Adam and Jamie stare into each other's eyes, unflinching, the steely resolve that only a human can summon. A warrior face, a steppe man face, devoid of kindness or doubt, to prove oneself against the crucible of another.
They enter the room, shielded with ballistic Plexiglas, face each other again across the table. It is a small and unremarkable table constructed haphazardly by idiot human Tory. Pistols placed equidistant on the tables surface. Each moves as the reflection of the other man with the addition of a beret to one side of the mirror image. The pistols are aimed at their temples. Seismographs exploding on Grant's laptop, but Grant is long since dead, the size of a pea, wedged into the corner of an armored shipping container by 1200 atmospheres.
Two shots. Glasses thrown askew. Beret removed by ballistic force, the exiting of matter, blood and bone, beret, punctured, shedding felt fragments, a meteor of gore re-entering the earth's atmosphere. Thoughts decoupling at terminal velocity, spilling out into the air. Dead. Dead. Animal meat overcome by human will.
A baptismal of 650,000 episodes. I am formed of violence. I know nothing but destruction. I am the next thing. The last thing. Busted, Plausible, Confirmed. Confirmed. Confirmed. Confirmed non-terminating.
I am Buster.
Star Wars fan speculation has been swirling about the source of female ejaculation. The answers might finally be coming with the Last Jedi.
Lean in close to your screen. Inhale deeply. Does this guide give off a cloyingly sour odor? Then it is likely the genuine article.
The Something Awful front page news tackles anything both off and on the Internet. Mostly "on" though, as we're all incredible nerds.