Roll and then write a story about your roll, make it as entertaining as possible

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Gimme gimme

ROLLING
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rawl

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a story will MAYBE be written

Rolling for a third sage

"That'll be 49.95... oh wait, 54.72 afta sails tax... hehehe."
The goy across the counter sighed and handed over his plastic fiat currency known as a "credit card". "Papuh or plastic?" asked the coniving merchant.
"What does it matter,"
replied the man
"the earth is fucked anyway."
The merchant gave him a pitiful look before quickly swiping his card through the register. When the final total showed up on the display, the pity disappeared and gave way to pure lust. David Shlomo Shekelstein the second had always been good at what he did. For thirty years he had mastered the art of small business and with nothing but his wits and good looks (and numerous friends on wall street). But today he faced something no small business entrepaneur ever hoped to see.
"Have a good night!"
David bid his customer, who returned the farewell with a cynic grumble. As the customer made his way out the door, David motioned toward the keys in his back wallet and prepared to close up for the night. But just as he began to insert the keys into the door he was faced with the panicked face of his former customer. "You gotta help me!" the man was barely audible behind the thick glass. Paying no attention to the terrified expression on the mans face, David turned the key. Behind the man could be sighted a small crowd in the distance, nothing more than flys on the horizon at present. "It seems that you've been locked to your fate" said David as he smirked quite jewishly. "No!" protested the man "Please! You can't leave me out here!" But David returned to the register and blocked out the exclamations with the sound of cold hard cash. The feeling of those greenbacks fluttering through his fingers was enough to give David a chubby. Or at least it would have been, if he wasn't circumcised. By now the pack of flies had grown into a mob of epic proportions. The man had disappeared in his quest to find solace and in his place appeared a thousand dindus. They pressed their lips up against the glass windows and peered at the commodities inside. David frowned as their braids and sweaty fingers smudged the glass. Oh well, he thought, at least it can be cleaned up in the aftermath. Maybe I can make a plea to the local government to get some aid too! Recognizing the inherent danger of the situation, David began to move towards the storage room at the back of the shoppe, in this case doubling as a safe room. But his gate was waltzy and relaxed, after all his store had the thickest glass of all on this street and the concrete walls had been reinforced since the last time Baltimore had a riot. It didn't matter how much watermeleon and grape soda he had in the display, nothing short of an army of retards was getting through the front facade.

Suddenly the sounds of chimping ceased, replaced by the shrieks like that of slaughtered monkeys. Blood replace grease as it splashed up on the windows, blocking the view of outside. David dropped his money in surprise and stood in shock at this turn of events. Taking a few moments to collect himself, David tried to peer out through the blood stained windows. It was hard to tell between the grease and blood. Was that a piles of bodies? Who were those few moving men? David slowly unlocked the door and peered outside.
"Wha-what happened?"
By now the assailants, or whoever had caused this, disappeared. In their wake lay an entire horde or slayed KANGZ and sheboons.
"The police?"
Stammered David
"militia?"
When out of the dark came an answer;
"No, its the motherfucking moonman"
From out of an alley emerged a figure clothed in shadow. Black fatigues will do that. David, recognizing the threat, ran back inside, trying to get to the storeroom as quick as possible.
"You kikes can run"
said the moon
"But you can't hide"

I'm rollin'.

roll

roll

rawlin

i probably wont do it but roll anyway

Rollin despite the fact there's no way I'll be writing about this shit

Suddenly, the lights cut out.
"Goddamn it ben"
said the famililar robotic voice
"how are we supposed to lynch this kike if we can't find him?"
A south-western drawl shot back
"Use your nose. Or are you gonna tell me you forgot the smell of the jew? And besides, it will be more fun this way..."
Was that Ben Garrison? The infamous white supremacist and triple k insider? David began to clutch his kippah and pray. Today was just not his day. Outside the storeroom could be heard the sound of shuffling boots and occaisonally the collapse of a sales facade. It couldn't get any worse
"hhhmmmm"
said the robotic voice
"free money"
Free money!? David emerged from his hiding spot in the corner of the room and dashed to the front of the store. The death squad of two couldn't be found, but it easy to overlook when you're on the prowl for the green stuff. Using the power of the hook nose, David hunched on all fours and began to smell out a trail. He followed it all the way back to... the register? Those goys had outsmarted the jew yet again!
"We're done with booga-boo, and now its time for you"
David spun around to find at his back the two aryan crusaders. Ben maintained a calm look behind his sunglasses, killing kikes and niggers didn't even phase him. But the moonman, in his face was a wild urge. Ol shlomo knew what came next, and he assumed the position.
"Oh"
The moonman was quite surprised
"You've learned something have you? You think taking all 18 inches of this moon cock can save you?"
David broke down. If there is one thing that the small business world teaches you, its that you have to do somethings to survive.
"Well you must have learned good. Maybe we should keep you alive so you can do our taxes..."
In this moment of pain that single sentence offered a single hope.
"Oh wait, in a white power state we won't have usury. Thanks for the ass anyways."
David prepared his anus for the worse. Sadly, he didn't get it. In a split second a .223 pierced the back of his skull and ended his life.
"You know how I feel about raping outside your race"
Said Ben

