In the Golem Gloves ring Vomitvoiced Mishima fought Donny del Donameche, and the tag-team of Donny and Lonny Donnybrook, following the Marquis d'Izod rules by the French letter.

Went hunting for Martin Luther Kowboy, a trussed dove of peace blinded by the scales of justice, because Sweet J. Edgar had given him the nod and you never deny a G-Man godhead a favor. Yet he also facilitated the hanging of Oliver North, the electro-cution of Charles Keating, the lynching of a once-popular football schmuck by LAPD vigilanties clad in outlandish tourist civvies.

Some called him a suicide hen. Stoically un-velcrowing the straps that held the kevlar to his sweaty chest, Mishima then implacably faced death by Harold Sakata's steel-brimmed bolero bowler, dingleberries ringing the edge twirling gyroscopically, bladed paf paf.

Headless dogs sprawled and drained all over the campus, for they had been trained to catch frisbees, never expecting a razor's edge spinning in the air. The law against a campus dog wearing a bandana had barely been passed, was rarely enforced. Our loss.