How terrible and selfish of a person do you have to be to have children when you know they will suffer a genetic disorder that will severely limit them in life?
How quickly could you drain the blood out of his wee little body? Would it be faster than a human because it's so tiny or slower because of its tiny heart and the smaller cut along the throat?
Why are you guys so fucking mean to Warwick? What has he ever done or said that triggered y'all so damn badly? Is he woke? Is he a commie or gnomish? He's just a fucking man that happens to have dwarfism, and sure maybe that new Willow show didn't do so well, but you people were acting like psychopaths long before that. You do realize it's not normal to post about murdering people... right? You gotta sort that shit out.
Newfag gay. The Warwick meme is only dated to 2019. Anyone asking about why it exists outs themselves as a newfag and then as a gay in a general sense by getting indignant over the midge hate.
>we all get arrested >makes a news headline >normies all start reading and laughing at warwick pastas
I wouldn't even be mad and would find it hilarious. Totally worth a short jail sentence.
justpaste (dot) it (slash) 8tyrd
stupid system thinking it's spam
2 weeks ago
Anonymous
Imagine kidnapping him and his daughter, strapping davis to a chair, and forcing him to watch you go BALLS DEEP into his daughter. she's small and light enough that you can just grab her by the waist and hold her up in the air. you take her top off, then her pants, till she's just wearing her little panties and a bra. warwick is begging you not to. he starts to tear up, knowing well what's about to happen to his daughter. you rip off her last pieces of her garment until she's standing there completely naked infront of you and her father. her tight little pussy looks especially tasty, and you can tell she has never been with a man before. you pick her up and enter her. your average sized cock poking out of her stomach with every thrust. she screams in pain and in fear, but her little midge pussy tells a different story. she's dripping love nectar all over and along her thighs. warwick is screaming and crying. "YOU WON'T GET AWAY WITH THIS! "THE POLICE WILL FIND YOU! YOU'RE GOING TO GO TO JAIL FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, YOU MONSTER"! he says, with tears running down his checks. you return your focus to his daughter, who at this point has completely forgotten her father was in the room. Her screams and crying has turned into sounds of just pleasure and lust. she's never felt so good before in her life. her once tight dwarven pussy is now permanently lose. a once pristine virgin pussy, now blown out like an arby's sandwich quivers with each thrust. she's going to cum, and so are you. as she screams in pleasure, her whole body starts shaking from her orgasm, and as you return your gaze into warwick's red teary eyes, you too orgasm. you flood her now blown out pussy with cum, and drop her onto the floor like the flesh light she is. she's on the ground naked, shaking from the most intense orgasm of her life, cum pooling out of her pussy and now with a bastard in her belly. you leave the torture chamber, head home, and begin to prepare for the next day.
2 weeks ago
Anonymous
Congratulations YOU HAVE BEEN SUED
2 weeks ago
Anonymous
Do you have the one where the audience in a movie theater all gang up on him?
Warwick Davis. Within that miniature creature beats an evil, sick heart. I would know, for I once worked on a film set with Davis and encountered him everyday. He was, without exaggeration, a total despot. He was the big hot shot on set, and abused his power to the extreme. Every time certain words were uttered in his presence, he would spin it as a personal insult to his exhalted being. Big, short, tall, heigh, low, small, etc. If ever those words were said around him, he would play sick mind games presenting himself the victim of persecution. He particularly bullied the 6'3 handsome 16 year old intern boy - shit, one time this boy only made reference to a local cobbler's he got his shoes fixed at called Tarlack and Lowe's. "Lowe's. Lowe. Low" preened Warwick. "Do you mean to insult me, boy?" he would ask with all the vicious, sadistic glee of Hannibal Lecter. "N-no Mr. Davis" the lad would feebly protest. "You know I have a list of words that must never be spoken, boy." Alas, the boy dug himself even further into his grave when he said "Please, it was only a small mistake!" Davis had a field day with that and tarring him as a bigot, a dwarf hater, and so on. He proceeded to bully the boy without mercy until he summoned up the courage to, with tears of trauma but also righetous fury in his eyes, say this: "You know what, Warwick, why don't you fuck off" before storming off, with Warwick unable to pursue to tall lad with further barbs given he's bereft of legs and instead only has stumps. The rage and resentment in Warwick's face was palpable. Could this humiliation spell the end of the dinky despot's reign of terror? We dared to hope, until not even 6 hours later the intern was wheeled away to hospital with broken legs - supposedly he clumsily fell, or so Warwick would claim. He would do bizarre stuff to, like have a dwarf bodyguard who had the same dwarf strain as Peter Dinklage, yet Warwick would call his shadow Peter Dinklage. 1/2
When confronted with the fact that his capo was not Dinklage, Warwick would smugly assert you are blind and that this man is indeed Dinklage, and he would then proceed to relish ordering this dwarf around, making him do all manner of degrading tasks, etc. I don't need a Pyschology MSc to understand what that was about. He's waddle around too with a hard baton with gold inlay whacking the calves and shins of crew members that were in his way. "Out of my way, talls!" he would shriek. I still have two noticeable scars on my lower legs. The most harrowing encounter came one time at a staff party where many of us were liqoured up, except Davis, who, all Stalin-like, only drank water as the rest of us got progressively hammered. One crew member, Small Steve (an intentionally ironic nickname given that he is 6'5) was shitfaced and remarked on Davis calling everyone else "talls" with derision and and his bizarre attitude towards fellow midges that bordered on supremacism. Warwick only glared back at Steve with that cruel sadistic ghost of a smirk he always wore when amused but getting precariously close to becoming enraged. "Fackin' 'ell" said Steve, "You seem to 'ate us the way Hitler 'ated em garden gnomes. Gonna put us all in camps and gas us eh? Warwick Davis? More like Midge-ler! Hahahah" he bellowed. The room went dead. We all knew he had crossed the line. Some tried to laugh and smile with diplomacy, hoping to soften the atmosphere of the room and maybe coax Warwick into being good natured about the joke. Warwick merely fixed Steve with a death glare until the large man realised his transgression and his own disposition matched that of the room. Warwick replied to Steve in a tone that matched the hatred and venom in his eyes the following: "There are no wrong tactics. Only wrong targets." My blood chilled at those words, and Steve's blood stop running altogether, for he was found dead in a ditch a week later. Nobody could prove anything, but we all knew. We all knew. 2/2
I'd have Warwick and all midgets with his specific strain relocated to a single lush and bountiful island, where they will build a prosperous society over the years in which Warwick reigns as high king. When the island reaches its peak, its wondrous golden age, and is ruled wisely by Warwick the old king, I shall return with an army of violent rapists and murderers that no country wants and destroy the wretched's creature world. We shall have tanks, guns, machetes, helicopters, fighter jets, and blow that island to smithereens. God, imagine their comical high pitched screams as we bomb the highland and they flee like the vermin they are from advancing thugs wielding machetes and whips. But I shall save Warwick from my soldiers; the fine art of sadism escapes such brutes. I shall keep a beaten and bloodied and sodomised Warwick chained to the hood of my car and he must watch his empire burn like how Priam did, his people slaughtered, enslaved, and raped, and his entire existence exposed as the cosmic joke that it is before I and my army vacate the island and leave the gremlin to starve to death and feed the rats amid the ash and ruins.
could actually be dangerous. for him. midgets dont have a lot of blood in those tiny bodies and he might suffer from low blood pressure from the erection and pass out. you might be able to murder him by tossing a midget porn mag at him while hes driving
After reading all the posts, I have to say, I’m alright. I thought this would be difficult to read but STICKS AND STONES MAY BREAK MY BONES BUT WORDS WILL NEVER HURT ME
Imagine knocking Warwick out and when he wakes up, he's discovered you've done limb lengthening surgery on him, so he's now like 6'6 (and has arm length to match), but the limb 'doners' are his family. You goad Warwick into rising and attempting to walk by pointing to the opposite end of the room, where his wife and children's remains are piled. As he rises to try and rush over and grieve, the legs split and break immediately and he is pierced by the sharp bones that have splintered from the vertical strain, like some Indiana Jones trap with a pit full of spikes. Except it's the bones of Warwick's family, and unlike Indy, Warwick gets pierced and bleeds out alone, in both physical and emotional agony. Before he succumbs to the darkness, you kick his head clean off with your steel capped toe - Warwick's severed head lands on the pile that are the bodies of his disgusting family. It's like you won a gold medal at the midge-torture olympics. You open a bottle of champagne and drink deep before realising you have to leave the basement, as Warwick has, upon death, released his bowels. Ever smelled midge poo? It's awful - enough to spoil a good champagne that you've earnt for your hard work.
blind is much worse.
A midget can sit at home on neetbux playing vidya all day. In fact, his life would be barely any different to the average normal sized loser because of current year social heirarchies.
If you're blind, its over unless you really like music and podcasts and nothing else.
i think they're encouraged to find work but its much easier for them to qualify for neetbux, plus they will get pity jobs and flexible arrangements so life is never too difficult as long as they're in a first world country.
>blind though, and you're set.
Yeah. But you're also fucking blind. Though I suppose it'd be easier to cope if you were born blind so you don't actually know what you're missing. If I lost all my eyesight tomorrow I'd down a gallon of bleach and hope I don't reincarnate as an Indian
Midges should be forced to wear cute animal costumes at all times so they don't frighten human children so damn much. My poor toddler saw a midge at Tesco once and it ruined the entire day.
I enter the morgue with a hunger for meat
Where upon the slab lies my bite-sized treat
The finest feast for a midge-slaying sadist
The freshly felled corpse of Warwick Davis
His limbs astray like half-eaten pretzels
His torso filleted wherein several knives are nestled
I nearly gag from the scent of dog semen and soot
But chuckle at the toe-tag, twice the size of his foot
I’d love to gaze into the eyes of this stiffened midge
But his expression is veiled, frostbitten from the fridge
And though his beady eyes are no longer intact
The cavities radiate resent for the height he lacked
His mouth is a twisted grimace, a broken frothy mass
And bears much resemblance to his putrid caved-in ass
From both ends spills a slurry of thickened blood and teeth
Swirling with sticky sauce and char siu meat
Long did Warwick wish he could grow
Yet short was his life and death came slow
A bitter existence
Swiftly cut down by steel-capped toes
I could devour this blight with just a few bites
But there is a higher purpose to this nostalgically thunderous night
I reach in my bag to go forth with my plan
And pull out the reagent, syringe glowing bright green in my hand
With this solution he’ll face an eternity of executions
A revolving torment of unending persecution
He’ll awake in horror and excruciating pain
Only to be slain again and again
I inject the charred flesh with the glowing reagent
Just a few drops are needed for such a tiny patient
I crack a sly grin when he begins to fidget
And onward I stroll to inject the rest of his family of midgets
You're going to ruin your life over "memes". Your IP is easy enough to track; the authorities will know. Throwing your life away was your own choice, remember that.
Me? I'd send Warwick Davis to a concentration camp. As he steps off the ramp at the train station, still shivering from the long ride in the cold (but not very cramped, for Warwick is my only prisoner) cattle cart, he will lay eyes on me, dressed in a fine uniform covered by a doctor's overcoat.
I'll order Warwick to strip down, reminding him of the fates of the seven dwarfs of Auschwitz if he doesnt't comply.
"But I made that story up," he'll bawl, "you can't honestly believe that all this happened to little people, but the family of gnomish dwarfs managed to survive none the worse for wear? It's not real!"
I smile diabolically at his use of the d-word, but deep inside I am disappointed in him for starting to break already. Nonetheless I lean in and tell him: "We can make it real."
With a snap of my fingers I command my loyal and cruel Capo Peter Dinklage to take Warwick away. The diabolical dwarf, already intimidated by his surroundings and the size of his gigantic guard is helped on his way by a series of whacks delivered to the back of his stubby legs with a cudgel I've made sure to equip my friend and confidante with.
Later that day, Peter and I will have an ecxellent dinner at a table outside the window of Warwick's barracks. There is no glass in the frame, but however much he tries, there is no escape for Warwick, as the window is at least a good 40 centimetres from the ground. As the detestable creature is forced to fight off mites for his scraps of bread crust, he is forced to smell the aroma of our dinner wafting past him and listen to our laughter.
"Another glass of wine, Peter, oldest of my friends?" I will ask and with a hearty laugh Peter accepts, handing me another plate of the finest Roast beef.
But this will be the last instance of merrymaking in the camp for a short while, for while Warwick shivers in his little shoebox at night, hoping that no hungry rodent will find him, Peter and I are hard at working preparing our guest's stay.
Early in the morning, Warwick will be awoken by Peter picking up his bed and turning it over, making sure that Warwick doesn't disappear between the floorboards. Then, the lecherous Leprechaun will be led off the campgrounds to perform backbreaking work for our amusement. We will set Warwick up to crush Rocks, pebbles to any normal sized person, and cut down trees that are closer to stalks of grass than anything else.
Once Warwick can't go on anymore, his deformed little body wrecked by exhaustion and spasms of pain, Peter will offer to take him to the doctor. Warwick, eager as always to stretch out his life for as long as he can, accepts.
But once he arrives at the camp doctor's office, his relief turns to horror as he recognizes me.
"Ah, Mr Davis," I laugh, the perfect picture of jovial friendliness, "what appears to be the problem?"
"No," Warwick wheezes, "not you. Let me go, I feel much better already. I swear!"
Undaunted, I roll my chair closer to my vertically challenged patient
"A little short of breath, are we?" I expertly deduce, "in fact, a little short overall. But let's cut this short, Mr Davis. I am sure that we can help you here."
In his office, Peter nods along with the rythm of the screams echoing through the camp as I get to work.
Racks, experimental gene therapy, Chinese leg lengthening surgery: No method I don't try in my quest to uplift the vile imp, but alas, there is no success to be had against the genetic nightmare of Warwick's DNA.
Finally, I call Peter to bring Mr Davis back to his accomodation.
"But don't worry, one day we will find a way to help you. However long it takes." I assure my patient as he is carried away in the palm of my diligent assistant's hand.
That will be the midge's new routine: Day after day of backbreaking labor interspersed with medical experimentation. I guess we would fumigate his barracks every now and then to make sure that no curious flea carries away our prize.
Every now and then, a bit of the old, evil and resentful Warwick will flare up in the tiny creature.
"Why," he will croak, "why?" Grinning broadly, I get out my binoculars to get a good look at his face as I deliver my answer:
"Arbeit macht high."
I reckon I'd just shake him to death. Sure I'd have my fun first. Dropkick him around the place, grab him by the legs and swing him in circles before throwing him into stuff or maybe slam him from side to side like they do in cartoons. Tie him to the saddle of a bicycle and ride down a few hills. Maybe find a nice lake with some swans and just throw him to them, let them beat on him. But in the end I would shut his pathetic moaning up by shaking him like the unwanted little baby man that he is until he stopped moving.
One time I read about this strange sex machine that midgets have to use to have sex because their bodies can't actually move in a way to facilitate it. Did I make this shit up or dream it or does it really exist? It was like a big chair they had to strap themselves into.
Every night, I have vivid, wonderful dreams about Warwick Davis. They start with me meeting him at a press conference, and when he extends his tiny, misshapen hand for me to shake, I grab his hair and lift him off the ground. While he wildly flails his arms and legs, trying to hit me, I laugh at his impotent threats. The tears running down his face from the pain, humiliation, and frustration make me feel warm and comfortable. His voice, sounding like a real person who has inhaled helium, changes pitch, going higher and lower as i swing him from side to side. The entire crowd his publicist paid to gather laughs uncontrollably at this squirming, miniature creature as I completely dominate his entire existence with minimal effort. The whole affair only ends when I slam his useless body on the ground, and stomp on his oversized, ridiculous looking pumpkin head. Shortly thereafter, police, armed with tasers, aim and fire them angrily- at him as he screeches in pain like the demonic piglet he is. I then stomp on his head again and end his pathetic life. The police fire the tasers again as his twitching corpse. They yell "CLEAR!" as they send voltage through his lifeless, distorted carcass. When the police, the crowd, and I eventually wipe away the tears from laughing, and compose ourselves, we pose for pictures together with the little gremlin's remains, like a fish we caught that is to small to covet, but we enjoy the experience anyway. Everyone leaves with a song in their heart and pictures of themselves with this useless, creepy little thing.
I, for one, would like to stick my thumbs into Asher's eye sockets. I want to feel his ocular organs squish into a bloody, viscous pulp beneath the soft, yielding flesh of my fingertips. I want to hear his screams of absolute terror and pain as he realizes he'll never see again.
Then, I would remove my thumbs from his eyesockets, giving him a brief respite as I grabbed a pair of barbeque tongs and a dull butterknife. with the tongs I would pluck out his ruined eyeballs and sever the optic nerves with the butter knife. at this point I would already have a hot plate going with a buttered pan ready to crudely sautee Warwick's juicy macula. As they sizzled in the pan, he would smell them, and after having been starved for days on end, he might even have the nerve to comment about how good whatever I was cooking smelled - not being able to see what it was, of course.
"Here, try some." I would offer, giving him a heaping spoonful of the fried, well-seasoned sight-flesh. He would gobble it down eagerly, begging for more like the autist he was, still not aware of what he was eating. I would feed him the rest, and only after he had eaten it all would I tell him what it truly was.
As he screamed in horror and retched, I would put my thumbs into his empty eyesockets for the last time. I would drive them deep, deep into his empty ocular cavities, until I broke through the fragile bone and began to push my fingers into his brain. Slowly, his musical shrieking of pain and terror would abate as his brain becomes too damaged to operate his vocal cords, let alone comprehend what is happening to him.
At this point, I place my massive, throbbing erection in front of his vegetative face and begin to powerfuck his eye sockets. In and out, in and out, over and over, until his brains are nothing more than a mess of dead cells and tangled dendrites. As I climaxed, I would push myself balls deep into his skull, seed mixing with ruined neurons in a perverse cocktail.
Killing a little folk will incur the wrath… wrath, of men, a group of wrathful men… about a dozen or so… a dozen wrathful men…
Proof?
More like seven.
M-midge sama I kneel
>MY FACE FUCKER
What did he mean by this
YOU DONE GOOFED. I BACKTRACED THIS
His daughter is absolutely stunning.
I need her in my collection.
Yes she is but her voice is not what I was expecting
How terrible and selfish of a person do you have to be to have children when you know they will suffer a genetic disorder that will severely limit them in life?
Are midgets like the size of a potato when they're born or was his wife pregnant with a giant inflation fetish stomach?
>Don't talk to me or my son, ever again!
His pimple sized cock of course.
Would love to throw this little midge in a woodchipper
To be fair you'd have to lie down to say it to his face which would give him the opportunity to kick your jaw out of it's socket
YOU.ARE.DONE
How quickly could you drain the blood out of his wee little body? Would it be faster than a human because it's so tiny or slower because of its tiny heart and the smaller cut along the throat?
>Rise and shine mr Anon.
>You know I've been reading your posts lately. It gave me some good ideas. We're about to have a lot of fun together
SHUT UP, WARWICK
*fires up the hoover*
VVRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
promplem solved
Why are you guys so fucking mean to Warwick? What has he ever done or said that triggered y'all so damn badly? Is he woke? Is he a commie or gnomish? He's just a fucking man that happens to have dwarfism, and sure maybe that new Willow show didn't do so well, but you people were acting like psychopaths long before that. You do realize it's not normal to post about murdering people... right? You gotta sort that shit out.
Newfag gay. The Warwick meme is only dated to 2019. Anyone asking about why it exists outs themselves as a newfag and then as a gay in a general sense by getting indignant over the midge hate.
>Newfag gay.
Uh... I've been here since 2016, retard. Seven fucking years so if anyone around here is new, well you stink of it.
Nice bait anon.
Anon, I don't use the word 'hero' a lot, but (You) are the greatest hero in American history.
I get up in the morning and make my posts one at at a time just like everyone else.
Weak bait or newfag. Either way, fuck off back to Newcastle you coconut headed git
for me it's his kickable face
other midges are completely fine
I'm going to hang you by your feet in my shed and whip you to death, Warwick.
>You will live to see anons get arrested for their threats against a midget on 4chin
>we all get arrested
>makes a news headline
>normies all start reading and laughing at warwick pastas
I wouldn't even be mad and would find it hilarious. Totally worth a short jail sentence.
It's not a pasta gay.
I have a huge collection of pastas.
post the one about his daughter
SEVEN YEARS LATER
justpaste (dot) it (slash) 8tyrd
stupid system thinking it's spam
Imagine kidnapping him and his daughter, strapping davis to a chair, and forcing him to watch you go BALLS DEEP into his daughter. she's small and light enough that you can just grab her by the waist and hold her up in the air. you take her top off, then her pants, till she's just wearing her little panties and a bra. warwick is begging you not to. he starts to tear up, knowing well what's about to happen to his daughter. you rip off her last pieces of her garment until she's standing there completely naked infront of you and her father. her tight little pussy looks especially tasty, and you can tell she has never been with a man before. you pick her up and enter her. your average sized cock poking out of her stomach with every thrust. she screams in pain and in fear, but her little midge pussy tells a different story. she's dripping love nectar all over and along her thighs. warwick is screaming and crying. "YOU WON'T GET AWAY WITH THIS! "THE POLICE WILL FIND YOU! YOU'RE GOING TO GO TO JAIL FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, YOU MONSTER"! he says, with tears running down his checks. you return your focus to his daughter, who at this point has completely forgotten her father was in the room. Her screams and crying has turned into sounds of just pleasure and lust. she's never felt so good before in her life. her once tight dwarven pussy is now permanently lose. a once pristine virgin pussy, now blown out like an arby's sandwich quivers with each thrust. she's going to cum, and so are you. as she screams in pleasure, her whole body starts shaking from her orgasm, and as you return your gaze into warwick's red teary eyes, you too orgasm. you flood her now blown out pussy with cum, and drop her onto the floor like the flesh light she is. she's on the ground naked, shaking from the most intense orgasm of her life, cum pooling out of her pussy and now with a bastard in her belly. you leave the torture chamber, head home, and begin to prepare for the next day.
Congratulations YOU HAVE BEEN SUED
Do you have the one where the audience in a movie theater all gang up on him?
>newfag trying, and failing, to fit in with a meme he was never part of and contributed nothing to
Embarrassing.
I wouldn't say anything, I would listen. And that's what no one else did.
KYS
lmao which one of you fags did this?
I needed something for my new Hot Wheels track.
I only shitpost about him to milk gay ass reponses like this to laugh at. Obviously you're a humorless gay, but this shit hilarious
Thanks for the pasta, anon
i was raped in the ankle by warwick, my anger is justifed
Wrong midge died.
Warwick Davis. Within that miniature creature beats an evil, sick heart. I would know, for I once worked on a film set with Davis and encountered him everyday. He was, without exaggeration, a total despot. He was the big hot shot on set, and abused his power to the extreme. Every time certain words were uttered in his presence, he would spin it as a personal insult to his exhalted being. Big, short, tall, heigh, low, small, etc. If ever those words were said around him, he would play sick mind games presenting himself the victim of persecution. He particularly bullied the 6'3 handsome 16 year old intern boy - shit, one time this boy only made reference to a local cobbler's he got his shoes fixed at called Tarlack and Lowe's. "Lowe's. Lowe. Low" preened Warwick. "Do you mean to insult me, boy?" he would ask with all the vicious, sadistic glee of Hannibal Lecter. "N-no Mr. Davis" the lad would feebly protest. "You know I have a list of words that must never be spoken, boy." Alas, the boy dug himself even further into his grave when he said "Please, it was only a small mistake!" Davis had a field day with that and tarring him as a bigot, a dwarf hater, and so on. He proceeded to bully the boy without mercy until he summoned up the courage to, with tears of trauma but also righetous fury in his eyes, say this: "You know what, Warwick, why don't you fuck off" before storming off, with Warwick unable to pursue to tall lad with further barbs given he's bereft of legs and instead only has stumps. The rage and resentment in Warwick's face was palpable. Could this humiliation spell the end of the dinky despot's reign of terror? We dared to hope, until not even 6 hours later the intern was wheeled away to hospital with broken legs - supposedly he clumsily fell, or so Warwick would claim. He would do bizarre stuff to, like have a dwarf bodyguard who had the same dwarf strain as Peter Dinklage, yet Warwick would call his shadow Peter Dinklage. 1/2
When confronted with the fact that his capo was not Dinklage, Warwick would smugly assert you are blind and that this man is indeed Dinklage, and he would then proceed to relish ordering this dwarf around, making him do all manner of degrading tasks, etc. I don't need a Pyschology MSc to understand what that was about. He's waddle around too with a hard baton with gold inlay whacking the calves and shins of crew members that were in his way. "Out of my way, talls!" he would shriek. I still have two noticeable scars on my lower legs. The most harrowing encounter came one time at a staff party where many of us were liqoured up, except Davis, who, all Stalin-like, only drank water as the rest of us got progressively hammered. One crew member, Small Steve (an intentionally ironic nickname given that he is 6'5) was shitfaced and remarked on Davis calling everyone else "talls" with derision and and his bizarre attitude towards fellow midges that bordered on supremacism. Warwick only glared back at Steve with that cruel sadistic ghost of a smirk he always wore when amused but getting precariously close to becoming enraged. "Fackin' 'ell" said Steve, "You seem to 'ate us the way Hitler 'ated em garden gnomes. Gonna put us all in camps and gas us eh? Warwick Davis? More like Midge-ler! Hahahah" he bellowed. The room went dead. We all knew he had crossed the line. Some tried to laugh and smile with diplomacy, hoping to soften the atmosphere of the room and maybe coax Warwick into being good natured about the joke. Warwick merely fixed Steve with a death glare until the large man realised his transgression and his own disposition matched that of the room. Warwick replied to Steve in a tone that matched the hatred and venom in his eyes the following: "There are no wrong tactics. Only wrong targets." My blood chilled at those words, and Steve's blood stop running altogether, for he was found dead in a ditch a week later. Nobody could prove anything, but we all knew. We all knew. 2/2
I'd have Warwick and all midgets with his specific strain relocated to a single lush and bountiful island, where they will build a prosperous society over the years in which Warwick reigns as high king. When the island reaches its peak, its wondrous golden age, and is ruled wisely by Warwick the old king, I shall return with an army of violent rapists and murderers that no country wants and destroy the wretched's creature world. We shall have tanks, guns, machetes, helicopters, fighter jets, and blow that island to smithereens. God, imagine their comical high pitched screams as we bomb the highland and they flee like the vermin they are from advancing thugs wielding machetes and whips. But I shall save Warwick from my soldiers; the fine art of sadism escapes such brutes. I shall keep a beaten and bloodied and sodomised Warwick chained to the hood of my car and he must watch his empire burn like how Priam did, his people slaughtered, enslaved, and raped, and his entire existence exposed as the cosmic joke that it is before I and my army vacate the island and leave the gremlin to starve to death and feed the rats amid the ash and ruins.
I think the time has come for us human men to wage war on this midge plague threat.
pol chud, do I have your sword?
TV psued, do I have YOUR sword?
Where the humans were divided
Evilness of the midge resided.
(midge cackling)
SURE I WILL
....where are yo-oh, sorry, didnt see you. my desks a bit tall
it would be funny if he had a 10 inch cock
could actually be dangerous. for him. midgets dont have a lot of blood in those tiny bodies and he might suffer from low blood pressure from the erection and pass out. you might be able to murder him by tossing a midget porn mag at him while hes driving
remember, warwick is atleast a TAD based for not kicking the step stool from under him after getting on the bi...the screen.
w-warwick... LOOK OUT!
Are there chimp midges? Or any other ape?
lil monke fella....got attacked by a chimp in the street...men'al innit
less than human. these creatures belong in cages in the circus
After reading all the posts, I have to say, I’m alright. I thought this would be difficult to read but STICKS AND STONES MAY BREAK MY BONES BUT WORDS WILL NEVER HURT ME
SHUT UP
I'd be more worried about those motes of dust, lest they knock you down or concuss you.
words are like bullets
>warwick contemplates a .22 short, one of the most common rounds on planet earth
Imagine knocking Warwick out and when he wakes up, he's discovered you've done limb lengthening surgery on him, so he's now like 6'6 (and has arm length to match), but the limb 'doners' are his family. You goad Warwick into rising and attempting to walk by pointing to the opposite end of the room, where his wife and children's remains are piled. As he rises to try and rush over and grieve, the legs split and break immediately and he is pierced by the sharp bones that have splintered from the vertical strain, like some Indiana Jones trap with a pit full of spikes. Except it's the bones of Warwick's family, and unlike Indy, Warwick gets pierced and bleeds out alone, in both physical and emotional agony. Before he succumbs to the darkness, you kick his head clean off with your steel capped toe - Warwick's severed head lands on the pile that are the bodies of his disgusting family. It's like you won a gold medal at the midge-torture olympics. You open a bottle of champagne and drink deep before realising you have to leave the basement, as Warwick has, upon death, released his bowels. Ever smelled midge poo? It's awful - enough to spoil a good champagne that you've earnt for your hard work.
Being a midget must be the worst thing in the world, blind or midget? I can't decide.
blind is much worse.
A midget can sit at home on neetbux playing vidya all day. In fact, his life would be barely any different to the average normal sized loser because of current year social heirarchies.
If you're blind, its over unless you really like music and podcasts and nothing else.
do midges really get neetbux. i don't think so, in my country. there's one working at my supermarket. blind though, and you're set.
i think they're encouraged to find work but its much easier for them to qualify for neetbux, plus they will get pity jobs and flexible arrangements so life is never too difficult as long as they're in a first world country.
>blind though, and you're set.
Yeah. But you're also fucking blind. Though I suppose it'd be easier to cope if you were born blind so you don't actually know what you're missing. If I lost all my eyesight tomorrow I'd down a gallon of bleach and hope I don't reincarnate as an Indian
imagine a deaf midge lol
Deaf, blind, black midge.
Go home, WIllow. You're drunk
Midges should be forced to wear cute animal costumes at all times so they don't frighten human children so damn much. My poor toddler saw a midge at Tesco once and it ruined the entire day.
-The Dunmidge Horror-
I enter the morgue with a hunger for meat
Where upon the slab lies my bite-sized treat
The finest feast for a midge-slaying sadist
The freshly felled corpse of Warwick Davis
His limbs astray like half-eaten pretzels
His torso filleted wherein several knives are nestled
I nearly gag from the scent of dog semen and soot
But chuckle at the toe-tag, twice the size of his foot
I’d love to gaze into the eyes of this stiffened midge
But his expression is veiled, frostbitten from the fridge
And though his beady eyes are no longer intact
The cavities radiate resent for the height he lacked
His mouth is a twisted grimace, a broken frothy mass
And bears much resemblance to his putrid caved-in ass
From both ends spills a slurry of thickened blood and teeth
Swirling with sticky sauce and char siu meat
Long did Warwick wish he could grow
Yet short was his life and death came slow
A bitter existence
Swiftly cut down by steel-capped toes
I could devour this blight with just a few bites
But there is a higher purpose to this nostalgically thunderous night
I reach in my bag to go forth with my plan
And pull out the reagent, syringe glowing bright green in my hand
With this solution he’ll face an eternity of executions
A revolving torment of unending persecution
He’ll awake in horror and excruciating pain
Only to be slain again and again
I inject the charred flesh with the glowing reagent
Just a few drops are needed for such a tiny patient
I crack a sly grin when he begins to fidget
And onward I stroll to inject the rest of his family of midgets
These threads are collected and archived as evidence, just so you know what to expect. Laugh while you can.
Warwick I'm going to stomp on your deformed skull with my heavy ass combat boots. Do not fuck with the hacker known as FOUR CHAN, fucking midge.
You're going to ruin your life over "memes". Your IP is easy enough to track; the authorities will know. Throwing your life away was your own choice, remember that.
Cyber police here, backtracing that anon's connection as we speak.
Your dumbass, leftist, gnomish "authorities" can suck my cock, Warwick. I WILL crush your skull.
Me? I'd send Warwick Davis to a concentration camp. As he steps off the ramp at the train station, still shivering from the long ride in the cold (but not very cramped, for Warwick is my only prisoner) cattle cart, he will lay eyes on me, dressed in a fine uniform covered by a doctor's overcoat.
I'll order Warwick to strip down, reminding him of the fates of the seven dwarfs of Auschwitz if he doesnt't comply.
"But I made that story up," he'll bawl, "you can't honestly believe that all this happened to little people, but the family of gnomish dwarfs managed to survive none the worse for wear? It's not real!"
I smile diabolically at his use of the d-word, but deep inside I am disappointed in him for starting to break already. Nonetheless I lean in and tell him: "We can make it real."
With a snap of my fingers I command my loyal and cruel Capo Peter Dinklage to take Warwick away. The diabolical dwarf, already intimidated by his surroundings and the size of his gigantic guard is helped on his way by a series of whacks delivered to the back of his stubby legs with a cudgel I've made sure to equip my friend and confidante with.
Later that day, Peter and I will have an ecxellent dinner at a table outside the window of Warwick's barracks. There is no glass in the frame, but however much he tries, there is no escape for Warwick, as the window is at least a good 40 centimetres from the ground. As the detestable creature is forced to fight off mites for his scraps of bread crust, he is forced to smell the aroma of our dinner wafting past him and listen to our laughter.
"Another glass of wine, Peter, oldest of my friends?" I will ask and with a hearty laugh Peter accepts, handing me another plate of the finest Roast beef.
But this will be the last instance of merrymaking in the camp for a short while, for while Warwick shivers in his little shoebox at night, hoping that no hungry rodent will find him, Peter and I are hard at working preparing our guest's stay.
Early in the morning, Warwick will be awoken by Peter picking up his bed and turning it over, making sure that Warwick doesn't disappear between the floorboards. Then, the lecherous Leprechaun will be led off the campgrounds to perform backbreaking work for our amusement. We will set Warwick up to crush Rocks, pebbles to any normal sized person, and cut down trees that are closer to stalks of grass than anything else.
Once Warwick can't go on anymore, his deformed little body wrecked by exhaustion and spasms of pain, Peter will offer to take him to the doctor. Warwick, eager as always to stretch out his life for as long as he can, accepts.
But once he arrives at the camp doctor's office, his relief turns to horror as he recognizes me.
