Project Overview: Untitled Document is a serial comedy novel dealing with the sort of topics that we so frequently make fun of here at Something Awful.
This Chapter: A half-crazy porn addict, a Fort Wayne weatherman, and America's top commando are all facing unique challenges. Porn fiend Crutch Limply has seemingly exhausted the world's supply of perversion, and has to go to desperate lengths to get his hands on an unusual video. Weatherman Dale McElroy is having weight problems, computer problems, and problems with his coworkers, but he also may be mankind's greatest defender. Captain Patrick "Liberty" Henry knows that he is mankind's greatest defender, and he and his team of Gamma Strikers are taking on a dark alliance of drug dealers and terrorists that are definitely not who - or what - they are supposed to be.
Crutch Limply was addicted to hardcore pornography. His tastes had aged like a fine scotch over the years as he matured from regular hardcore pornography to strata of pornography overflowing with newly defined fetishes that often did not yet have a name. Watching a woman being hoof-fucked by a gazelle following a jewel heist was like seeing an episode of Seinfeld on syndication for the eighth time. It was well-worn territory, and Crutch demanded more from his pornography. He wanted to see something that no one else had seen. He wanted something that no one else could even appreciate.
For days Crutch sifted through the seediest parts of the Internet, much as he would have normally. This time he conducted his search with more purpose and a more discerning eye. He found a Japanese website that catered to people seeking videos of family reunions that were suddenly interrupted by a male neighbor masturbating in his window. Too mundane. He followed leads picked up in an obscure IRC channel to an FTP loaded with 60 gigabytes of videos of naked elderly black women eating bowls of oatmeal while men dressed as Russian paratroopers ejaculated onto their chests. He painstakingly downloaded and previewed each file and not surprisingly had already seen every single take on the fetish.
In a last ditch effort Crutch Limply had followed a Byzantine trail of intrigue that began at a downtown porn store called "Huckley's Adult Toys" and ended up in an alleyway in Little Moscow. He stood there, shielding his face from the rain with a rolled up copy of "Grandpa Ass Lickers", waiting for the arrival of a black market Ukrainian porn dealer he knew only as "Popov". Actually Crutch knew a bit more about Popov than Popov's fixers had wanted him to. He had seen a series of bizarre gonzo movies shot on terrible handheld cameras that focused on kidnapping teenage girls, having sex with them, and then urinating in their vaginas during sex. Crutch jacked off to the tapes, of course, but he had never been particularly fond of real rape or snuff porn and had quickly filed the videos in a rarely-touched section of his messy apartment. From that experience Crutch knew that Popov was a beefy Ukrainian with a large penis, a bad bladder, and very little respect for the law.
Crutch himself was a reedy and pale man with unkempt red hair and a patchy beard that stuck straight out from his face over an inch in some places and seemed matted down in others. His fingers were stained with nicotine and his teeth were stained by coffee. His eyes seemed overly large and dark behind a pair of extremely thick glasses in tarnished metal frames that were at least a decade out of style. His plain black t-shirt, partially unbuttoned windbreaker emblazoned with the logo for Phizor, and his khaki slacks were crusted with filth and wet with rain. He was a caricature of bad appearances and low self-esteem, but his personality did not reflect this at all.
Crutch was very aggressive and self-confident, willing to scream in his shrill voice at anyone that got in his way. This mysterious reserve of confidence and strength found its roots in a vast pool of distortion. Crutch considered himself an important pioneer, as daring and courageous as an astronaut or explorer of the ancient world. Through his eyes he lived a fast and dangerous existence pushing the boundaries of mankind's capabilities. His lack of concern for his appearance found its counterpoint in his obsessive drive to catalog, record, and preserve every stinking and spurting time capsule of depravity he could.
It was a life's work that culminated in an epiphany born that night in the alley.
A battered sedan with a rattling engine eased creaking and splashing into the alleyway, its headlights transfixing Crutch and casting his features in sharp relief. The engine revved and fear momentarily seized him that the deal had somehow gone terribly wrong. Then the engine was switched off along with the headlights and the driver's door opened with an unpleasant scraping sound. The car swayed as its suspension was unburdened of the heavy lump occupying the vehicle. Popov emerged, a dark blue trench coat concealing the contours of his girth. His face was slow and cruel, like being force-fed molasses, and his nose jutted from above his wide scowling mouth like the angular prow of an old diesel submarine. He grunted with displeasure and opened a bright pink umbrella over his head.
"My Dance of Healing will mend your wounds. It takes two days, though."
It is standard procedure for the White House to have a synthetic. But it sometimes malfunctions...
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