Skip to content

Patchi: The Hell Tribulations On A Sorrowful Soul

December 31, 2013
Has nothing to do with the story, just thought it was neat.

Has nothing to do with the story, just thought it was neat.

Patchi the Pachyrhinosuaurs was much unhappy. His marriage with Juniper had gone down the drain, they were now fighting all the time. And Patchi got all the blunt of the unluck! If he tried one more thing, they would divorce and the custody of their children and all of his belongings and money would go to Juniper, so he was now walking on the woods, drunk out of his mind. Alex the enantiornithe of despicability inanity much disliked this.

“Patchi my man, you used to be great marginocephalian of masculinity unfold and abs of adamantium vireliness, now you are pussy whipped mongrel of Campanian calamity!? What happened to the devil-may-care Rhabdodon rapist rider that created anarchy and mayhem everywhere that I used to love and worship!?”

“Alex, that man is long gone, now I am a whore to these ants!” cried emoly the ceratopsian ornithischian of moronic amicability.

“Follow my lead my old friend of calulent cloaca, let us redeem you from the stagnancy of your sins!”

And so the Ptachi rhinoceros archosaur followed unfelicity the vermillion and ebonics red black bird of cdeficiency deviancy of black magic ages. They went down the river to the Western Interior Seaway, where there was a shanty town coastoal city, a vile Gomorrah of vileness and bankruptcy. It was the apex of all decadence and dementia of the Cretaceous, where prostitution and carnal satisfactions of all kinds ruled supreme. Rivers of fecal waste, urine and a trillion veneral diseases flooded the streets, a swamp of hedonism fetidity where genasaurian whores bathed and drank in much despicable pleasures of their Down’s Syndrome madness. Patchi and Alex went to a bar titled “The Phallolestes”, green neon signs above the skulls of Alamosaurus juveniles and the pelts of all species of pachycephalosaurs, arranged to form a mosaic depicting an Edmontonia raping a Lambeosaurus. Guardian the bar was a hustler Hypsibema, wearing most tight leather suits made from the skin of baby Albertosaurus and pitch blackness sunglasses made from the skulls of two month old Parasaurolophus girls.

“Are you of age?” asked the hustler, he was being sarcastic because they let in children anyways, because the The Phallolestes led on the most infamous ring of child prostitution this side of Laramidia.

“Here are our tickets” said Alex, showing him tickets made from the dissecated vulvas of multituberculate pups.

“Very well, you may pass if you promise to be most vile and despicable, and engage in coprophilous activities prommoting several different strands of avian cholera.”

Patchi and Alex entered, to find a massive, perpetual orgy of dementia decadence deviancy deficiency of common sense of hilarity. The walls were filled with cadavers and corpses of many different dinosaurs hammered into the wall like giant exhibition bugs, only with their torsos wide open and their inwards removed, most of which actually still alive and dying either the most agonisingly painful crucifixion death, or moaning in tormentous hellish desires. Rivers of blood and diarrhea flooded in glorious arcs, erupted in crystal fountains of woe, from which many artists and painter got their pincel nourishment, to paint atrocious artwork on the opened ribs of still living lonchodectid pterosaurs. In a particularly large corner of the hall of Adlivun waste, was a pen full of dinosaur children, mistreated and covered with bruises and bodily waste, most of which in a severe state of necrosis. They were the children prostitutes, the central attraction of the bar, held up like pigs on a slaughter house so that customers may charge to rape one of the victims. The mpst honourable deed in that honourless place was to rip off the still beating heart of one of the children and devour it, and leave the young carcasse to be violently raped by every patron on the room until it would be nothing more than a decaying sack of semen and cholera. Between the two protagonist customers of virulent hatred and the pig pen of monstruousity was a green iguanodontid ornithopod wearing a Gargantuavis fedora, a monocle from pteranodontid cloacas, and a pimp dress made from skinned hadrosaur single mothers that refused to give him their children, now skinned corpses laying on the back of some alley.

“Aladar my man, it is good to see your despicability face!” says evilly the Alex avialan whore of the service that is Alzheimer’s.

“Indeed my old devil pal of cancerous feathers, it is good to express my delightful evil carnation sensation damnation with someone who apreciates the vile arts of shamanic skinning! And who is this downtrodden mongrel of hound gengivitis?”

“Oh, this is Patchi the spiritually castrated Pachyrhinosaurus, he is here to elevate his patheticness soul into the evil hedonist desires of Ahriman!”

Patchi whimpers, he has run from the abusive pussy-whipping to abusive verbal whipping of passive agressive abuse.

“Goodness be damned indeed, I shall corrupt this ornithodiran soul into dementia deviancy of the finest quality of necrosis pus! Meanwhile, have your despicable fun with our Great Valley whores!”