"Ah, Mr Davis," I laugh, the perfect picture of jovial friendliness, "what appears to be the problem?"
"No," Warwick wheezes, "not you. Let me go, I feel much better already. I swear!"
Undaunted, I roll my chair closer to my vertically challenged patient
"A little short of breath, are we?" I expertly deduce, "in fact, a little short overall. But let's cut this short, Mr Davis. I am sure that we can help you here."
In his office, Peter nods along with the rythm of the screams echoing through the camp as I get to work.
Racks, experimental gene therapy, Chinese leg lengthening surgery: No method I don't try in my quest to uplift the vile imp, but alas, there is no success to be had against the genetic nightmare of Warwick's DNA.
Finally, I call Peter to bring Mr Davis back to his accomodation.
"But don't worry, one day we will find a way to help you. However long it takes." I assure my patient as he is carried away in the palm of my diligent assistant's hand.
That will be the midge's new routine: Day after day of backbreaking labor interspersed with medical experimentation. I guess we would fumigate his barracks every now and then to make sure that no curious flea carries away our prize.
Every now and then, a bit of the old, evil and resentful Warwick will flare up in the tiny creature.
"Why," he will croak, "why?" Grinning broadly, I get out my binoculars to get a good look at his face as I deliver my answer:
"Arbeit macht high."
I reckon I'd just shake him to death. Sure I'd have my fun first. Dropkick him around the place, grab him by the legs and swing him in circles before throwing him into stuff or maybe slam him from side to side like they do in cartoons. Tie him to the saddle of a bicycle and ride down a few hills. Maybe find a nice lake with some swans and just throw him to them, let them beat on him. But in the end I would shut his pathetic moaning up by shaking him like the unwanted little baby man that he is until he stopped moving.
One time I read about this strange sex machine that midgets have to use to have sex because their bodies can't actually move in a way to facilitate it. Did I make this shit up or dream it or does it really exist? It was like a big chair they had to strap themselves into.
WARWICK! My arch nemesis!
Every night, I have vivid, wonderful dreams about Warwick Davis. They start with me meeting him at a press conference, and when he extends his tiny, misshapen hand for me to shake, I grab his hair and lift him off the ground. While he wildly flails his arms and legs, trying to hit me, I laugh at his impotent threats. The tears running down his face from the pain, humiliation, and frustration make me feel warm and comfortable. His voice, sounding like a real person who has inhaled helium, changes pitch, going higher and lower as i swing him from side to side. The entire crowd his publicist paid to gather laughs uncontrollably at this squirming, miniature creature as I completely dominate his entire existence with minimal effort. The whole affair only ends when I slam his useless body on the ground, and stomp on his oversized, ridiculous looking pumpkin head. Shortly thereafter, police, armed with tasers, aim and fire them angrily- at him as he screeches in pain like the demonic piglet he is. I then stomp on his head again and end his pathetic life. The police fire the tasers again as his twitching corpse. They yell "CLEAR!" as they send voltage through his lifeless, distorted carcass. When the police, the crowd, and I eventually wipe away the tears from laughing, and compose ourselves, we pose for pictures together with the little gremlin's remains, like a fish we caught that is to small to covet, but we enjoy the experience anyway. Everyone leaves with a song in their heart and pictures of themselves with this useless, creepy little thing.
I, for one, would like to stick my thumbs into Asher's eye sockets. I want to feel his ocular organs squish into a bloody, viscous pulp beneath the soft, yielding flesh of my fingertips. I want to hear his screams of absolute terror and pain as he realizes he'll never see again.
Then, I would remove my thumbs from his eyesockets, giving him a brief respite as I grabbed a pair of barbeque tongs and a dull butterknife. with the tongs I would pluck out his ruined eyeballs and sever the optic nerves with the butter knife. at this point I would already have a hot plate going with a buttered pan ready to crudely sautee Warwick's juicy macula. As they sizzled in the pan, he would smell them, and after having been starved for days on end, he might even have the nerve to comment about how good whatever I was cooking smelled - not being able to see what it was, of course.
"Here, try some." I would offer, giving him a heaping spoonful of the fried, well-seasoned sight-flesh. He would gobble it down eagerly, begging for more like the autist he was, still not aware of what he was eating. I would feed him the rest, and only after he had eaten it all would I tell him what it truly was.
As he screamed in horror and retched, I would put my thumbs into his empty eyesockets for the last time. I would drive them deep, deep into his empty ocular cavities, until I broke through the fragile bone and began to push my fingers into his brain. Slowly, his musical shrieking of pain and terror would abate as his brain becomes too damaged to operate his vocal cords, let alone comprehend what is happening to him.
At this point, I place my massive, throbbing erection in front of his vegetative face and begin to powerfuck his eye sockets. In and out, in and out, over and over, until his brains are nothing more than a mess of dead cells and tangled dendrites. As I climaxed, I would push myself balls deep into his skull, seed mixing with ruined neurons in a perverse cocktail.
Warwick get off my guitar! I'll never get you out of the sound hole!
Midge over troubled water
No, I won't stoop so low.