I once knew a man
ᴴᵉ ʰᵃᵈ ᵃ ᵍᶦʳˡ ᶦn ʰᶦˢ ʰᵃnᵈ
Hₑ ₜₒₗd ₛₕₑ waₛ a ₚₑₙᵢₛ ₚᵢₚₑ
I ᴀsked wHᴀt He meᴀɴt
H ͤ s ͣ ͩ “s ͦ ͬ ͬy, I’ ͫ sp ͤn ͭ”
ꭲꮋꭼꮑ ꮋꭼ ꭲꮼꭱꮑꭼꭰ ꭺꮑꭰ ꭱꭺꮑ
I'd like to take Warwick on a helicopter ride with his son. We'd laugh and joke together. I'd tell Warwick about how much I've enjoyed spending time with him. I'd tell him he should be proud of his little boy and that both of them are incredible human beings. I tell him that this young lad has an inspiring future ahead of him. I'd thank him for a wonderful day. I'd then open then door, grab both of the gremlins, and dangle them over the cabin's edge. They'd cry, scream, and beg for mercy. Oh, music to my ears. I'd tell Warwick to tell his little boy that he loves him, for it's the last time he'll ever get to do so. Warwick begs to no avail. He eventually realises how steel my resolve is. 'Son... Harrison. I lo--' the little bastard croakes out before I let go of the mutant son. As he falls Warwick can only look on in horror as his little boy dangles and flails as he hurdles toward the earth at breakneck speed until he hits the rock hard ground and splats into pure goo. I look down at the pile of mush below us and smile. I take a deep breath of pure joy and then look straight into Warwick's teary eyes. Then I let go of the midge too.
>Warwick begs to no avail. He eventually realises how steel my resolve is. 'Son... Harrison. I lo--' the little bastard croakes out before I let go of the mutant son.
Imagine seeing Warwick Davis shopping at the mall before Christmas. You run into him on the third floor, carrying dozens of bags that are far too heavy for his stubby little arms and puny fingers. He's struggling, sweat is pouring off his deformed little forehead as he tries to get his gifts home for his family. You feel the rage build up in you, looking at this decrepit little gnome pulling all these bags, making little grunts in his stupid little high pitched voice. Unconsciously, you find yourself striding towards him, with venomous intent in your eyes. He catches sight of you approaching, his tiny freak head lifts slightly, you can see the fear in his eyes like a zebra looking at a lion on the hunt. In an instant, you grab him by his tiny legs and begin walking over to the balcony that overlooks the mall floor, Warwick too weak to fight back, only whimpering. Three floors up is a good height to a human being, but to this imp? It might as well be the Grand Canyon. You lift him over your head like a sack of potatoes and you toss the little midge over the edge, and you hear his goofy high pitched yelps as he falls. He smacks his head off a cupcake kiosk, his tiny brains splattered all over a group of Chinese tourists like a Jackson Pollock painting, the elves from the nearby Santa Claus chair rush over, thinking one of their own has committed suicide again. In this moment, you feel triumph.
(i have my back turned to the camera, a sharply tailored dress shirt with suspenders, I can be seen mixing a drink at the personal bar)
ME: Well, well, well... It seems I have you right where I want you Mr. Davis.
(Warwick Davis is tied to a chair, hes calm but focused)
WARWICK: so you think, Cinemaphile.
ME: shhh... I'll let you know when its your turn to speak Mr. Davis.
(I sip my drink and sit down in a chair next to the bar)
(slowly untying my dress shoes) ME: do you know why I brought you here?
WARWICK: enlighten me.
(taking off shoes) ME: truth is Mr. Davis, I find your kind repulsive. (points at WARWICK with shoe)
(brings out steel toed caterpillar boots from under chair) ME: your beady little eyes, stubby little fingers, gigantic disproportionate heads, and worst of all your inflated egos. to think such diseased creatures have the audacity to reproduce. i mean, really mr. davis, look at your children. why would you condemn them to a life of suffering just to fulfill your own misguided desires?
WARWICK: so you're saying i have no quality of life? that i don't deserve to live? why? because i'm a little person?
(tying off boots) ME: little person, dwarf, midget, gnome; it doesn't matter how you brand yourself WARWICK, you are still an abomination. you see that don't you?
(tears in his eyes, clenching his tiny fists) WARWICK: what gives you the fricking right!? to.. to pick and choose who deserves to live and die? i am a good person, i give back to the community! what the frick do you do!?
(standing up and working into the boots) ME: enough WARWICK, you're not a martyr. you're a midget. you cannot talk your way out of this.
(disgusted) WARWICK: oh frick off. this is just a charade. you havent got the balls you ignorant little pip! bigot!!
WARWICK: money.. I have money. I'll give you whatever you want..
(throws drink on warwick and smashes glass on the floor) ME: c**t!! despicable little goblin frick! you think I want money!? the chair you are tied to is worth more than the shoebox you live in.
(spitting drink and catching breath) WARWICK: then what!? what do you want!? please dont do this i have kids please! my wife!
(reaches into back pocket) ME: yes your family, i almost forgot.
(pulls out polaroids)
ME: this is your wife (still of mrs davis walking into house where warwick is now)
(warwick is visibly distressed, wide eyed)
(shuffling through photos) ME: i guess she prefers normal men as well (stills of me and mrs. davis having sex)
(smirking) ME: I made her call me Willow.
WARWICK: motherfricker! (desperately tries to free himself from his binds, thrashing about) AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!
ME: relax Mr. Davis.. you are embarrassing yourself. that's clear scotch tape i tied you with. I didn't even need duct tape heh.
(reassuming punt position)
ME: and now Mr. Davis, any last words?
WARWICK: I-I- I wa..
(interrupting) ME: Christ, it was rhetorical Warwick. I couldn't give a frick about your last words. (winding up punt)
WARWICK: no. no. NO! WAI-
(warwick is punted so hard in the head he and the chair fall backwards. a grotesque split welt already formed on his temple. i stand over him stomping his head into the floor over and over. the blood drops splattering my face and white shirt. gripping the bar for support and i stomp over and over and over. i stop and quickly pick up the chair with warwick still tied to it, and scream while slamming it against the wall until the chair splinters into pieces and Warwick falls into a pile on the floor.)
you just know he fricked those two b***hes on the right. grabbed em by their hair and rode that ass like he was on a horse going PLAP PLAP PLAP. heres a pic for reference i'll probably commission some artwork later
Instill in him a false sense of hope. That his capture was nothing but a cruel joke, a punchline he’d just have to be patient to see come into fruition.
“You know I was in Star Wars right? And Harry Potter with wizards?“
“I don’t care”, I reply coldly.
A deafening silence suddenly engulfs the room. Shades of Stockholm Syndrome begin to fade as it dawns on Warwick that his celebrity status falls on deaf ears. I’m now greeted with palpable panic.
“Release me!”
“Your release will be of a spiritual one Warwick. Not physical.”
His eyes start to swell with tears. His 3 foot frame begins to quiver, his cage shaking alongside him as the cold breeze of mortality takes hold.
I turn my gaze back towards my prey slowly. “Look at me, Warwick”.
He slowly glares up with his beady, tearful eyes. Helplessness taking over every iota of his being.
“I’ll make it quick.”
Warwick nods slowly, tears raining down the bottom of his miniature cage. He bravely accepted his fate.
The punchline, it seemed, had finally been delivered.
Imagine digging a 4 ft deep arena he would never be capable of escaping from, and tossing him in there. The express purpose to make him fight animals Ala the coliseum. Even one of those shitty white dogs with nasty eyes because their Mexican owners don't clean them would be a feat for Warwick to beat. Each victory he gets, you give him better food; or better armor. Each week upping the stakes, until his mind warps and he believes you to be Jupiter or some shit.
I'd love to play a game of Fridge The Midge with Warwick Davis. What's Fridge The Midge, one might ask? It's simple: you put a midget in a refrigerator. You and the boys put him in the crisper drawer, shut the door, gather 'round, drink some cold ones, and laugh yourself lightheaded over hearing the pathetic little midget's futile attempts to escape. He's not strong enough to push the door open, he doesn't have the leverage or space to even get the crisper drawer open, the cold is slowing him down, he's running out of air, he knows it's almost over for him and starts screaming for help. Maybe you liven things up a little by shaking the refrigerator to spook him, or say "oh my God is somebody in there" and open the door to give him a glimmer of hope before slamming it shut and mocking him, it's up to you. I wouldn't recommend letting the midget die, that's when things get complicated. Though, I suppose it'll be easy to hide the body, considering... you know.
Personally I'd starve Warwick Davis. It should not take too long given his size. Make him stick thin and so feeble. Then I would feign pity and serve him a plate of delicious char siu meat, with rich, sticky sauce, perfect pancakes, refreshing drinks... go all out. Give that little bastard a banquet. Watch him greedily devour the meat. His lips, teeth, and fingers sticky with the sauce as he throws manners and decorum out of the window in a mad rush to satiate himself. Then, when he's satisfied and feels thing are looking up, I shall reveal he has not been feasting on char siu pork but... char siu Harrison Davis. Yes, I will have ensured Warwick Davis greedily gobbled up the flesh of his mutant son that I butchered after growing bored with torturing him. As the tears well up in his eyes and he refuses to belief me, I shall let out a truly evil, bone chilling laugh and upend the contents of a box I'll have near me; it will be the mangled remains of his son. His legs gone, his skin flayed, castrated, eyes missing, his fingers and arms broken, and head twisted around. That is what I would do to that little bastard. The louder he screams and cries in anguish, the louder and more evil my cackle becomes. Hell, it may just kill me because I'll be struggling to breath as I'll be laughing so hard. I will then loop the footage of his son being raped by a dog, tortured, and then butchered by me 24/7 at maximum volume. This is the fate that awaits you, you vile little goblin.
How do you change font size?
Trips gets to stay on the plane: It's unicode superscript/subscript
ₗᵢₖₑ ₜₕᵢₛ
[superscript] test and based, thanks [/superscript]
[superscript] take 2 [/subscript]
there now you've got it
You need a Cinemaphile gold account
ꮤꮋꭹ ꭰꮎꭼꮪ ꮋꭼ ꮤꭼꭺꭱ ꭲꮋꭼ ꮇꭺꮪꮶ?
TeMM me ᴀʙout HJm
Bizarro Bane
Are all CIA posters big guys?
>Banes are overcompensating fitness manlets that want to be a big guy
>CIAs are dorky tall fat guys
it makes sense
N-No...
This can't be happening...
I'M IN CHARGE HERE
What movie is thsi
Honey I Shrunk the CIA (2012)
You're a big guy...
You're a small guy
superscript/subscript I did it!
{font size = superscript ;
SystemIn print ;
“I am Sneed, lord of the Homer’s and the first Moes”
ᴵ ᵘˢᵉᵈ ᵗᵒ ᵇᵉ ˢnᵉᵉᵈ. ᴮᵘᵗ nᵒʷ
I HAVE BECOME CHUCK, THE SOLVER OF MYSTERIES
test
oh hey it's that guy who got abducted with his daughter and imprisoned in that basement
Midge?
I once knew a man
ᴴᵉ ʰᵃᵈ ᵃ ᵍᶦʳˡ ᶦn ʰᶦˢ ʰᵃnᵈ
Hₑ ₜₒₗd ₛₕₑ waₛ a ₚₑₙᵢₛ ₚᵢₚₑ
I ᴀsked wHᴀt He meᴀɴt
H ͤ s ͣ ͩ “s ͦ ͬ ͬy, I’ ͫ sp ͤn ͭ”
ꭲꮋꭼꮑ ꮋꭼ ꭲꮼꭱꮑꭼꭰ ꭺꮑꭰ ꭱꭺꮑ
I'd like to take Warwick on a helicopter ride with his son. We'd laugh and joke together. I'd tell Warwick about how much I've enjoyed spending time with him. I'd tell him he should be proud of his little boy and that both of them are incredible human beings. I tell him that this young lad has an inspiring future ahead of him. I'd thank him for a wonderful day. I'd then open then door, grab both of the gremlins, and dangle them over the cabin's edge. They'd cry, scream, and beg for mercy. Oh, music to my ears. I'd tell Warwick to tell his little boy that he loves him, for it's the last time he'll ever get to do so. Warwick begs to no avail. He eventually realises how steel my resolve is. 'Son... Harrison. I lo--' the little bastard croakes out before I let go of the mutant son. As he falls Warwick can only look on in horror as his little boy dangles and flails as he hurdles toward the earth at breakneck speed until he hits the rock hard ground and splats into pure goo. I look down at the pile of mush below us and smile. I take a deep breath of pure joy and then look straight into Warwick's teary eyes. Then I let go of the midge too.
