Last September, in Sinistral’s 10,000th Post Toxx Clause Thread, I swore that if Sinistral chose me, I would write a poem in heroic couplets to commemorate whatever other Toxx Clause he chose, with Sinistral as protagonist-hero. Sinistral chose me and Clothhat, who promised to tell how juvenile delinquents he worked with smuggled a prostitute into their house. He also chose Skankin Garbage to complete a shrine, but I’m not about to write an epic poem about that. So: juvenile delinquents, a prostitute, and Sinistral.
Let no one claim that Xwing fails to keep a promise. I’ve realized that waiting for Clothhat is pointless, because any story about Sinistral would not be a retelling of Clothhat’s story anyway. I’ve also been worried that, when the site’s drive failed, I lost my post count of 999. No more delays. I present to you, as my 1000th post, and to celebrate the site’s full recovery, Sinistral, the story of a peerless legend.
In younger times, when tales of ancient Rast
had not yet faded to a distant past,
while Merlin still instructed valiant youths
in ways of Reason, and the Two High Truths
of RPGs prevailed – that heroes use
colossal Swords and rarely share their Views –
there dwelt a Man who would become a Myth,
for glorious Humor and unbounded Wrath,
for flowing Locks that made vast throngs submit,
and bold resounding cries of “HOLY SHIT”:
his name was Sinistral. His deeds were legion –
he banished Trolls from this enlightened region;
he snipped long Threads of folly and sedition;
he urged BAs toward lucrative ambitions,
and praised the analytic ways of Science;
he spurred the Moderators to defiance
against the callous greed of James Shaheen;
and when dull Angst and Boredom plagued young teens,
he posted many fine amusing Links.
Despite these mythic Works and merry Hijinks,
well-known to you who scarcely could forget,
today I tell a Tale sublimer yet:
how Sinistral disposed of sluttish Gretchen,
restored right Order to an Institution
where juveniles wrought much Devilry,
let loose a vast and terrifying Cry
that echoed from Elysium to Fantasia,
and won the Heart of shapely Anastasia.
The Mischief started in the devious mind
of one Arnaldo, an unsavory kind.
He planted, in the Brains of peer delinquents,
the notion that their whole Group might relinquish
their scorned Virginity that very night,
not in a chaste embrace with Love’s delight,
but rather to a Lady of the Night.
The “where” and “how” of it, I need not tell;
suffice to say they knew the area well.
Now, Sinistral had passed in prior Days,
engulfed in something of a dreamy Haze,
his mind absorbed in finding the Solution
to some deep Fault in human evolution,
and viewed the Mistress of the Institution –
the golden Tresses down her arching back,
round Eyes with irises of nearly black,
a white and tightly buttoned Uniform
that snugly fit her lean but buxom Form,
a miniskirt a foot above her knees –
and promptly asked, “Are those things double-Ds?”
Since Institution Recess was in session,
the Mistress missed our Hero’s brazen Question;
so Sinistral decided to depart,
and plan how best to win the Lady’s heart.
Next evening, Sinistral returned with Roses,
a box of Chocolates and a few good Poses,
and, should he fail, twelve extra-potent doses
of Vicodin to help forget his Straits.
As Sinistral approached the iron Gates,
he glimpsed a Band of ruffian-looking teens,
who crawled about in tanktops and ripped jeans,
and trailing them, an unattractive Lass,
who sported nonetheless a startling Ass,
of hardly less than thirty Years of age.
Though Sinistral was never one to gauge
a fellow’s Worth by what he does backstage,
he had to grieve for that poor Youth who trades
his hated Chastity for lifelong AIDS.
The boys should up their aim a few Degrees,
shoot for a girl without five STDs.
So after waiting for this motley Crew
to lead their hapless Harlot out of view,
our Hero quietly dashed across the Field,
and wondered what strange fortunes Fate would yield.
Within the confines of the Institution,
there brewed the filthiest sort of Dissolution.
Before this band of Miscreants left their dorm,
they knocked their Mistress out with chloroform,
and stowed her in a stiff Infirmary bed.
Now, they rejoiced, while others ran ahead
to fetch the Funds that would fulfill their Dreams,
except Arnaldo, who had darker Schemes.
For now, Arnaldo lurked amid the Crowd,
while harlot Gretchen doffed her grimy Shroud,
and he attended to the nasty Show.
Our Hero neared this low-grotesque Tableau,
and struggled to devise a devious Plan
to act before the Nastiness began;
but when he peeked inside the open Door,
all Foresight fled. Upon that dirty floor,
a floppy Creature dropped her lacey bra,
and bared a sight that left the Youths in awe:
two sagging, well-stretched Mounds of excess fat;
when Gretchen let them drop, they both went splat.
Faced with the sight of that disgusting Chest,
a vast wind rose within our Hero’s breast,
and at a loss for more descriptive Wit,
he loosed a roar to Heaven: “HHOOOLLLYY SSHHHIIITT!”
The Youths went tumbling backward to the floor,
and Sinistral marched through the shivering Door.
When Gretchen laid her eyes on that fine Frame,
our Hero’s locks, his visage full of Shame,
her Eyes went wider than her own two Thighs.
“Him first!” she screeched. Fearing swift Demise,
he grabbed the trash Can from its corner stead,
and dropped it upside-down upon her Head.
She plopped unconscious in a random Spread.
The Youths retreated slowly from this Sight,
except Arnaldo, who slipped out of Sight,
and out the door. As Sinistral reflected,
“You Louts were lucky not to be infected,”
and generally impressed the watching Crowd
by being brilliant, virtuous and proud,
a glib and thoughtful Ruffian interjected,
“Your disapproving Tone is best directed
not here, but at Arnaldo, our Band’s leader,
who had the Idea to pay this bottom-feeder.”
Our Hero sighed to hear this gross Design,
lamenting at the State of human kind,
and wondered at the Mistress’s misprision –
then had a sudden, horrifying vision.
He had an inkling of Arnaldo’s Schemes,
and rushed to find the Woman of his dreams.
An ugly Child was waiting by the Door,
holding a knife that still had bits of Gore
scattered across its long serrated Blade,
from when this Knave last robbed an aging Maid,
and gutted her when bravely she resisted.
There have lived few who harbored Hearts so twisted.
When Sinistral came round the hallway Corner,
the hideous Boy announced, “We tried to warn her,
but – bitch! – she had to take our Cigarettes,
so when we’re done, well, we’ll have no regrets.”
Our Hero raised a Flute from at his side,
and held it with a hefty dose of Pride.
The malformed Child then clenched his bony side,
and cackled with delight, “You fucking Fruit:
Is that weird Knife that fag Green Ranger’s flute?
You gonna call a Dragon with your Flute?”
Our Hero faced this base discourteous Newt,
proclaimed, “Come here and try it, little Brute,”
and held it vertically above a desk.
The Rascal’s lumpy visage turned grotesque,
and he approached the Woodwind to demand
a try, then jab our Hero just as planned,
when Sinistral whipped out his other hand,
snagged the dull Villain by his greasy hair,
and slammed him eye-first, with a haughty Stare,
upon the dagger end of that sweet Flute.
“The Fate of those who dare insult my Flute,”
spoke Sinistral to the decedent Brute.
Having dispatched this dangerous Monitor,
Sinistral marched forthrightly to the Door,
and kicked it open with a mighty Roar –
and there, undressed from Head to knobby Knee,
there, there our Villain leered with fiendish Glee
above poor Anastasia – woe to see! –
and flexed his veiny muscles mockingly,
snickering at her half-unbuttoned Shirt,
and pondering how best to peel her Skirt.
Our Hero thundered, “Halt, you lecherous Toad!”
and raised his fists. Arnaldo coolly strode
to where his Clothes lay strewn across the floor,
and grabbed an M-14, straight from the Corps,
and pointed it at hapless Sinistral.
“I see my Adversary’s rather dull,”
piped scurrilous Arnaldo with a sneer.
“Say your last prayers to Rast: your life ends here.”
The faintly conscious Mistress shook with fear,
and seeing our Hero, shed a single tear.
