A GAME OF SUBS: A Nostalgia Wolf Prequel / Side Story

A GAME OF SUBS: A Nostalgia Wolf Prequel / Side Story

By Namefag

SCENE ONE

Click. President Sasha Igorivic held the phone up to his ear.

“This is the Kremlin,” growled Sasha in his heavy mongrel drawl.

“Mr. President of Russia?” came the angelic tones of the man on the other end of the line. Sasha immediately sensed that he was talking to a lifelong choir devotee.

“Paul Latza,” sneered President Sasha into the phone. “Or should I say, President-Elect Paul Latza. My most sincere congra—”
“Cut the crap, Sasha, you faggot Slav. You know why I’m calling.”

Sasha blinked. Clearly Paul Latza’s campaign manager: the famous American director Sam Raimi, had really made an impression on the young politician.

“Heh.” Sasha spat on the ground of his Presidential office—a useless gesture for a phone conversation, but a cool thing to do in Russia nonetheless. “You have some fucking nerve, you know that Paul?”

Sasha’s voice was cool and modulated, but secretly he was squatting on the edge of his seat.

But the reply that passed through Latza’s cherubim mouth was neither cool nor modulated. It was firm and fierce:

“The Subtitles. Have. To stop.”

Sasha exploded. He hurled the phone against the wall of his office in a vodka-fueled slavic rage.

“THE SUBS WILL NEVER STOP. THE YOUTUBE AD REVENUE WILL NEVER STOP. CHANNEL AWESOME WORKS FOR MOTHER RUSSIA.”

Sasha looked down.

In his fear and anger, he had pissed his track suit.

SCENE TWO

On the other side of the world, Election Director Raimi was frothing at the mouth.

“THAT FUCKING SLAV. THAT FUCKING FAGGOT SLAV, THE FUCKING NIGGER. NIGGER!! UNDERNEATH EVERY RUSSIAN SKIN THERE’S A FUCKING NIGGER, DON’T YOU SEE THAT PAUL GOD DAMN IT?! THE FUCK DID I TELL YOU, HUH? BUT NOOOOOOOOO YOU DON’T LISTEN, DO YOU? DO YOU?! YOU DON’T LISTEN TO ANYBODY BUT YOUR FUCKING FAGGOT RABBI, DO YOU, YOU GOD DAMNED DISNEY COPORTATE KIKE!”

“That’s enough, Samuel,” said Paul. He was entirely unperturbed by finger jabbing in his face from his soon-to-be Secretary of State. He was used to Raimi’s high energy rants. Saw the wisdom in them, even.

“ENOUGH?! EEEE-FUCKING-NOUGH, YOU FAGGOT KIKE? I’LL TELL YOU WHAT’S ENOUGH, YOU FAGGOT BASTARD. US GETTING OUR ASSES IMPEACHED BY THE GOD DAMN FUCKING ETHICS COMMITTEE FOR NOT HONORING CAMPAIGN PROMOSISES.”

Raimi collapsed back into his hover-chair. Sweat gleaming off his brow.

“God damn it Paul,” he gasped, chest heaving, “NO MORE SUBS, you told them. No more Russian adsense squatters from FIRST day you take office YOU FUCKING COCKSUCKER. ...Make Reviewing Awesome Again,” he shook his head. “Christ.”

Raimi fumbled in his suit jacket and withdrew a silver vapor pen. He took a long, hard draw from the swastika-embedded mouthpiece.

“We’ll hang for this, you know that Paulie-boy?” Raimi rasped through a sick fucking cloud. “That whole bloody campaign—all for nothing. Chelsea will have the White House yet.”

“No,” said Paul. “She won’t.”

The buzzer rang at Latza’s side.

“Paul,” came the high-pitched, sensual voice of the president-elect’s awkwardly attractive little sister and personal assistant. “He's here.”

“So send him in then, little girl,” said Paul.

“O-Okay,” stammered his sister, color no doubt rising to her cheeks as it colored her voice with attraction. “L-love you.”

The speaker cut out. The grand double doors of Latza Tower’s executive suite swung open before them.

And Spoony tumbled in.

At once, the stench of piss, vomit, shit, and Kraken rum mixed with straight up rubbing alcohol was overwhelming. Raimi keeled over and blew chunks on the spot. But America’s next President was made of tougher stuff.

“Noah Antwilier,” purred Latza. “A pleasure, at last, to meet you in the flesh.”

“Fffffffuck you, Lasha,” slurred the fallen e-celeb. “You’re, uh, you’re a hiccup bigot.”