He didn't fly so good.
I've only just started reading this and I just know something silly is about to happen XD
Terminal velocity wouldn't be enough for him to fall straight down. He'd just float in the wind.
>Warwick begs to no avail. He eventually realises how steel my resolve is. 'Son... Harrison. I lo--' the little bastard croakes out before I let go of the mutant son.
Imagine seeing Warwick Davis shopping at the mall before Christmas. You run into him on the third floor, carrying dozens of bags that are far too heavy for his stubby little arms and puny fingers. He's struggling, sweat is pouring off his deformed little forehead as he tries to get his gifts home for his family. You feel the rage build up in you, looking at this decrepit little gnome pulling all these bags, making little grunts in his stupid little high pitched voice. Unconsciously, you find yourself striding towards him, with venomous intent in your eyes. He catches sight of you approaching, his tiny freak head lifts slightly, you can see the fear in his eyes like a zebra looking at a lion on the hunt. In an instant, you grab him by his tiny legs and begin walking over to the balcony that overlooks the mall floor, Warwick too weak to fight back, only whimpering. Three floors up is a good height to a human being, but to this imp? It might as well be the Grand Canyon. You lift him over your head like a sack of potatoes and you toss the little midge over the edge, and you hear his goofy high pitched yelps as he falls. He smacks his head off a cupcake kiosk, his tiny brains splattered all over a group of Chinese tourists like a Jackson Pollock painting, the elves from the nearby Santa Claus chair rush over, thinking one of their own has committed suicide again. In this moment, you feel triumph.
>He smacks his head off a cupcake kiosk, his tiny brains splattered all over a group of Chinese tourists like a Jackson Pollock painting
HOUSE, INT - NIGHT
(i have my back turned to the camera, a sharply tailored dress shirt with suspenders, I can be seen mixing a drink at the personal bar)
ME: Well, well, well... It seems I have you right where I want you Mr. Davis.
(Warwick Davis is tied to a chair, hes calm but focused)
WARWICK: so you think, Cinemaphile.
ME: shhh... I'll let you know when its your turn to speak Mr. Davis.
(I sip my drink and sit down in a chair next to the bar)
(slowly untying my dress shoes) ME: do you know why I brought you here?
WARWICK: enlighten me.
(taking off shoes) ME: truth is Mr. Davis, I find your kind repulsive. (points at WARWICK with shoe)
(brings out steel toed caterpillar boots from under chair) ME: your beady little eyes, stubby little fingers, gigantic disproportionate heads, and worst of all your inflated egos. to think such diseased creatures have the audacity to reproduce. i mean, really mr. davis, look at your children. why would you condemn them to a life of suffering just to fulfill your own misguided desires?
WARWICK: so you're saying i have no quality of life? that i don't deserve to live? why? because i'm a little person?
(tying off boots) ME: little person, dwarf, midget, gnome; it doesn't matter how you brand yourself WARWICK, you are still an abomination. you see that don't you?
(tears in his eyes, clenching his tiny fists) WARWICK: what gives you the fricking right!? to.. to pick and choose who deserves to live and die? i am a good person, i give back to the community! what the frick do you do!?
(standing up and working into the boots) ME: enough WARWICK, you're not a martyr. you're a midget. you cannot talk your way out of this.
(disgusted) WARWICK: oh frick off. this is just a charade. you havent got the balls you ignorant little pip! bigot!!
(lining up the shot) ME: steady now, Mr. Davis...
(panicking) WARWICK: okay! okay! please okay wait please!
(stopping and loosening cuff links) ME: hm?
cont.
WARWICK: money.. I have money. I'll give you whatever you want..
(throws drink on warwick and smashes glass on the floor) ME: c**t!! despicable little goblin frick! you think I want money!? the chair you are tied to is worth more than the shoebox you live in.
(spitting drink and catching breath) WARWICK: then what!? what do you want!? please dont do this i have kids please! my wife!
(reaches into back pocket) ME: yes your family, i almost forgot.
