come at long last, he only saw the daylight for a moment before being stabbed in the forearm by a syringe. Now he was sitting in a shitty little room with light filtering across the cracked, grimy, floor from under a battered door. He was bound tight against something hard, most likely a chair, but moving his head made him feel terribly light-headed. The wisps of greying hair at the back of his head felt heavy, probably matted with his blood from the head injury. Aahil sighed again, idly beginning to wonder what they were going to do to him. Torture seemed likely, and he felt even more tired when he realised hours of agonizing punishment was ahead of him. The last time he had been tortured, he had been in much better shape for it, too. This time, it might send his heart teetering into oblivion. Twenty years ago, he had even managed to keep his mouth shut while the revolutionaries shocked him with their damning probes, now he would burst into tears and spill his nation’s most treasured secrets at the sight of those small metal teeth.

Abruptly, the door was thrown open, slamming against the wall. A moment ago, Aahil had been lamenting the lack of light. Now he just wished for the gloom again. He shut his eyes tightly, but the light still felt too bright. After a moment that seemed far too long, he cautiously slid open his eyes amidst scraping noises. A chair had been brought into the room, and a bald man dressed in a simple that had no mercy in his eyes sat in the small wooden chair. Aahil turned his head from side to side, feeling woozy as he did so, but he established he was in what looked like a refurbished closet. Racks of sharp-looking instruments lined wooden shelves, and Aahil’s heart sank. As he began to lament his fate, the bald man slapped his across one wrinkled cheek and screamed, “LOOK AT ME! NOW!” Aahil quickly shifted his head back to face the bald man, fighting a wave of nausea as he did.  The bald man smiled wickedly and said, “Cooperate with your next visitor. If you don’t, life will become much less pleasant, and much more painful.” Aahil nodded rapidly, feeling sick as the bald man stood up and walked into the well-light corridor. Aahil rapidly ran over his limited options; it was bleak. A short while later, a well-dressed man with what looked like groomed hair walked into the closet. The black business suit looked incredibly out of place, as well as the man’s friendly smile and jolly eyes. The man looked like someone Aahil would’ve gone out for a drink to discuss work, sports, and politics back when his home country wasn’t turning into the sequel to the war in Iraq. Aahil cautiously watched as the business man sit down in the rickety chair. Aahil smiled weakly and asks with the accent of someone who isn’t quite accustomed to English, “Am I back in Iran?” The man seemed to find this immensely funny, and burst out laughing. After the business man had calmed down, he chuckled softly and replied, “Good God, no! If you were back in Iran, you would’ve been snapped like a twig and your body would’ve been thrown into a crematorium already. Now, I just need to ask you a few simple questions.”

