"It's 'bout to go down!" shouted Marshfellow. "Wait a minute, was I saying something different a second ago?"
Actually, that was hours ago. Apparently, the writer had some preoccupations. As lazily as this is written, you would think this would be finished by now, though.
"Do I get a break between matches?" Marshfellow wondered out loud.
I said, "No, because your opponent is a female."
"Hey!" complained Marshfellow. "You said we were all equally hated. That's not fair!"
Shiraq boastfully shouted, "Hell ha'f no fury like a wife scorned, punk! Ya goin' down like my husbin's down was s'mhow downed by s'mbody down wi' da touchdown king!"
"Hubert Downey?"
"Yep!"
"That's a downer."
Hopefully the author will stop trying to cram the word "down" into the story so much. Hopefully, its presence is going down.
"Bring it!" triumphantly roared Marshfellow. "I'm undefeated professionally."
I reminded him snappily, "You just started, dummy!"
"Dumb me?" Marshfellow inquired. "Why are you calling yourself dumb right now?"
"I'm not doing this with you again. Let's just commence the match. And next time, read," I spake, completely perturbed.
Marshfellow subsequently asked, "If we're having a conversation right now, shouldn't I be listening to you rather than reading? It isn't like there's subtitles, is there?"
"Dat's enough! Fight me! I'm softer dan ya!" shrieked Shiraq.
Her opponent peacefully stated, "Don't worry. You'll be with your husband soon enough. I have tricks up my sleeve."
"That's against the rules, Marshfellow," I calmly, yet very handsomely, replied. "Colliders canno-"
"I'm not even wearing any sleeves!" suddenly shouted Marshfellow. "I'm a marshmallow."
I was taken aback... at first. Then, upon visual evaluation, his claim did appear to be true; you would think they should teach this in school.
"Guys, da readas didn' come ta hear yo' ridiculousness," grumbled Shiraq.
"Read, but continue," Marshfellow condescendingly commented.
"Dey came here ta watch me bea'chu!" Shiraq screamed.
"Read, once again," chided Marshfellow. "Besides, I've been rofling half this time! Ugh, now I'm filthy..."
I, the narrator, the one narrating, replied, "Rofling is not a word. Do without text speech."
"Who are ya, the grammar police?" scoffed Marshfellow.
I snapped back at him, "No, I'm the judge of this match. Begin!"
Shiraq immediately acted as a slingshot and Marshfellow was flung as far as she could muster in that instant. Her tensile strength was impressive to all who witnessed it. Finally, we learned how a sock and a pillow could make a marriage work.
"That was close," marveled Marshfellow, just an inch from the cloud. If not for all this filth weighing me down, I might have lost."
Then Marshfellow got an idea; an awful, awfully awful, awfully wonderful, wonderfully awful idea.
"Hey, wife of the guy I defeated!" Marshfellow teased. "You're lookin' a little dirty over there!"
"Wut?" Shiraq stared down in disgust at herself from where she catapulted the rofling marshmallow and yelled ferociously, "How dare ya! Dis was my husbin's fav'rit sock! Ya lil-"
"Now's my chance!" Marshfellow cheered.
"Oh, no, ya don't!" sinisterly said Shiraq.
She jumped beyond reach of, [sigh], the "nuking" in preparation for the next move. Marshfellow landed and seized the opportunity of her being airborne; he jumped after her, but she folded herself into a hang glider shape, drifting to the side.
Don't forget to fold your socks, either, kids. Hang glider shape is especially excellent when trying to pretend that your fingers are hang gliding.
"We're in the middle of a bout! Stow yo' public service announcements!" each opponent fiercely chastised.
Shiraq batted Marshfellow away, but he used the momentum to bounce off the ground back at her and caused a collision... without using the "nuking" first?! Even I, the narrator and referee, was baffled by this clear misplay... until Shiraq couldn't free herself from his grip.
"No using anthropomorphic hands. You know the rules, Marshfellow," I told him, every viewer, and every reader for the infinitieth time.
Marshfellow proudly smirked, "I'm not."
Barely visible, which is probably why none of you can see it, there was sticky residue stuck to both and between Marshfellow and Shiraq.
"EWWW! Get it off!" Shiraq hollered.
"Hold still. With enough whiplash, it should break free," instructed Marshfellow. "Throw me downward as hard as you can."
"Okay," Shiraq reluctantly whimpered.
Shiraq did as she was told and the sticky residue was free... from Marshfellow, leaving it stuck on Shiraq. Shiraq became so angry, she starting steaming; first figuratively, then literally.
Don't forget to iron your socks, kids.
"Da nex' thang I'm gonna do ta y'all sticky, PSAin' punks is-" thundered Shiraq, only to be interrupted by the realization that her literally hot head made her rise to touch the cloud. Particles from the cloud whisked her further inward. She was no longer visible; which wasn't much of a loss for us. How attractive a sock do you think somebody like Rillo could get?
"All part of my plan!" Marshfellow giggled.
I did not believe him, but unfortunately, the crowd slowly started murmuring about his so-called brillian- how could anyone even anticipate that she could literally steam?!
"He's the greatest!" many audience chants echoed.
Marshfellow pondered, "The gray... test. That's it! That's what I'll call this maneu-"
"NO! No! I quit! I'm not enabling this bit any further!"
Marshfellow stated non-chalantly, "Dude, I was joking."
The narrator, handsome as ever, gave apologies for his outburst; although, has anyone else realized that most of the dialogue in this story is exclama-
"Next chapter!" interrupted Marshfellow. "Let's see how you like i-"