“Hmm, I am going to satisfy my undying lustful cravings of devilry on a favourite whore of mine, you can go have fun!” says lustfully and dementedly the Alexornis enantiornithe bird, going to the pen and paying ten thousand yen to have a go on Littlefoot’s arse.

“Now my marginocephalian friend, we are going to remove all that disgusting morality and goodness from your tainteable soul!” Aladar says, twiching his moustache of vile villainy.

Patchi whimpers, and follows the evil dryomorph upstairs, climbing the stairs made of the vertebrae of dromaeosaurine single mothers. It was really unconfortable and made Patchi’s metacarpals hurt, but it was a thing of the most devious deviantart beauty. They made their way into a corridor with three doors: one made from the pelt and bones of a teenage tyrannosaur, another made from the several mummified corpses of ornuthurine seabirds, and another made from plesiosaur distilled rectums and phallanges.

“The key to hedonism is impulse” says Aladar with much wisdom in his colon, “The key to impulse is chaos. The key to chaos is luck. You are to choose any of these doors on mindless gambling alone, or I will fucking blow your brains out!”

To prove his point, Aladar took out a Heckler & Koch MP5 made from tyrannosaur medullary bone and the fetid obtuse solidified abcesses of Rapetosaurus tracheas. Patchi was so histerics that he almost defecated his internal organs, so he imeditely pointed to the seabird door.

“See, that wasn’t so fucking hard, was it not? You have great potential within you, let the darkness inside your guts overwhelm your reason and make a beast out of you!”

So they entered the fetidity room of arses, and find a moderately sized bed made from titanosaur bones as support and meat as blankets, with a beaten down, broken Ornithomimus giggolo sitting on it. His feathers were completly tattered like those of a raped duck hen, and his eyes cried bitter tears of woeful hopelessness.

“Patchi, you must rape and dismember this sorry excuse for a living being, to rip him apart and make a lampshade out of him while he still breathes. This is your test, if you succeed you will be able to kill your wife and sell your pitiful whore children to the sex traffic industry.”

Patchi considered. He really wanted to make Juniper the devil cheating whore hypocrite pay for her sins, but his soul was pure, his heart of a carcinogenic white radiance that consumed his aortas with tumours. He could not have anyone else suffer for him, he could not have anyone be sent to damnation Hell of egotism pericardium emotions of hatred, so he did the truly heroic messiah thing and stroke the devil Aladar with his hornless snout of divine justice! The demon iguanodont carcinoma pimp rolled down the stairs, his skin utterly obliterated by the dromaeosaur vertebrae, seeking revenge at last, ripping and shredding the scamous ornithischian integrument until only masticated muscles remained. All the blood and tattered flesh made all the dinosaur hedonists very hungry, to they jumped on the accursed gensaurian devil demon whore the Aladar and devoured him alive, their teeth removing chunks of flesh from his pititful muscular torso and ripping out his entrails, spreading blood, bile and shit everywhere. As the vicious Saturnalia unveils, Patchi grabs the Troodon and both slide down the bloodied stairs, escaping unnoticed from the devil cultists of paedophiliac desires.

“Thank you for saving me” says the maniraptor gratefully with much pleasure in his breast.

“The pleasure is mine, mon amour!” says Patchi sexily, and both male dinosaurs kiss a flaming desire kiss of a thousand red dwarfs that incinerates The Phallolestes with the lightful light of love sickness of the varicose veins, burning the devil hedonist evil ugly witch dinosaurs of calamity and disagreeable methodology.

So the two triumphant lovers walk out of the decadent scorched remains of the coastoal site, back into the good moral inland interior terrains. But the Juniper is much unhappy!

“PATCHI HOW DARE YOU CHEAT ME WITH PARAVIAN FAGGOT WHORE I WILL DESTROY YOU MARK MY WORDS!” she says, charging her nose bump with yang energy of enemity and odious intent!

But the love between the two dinosaurs is stronger than the evil homophobic woman of pessimistic putridity pussy, so the horn explodes and so does her skull, her brain incenerating like a thousand white dwarfs on the apex of the cosmical life. So Patchi and his love have a long live of amorous amicability that lasts until the terminal Maastrichtian, while Juniper, Alex, Aladar and Littlefoot burn forever in Tartarus where they are raped by balls of light with magma tentacles until the universe reaches terminal heat death, boys and girls!

5 Comments leave one →
  1. Randomosaur permalink
    January 7, 2014 11:35 pm

    You should write a fic about Fred Phelps getting gangraped by pterosaurs.

    • January 8, 2014 12:02 am

      He is but history. A Phil Robertson fic should eventually be on the way, however.

      • Randomosaur permalink
        January 10, 2014 1:21 am

        So are pterosaurs.

      • Emily permalink
        February 18, 2014 5:08 am

        Sounds good. Are you familiar with the comic strip Mallard Fillmore? I think that’d make for the best Duck Dynasty crossover!

      • February 18, 2014 11:44 am

        No, but I’ll check it out! Thanks!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: