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UnderGround Forums >> ATTN Tito!!! FUTA1! RED ALERT!!!!


9/3/09 5:23 PM
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Zedlepln
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RickStorm - 

I can't believe out of everyone here on the UG, the same UG that has contacts everywhere, no one..... I mean no one can contact Tito and tell him about this thread.......

We must have non believers out there

 
9/3/09 6:04 PM
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BROCKP4PNO1
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KnockedOffMyFeetByNateTheElite - 

who finished the last chocolate muffin!!!????!?!

D'oh! (angry-d'oh, not slap-forehead-d'oh)

Listen, guys, if we're gonna win this war, and make no mistake, this IS a war in every sense of the word except most of the literal ones, then we're abso-fucking-lutely dependent on proper logistics and functioning supply lines. Everybody knows that's how you win wars (except the ones who don't, but they are extinct or irrelevant because they lost the war and live in fucking mudhuts now.) This possibly mortal blow to morale must be punished. The person responsible for determining the amount of chocolate muffins baked needs to report to general 2jupiter's hammer-proof underground bunker for corporal punishment (ie. treatment with various medieval torture apparatuses) ASAP.

Until hot breakfasts, chocolate muffins and Tito.
9/3/09 6:20 PM
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Cheggers
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Cheggers - Ohferfuxsakes - tell jups I got the 'rabbit pie' and I'm taking it to safe storage where I shall await instruction. As I sit here leafing through my pachment copy of Homage to Catalunya, I am reminded that although my small band of men have travelled here from foreign shores (Manchester UK) we are united as brothers in arms, bound to a common cause which supercedes our national boundaries. A cause for which everyone of us would spill our lifes blood on distant soil. That cause is Tito. We will fight them on the beaches, we will fight them in the....what the

*distant gunfire*

they're here.

Bisping wake up you god damned fool grab the mp5 and the tripwires.

It's too late.

The fecal riod monkeys have surrounded us. fix your bayonets.Circle formation gentlemen. Take courage from our forefathers at Rourkes Drift men, and to god almighty we do not shame them. We can't let those beasts get hold of the rabbit pie, or by god...

We need backup and we need it now goddammit*

hammer ricochets off helmet*

so it begins

viva la revoloution


WHERE'S MY GODDAMN BACKUP
9/3/09 6:24 PM
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BROCKP4PNO1
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Edited: 09/03/09 6:24 PM
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I CAN'T FIGHT FECAL ROID MONKEYS ON AN EMPTY STOMACH
9/3/09 6:25 PM
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Squared Circle
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Tito Ortiz Dies and is Dead
Associated Press
Popular MMA fighter Toto Ortiz has died and is dead due to an explosion which occured in the vicinity of where he was at.  Details at this time are few, but it is most certainly clear that he is dead due to the explosion that occured in the vicinity of where he was at at the time of the explosion.  Police Admiral Robert McO'Malley stated "we don't know the cause of the mysterous explosion which occured in the vicinity of where popular MMA fighter Tato Ortiz was at, but it is clear that he is very much dead, and anyone who might be looking for him should give up the search because he has clearly died as a result of this explosion which occured in the vicinity of where Mr. Ortiz was at at the time of the explosion, killing him instantly." 


 
9/3/09 6:28 PM
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RickStorm
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Alert TMZ!!!!!

wouldnt that be funny if...... oh nevermind
That wouldnt be funny

9/3/09 6:29 PM
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2JupitersTooMany
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*carrier pigeon settles into thread emptyhanded, glances about nervously, and then darts westward like a solar flare*


In its wake:

A single feather.


Written on the feather, in thin lines of crusted blood:

"SOS. Col OH. HH attic. U Tito. 2J"



A mystery.
9/3/09 6:42 PM
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2JupitersTooMany
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*a second carrier pigeon settles into thread emptyhanded, glances about pensively, and then darts westward like a moonbeam*

In its wake:

A single feather.


Written on the feather, in thin lines of slightly less crusted blood:

"P.S. hijk pln. crsh. Sqr Cir betray. lies. dead or alive"
9/3/09 6:51 PM
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2JupitersTooMany
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*a third carrier pigeon settles lightly into the thread, emptystomached. It glances about hungrily, and then darts westward like a disillusioned Russian*

*its tiny stomach growls, the gurgling tone dropping as the dopplar effect reminds the world that absolute rules exist, even during times of war*


In its wake:

A napkin.


