"Would you like a bible?"
Bloke shrugs, indifferent. Seconds later,
"Hey! Howza bout I smash three'a yo ribs?!"
College Bloke looks around, confused, and finally spots Asshole.
"Excuse me, sir, but are you referring to me?"
"Yeah, buddy! Howza bout I stick my hand up yer candy ass and make you say 'Fuck You' to yer Mom?"
"Well, this certainly sounds interesting. How much?"
"Twenty-five cents, ya shit."
"Alright, I guess I'll try. But it isn't going to hurt, is it? Uh.."
"No, you stupid fuck! Why would it hurt? Huh? WHY?!" Asshole pushes Bloke, and the latter falls on the pavement, but quickly recovers and is on his feet again. Asshole gets in his face, breathing big gobs of boiling angry phlegm out of his nostrils, which land on Bloke's 'CK1' T-shirt, burning holes through it.
"Wow, this is what college is all about! New experiences! This is going to be great!" Bloke grins eagerly, almost to the point of sobbing, as he fumbles through his pocket looking for a shiny wafer to give the nice hostile man who's missing a few teeth. Minutes pass, and the Bloke grows itchy. But then, as if by magic... His hand emerges, clutching a silver-shiny amerikan quarter between its two forefingers. No, wait -- what's this? His probing hand has found not one coin, but two! He rubs the coins together to make that awful scraping noise, and Asshole gives him a knowing look. Bloke is in for a big, big treat. A beam of sunlight is cast onto the two mortals as a chorus of 7000 Dying Rats sings Handel's Messiah, far off. The Bloke is shaking with sweat and anticipation, hungering for a kind of spiritual fulfillment he does not truly understand.
"Thanks, fuckbrain. Hold still."
Asshole reaches behind an imaginary obstacle and produces several instruments of injury -- A crowbar, a broken bottle, a big bloody club, several chains, some paring knives, a topless blender, a couple really sharp twigs, a dromedary, and a complete set of Popeet Collapsable kitchen-ware, as seen on TV. In nano-seconds, a crowd has assembled and is observing the scene with intrigued, jiggly eyes.
Then... the act.
A flurry of limbs, spouting blood, chunkies of flesh and things that are sparkly, for about thirty seconds. At one point, Asshole produces a studded candy-bar wrapper which is accidentally scraped into the crowd, mauling the chancellor and his wife, almost peeling her face off her head. "Oh, honey, isn't this fabulous?", the chancellor says. His wife nods in silent approval.
After the commercial's-length of agony, Bloke exclaims, "I feel so cultured!" and faints from blood loss. The crowd applauds, and Asshole delivers an acceptance speech:
"Fuck ya'll! Piss off! I'll beat the living shit out of all of
you at the same time! You fucking assholes! Huh? What'd you call me?!
HUH??! I'll fucking kill you, you son of a bitch!"
A girlfriend urges her mate to be cultured.
"But Pooches," says he, "I need this quarter to bail my mom out of jail."
"C'mon, Sweetums, just give him the money! I'll watch. Please?"
"Oh okay... Uh, hey guy. Mister, uh..."
"ASSHOLE!"
"Yes, Mister Asshole."
"That's not my name!!"
"Sure, buddy," he says, using a tone that only arrogant jocks can conjure at will. "I would like to be beated sensess. Huh huh."
Asshole grabs the quarter. "Beaten senseless? You sorry sack!" He kicks Sweetums right between the pants.
Sweetums' face turns three shades of purple, very rapidly. "Oh my gaAAAawwwddd..." he wheezes, crumbling to his knees. Pooches giggles.
"I ain't gonna beat you senseless for a fuckin' quarter, you cheap-whore piece of cunt! All you get for a quarter is Random Violence, just like it says on the sign, if you'd bother to read it, asswipe!" Another kick, and Sweetums' nose leaves his face. Asshole turns to Pooches. "And you, you bitch!"
"Uh...", says Pooches.
"Now'sa bout the time when I get _RANDOM!_" Flames erupt from the top of his head as he goes to work.
A minute later, the street is covered with broken bikes, gore, smashed cars, floating fire hydrants, uprooted trees, and various hellspawns climbing up through the fresh bleeding cracks in the pavement. The space gradually fills itself in with more students, busy racing to class. No one suspects a thing except...
Bible-boy. "Excuse me, Sir," he says.
"Whaddya wanna make something of it?!" His spit emits light now, and his eyes are pure white. He's pissed.
"Well, you know, I couldn't help but notice what you're doing, and, you know, JESUS SAYS..."
Survivors (in the bordering states of Oregon, Nevada, and Arizona) recalled, "It was as if Cthulhu, Wotan and Ad-shlagga had all manifested in California and were intent on making a big, big salad."