The first part is about Joe getting abducted by gays at the end of last Strat. The second part explains The Super Friends' creation and recent actions in Strategus.
Joe had a potato sack over his head, and thus only felt himself being simultaneously dragged and groped down some kind of corridor. Manhandled—there’s a good word for it. He was being manhandled, probably through the bowels of some rapist’s dungeon. It was off-putting.
Earlier that evening he was hiding out in one of the FCC’s many safehouses, sipping boxed wine, waiting for the apocalypse to fucking come and go already. The Great Donkey God chadz had announced the end of this round of existence, and Calradia had promptly burst into violence. Joe was teleported to relative safety by WITCHCRAFT, in so doing escaping a deadly brawl in an inner-city Applebee’s. So, Sangria in hand, his horse resting (oh so beautifully) by the fireplace, Joe waited, unaware of the outside goings on. But then some fiendish individuals, their identities masked by black, gleaming gimp-suits, jumped in through the windows and took Joe and his screaming horse away, bags on their faces, swords at their throats.
Joe felt himself get shoved into a hard wooden chair. Somewhere behind him duct tape was tearing to the sound of menacing huehueing. He wasn’t going to take it in the butt quietly—not this time. “Who are you?” he grunted into the rough burlap pressed against his lips. “Shitting asslord fuck poopies.”
“Joe!” a familiar voice barked. “Shut the fuck up!.”
And then, to Joe’s horror, another familiar voice crooned, “My love, calm yourself. Do not let this gaylord’s raging upset you. He seeks to ruin our fun by playing…” A finger flicked Joe’s penis, which was unfortunatly erect with worry. “Hard to get.”
The bag was torn from Joe’s face, but he knew what he’d see. He was indeed taped to a chair in a candle-lit dungeon. It was a nice dungeon though—really more like a sex palace. There was a mahogany table in front of Joe with a box of chocolates on it, a snapping fireplace behind him, and a big heart-shaped cushion on the floor to his left. Before him, however, stood Sandersson and Havelle, Frisia’s most notorious warriors. They wore only speedos, their faction’s heraldry on proud display across bulging elastic. Joe said, “God dammit. Of all the places to get hauled into—”
Havelle said, “I prefer the term ‘manhandled’. More apt. Apter.”
“Fuck you,” Joe said. He turned to Sandersson, “And fuck you.” He needed to threaten them—he still had weapons. “I have broken bones—crushed horse’s skulls, even—with these man-killing asscheeks of mine. Don’t play with me nigga I’ll take yo cock off mo fucka sum bitch don’t play! DON’T BE PLAYING WIF ME NIGG--!”
Sandersson backhanded him. “You have other holes!”
“NO!” Joe cried, but he knew it was true. He had a face, and ears, son of a bitch. His face stung, and the pain brought back memories.
Havelle was behind him, breathing lustily. “Yeah, buddy. You got holes.”
No one had called him buddy in years. “NO!” Joe was screaming. “I WON’T BE YOUR COCK SOCK!” He rocked back and forth in his chair. “STOP IT DAD!”
Sanderson frowned down at Joe, who was panting and crowning a little. “God dammit,” he said. “My boner just died. What the fuck is wrong with you dude. Can’t we just enjoy our apocalyptic homosexual ravagings without you making things weird?”
Before Joe could reply in the negative, he felt the world shake. He opened his mouth, then closed it defensively on the off chance that Havelle would seize the opportunity. But then the world shook again, and everything went white.
Joe woke up naked in the middle of a grassy plain. At first he assumed the worst, but his butthole felt normal. He laid back in the tall grass and giggled, a little high from the adrenaline. chadz had started things up again—he’d been saved. His happiness faded, though, when he realized that Champion Courser wasn’t with him. He hopped to his feet, picked a random direction, and started walking, hoping that maybe he might run into her. Already his heart ached for the big, beastial love of his life.
It wasn’t long before he bumped into an old friend. Kesh, her glorious red hair thankfully hanging low enough to conceal her ugly woman-parts, waved at Joe from a nearby tree line. Behind her stood a few hundred naked men. A few held pitch forks and cudgels. “Joe!” she said, when he got closer, her voice deep and pleasantly manly. “You’re back! Listen, we all kind of stopped giving a fuck and are just dicking around this time. We collectively blew our load last time—tried too hard. Some of us have created The Super Friends and are fucking doing I don't even know what.”
“Have you seen my horse?”
Kesh unfortunately had not. She did suggest that Joe head southwest to a castle where they intended to wait for their small army to undergo mitosis. They would gather their strength for future shenanigans.
A few days later, still alone and horseless, Joe ran into Matey. Matey’s men growled at each other and enthusiastically swung rusty cutlasses around, the same way football players might whirl their dicks about in the locker room. At least they were armed. “Matey,” Joe said. “You see my horse?”
“Arg. No.” Matey, seeing Joe’s face fall, clapped his shoulder. “Cheer up, though! We be on the war path already! I move to plunder the booty--”
“Phrasing…”
“--Of some rascal named Redchina Koolaids.” Matey stared at Joe, his eyes wide, and screamed, “WE HAVE GOOD GEAR! 5 AM EST NA TIME ZONE ON FRIDAY! Arg, I tell you what, if he ain’t got the aids yet we’ll as sure to let him feel the like after we through wit ‘em!”
Joe nodded, not understanding most of what Matey said. “Yeah, uh, fuck nighttime settings, huh?” He scratched himself. “Well, I’m gonna go find my horse.” And then he left, pining for his big hairy lover.
