Talk Shit, Get Hit

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
Johnny Guitar doesnt take shit from nobody, and epic tale of hilarity

Submitted: June 03, 2015

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Submitted: June 03, 2015






Our story opens up a long time ago, in the life of an ordinary young lad in a less than ordinary life. Johnny Guitar was his name and playing the trumpet was his game, he travelled the land with his trumpet under one arm and a box of tissues and lotion under the other (Johnny did not have a girlfriend). Often he would find himself travelling for days, many kilometers out from his hometown of Relais de Bellevue. Although he may not have been the most successful musician ever, he made enough money to get by alright, he lived in a semi detached house in a relatively chav free area of the town, Johnny would count, and on average, a total of 3 chavs could be seen walking by his home weekly, for these occasions Johnny kept an unregistered, semi-automatic assault rifle by the window where he would pick them off one by one to the tune of "another one bites the dust" by his favourite band, Queen.


Johnny's favourite pub to play at was called the "Old house and home", he was a regular there and as well as that meaning he played there frequently, it also means that he often drank himself to about 2 inches of his life, Johnny had acquired the title of town drunkard by the age of 7 and his liver was said to be made of carbon-steel, nobody ever challenged Johnny to a drinking game. On this night however, Johnny was not there to drink, he was there to chew bubblegum and play his trumpet. Johnny was used to the same people coming to his gigs every time and it was very rare for anyone new to be seen at the "Old house at home". However, a new man had shown up this night, new yes, but unknown, not so much. His nickname was Wang Wacker Willy, he hailed from the neighboring town of Fuchsville, and it was said that he had killed 15 men by Wacking them with his Dick that was rumoured to be 20 inches long, and wide like an anaconda. Another rumour said that the one time he tried to have sex, he split the poor girl clean in half and that now-a-days if he gets an erection you can see the blood drain from his face to his member.


The time was 7:34 PM and it was time for Johnny to get on stage, he climbed the 3 steps onto the ramshackle stage which had offered him his 15 minutes of fame over the past decade. The first set went well, but half way through the second, Wang Wacker Willy stood up. He pointed at Johnny. And he said:


"U shit m8"


The silence in the pub was deafening, no one had dared insult Johnny's music before. And Johnny knew, he wasnt going to give anyone reason to dare do it again.


Johnny descended the 3 steps, his trumpet in hand, the audience parted as he moved towards Wang Wacker. One thing was clear, only one of those men was going to leave the Pub with his penis intact. Upon reaching Wang Wacker, Johnny asked:


"U wot m8?"


To which Wang Wacker said thus:


"U 'erd"


Words of such destructive capabilities had not been heard since the days of yore. Johnny could see the colour drain from Wang Wacker, and upon looking down, he could see his weapon growing. Johnny would only have one chance at this. In a flash, he slammed his trumpet hole first onto Wang Wacker's Wang and blew into the trumpet. Wang Wacker ballooned out of proportion until he no longer resembled a human. In true Tom and Jerry fashion, Johnny produced a large pin. He jammed the pin into Wang Wacker's side and a comedic "pop" echoed around the room. Wang Wacker's infrastructure coated the walls as well as Johnny. A good 10 minutes must have passed, all in complete silence, before Johnny turned to face the crowd and uttered the words that shook the world. Words so powerful that the would be remembered for millennia.



"Talk shit, get hit"


They say that to this day, on a full moon if you stand on the patch of land where the "Old house at home" once stood, you can still hear the echo of those words.

© Copyright 2019 Zachary Bourbon. All rights reserved.

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