 Aahil nodded frantically, shoving the dizziness into the back of his mind as he did so. He knew that the next few minutes could be the difference between life and death. The man smiled happily at seeing the nods, and continued, “Now, we know your Aahil Bari. We know you used to be the head of Iran’s Development of Nuclear Alternatives. We know you stole the bomb from the Russia within the last decade, when there were whispers of your country developing nukes for themselves. We also know that you were in charge of overseeing the contingency plans in the event of an American invasion, and that you did not stay to see your plan in action. There are quite a few angry rebels back in your home country who would like to see you dead, understand?” Aahil cautiously replies, “Yes, I understand.” The man with the well-groomed hair claps his hands happily and grins as he says, “Good! Now, where is Warhead 168B Classified Russian Armament, or as your colleagues and you nicknamed it, Atomic Fire, heading? The contingency plan is activated when your president gives the signal, and he gave it twenty-three minutes ago. We have a little over seventeen hours to go. What road does it travel along to escape the storage facility?” Aahil’s mind races, recalling the details, saying each fragment or location as his fading memory spits it out.
 The man’s smile grows wider with each phrase. The plan was to drive it in a small, discreet, convoy to the nearby town of Ajhbah. Once in Ajhbah, the most powerful operational nuclear weapon would be shipped by military plane to a location out of country. Aahil didn’t remember the location, and despite repeated requests from the man in the suit, was not able to disclose it. Aahil curses inwardly at his crumbling memory, he had known it twenty-five years ago, and now he couldn’t remember it to save his skin. He was almost ready to cry as the man in the black suit drew a knife from his pocket, Aahil flinching as he brought it towards his seat. The knife didn’t slash into skin, but rather rope, the discarded bindings falling to the ground in a heap. Mumbling prayers under his breath, Aahil stands up weakly as the man says, “Well, we’re not going to kill you. You’ve been useful. We’re letting you go.”
Aahil smiles, feeling tired as he is escorted out of the building and into a waiting cab by the bald man. The cab winds through the dark night’s streets after Aahil requests it take him to a hotel, and he dozes into the backseat. If he had been paying attention, he might have noticed that the tab meter did not go up, but he was nearly asleep when the driver stopped the car, got out, opened his passenger’s door, and gestured into the dark. Three men wearing body armour step out of the shadows, two holding sub-machine guns with suppressors on the barrels, and the third holding a rusty switchblade that had been stolen off a drunken fool stupid enough to try to mug the men the night before. Aahil wakes up from his doze, blearily looking around as the driver hauls him out of the cab, the engine idling on the deserted street. Aahil says, “What? Where am I?” in a confused voice. The man holding the switchblade steps forward and plants it in the old man’s neck, quickly dispatching him as his companions steal their victims wallet, ID, and few items of value. The taxi driver smiles as the body is dumped in the alley, the three armoured men casually walking back to the cab. They all nod, and the driver says in fractured English, “Another good mugging. Target disposed of, looks like theft. See you if we need you again.” They all nod one last time, then the driver climbs back into his seat and the three men melt back into the shadows.
___
The warm night was still, only disturbed by the rumbling of a powerful motor. Headlights pierced the night as the first guard Jeep drew closer and closer to the firing point.  Jason Clark smiled as the breeze blew across his bare scalp.  After that old scientist had given Jeremy the location, Jason had gotten onto a private plane and flown immediately to Iran. It wasn’t cheap, but he wanted to be there when his taskforce took the greatest weapon on Earth out of its rightful owner’s hands and gave the final piece needed to fulfill Jeremy’s goal. The team was split in two, twelve members prone on a dune overlooking a curve in the road, and the other half split in two, the two halves stationed on opposite sides of the road. The first Jeep now more than a gloomy sight, and Jason puts his eye to his scope. The detail was amazing. He could see the brand of cigarette on the box that the Jeep driver kept in his right pocket. As the Jeep sped down the road, Jason sneaks a glance at the rest of the convoy: a long semi truck cushioned between two pickup trucks filled with guards, and the two Jeeps. He’d seen better protection on normal loads of conventional weapons, but Jason couldn’t blame the Iranians. They were busy fighting each other and the invading American troops, half the guard crew probably having deserted. His thoughts were cut short by the Jeep entering the firing zone, and Jason quickly put his eye back to the scope and refocused on the cigarette package. His finger tightened as he smiled, and the troop next to him screamed, “GO!”
The initial bang was ear-shattering, echoing across vast dusty plains. The hard cracks of automatic fire follow seconds later, before the expressions of bewilderment have even left the guard’s faces. Within thirty seconds, the whole convoy has been brought down by a concentrated stream of superheated lead, and the group Jason commanded had converged on the idling vehicles with the other teams, dragging away bodies. Jason runs around the back of the semi-truck, his team already ahead of him. As he turns the corner, he smiles as he sees the truck’s back has been kicked open. Six men were rolling out a dark container with warning signs plastered on it in a dozen languages. Jason smiles as a troop from his squad brings down two coolers, and sets them down on the side of the road. The twenty-four men gather around the cooler, each being passed a glass. They talk of things to come as they drink, and by the time they need to move the bomb, each one is dreaming of a new world, one where America cannot extend its tendrils of military might anywhere on Earth. Everyone clinks their glasses together, and throw them to the ground. Jason already has visions of mushroom clouds behind his eyelids, and he smiles when he closes his eyes, his imagination bleaching San Francisco skies crimson with a mushroom-shaped ball of fire shattering the skyline.
___
Jeremy smiles, custom-tailored business suit stained with oil, but he hardly notices. He stares at the naked atomic warhead that was resting over panels that would simply slide open, the bomb’s cold steel disguising the inferno inside, the inferno that would bring the greedy, self-absorbed country to its knees and open its eyes. Jeremy grimaces, reflecting on the mishaps that had been Iraq, Darfur, Sudan, Afghanistan, and soon to be Iran. Nothing would change, and Jeremy knew he had to make the change. Many months of work, millions of dollars, and many nights had been lost, but his plans had prevailed. Jeremy would devastate his own country to open the country’s eyes. Long masses of urban sprawl would no longer lay abandoned, factories would stop killing cities with the smog, and people would retract the shutters on their minds and see the state the world was in. The new idiot in charge of the place would be brought down, and a new leader erected in his place, someone who knew how to change things, how to make the world a better place. Jeremy smiles, thinking of the numerous Russian blunders, from leaving the bomb unsecured to keeping the theft a secret. If they had informed the United States, it’d be much more difficult to smuggle the thing. The Iranians were forming another insane religious dictatorship, the sane elements fighting the insane elements with the Americans shooting at anyone who looks remotely like a terrorist. No doubt they’d be far too distracted to notice the bomb was gone until the new regime was settled or destroyed. Jeremy smiles and stops leaning past the arm of his chair, settling back in his seat. Jason, his trusted gun nut, was sitting on his right. Brandon, his strategic advisor, was sitting to the far right. Jeremy idly thinks that Brandon choosing San Fran for the blast was a good choice. San Francisco was a mess of drug addicts, foreclosures, and industrial waste. Jeremy chuckles as he thinks that maybe he didn’t need a nuke, he just needed to light a San Fran junkyard on fire and watch the buried chemicals explode! He gradually stops chuckling and looks out his window, seeing the wing and beyond that, the wide expanse of the Pacific. The azure blue beauty was covered with tumours of abandoned rusting ship hulls. Jeremy leans back and sighs, wondering where his country went wrong.
A sudden curse from the cabin and Jeremy curiously glances towards the thin metal door. The same curse, a resounding, “What the fuck are you doing?! Shit, what the hell!?!” comes through the metal door. Jason disengages straps his seat and begins to walk towards the cabin, edging past Brandon. Jason slides open the door and begins to yell, “What is going-” before he’s brutally cut off by a burst of gunshots. The co-pilot screams, “Eat that, you crazy bastard! There’s a missile coming, this is over!” Jason stumbles back, falling back into the aisle as blood begins to leak from his mouth onto the floor. The co-pilot yells back into the cabin, “I’m not James, you piece of shit! Don’t move! I’m Henry Farnden, NSA! There has been-” While the NSA agent had been frantically screaming about how things were under control, Jeremy and Brandon had both removed small pistols from inside their suits, and had both fired at Henry. Henry’s face disintegrated as the captain screams, “Anti-air missile incoming, and we’ve just entered optimum blast range!”
Jeremy sighs and pulls out a remote control form the second pocket in his suit. No time to make sure the bomb’s trajectory was correct, or even to release it. If the missile hit, optimuim effect would not be achieved. As he flipped back the panel that revealed the red button, Brandon turned his attention away from the two corpses that laid in puddles of blood and looked at Jeremy.
“What are you doing? We’re supposed to survive, and I’m supposed to have a position in the government-”
Jeremy sighed as he pressed the button. Brandon had always been too power-obsessed from the start, and he’d be damned if he was going to let another power-crazed bastard take over the government. It was all for the greater good, and Brandon didn’t fit in the plan. Electricity flowed through the wires as the button depressed, and Jeremy’s last hope was that humanity would put this lesson to good use.
___
As Bryan Elder and Curtis Brady walked to the top of a hill on the outskirts of Sacramento, they were pushing their bikes along with them, and a cloud was descending over their lives, although they didn’t know it. The pair of eleven-year olds had just enjoyed a pleasant day of hanging out together in the woods near Curtis’s house, and were going to bike over to Bryan’s house for supper and then a sleepover. Both boys were excited at the prospect of staying up late and watching horror movies until early morning, but their trains of thought were disrupted by an incredibly bright flash of light. Both boys brought up their arms to shield their eyes, and both said at the same time, “What the hell?” They both hopped on their bikes and began to rode down the hill as a loud crack hit their ears. They both stopped and waited on the sidewalk staring at the people who were staring agape at the crimson cloud. A few moments later and after brief discussion, they decided to ride back and tell Curt’s mom first. As they jumped on their bikes and began to ride, a hot breeze hit their back and ruffled their hair, the breeze carrying the radioactive dust that would slowly circle around the globe.
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PenguinOverlord