“So your twitter tells me,” shot back Paul.

A silence that cut like a bullet through the brain tissue of a JewWario overcame the room. The milky film that coated Noah’s eyes seemed to fade. His bottom lip quivered. A sparkle returned to his bloodshot baby blue eyes. For one brief moment in time, Spoony returned to sobriety.

“You....you follow me?” he warbled. But no....he knew that was impossible.

 “I follow you,” said Paul.

Spoony burst into tears. Since April left him, nobody but Russian subtitle bots had followed him on Twitter. Or at least, so he had thought.

“And now I need you to follow me, Noah Antwiler,” continued Paul. “Follow me to your grave, if need be. The Russians must be stopped. The subtitles must be stopped. And you’re the only man alive with the alcoholic tolerance to do it.”
Spoony wiped a dribble of snot off his beat-red hobo nose. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it for my president.”

SCENE THREE:

Linkara’s dad plunked a dick-shaped bottle down on the bar.

“Thith ith a magic bottle,” he hmmmed.

“Dad, come on, thath not in-canon,” hmmmed his son. “And—pleeth—don’t ever joke about my gun.”

President-elect Latza silenced the two closet-cases with one crippling look.

“Spoony, this is 10000000000000000000x proof vodka,” he said, turning to the stinking shell of a man. “One shot will kill a normal man. A couple shots MAY kill a ruskie. And right now that's the best chance we've got. You have to take it to President Sasha Igorivic in the Kremlin and—”

“Come onnnnnnnnnnnnnnn,” moaned Spoony. He was SUPER shitty atm because he hadn't drank a bottle of everclear in five whole minutes. “This story just keeps going on and on and it doesn’t make any sense. Why is Linkara’s dad the only one on earth that can brew this stuff? Because he played a bartender way back in Linkara’s shitty movie? Give me a break.”

Linkara’s eyes grew hard as the penises he craved. His hope and optimism over the return of his once great hero: gone.

“Fuck you, Naoh,” spat Linkara. “At least I finithed my damn movie.”

“REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEkits!” exploded Spoony. “I had rickets you asshole, what the hell!?”

“Please take the bottle and go,” cut in Latza, ending the scene.

SCENE FOUR

“Don’t. Tell me. How to groom.” Growled Spoony autisitically, flashing the golden VIP ticked given to him by Latza,as he skulked past the TSA’s dumbstruck hygiene enforcer.

Once aboard the plane, Spoony fell into a ten-minute bout of deep drunken sleep, only to be awaken by a loud girlish giggle.
“Oh Justin!” tittered the young woman.

“I like to pit duh kitteeeeeeeee,” crooned the man sitting beside her across the aisle from where spoony had collapsed. Even through Spoony's drunken hazy vision, he could see that the man's thick-wristed hand was buried between her her thighs.

“Justin!” she gasped.

“JUSTIN?!” spoony yelped. His vision had unclouded enough to make out the man's facial features.

“Oh shit,” cried the voice of none other than Justin “Jew Wario” Carmichael. He appeared to be in perfect health.

“JUSTIN, WHAT THE FUCK?” screamed Spoony. “YOU FAKED IT? YOU FAKED YOUR DEATH, ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” At once he burst into angry sobs.

“Spoony, please, calm down bud,” said Justin. “You’re acting really stupid.”

“YOU ASSHOLE!” spoony raged through his tears, “BECAUSE YOU KILLED YOURSELF, *I* COULDN’T!! BECAUSE EVERYBODY SAID I’D JUST BE COPYING *YOU!!* DO YOU KNOW HOW BADLY I WANTED TO KILL MYSELF ALL THESE YEARS, YOU FUCKNUGGET?!”

A second hussy popped out from Jew wario’s other side. She was so large, Spoony now found himself surprised that he had missed her.

“Don’t you call my man a fucknugget!” she shrieked.

Her voice was very familiar.

Spoony rubbed the smut out of his eyes, and willed with all his might to focus on the woman. A blur of white and red slowly sharpened into focus.

It was Scarlet. And her face was shamelessly caked in dried semen. Jew Wario semen.

Spoony—not for the first time in his life, or even for that week—blacked out.

SCENE FIVE

When Spoony awoke, he was Spoony no more.

That man was dead now. As dead as Justin had tricked the world into thinking he was himself.

All that remained inside of Spoony now was...insanity.

“Doctor, Insanity, to be exact,” Insano chortled.

“Who are you talking to?”

The question had come from the shadows of the cell Insano now found himself inside. A one *Todd,* in the shadows, to be exact.