Roll

roling

They see me rollin'

Not writin'

rolling I hate myself

fuck you im not a stalker reroll

thay sea mi rohlin

nice /b/ tier post

...

l

rollin

Rolling

Camping out at night in the wilds three goblins and a troll surrounded a fencer who awoke at once.

"You there - he pointed his epee at the troll- do you have any idea the trouble you are in?" The troll scratched his head. "And you- he swept it towards the goblin henchmen- do YOU have any idea what will happen to you next after I dispose of this brute?"

"HA! I laugh at your misfortune" The troll and goblins took a step back struck with a sudden confusion and what seemed to be a paralyzing fear.

He presented his collection of gold medals two from the Olympics and several from different world championships. "I am king of fencers and the fencer of kings. This one - pointing to the Dutch medal- I won with the royal family watching"

He put on my helmet and assumed the position
"EN GARDE!"
He shoved my epee right into the trolls chest
"Point!"
Confusion sank deeper into that horrible party
"POINT!"
Another well placed attack...

The troll raised his club swinging down and crushing the fencers arm. You could tell through his mask he had not expected this at all. Looking up he would see the club shaped death crashing through the the helmet.

"POINT!" the monstrous party laughed.

roll

Hrol

rollan

roll

rol

the cavalier rides around town on his horse so messed up he cannot fully comprehend why bayonets swarm around beggars at dusk. Degenerate defectors patrol the ghetto behind gutsy earthmen who guaranteed negative commando over witch experiment. "Fucking hood amoebas" screams the cavalier "how the fuck are the boars supposed to dissolve?" Suddenly the crowd expects social correction, but the cavalier and his horse swarm inside the cathedral. There he understands that bland models of insistence will never get him to relinquish financial posture, although rehabilitation can only offer more than just vertical momentum away from tension at dawn. But now the cream distorts tree layouts, linking to withdraw. The cavalier woke up in a neighbourhood where architecture fisted thin lonely mountain gold while secular appearance met its intention to partecipate to national leftovers, arguably overcharging drill panic presented as a confrontation summit. He was free, but hearing an explosion coming from the valley meant that his conscience owed him the fact that he couldn't reconcile anymore with his plea to harbor frank hunting collections.

Fin.

/\/\/\

Well,

roll

...

Roll, I'll respond later with a story.

If I don't er on the mage corner I'm not gunna do it because my brain feels like it's dying and I'm lazy

i dont know why im wasting my time on this

So, we sat. After one of his students brought out a vessel of wine and a couple of small, round cups, he began speaking.

"Firearms lack conductivity. The real and only gun you need is here."
An arm rose at his side and he craned a finger to his forehead.
"This, your frontal lobe. All you do is point and shoot. Like the firearm," he said. I had placed the FAMAS rifle before him, and he surveyed its contours as he spoke.
"What do you mean by conductivity?" I asked him.
"Consider the difference between the artisan and the machine directed to produce. One hones his attention to his craft. The other has no attention to pour on anything. It is blind, mindless construction of construction. A dead end by itself. The grand artifice of computer-guided manufacturing is nothing without the human element of its creation. Guns, and the men who become guns; they are the same way."
"And yet they are the most efficient at their purpose as weapons. At killing. An artisan creates beauty, but a machine can produce ten times the amount of work," I said back to him.
"Resolution is the aim of war, not death. And this is easily forgotten when your hind-brain inflames itself at the sight of blood, or the taste of mounting fear in the mouth."
"Conductivity," he continued, "is the current of man to weapon. The impulse of electrical thought, the consciousness of timing, spacing, swinging, breathing, feeling, seeing, swording. You practice until your fingers ingrain themselves into the hilt and pommel of the sword as neuronic roots. We wield the weapon, and relinquish our arm, wrist, hand, elbow in the process. We consummate our marriage to the sword, the spear, the axe, the lance."
As he finished speaking, he rose to his feet and stood even-shouldered.

"My sword cuts completely, past flesh and bone. See its masterly steel, and how it hisses as air deigns to clumsily split upon it!"
I endeavored to sit still and straight-backed in the face of this claim. I responded to him.
"But.. you are not carrying any blade!"
"So it is."

>POINT
NARF