Novel & Cerita Stick Figure Violence

Fatty, you with your thick face have hurt my instep. 3. Gun wounds again? 4. Same old rules: no eyes, no groin. 5. A normal person wouldn't steal pituitaries. 6. Damn, I'll burn you into a BBQ chicken! 7. Take my advice, or I'll spank you without pants. 8. Who gave you the nerve to get killed here? 9. Quiet or I'll blow your throat up. 10. You always use violence. I should've ordered glutinous rice chicken. 11. I'll fire aimlessly if you don't come out!

Lucio tried another kick, but he dodged it. I hid behind an abandoned car, holding a stick ready to ambush my attacker. Lucio, on the other hand, meant business today. Lucio tried another kick, but this time, my attacker won’t dodge but fight back. He caught Lucio’s leg with his right, and with his left, he grabbed Lucio’s collar. He then swung Lucio across the road. He tried to run but I unexpectedly strike a blow that could kill many. With the stick in my hands, I caught him while running, I used the stick to hit his injured ribs. He fell to the ground, crying and holding his rib cage. He rose up again on one knee and I went for another blow with the stick. He caught it, and with immense r

It stopped attacking and began focusing its motions on defence, attempting to avoid being hit by that monstrous tail. Mr. Starkridge would spring forward with a powerful attack, possibly trying to break the vial or hurt the figure's arm, if the figure tried to reach for a vial fastened around the belt on its waist. All Mr. Starkridge had to do was corner him long enough for him to find an opening and deliver the killing blow.

We were both on our backs. I scrambled to get up, but he shoved the stick to my throat. "Stay down, or I'll have your throat ripped out." Easy enough. I froze. Vivid still stood there. Shaking. At least she was safe from the stick. Mr. Big Stick turned his attention to her, leaning in, sniffing her hair. I felt rage boiling in my veins, shifting to get in again. Mr. Big Stick growled and swung the stick to hit me in the leg. "I said stay down."

One afternoon, the boys were playing with sticks and I decided to join by force and as usual the boys refused and began to bully me again. One of the boys who thought he was smart boldly came forward and began to poke me violently with his pointed stick threatening to take out my eyes. As if that wasn't enough the boy started to call me crazy and that was when I snapped. I swiped his stick forcefully and drove the stick into his own eyes right in from of friends. They all froze with fear as they saw what happened even I stood with shock as I noticed the boy wasn't moving. In that moment, the rest of the boys came after me trying to hurt me but just like their dead friend, I killed them all i

“Please, I know you are the one who is going to torture him. You are known for that. I’ve read about you. You once cut off a man’s four fingers because he owed you four million.” “Well, I like to have fun with my job, one finger for every million. It has a nice symphony to it, doesn’t it?” He says in a thoughtful way, making me want to kill myself at how casually these men talk about violence. They need therapy. “Can you please answer-“

I would rather die than let them have their way with me. With newfound determination, I stood up and grabbed a stick beside me. “Don’t come any closer!” I shouted. “Hahaha,” they laughed. “Looks like we have a fiery kitten. Well, that makes it more interesting.” One of them moved toward me. I stepped back, and with sudden force, I swung the stick at him, hitting him between his legs. His scream snapped the others out of their fun. One lunged at me, knocking the stick away. A stinging slap sent me crashing to the ground.

The zombie crashed into a pile of broken screens. I rushed forward and tightened my grip around the shard. For a brief moment, rage drowned everything else. Every memory of what people had done to me burned through my head. Then I stabbed it. Once. Twice. Three times. The zombie collapsed, and I pinned it beneath me, stabbing again and again. But it refused to stay down. Its body kept twitching. Its arms kept moving and trying to reach me. It was still trying to get up. Then it hit me.

The second thug fared no better, his leg snapping like a stick as the stranger kicked him with precision. The third thug tried to grab him from behind, but the stranger spun around, his elbow connecting with a crunch, the thug's nose shattering like glass. The fourth thug tried to punch him, but the stranger caught his fist, his grip like a vice, the thug's fingers snapping like twigs. The fifth thug tried to run, but the stranger was too quick, his foot connecting with a kick that sent the thug crashing to the ground, his screams echoing off the walls.

A handful of village punks were going to scare me? I shoved Esposito's wife away, flipped the stiletto in my hand, reverse grip, and stepped forward instead of back. The first one swung a stick at my shoulder. I dropped under it, drove my heel into his kneecap — felt it give — and opened up his arm with the blade on the way past. Less than a minute and there were three men on the ground rolling and screaming. The rest looked at each other. Sticks shaking in their hands. Nobody wanted to be next.