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Fraught

New member
Aug 2, 2008
4,418
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I'm pretty fucked.

Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh and swoosh, and none of my limbs are connected to my torso anymore.
 

Ponch

New member
Mar 31, 2010
289
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Tharwen said:
I'm not in all that much risk, assuming I'm allowed to start behind it. Otherwise... yeah, I'm screwed.
That's what she said!

*ahem* Sorry about that.
OT: I do believe not only I, but me entire family is doomed. Batman and Wolverine? Hell, the whole state should be wary.
 

Harlemura

Ace Defective
May 1, 2009
3,327
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Owowowowowowowowowowow...
Okay, okay... I think he's do-

Assists are so cheating, dude!

Or he'd cook me vegan food and force me to eat it.
I don't know which is worse.
 

2fish

New member
Sep 10, 2008
1,930
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Um my avatar is part of a character that controls people with his mind, he has to look at them, lucky for me he is only one eye. I have a chance to run before he can look at me!
 

Irony's Acolyte

Back from the Depths
Mar 9, 2010
3,636
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FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-

There is no where I can go that will be safe from Vaarsuvius. And the rest of my family is probably fucked as well (maybe).

As for what would happen to me I don't know. Disintegration? Fireball? Lightning Bolt? Empowered Sunburst? Chain Lightning? Bixby's Crushing Hand? Evan's Spiked Tentacles of Forced Intrusion?

All I know is that explosive runes will be prepared.
 

SenseOfTumour

New member
Jul 11, 2008
4,514
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Well, mine's Mike Patton, and he's right about everything, so I'd just let him kill me without a fight :D

I imagine he'd obliterate me with an ultra powered sonic scream, as in his 'Portal' Anger Sphere cranked up to eleven.
 

hem dazon 90

New member
Aug 12, 2008
837
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Irifit are easily deafeated. just like shadow people they have a weakness to 80s music as my friend John dicovered.



cookie for the reference
 

Graevan

New member
Sep 15, 2010
29
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My avatar is the gentleman version of myself. While I shout and rage he retorts with clever witicisms and intellectual put-downs.
That is until I really piss him off.
His eyebrow twitches, he coughs to clear his throat (a purely dramatic gesture), twists the head of his cane and pulls forth a long slender blade. With the minimum of effort and the maximum precision he skewers my heart. Pulling the blade free he cleans it with a handkerchief, which he folds neatly returning it to his pocket. He returns the blade to it's cane-sheath and looks at me.
"So sorry, my friend," he says simply, "but your argument was invalid."