Imagine, if you can, a world where the name Dragon Ball meant nothing more to the average Westerner than a crass euphemism for lizard testicles.
Imagine a world populated by elemental slave-beasts–poor, tortured animals–their dignity ground underfoot by ten-year-old tyrants. A race of brutes, their agency captured and snuffed out as the pubescent taskmasters force them into solitary confinement. Rare and burdened breaths of “freedom” come few and far between–only when the despotic youths deign to release them into a dystopian battlefield laced with pain and misery.
The AniMessenger emerges from the slimepits for a crucial post. One post to rule them all. One post to find them. One post to shock the general public and, in the process, alienate them.
Authors’ Note: 2.B.A. Master… bater is a work of parody. The AniMessenger asks all prudes to kindly go back to watching Veggie Tales.
Authors’ Note: 2.B.A. Master… bater is a work of parody. The AniMessenger asks all haters to refill their haterades elsewhere.
Authors’ Note: 2.B.A. Master… bater is a work of parody. The AniMessenger asks those with their unmentionables in a bunch to kindly un-bunch them.
Howdy, Poké-Freaks! It’s that time again. Saturday. Or, to use the colloquial name, Lemonday.
Yes, The AniMessenger has returned–new, changed, consumed by his vocation–to be the very best (at writing erotic Pokemon fanfiction). Like no one ever was, in fact.
Finally, a kindly doctor explains the happenings of the past arc, invoking the full force of his bedside manner on Midoriya.
As the winds of change toss and turn The AniMessenger like a discarded bag of Pocky, he lifts his eyes to the AniHeavens and whispers, “It is time.”