(pulls out polaroids)
ME: this is your wife (still of mrs davis walking into house where warwick is now)
(warwick is visibly distressed, wide eyed)
(shuffling through photos) ME: i guess she prefers normal men as well (stills of me and mrs. davis having sex)
(smirking) ME: I made her call me Willow.
WARWICK: motherfricker! (desperately tries to free himself from his binds, thrashing about) AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!
ME: relax Mr. Davis.. you are embarrassing yourself. that's clear scotch tape i tied you with. I didn't even need duct tape heh.
(reassuming punt position)
ME: and now Mr. Davis, any last words?
WARWICK: I-I- I wa..
(interrupting) ME: Christ, it was rhetorical Warwick. I couldn't give a frick about your last words. (winding up punt)
WARWICK: no. no. NO! WAI-
(warwick is punted so hard in the head he and the chair fall backwards. a grotesque split welt already formed on his temple. i stand over him stomping his head into the floor over and over. the blood drops splattering my face and white shirt. gripping the bar for support and i stomp over and over and over. i stop and quickly pick up the chair with warwick still tied to it, and scream while slamming it against the wall until the chair splinters into pieces and Warwick falls into a pile on the floor.)
*CUTS TO BLACK*
>I made her call me Willow
I want hotheads to suffer
>um, you don't get to bring friends.
>however, I sure do!
you just know he fricked those two b***hes on the right. grabbed em by their hair and rode that ass like he was on a horse going PLAP PLAP PLAP. heres a pic for reference i'll probably commission some artwork later
>make moronic post
>it's still hilarious
What's your secret?
Warwick Davis having sex would probably sound like a tortoise fricking a croc.
>have we fridged the midge?
>the midge cools!
He gets fridged in one of the Leprechaun movies. I wish I wasn't a moron and knew how to make webms.
Perhaps he's wondering why you would stretch your shin bones, before placing lifts in your shoes.
TELL ME WHY DOES HE HAVE AIDS?
I’d take my time with Warwick Davis.
Instill in him a false sense of hope. That his capture was nothing but a cruel joke, a punchline he’d just have to be patient to see come into fruition.
“You know I was in Star Wars right? And Harry Potter with wizards?“
“I don’t care”, I reply coldly.
A deafening silence suddenly engulfs the room. Shades of Stockholm Syndrome begin to fade as it dawns on Warwick that his celebrity status falls on deaf ears. I’m now greeted with palpable panic.
“Release me!”
“Your release will be of a spiritual one Warwick. Not physical.”
His eyes start to swell with tears. His 3 foot frame begins to quiver, his cage shaking alongside him as the cold breeze of mortality takes hold.
I turn my gaze back towards my prey slowly. “Look at me, Warwick”.
He slowly glares up with his beady, tearful eyes. Helplessness taking over every iota of his being.
“I’ll make it quick.”
Warwick nods slowly, tears raining down the bottom of his miniature cage. He bravely accepted his fate.
The punchline, it seemed, had finally been delivered.
Imagine digging a 4 ft deep arena he would never be capable of escaping from, and tossing him in there. The express purpose to make him fight animals Ala the coliseum. Even one of those shitty white dogs with nasty eyes because their Mexican owners don't clean them would be a feat for Warwick to beat. Each victory he gets, you give him better food; or better armor. Each week upping the stakes, until his mind warps and he believes you to be Jupiter or some shit.
