Jorge's Undoing

Jorge's Undoing: Or, How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Love Carlism
It is said that fortune is ever changing, like the the moon. To quote the epic poem, "O Fortuna," of popular cultural fame, fortune strikes down the strong man. No greater example of this, have I found in my travels, than the tale of Jorge, the Jamster of Animals.

Chapter 1: Threshold of Memories
Our story begins in a quaint village known as "Detroit, Michigan." A young boy, soon to be man, sits at his computer in 8-Mile. This young man's name... is Jorge. Jorge opens his old, somewhat off-white computer and stares at the screen, hoping to play the famous WildWorks composition known as "Animal Jam." However, due to the villainous machinations of his twin brother, Pedro, his computing device instead opens to show an obese Liberian man dancing in an unknown warehouse. A voice is heard in the background, chanting, no, singing a distinct melody. The words go through Jorge's vast mind. The words echo. Each syllable mocking him, insulting him. He clenches his fists, as he realizes what they truly are.

"Yummy, yummy, yummy, yummy pizza..."

"Yummy, yummy, yummy, yummy"

"The only slice I, truly love..."

"Costs more than a buck or two."

Jorge screams out for somee divine entity to protect, no, to save him from this monstrosity. His pleas are met with echoes. Jorge slams his fists upon his desk, made of several plywood planks and kept together by an adhesive banned in 49 states for its narcotic properties. At this moment, the young man has a startling moment of self-actualization. If there was no deity to protect him, he must do it himself. He closes the window, and opens up Google Chrome, ready to enjoy him some good ol' Jamming. Jorge logs onto the site, excitedly logs on, hoping to meet up with his friends and commence his Yemeni Civil War Warriors RP. What shenanigans would take place today? He, leading the penguin-only Houthis, might perhaps conduct a raid on a government (led by his friend JuicyErnie19) compound. Excitedly, Jorge loads into the server Aldan. How peculiar this server is, that it, named after an irrelevant portion of Russia's vast territory, is to be the most popular server in the game, simply based off of it's alphabetically early name. A rare case in which Aldan beats something such as the mighty Zambezi, but alas, I digress. He loads in.

By load in, I mean, through some unknown vessel, Jorge's conciousness, his very being, is sucked in, entering his rather ugly purple and brown penguin avatar. He found himself unable to move, feeling a slight burn from his constant squirming, like against that of a relatively soft but rough material. Jorge moved his eyeballs downwards, revealing his flippers, restrained by rope. Due to being a penguin, he really didn't have knees, but Jorge still had the impression that he was kneeling to someone, or something. His vision, blurry before, refocused, only to see the 44th President of the United States of America, Barack Obama, standing before him, in an ugly checkered suit. The man was sorrounded by several other decrepit, indescribable entities, all armed with various melee weapons and firearms. Obama himself held a Colt 1851 Navy Revolver with the words "UH OH, STINKY" carved into it against Jorge the Penguin's skull. Hearing the slight click of Obama's index finger upon the trigger, Jorge prepared for the end, his final wish being that his brother's hot pockets, which he had purposefully left in the microwave, were cold by now. Obama said some final words to him, evoking an odd feeling of sympathy but mercilessness at the same time.

"Sorry you got caught up in this whole mess kid, but business is business. Of course, this whole shaboozie to you must resemble a bad series of dice throws, but the truth is, the game was rigged from the start."

Jorge blacked out as he felt a light singe upon his left temple.

Chapter 2: Invictus
Jorge opened his eyes. Was he in some kind of afterlife? If so, it was most definitely hell, as moral retribution for him screwing over his brother during the Hot Pocket debacle. But instead, he found himself in a wooded area, the smell of bad combat RP and PG rated gang wars filling his nostrils. Jorge recalled several odd, hopefully non-prophetic dreams he had experienced during his coma. One particularly disturbing one involved him waking up in a room with approximately 72 children, all spinning in circles, standing around an elderly man, who was smugly grinning at him, while the children incessantly chanted "LEVITICUS WU AND THE 72." However, using his judgement for once, Jorge ingeniously deduced he was in fact in Sarepia Forest, not with Leviticus Wu and his 72. That is a story for another day. As he looked around, he felt the bandages on his head rustle his feathers. It was a medical marvel... he had survived being shot in the head. A voice alerted him.

"YO YO YO MY G, IT'S ME, POSTMASTER P," the voice said in a rhythmic manner.

Jorge looked over to see a bald, obese homosapien standing next to him. Jorge found him kind of attractive, but that Pandora's box is a story for another day. Postmaster P informed him he had discovered him half-dead in a ditch in the ghettos of Jamaa Township, being poked at by a group of children with sticks. Jorge was informed that he was a medical marvel and had pretty much fully recovered from his murder attempt. Still curious about why he had been caught up in Obama's illicit dealings, Jorge grilled Postmaster P.

"Bruh, I do not know. Never in my life have I been notified of you, nor Obama's existence. However, when I did find you, while searching for cold hot pockets to enjoy, I saw some kinda hot guy running away in a blood checkered suit, who then punched me in my remaining kidney and called me a silly willy. But that's besides the point. In this world, survival is not given, it is earned. I like your forehead, which is why I'm giving you this, my dawg."

Postmaster P handed Jorge a Glock 22 Pistol, loaded with Hollow Point rounds, and with plenty of magazines to spare. The firearm was a fine piece of manufacturing, barely weighing over 2 pounds loaded and using the superior 40 caliber round. With the hollow points loaded in there, he would become the scourge of Jamaa. He would find this "Obama" character and bring his illicit deeds to an end. The time had come. Jorge and Postmaster P rested by the bushes of Sarepia Forest, watching an odd tribalistic group saying repetitive phrases.

"Asterisk pounces at you, no dodge, no miss, no nothing," one said.

'TO BE CONTINUED WHENEVER ORANGESLEMONS DECIDES TO... IF THE STORY HASN'T BEEN UPDATED IN 3 MONTHS, THAN JORGE AND ALL HIS FRIENDS DIED SOMEHOW, THAT'S THE END.'