Written on the napkin, in thin lines of gruel and carrot drippings:

"sav me a mffn"
9/3/09 6:54 PM
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RickStorm
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Wake up 2jups...... Your'e losing sight on what this mission is about

WAKE UP MAN!!!!

9/3/09 6:58 PM
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Squared Circle
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Shame about the circumstances surrounding Teto's demise in that mysterious explosion.  And you were all so darn close. :-(

I trust you'll all be at the funeral.  There isn't much to inter, as only a single tooth was found.  

They say it is the size of a human fist.
 
9/3/09 7:39 PM
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bktwothree
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2JupitersTooMany - *carrier pigeon settles into thread emptyhanded, glances about nervously, and then darts westward like a solar flare*


In its wake:

A single feather.


Written on the feather, in thin lines of crusted blood:

"SOS. Col OH. HH attic. U Tito. 2J"



A mystery.


*Casually strolling down Broad Street, in Columbus...whistling Hang On Sloopy*

Damn pigeons just crapped on fresh car wash. That's a strange looking barren pigeon. Oh well, back to the salt mines...
9/3/09 8:02 PM
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Cheggers
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Red squirrell, this is fat mallard, come in red squirrel.

Today was a bad day. My whole squad, decimated. The rabbit pie, chomped.

I'm afraid to say...

I'm afraid to say the enemy knew.

They KNEW our position.

Gentlemen,

we have an informant.

My obsevations indicate that...

...what the...

*distant gutteral roar of some unspeakable beast*

my god what IS THAT...that abomination...oh lord forgive them...what have they created...

I must depart into the Forrest before 'it' gets to camp

...protect futa the almighty, the redeemer and the holy toast.

smoke me a kipper, I'll be back for breakfast.

#message ends#
9/4/09 12:16 PM
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2JupitersTooMany
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I have walked thirty-six kilometers. And swam ten more. Then, I clutched the underside of a Coach Limousine for most of the remainder, before trundling into a government culvert adjacent to an Air National Guard base in Fort Wayne, Indiana.

I have never felt more alive.


It began as a standard return from Mosul. After a brief tack to Egypt, I bounded from Morocco to Amsterdam, and then directly to Chicago, only slowing briefly for boom and receptacle fueling mid-air.

Just 5000 feet above the wispy grasses of Pine Hill Golf Course in suburban Lancaster, the sounds of machine gunned popcorn emitted forward of the cargo hold. Pop, Pop, Pop. Then the sharp TING of structural support rupturing. TING, TING, TING. Church bells and bass drums.

The crew was dead, as were the controls. The dead-winged cylinder dropped with a show of leaden pyrotechnics.

Calm, I worked escape options and related statistics. Initially, I calculated my chances of survival at 87.6%, given my altitude and lack of a parachute. But then, my ordered thoughts eruped into struggling darkness. There was a taste of cloth and fumes. I was overcome by some attacker who had hidden in the hold. And my consciousness followed in tow.


I awoke in an attic, dust cascading from the peaked roof like arid raindrops. I was lashed to a hospital bed, full of clamps and tubes and bandages and puncture wounds, bound to its metal frame by four-point medical restraints. My mouth was stuffed with sickly gauze, soaked with the remnants of gruel, spilled down my unconscious throat and then returned again by my half-conscious stomach.

I calmly awoke, and calculated my chances of escape at 74%, given my complete unfamiliarity with the larger surroundings.

And then, I heard this: a young woman, probably 17 to 19 years old, speaking of renowned light artist James Turrell. Her voice was slightly modulated, affected by some sort of mounted speaker system.

And the key: the tone of her voice dropped slightly as it passed, indicating the speed of her movement to be approximately 20 miles per hour. The Doppler Effect. My old friend.
Naturally, I concluded that she was the guide of a tour bus at the Franklin Park Conservatory in Columbus Ohio, known for its permanent installation of Turrell's work.

My recalculated odds of escape: 100%.


I worked out of my restraints though a sweating, thirty-minute masterpiece of joint manipulation. I placed the gauze on the window sill, attracting three progressively famished pigeons. I marked the two with still-wet blood from my punctured femoral artery. The last, I marked with remnants of gruel, wrung from the dampened cloth.

Imagine the rest. It was dull and uneventful. Naturally, it involved a bit of monotony concerning the tongues and bowels of my captors. One must never miss an opportunity to leave a message.