The western Wall of that dim room exploded,
Arnaldo dropped his Rifle, fully loaded,
and there, upon a small and golden Cloud,
facing his breathless Audience tall and proud,
stood Zeppelin. He glowered and bellowed loud,
his hands beneath his Oriental shift,
“From foreign lands I bring a mighty Gift,
the Sword of Dragon. Use it well with honor!
If you are pure of heart, it makes you stronger!”
and held toward Sinistral a shining Blade,
which he received. “I thank you for this Aid,”
our Hero spoke, his head bowed reverently.
“Come, Flying Nimbus,” Zeppelin tapped his knee,
and speeded out the Chamber regally.
Meanwhile, that cur Arnaldo slunk away
to find his M-14, and end this Fray
before an honest Melee could begin –
and then commence his filthy amorous Sin.
Scouring the cluttered Floor attentively,
he found the Gun beneath some light debris,
and snatched it with a cackle of pure Glee.
“I’ll fill that dashing Frame with lead,” he yowled,
and pulled the Trigger with a vicious scowl.
The Gun erupted with a fearsome howl.
Nearly as fast as light, our Hero whirled,
the luminescent Sword of Dragon twirled
in nimble Spirals, and a host of pings
echoed amid the bent and broken Things
that turned the Infirmary to a scene of War,
while bullet Shells plinked lightly on the floor.
The onslaught ceased, the M-14 went click,
and there stood Sinistral, far, far too quick
to suffer Wounds from such a vulgar Tool.
Our Hero, glowering, strode to face this Fool,
who sought to ravish an angelic Maid
and slay the Man who ventured to her aid,
lifted the Sword of Dragon in the air,
and whisked it down, so fast it left a Glare
that briefly brought to life the naked Air;
Arnaldo’s arm went tumbling to the ground.
The Villain tried to load his gun, but found
he lacked a Limb to lift his empty rifle.
He croaked, “'Tis but a flesh Wound,” tried to stifle
the surging consternation in his Breast,
and searched for Tools to slay this fatal Guest.
“I have no Time for this,” our Hero thundered,
lifted his glowing Blade, and swept it under
Arnaldo’s Waist and through his other shoulder,
his baleful Grimace turning even colder,
and held the gleaming Blade above his head,
while three Limbs toppled to the carpet, dead.
Before the Villain could protest this treatment,
or ask if Sinistral possessed a Sealant
for his immense and sanguinary Lesions,
our Hero grabbed a Bottle with derision
from in his pocket, “Go to Hell,” he spoke,
and poured twelve Vicodins down that fat Throat.
After he choked upon one pill’s deep Groove,
and absently desired that he could move,
Arnaldo felt his massive Pains subside,
and whispered, “Thank you, friend,” and promptly died.
The lovely Anastasia shook her head,
her buxom Figure shifting on the bed,
her shirt unbuttoned from that Knave’s attack,
her long hair tumbling down her arching back,
and gazed on Sinistral as though entranced.
“You saved me,” she cooed softly, and advanced.
“Good Lord, are those – ” our Hero then exclaimed,
but stopped in fear the Lass would be ashamed.
“That is, I live to serve,” he boldly stated.
The soft blonde Mistress, dazzled and elated,
danced to our hero with a look of Charm,
gathered her Bosom tight against his arm,
and spoke intently, “I will go with You.”
Our Hero saw those dark Eyes, round and true,
and for a fleeting Instant, then, he knew
that in this Damsel he had found true Love.
He took her small hand, thanked the Powers above
for carrying him through this fatal Brawl,
and led his Lover through the gaping Wall.
They wandered off into the setting Sun,
their greater Journey only just begun,
her Temple resting lightly on his shoulder,
thinking what Trials would come as they grew older,
what Glories would attend this new existence,
and disappeared into the endless Distance –
at which I faintly heard, I swear to you,
the piercing warble of an ancient Flute –
and silhouetted on the crimson Sky,
a huge and regal Dragon drifted by,
behind a massive golden Nimbus Cloud
and out of sight, far from our mortal Crowd,
till next some Rascal makes a Resolution
to smuggle a Harlot in his Institution.