1,274
𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝
I used to run a bookstore on an SMP Minecraft server a while ago in 2018. Aside from Mending and Unbreaking, I also self-published various written books - usually portraying fictionalised versions of my friends on the server, and inspired by the incoherent ramblings of bot literature. Those in-game copies are long since lost after several version updates and map resets, but I've held on to the master copies on my desktop. And they've lain dormant for far too long.
Eat your prayers and say your vegetables. I present to you... 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐁𝐮𝐥𝐤.
𝐈. 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐰 |
Bulk's first hundred days of being the Master of Events were a grilled bowl of bolagnese and fried apples. Once as the Master of Events, Costa would lay sliced hams around spawn as a means of testing Bulk's hardened resolve. For a brief time, Bulk's responsibilities chiefly included rolling the hams into a croissant, and then sampling it. Everyone around Bulk had sworn an oath to bear their fattest leg cheeks and thigh cheeks to make his life a fit time. When the ceiling would bleed red, his three brother brother brothers would have to get him some new spaghet. Suplexes: very good. "Suplexes are very good," said one amorous player to another. "Oh, well done!" said the brother brother brothers in chorus as they returned with new bowls of spaghet. Startled at the appearance of the brother brother brothers, the doting players darted away in a frenzied panic. Having witnessed their retreat, Bulk sat down to order another kilogram of parmesan to accompany his bolagnese. "Yes, I'd like another pound of cheese. Stirred, not frozen," Bulk bleated. Patting himself on the back, Bulk reclined into his emu-feather bean bag. Nearly two decades of being an absolute unit had rendered his only computer into a bag of Woolworths lettuce. Despite his great respect of meaty, leafy greens, Bulk lamented not being able to access Bulgarian-tier internet. He flinched in excitement. "Not so handsome now," said the brother brother brothers, who applauded with their wrists. ╍╍╍ A long melon had fallen from Costa's right calf. "Oh not again!" smiled Costa. The recently de-meloned Commissioner looked about anxiously for any would-be thief who might make a sport of his misfortune. Aisle 27 of Super Bunnings would remain unattended for the foreseeable future, save for Costa himself and a cardboard cut-out of Haitch, which notably featured a shirt reading, 'Chickens make for good cake batter'. Costa was apalled, and would fall up the stairwell for the remainder of Autumn. Bulk scowled savagely, "You're a very bad piece of lettuce." Costa retorted many a painful collision with the steps, "Bad news brother, you're the real strong and big now. Oh boy!" |
𝐈𝐈. 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐛𝐬 |
Being a Master of Events is a good thing. They let you grill cheese sandwiches without chastising you for letting the tea leaves burn. They even let you hold the cheese baguette in front of mods just to make them uneasy. Costa was still sore from the stairwell the following autumn, "Oh, that's not normal." Indeed, it was in fact not normal. Costa's left foot scurried away in elation, stopping erratically to hiss at its own shadow. Looking onward with a pained expression, the comm-m declared, "You are Adam now." It was to be a regular routine for many mystical weeks to come. ╍╍╍ An obscenely large bowl of maple syrup had grown out of the ground where the sacristy tree had once stood. There were simply not enough sour fajitas in the world to rectify the pungent odour of activated leg cheeks and ankle cheeks. "Truly extraordinary," boomed Bulk. "Yes quite," said the brother brother brothers in chorus. They applauded with confidence. The faint smell of distressed lamb wafted up from Bulk's computer. As of late, the internet had muchly suffered. Bulk placed much of the blame on local Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull. Muscles Mcgee oft thought of him as a long-necked bird. Bulk did not enjoy thinking about birds with long necks. "That's not a handsome habib," declared the Rippling Ravager. "Would you like to order a steak wrap?" puzzled one of the brother brothers. "Sorry, I don't believe in Jupiter," responded Bulk. A shrill chirping interjected into the group's amicable exchange. Incoming message! Tensing in calm excitement, Bulk laid eyes upon his computer monitor. He was not ready for what was next... His eyes were met with a disfigured visage of what appeared to be an ostrich. Bulk deduced his poor internet had hindered the rendering of the big flightless bird. Though still puzzled by what the image was originally meant to be, Bulk felt fury to his core at the sight of the long-necked bird. "Why I oughtta-!" Flailing in his distress, Bulk knocked over a nearby bowl of multipurpose filling. The contents spilled across the floor in an edible cacophany. "Harumph, not so handsome anymore!" Bulk lamented, chastising his own spilled bowl of food. Bulk likes to frequent bars prior to university lectures. |
𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐅𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 |
Bulk burst into the packing room, knocking over a teetering tower of packaged ravioli. The unhinged pasta pieces disdainfully warped in size to accomodate available space on the cutting room floor. The Peaked_Pastrami could feel the bologna in his veins boiling. "Oh unfolded laundry, oh unvacuumed air! Very bad!" wailed the Steeped_Stroganoff. "If you don't show yourself, ostrich, I'm going to get incapcitated!" he sensibly decreed. Bulk's wailings were to no avail. He reached for the hydraulic lever on his hip to turn his upper boddy to the left. Having noticed nothing, he twisted the other way and applauded. He was not proudy. "Sorry I'm so late! The bus made four left turns are steered into a ditch!" called a voice from the next room. "Who's there! Move and I'll throw you over the top rope!" responded Bulk as he raised his eyebrow menacingly. "Where are you, mate? I thought we agreed on the storage cabinet?" responded the disembodied voice. Lurching forward, Bulk rushed full-force into the nearest storage cabinet. Cans of unwatered leaf water fell about in epidemial disarray. Bulk felt a sizeable lump form humbly on his forehead. "There's no Bulkamaniacs here!" "Uh.. no not that one. Try the one in the next room," called the mystery voice again. Toned_Tortellini turned, stumbling towards the next storage cabinet. A cloaked fellow emerged from the cabinet. He interrupted his own river dancing display to point towards Bulk. Unclearing his throat, the hooded figure spoke horsely (neigh). 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘩. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘦. 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘩. Bulk was taken aback at the news; perhaps he was indeed woefully mistaken in his debiltiating calm. But another pressing thought barged to the forefront of his gratin-laden mind. "But just who are you?" he muttered with the unimpeded might of a mountain of IKEA meatballs. Pacing backward the robed individual retorted, "My identity is no concern of --" He had stepped upon his own cloak, yanking back the hood abruptly. And beneath the hood... was none other than Costa of aisle 27. "It's you!" Bulk stammered, "Costa of aisle 27, the recently de-meloned, the faller down of stairs, the appalling piece of cabbage!" "It was lettuce actually, you said so yourse--" "No matter, I've got you in my sights! Bulkamania's gonna run wild on you!" "Now, now. I happen to have magic and I think that's quite alright. But you're in for a shocker!" Costa darted past Bulk, feet dragging across the floor. He yanked at his temple. "Oh ow, my bones. Allow me to try once more." Costa, now pulling from his own cheek ripped away from his face. A large tear had formed, from which Costa continued to pull away. "You expected Costa to fight you? Too bad!" "lt was me, Rodrigo!" "Who?" "You don't know...?" "Yeah, nah, yeah. Nah?" "Rodrigo. Unjammer of printers, restarter of modems, fixer of laptops, resetter of passwords, the doer of nothing, the root of all of issues, the saviour of the office, the bringer of wifi, the turner of and on again of all devices, the installer of antivirus, the updater of flash, the god in the virtual-machine, the googler of problems, the reader of stack overflow, the sleepless, the shooter of troubles?" "No sorry, I'm afraid there are no bells rung." "No matter! I challenge you to a diced-onion death match!" Bulk was shocked - he had not been challenged to a diced-onion death match before. But vaguely-food-related wrestling was his forte, and he could never back down from a challenge. "Vilain! We shall engage in a handsome mano el mano diced-onion death match. Don't try it, Anakin!" "I will try!" "Oh! It is decided. Well done!" |
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