Before I took his tongue, the twelfth captor turned on filthy mole and cunning propagandist Squared Circle.

About him: I want eight of his organs on separate cooled helicopters to Baltimore within 72 hours. And I want the rest of him alive in Las Vegas in 96 hours. I want him to watch through his remaining eye as his healthy parts are sewn into injured soldiers. He'll do eight good things before he dies. Eight more than he's ever done.

I will be with you soon.

Until Tito.

-2Jupes
9/4/09 12:19 PM
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2JupitersTooMany
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Interesting note:

I CANNOT get the song "Hang on Sloopy" out of my head.
9/4/09 1:19 PM
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MountainMedic
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now neither can i.

thanks jupes
9/4/09 2:12 PM
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Squared Circle
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You were all missed at Teeto's funeral. 

Pity poor Dana White, who delivered such a stirring eulogy to so few ears.  It was truly a touching and heartfelt lamentation, devoid of all but three f-bombs; heard only by the flowers, the trees, a softball-sized tooth in a tiny casket, and a mysterious figure in black. 

While I regret that Titro is no more, having died in that inexplicable explosion as he so clearly did, I have already overcome my grief and begun the healing process.  There are certain things that comfort me at this very moment: the knowledge that Tado is in a better place, this Victorian leather chair, the warm brandy swirling in my left hand, the luger twirling in my right, my knowledge of ninjutsu, and the three hulking bodyguards, traned in UFC, standing at my back.

I cackle my delight even now... for Tieto.
9/4/09 2:14 PM
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2JupitersTooMany
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Ah.

I see that my foil is here.

En garde.

Until we meet.
9/4/09 2:17 PM
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Zedlepln
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Do not fret. The counter-espionage ploy went like clockwork. Hammerhouse thinks FUTA1 is out of the picture.

Moving on to stage 2.

9/4/09 2:24 PM
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2JupitersTooMany
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And SOMEONE GET CHEGGERS SOME COVERING FIRE.

I don't like the sounds of the audio he's been relaying.
9/4/09 3:13 PM
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mmalady
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pure gold fellas...thanks :)

ttt for Tito
9/4/09 3:53 PM
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2JupitersTooMany
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*BULLETIN*

All reports of the demise of Tito's self, wherever it was at, are greatly exaggerated. Continue efforts to locate Tito's self.

*BULLETIN*
9/4/09 4:18 PM
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Zedlepln
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Broadsword calling Danny Boy
Broadsword calling Danny Boy

Code name FUTA1 to appear at UFC 103 Q&A. Recommend sending covert operative Tom O'Bedlam, who can use a variety of screen aliases to slip past Hammerhouse scouts.

<< End transmission >>
9/4/09 4:23 PM
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2JupitersTooMany
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Edited: 09/04/09 4:24 PM
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Zedlepln, I'm breaking into your transmission.

Brilliant.
Tom O'Bedlam is our best stealth agent. 
I want him on the job.
If this mission succeeds, Zed, I'll have you promoted. 
My word is as good as Punishment Athletics T-Shirt - Gold 707 ($27.95).
  
9/4/09 4:54 PM
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BROCKP4PNO1
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2JupitersTooMany - And SOMEONE GET CHEGGERS SOME COVERING FIRE.

I don't like the sounds of the audio he's been relaying.
Private BROCKP4PNO1 reporting for duty!

I'm happy to announce that I've managed to procure a bag of cheese-flavored Tortilla chips and no less than 10 ounces of fine, dark chocolate. With such ample supply of field rations I should finally be able to assist Cheggers to the best of my capabilities.

I must admit Cheggers' disturbing front line reports are gnawing on my mind though. Is it already too late? Is the opposition too overwhelming to overcome? And perhaps most important of all, what exactly is the nature of these demonoid beasts described as 'fecal roid monkeys'? Are we talking about monkey gholems made out of dried feces instead of clay, or are we talking about regular monkeys hurling their bloodied up roid-stools in the general direction of their assailants? Most worrying. In either case, I feel this will have an undue effect towards the enjoyment of my field rations. Cheggers, fear not though, I will soldier on and I promise I won't rest before I've made contact with you at the front lines. At that point, I'll probably need a good 10-hour nap, but I certainly won't rest before that, such is my dedication!

Until Tito


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