ʸᵒᵘ’ʳᵉ ᵃ ᵇᶦᵍ ᵍᵘʸ
Ÿ̷̨̢̛̖̻̰̼̥̺̳͔̗͕̖͙̮͉̞̱͙͉́́̑̊̌̀̇̂̋͛̀̇̆͐͗̐̃͗͒̽̚̕͜͝o̵̢͚̹͇̣̹͙͇̥̺̎͂̃̒͂͂͒͘͜ͅu̴̥̾̉̑͑̈́̓̓̀̃̊̍̄̔̀̈̃͌̆̓̐̾͌͘’̴͉̫̫̱̳̀͑͂̑̍͊̾̈̐̒̋̕r̶̨̝͕̺̘̬͎̺͎̟̗̽̆́̇̊̓̍̃̍̋̒̽̒͗͌̚̕ê̷̢̢̧̧̢̛͎̮̫̘̪͕̦̤̙͍̭̼̮̘͈̳̻̺̖͙̳̗̞͖̟̒͐̐͌̑̈́̊̄͆̏́͋̒̿̎̽̉͘͝͠ͅ ̶̖̙̦̯̫̥̪̂̈̇́͐̌̈́̆̿̂͝å̴̡̢̦̯̮̯̝̻̳̣̺͈̹̣̮͓̩̇̒̈́͗̕̚̚ ̷̢̨̪͚͙̹̱̮̫͎̭̳̣̯͕͇̖͉̹̙̉̊͊̎̐̋͋̍͊͗͗̈́͌͒̊͋̃́̆̈́̈̽̊̎̈́̔͘͘͠͝͝͠ͅͅͅb̶̡̢̧̛̟̙͚͎̥̪̩̝̺͍̖̺͇̗̤̰̪̞̱̩̟̒̿̓̀͛̆̎̋̈́̍̿̽͘͝į̶̛͉̻̼͔̝̹͇̟̪̹̹͎̭͙̝̻̰͈̮̜̍̔̽̔̍̔̒̌̀̊͌̒̆̐̾̽̔̈̀̄̆̈́̋̂͊̌̃̚̚̚͝ͅĝ̸̙̞̥̩̜͓̭̠̖̻̫͖̠̓̓̾̋͑͆͌̕͝͠ ̴̧͎͉͇̻̝͈̿̔͒͗͂̒͑̋̎̈́̀̂͊͌̀̇͒̊̚̚g̸̨̖͔̩͇̱̗͎̻͖̼͍͎͇̭̬͖̝̩͎̤͈̰̯͈̥͗́͒̐̀͐̉̍̍̂̏̑̓̔̍͒̏̂̊́̀͜͝͝ų̶̞̰͕͚̙̱̰̝͙̿̓̀ẏ̷̡̛̘͓̜̼̭͙̤̺͕͔̻̻͓̩̭͕͎͓̺̣͆͂̑̿̇̎͋͗̐̐͆̌̃̿́̍̉̉̔͆͌̓̉̚͝͝͝ͅͅ
Down here, Dr. Pavel.
More Warwick copypasta please
I'd love to play a game of Fridge The Midge with Warwick Davis. What's Fridge The Midge, one might ask? It's simple: you put a midget in a refrigerator. You and the boys put him in the crisper drawer, shut the door, gather 'round, drink some cold ones, and laugh yourself lightheaded over hearing the pathetic little midget's futile attempts to escape. He's not strong enough to push the door open, he doesn't have the leverage or space to even get the crisper drawer open, the cold is slowing him down, he's running out of air, he knows it's almost over for him and starts screaming for help. Maybe you liven things up a little by shaking the refrigerator to spook him, or say "oh my God is somebody in there" and open the door to give him a glimmer of hope before slamming it shut and mocking him, it's up to you. I wouldn't recommend letting the midget die, that's when things get complicated. Though, I suppose it'll be easy to hide the body, considering... you know.
Personally I'd starve Warwick Davis. It should not take too long given his size. Make him stick thin and so feeble. Then I would feign pity and serve him a plate of delicious char siu meat, with rich, sticky sauce, perfect pancakes, refreshing drinks... go all out. Give that little bastard a banquet. Watch him greedily devour the meat. His lips, teeth, and fingers sticky with the sauce as he throws manners and decorum out of the window in a mad rush to satiate himself. Then, when he's satisfied and feels thing are looking up, I shall reveal he has not been feasting on char siu pork but... char siu Harrison Davis. Yes, I will have ensured Warwick Davis greedily gobbled up the flesh of his mutant son that I butchered after growing bored with torturing him. As the tears well up in his eyes and he refuses to belief me, I shall let out a truly evil, bone chilling laugh and upend the contents of a box I'll have near me; it will be the mangled remains of his son. His legs gone, his skin flayed, castrated, eyes missing, his fingers and arms broken, and head twisted around. That is what I would do to that little bastard. The louder he screams and cries in anguish, the louder and more evil my cackle becomes. Hell, it may just kill me because I'll be struggling to breath as I'll be laughing so hard. I will then loop the footage of his son being raped by a dog, tortured, and then butchered by me 24/7 at maximum volume. This is the fate that awaits you, you vile little goblin.