Post by Deleted on Jan 13, 2017 12:27:55 GMT -5
An engine roars, the kind belonging to weedeaters or maybe a scooter, if those things were tied together and injected with mechanical steroids that is. The first glimpse of anything that’s seen upon the camera coming to life, is Missy Sippy’s mouth watering rear end, fitted snugly in the tightest pair of sky blue colored denim jeans ever seen.
The camera pans out, picking up more figures, a crowd, many people gathered around her, cheering. She is bent over a grocery cart, and as the camera continues to widen the scene, a racing drag strip comes into view. Next to Missy, in the lane to her left, is another chick also bent over a grocery cart that, much like Missy’s, looks jimmi rigged with an engine in the cart where you’d normally place groceries.
A man wearing jeans and a woodland winter jacket steps in between the carts waving a Ole Miss flag. He looks to the left and then the right before suddenly dropping the flag downward with authority.
MIIIIIIIIIIIING… BURP BURP… MIIIIIIIIIIN CHIUHCHI… MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING
And they’re off, Missy and Mary Sue racing their asses off down the strip as if they’d been shot out of satan’s asshole, hitting a whooping 40 miles per hour - the top speed. The two ladies scream and hoot and holler in delight the entire way down, with Missy ultimately winning by the length of a nat’s dick hair. There ain’t no use in getting butt hurt over getting your tits knocked in the dirt, so Missy’s loss in the recent tournament is the farthest thing on her mind at this point.
She blows by and high fives Mary Sue, the two screaming with adrenaline filled joy as they start driving/riding back toward the starting line. As they get close to the line, Missy hops up into a standing position on the cart - a big no no as it’s a safety risk. The crowd loves it though and get even rowdier, some firing off their shotguns into the air and blowing their truck horns.
Missy exudes sexiness as she rips open the front of her flannel jacket and slowly, seductively does a shimmy dances with her shoulders and waist, losing the jacket quickly to reveal the Confederate flag skin tight long sleeve shirt underneath. As they finally reach the line, the people surround Missy and to a lesser extent Mary Sue. It’s clear that Missy is the main focus of their adulation as they swarm around her like folks use to for Michael Jackson before he started giving kids alcohol and sedatives.
Missy Sippy: Yeeeeee Hawwwwwww yawl!!!! SOMEBODY DO ME!!!!
The men light up with glee and start grabbing at her, but she kicks them away with her studded cowboy boots (or bitch stompers as she calls them), and then holds her hand out to her side. Her brother, Joey Bob, tosses her a fresh cold Mountain Dew. The men groan with disappointment as she twists the cap off and pounds the drink down her throat, still dancing some with her hips. Pure sex appeal.
She remains on the cart as it shuts off. Pointing to the camera, Missy discards the empty bottle and motions for the masses to calm down. They obey her and look at the camera also, many a face missing teeth, eyes blurry and buzzed, and mouths stained brown from chew-backy use.
Missy: Calm ya asses down folks! Imma jaw jack this beech up.
Missy rolls up her long sleeves, getting all ornery now.
Missy: Now lemme preach on somethin’ here, Zoey Graysen. You and I done went and got our cunts knocked in the dirt in our debuts. I feel fer ya sistah but I ain’t gonna let that hold me back from giving you a good ole fashioned passionate ass whippin’. I dayum sure ain’t comin’ to Primetime to pat you on the bottom and tell you that you did well and that you’re a winner just for showing up. Hell naw. That’s some liberal wing ding bullshit and I ain’t bout that shit. You got your ass kicked, so did I. We’re a couple of losers, plain and dayum fuckin’ simple.
She gives a resolute head nod and a matter of fact “hmmp!” sound through her nose.
Missy: But the difference between us is, I can put such things away and refocus. You can’t though, can you, bitch face? Naw, you a spring chicken to all this. You have a virgin nose, it ain’t been busted and broken yet like mine. When we lock up and I pop you one good time, you’re gonna shell up like that hype train Ronda Rousey did when Amanda Nunes fist raped her face. And unlike you, I ain’t tryin’ to live up to someone else. That’s right, girl. I know you’re trying to be good as your BF’s family. Hell, you might someday do that, but I ain’t gonna be the stone you step on to get that trek started. See, I’m out here havin’ fun, gettin slizzard, while you’re prolly in a bathroom somewhere finger fuckin your throat to puke up all that food that’ll make you fat…. All so you can be good enough for your BF’s famfam. I bet at this point a gosh damn cheeseburger terrifies the fuck out of you. Desperate, needy bitch. Woman the fuck up, Zora. You’re name is Zora for chrissakes! Tha name alone shouts bad assery. Stop mucking it up.
Missy just shakes her head as if disappointed more than angry at her upcoming adversary.
Missy: All that focusing on your BF’s family, and being good enough for them, is gonna lead to over thinking, overtraining, and ultimately desperation in the ring. And against someone like me, you’re gonna wind up without a pot to piss in nor a window to throw it out of. Speaking of in ring shit, you’re about as sharp as the leading edge of a bowling ball aren’t ya? You have more moves on your moves list than you do brain cells; they total higher than your IQ. How tha fuck is that even possible? Let me guess, you did the move on a plastic dummy man that doesn’t hit back or move or does ANYTHING and SHAZAM you suddenly know how to do it? Look, you peanut butter cup complected poor man’s Kim Kardashian, the only thing you have going for you in this match is the miles of makeup you put on your face. That stuff MIGHT buffer my fists enough for you to weather the storm and pull some fluke out of your ass and wind up beatin’ me, but I honestly think you’d have a better chances picking up a turd by the clean end before your hand is raised.
Missy jumps off the cart and is surrounded by the group of men and women. She holds her arms out at her sides. A can of Copenhagen chewbacky is slapped in one palm, a hat in the other. Missy shoves the hat on her head, and it reads “Lawful on the streets. Chaotic in the sheets.” She then rips open the can and shoves a wad of chew in her lip.
Missy: Zora, I’ve got the strength advantage, the reach advantage, the toughness advantage, the experience advantage, and I look sexier than you with no makeup than you do on your best makeup day. On Primetime, I’m gonna use you as a call out to all the cum dumpsters and cock holsters in the Vixens locker room. I’ve got a message to send, and it is simple…
Missy’s lips stretch far and wide into a mischievous, cheshire cat like grin.
Missy: No friends. No enemies. Just victims.
She cocks her head back and belts out a big yeeeeee haawwwww and the crowd responds in tune, and chants “MISSY’S GONNA KILL YOU!” over and over again as the scene starts to fade, the closing scene being that of Missy aloft their shoulders in victory.
~The End~