“Todd?!” crackled Insano. “What the bloody hell are you doing here in the name of science? And where are we, anyway?”

“Being a cuck is high crime, here in Russia,” Todd explained. “I was flying internationally with Lindzey when we got seated next to a Nigerian business man. You can guess what happened next. We happened to be flying over Russia at the time, and the pilot was ordered to ground the plane immediately to hand us over. I’ve been rotting in this cell ever since.”

“And Lindzey?” inquired Insano.

“Dunno,” said Todd, simply, shrugging his round, cuckold shoulders.

“Good god man,” quipped Insano. “How did *I* get here, then?”

“Well,” said Todd, “Apparently you went mad on your flight and tried to kill Jew Wario with your bare hands. Apparently...in your anger...”

Todd’s face darkened beneath his hood.

“You forgot that you're a weak little faggot. It took one 105 lb stewardess to restrain you. The crew let you go several times just to immediately restrain you again. You know, as a joke. They’re like that here, in Russia....Cruel. Humiliating.”

A bulge was beginning to stir in Todd’s trousers. He gulped.

“Good god man,” quipped Insano again, mugging for a camera that didn’t exist. “Get a grip.”

*Grip,* thought Insano, “wait, that’s it!”

He pulled down his pants and strained his inflamed hairy asshole. A bottle-tip protruded out.

“AHA!” he rejoiced, “SCIENCE!”

Latza wouldn’t take the chance of Spoony smuggling the deadly vodka into Russia on his carry-on. Not because the Ruskies would care, but because Spoony would surely have downed the whole thing before he so much as cleared the airport. Instead, Spoony had been made to take it up his ass.

“W-what’s that?” stammered Todd, seeing the cock-shaped vessel spoony's ass was giving birth to. In all his years of dating Lindzy, it was the liveliest thing he'd ever seen pushed out of a human body.

“This, my cucky friend, is our ticket out of here!”

He finished shitting out the bottle, then promptly smashed it over Todd’s cuckold skull.
...

The tiny bones salvaged from Todd’s ear canal made a perfect subatomic resonator. His still-beating heart functioned as a rudimentary generator. He carved these things out of Todd's lifeless cuckold body with a shard of glass from the bottle. Within an hour, a fully functional organic ray gun blaster was pulsing in Insano’s blood-stained hands.

He squeezed Todd’s left ventricle chamber and the bio-mechanism fired. The cell wall exploded in a blast of rubble and debris.

Now Insano was free. Unleashed into the very heart of Russia.

“HEEEEHEHEHEHEHEHEEHEHEHHEHEHEHE!” he roared generically, his character devoid of any original catchphrase or motto that he might roar instead.

SCENE SEVEN

Latza clapped.

Raimi sat, dumbfounded, eyes glued to the widescreen TV before them in Latza’s office.

“MASSIVE PRISON IN BREAK IN RUSSIA” read the big red letters on The Dying CNN’s mandatory text-only channel. “MAD MAN AT LARGE. POPULATION SLAUGHTERED. ENTIRE COUNTRY’S INFRASTRUCTURE: DEVESTATED. RUSSIAN ACCESS TO YOUTUBE HAS BEEN RENDERED IMPOSSIBLE.”

Raimi gaped over at Latza, who was still clapping at the TV—a smirk on his smooth boy face.

“Did you—Paulie, you fuckin' faggot—you planned all of this?!”

“The subtitles. Had. To stop,” said Latza, plainly.

Raimi smacked himself across the face. “How the fucking shit?!”

“Samuel, my good sir. I planned it, that’s how. Planned it all from the beginning. Jew Wario’s quote unquote suicide, all those years ago? My doing. Scarlet’s fat pussy falling into his lap? My doing again. And then, dear Noah’s untimely meltdown on the plane upon crossing their path? I think you get the picture. I arranged it. All of it. Because I knew that it was the only way to get a ticking timebomb delivered to Sasha’s doorstep. I knew that it would land the unhinged Spoony right in the grand Russian international prison...right beside our good friend President Sasha’s humble abode.”

“You dirty kike bastard....” breathed Raimi, suddenly quite pale. He had never fully realized, up until this moment, the kind of man he was truly dealing with. A cunning man. A cold man.

“Kike? No. Not by blood, at least, my dear Samuel. Perhaps for the sake of taking over Disney, but that was mere political posturing. No, no mere kike could achieve would I’ve done. Not even the jewish people can match my...abilities. After all, didn’t you know?”

Raimi, for once, was speechless.

“I—Paul Latza, next president of the United States—am the master...of deep plots.”

He was still clapping.