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Re: The Phantom Moderator
« Reply #51 on: July 05, 2009, 10:59:38 pm »

He's a god...

How do you plan on defeating him?


Have you ever heard "You just Punched Out Chtulu?". Yeah, he's going to go all generic RPG style and destroy him by lowering his Hitpoints.
Also, Kurtulmak does not bother with mere humans. If he did, the world will end. Wait, are we starting a Kult around Kurtulmak, now?
The K makes Kult Kool, Kay?
« Last Edit: July 12, 2009, 10:05:37 pm by PenguinOverlord »
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Zai

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Re: The Phantom Moderator
« Reply #52 on: July 05, 2009, 11:08:13 pm »

*Golf Clap*

And the crowd goes wild.
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DEATH has been waiting for you. He has poured you some TEA.

Cheeetar

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Re: The Phantom Moderator
« Reply #53 on: July 05, 2009, 11:55:38 pm »

Also, Kurtulmak does not bother with mere humans. If he did, the world will end. Wait, are we starting a Kult around Kurtulmak, now?

I support this movement.
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I've played some mafia.

Most of the time when someone is described as politically correct they are simply correct.

vettefan

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Re: The Phantom Moderator
« Reply #54 on: November 25, 2009, 09:20:51 pm »

lol?
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Cheeetar

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Re: The Phantom Moderator
« Reply #55 on: November 25, 2009, 11:00:01 pm »

lol?
Leave! Before Kurtulmak gets you! He does not appreciate unbelievers mocking him.
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I've played some mafia.

Most of the time when someone is described as politically correct they are simply correct.

CobaltKobold

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Re: The Phantom Moderator
« Reply #56 on: November 26, 2009, 01:45:02 am »

Praise Kurtulmak.
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vettefan

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Re: The Phantom Moderator
« Reply #57 on: November 26, 2009, 07:41:03 am »

*I NOW WORSHIP KURTULMAK IN COLOR!*
« Last Edit: November 26, 2009, 04:48:44 pm by Kurtulmak »
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Cheeetar

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Re: The Phantom Moderator
« Reply #58 on: November 26, 2009, 07:43:25 am »

I pity your unenlightened blasphemous words.
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I've played some mafia.

Most of the time when someone is described as politically correct they are simply correct.

Phantom

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Re: The Phantom Moderator
« Reply #59 on: November 26, 2009, 02:20:23 pm »

1. Kobolds are not really wimps.
2. From what I can tell, Kurtulmak is BADASS.
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