Kon's Birthday Quest.

For his birthday, Kon decided to make a special trip home to see his friends. But, a birthday bash most certainly was NOT on the agenda.

For TOO LONG, he'd been letting those asswipes he calls his friends badger him relentlessly about his being Russian, about his being a big hairy oaf, about his alleged "douchiness." Now, it was time for payback. Now it was time for the kicking of asses.

There are five levels Kon knows he has to pass through before he makes it to his ultimate goal of total revenge. Since he'd been working out, taking boxing lessons, thoroughly shedding all the Soft he'd accumulated whilst residing in California, Kon knew it'd be a challenge, but one he'd face with the utmost of Kon-fidence.

First thing's first: the one known simply as Lance. Lance Peteman, to be honest, has let himself go. Once the great, healthy, working-out fitness queen, Lance has degenerated over the years into a lazy, out-of-shape, Twinkie-eating machine. No amount of anabolic steroids would be able to right what this wisecracking Jew has wronged to his body. Kon knew this would be the equivalent to Mike Tyson in his Punch Out heyday vs. Some White Twerp. But, even some white twerps can avoid the crushing upper cuts as long as they time the white flashes accordingly.

Since Kon moved to Michigan, he lost all his rights to any home-court advantages here at home. Lance tried to talk him into a friendly game of Bad News Baseball, but Kon came looking for a fight, dammit! So, they went to the place Lance felt next-most comfortable: the Ladies' Locker Room at his local YMCA.

With the Village People as his featured music for the bout, Lance started hucking bloody tampons at Kon from his loose twat. Kon's boxing instruction instilled in him enough agility to avoid Lance's throws. After one roundhouse kick to Lance's nose, he was down for the count.

One full level tougher on the fight to the top was one of Kon's main arch nemeses: the one they call Big S. What with her summer of kayakery, as well as a renewed interest in hardcore squat thrusts and her world-record shot put throwing, Kon knew he'd have more than mild kidney punches to look forward to; a lot more. Kon definitely looked forward to the opportunity to beat up on a girl. But, that's neither here nor there.

Kon started out by flexing his biceps and saying, "Which way's the beach?" While she was temporarily enamored at the awesome sight, Kon showed Big S which way the beach was with a hook to the solar plexus.

Stunned, Big S fought back by showing off her rack. This gave Big S all the opportunity she needed to knee Kon in the groin and stick him in the throat with three fingers pursed together.

Kon - bent over in pain, gasping for breath - looked like he was done for. Big S advanced on him, laughing heartily. In a last ditch effort, Kon mustered all his strength and grabbed for the one thing he could to put the momentum back in his favor: Big S's tongue stud.

A deafening shriek could be heard to the far reaches of Bellingham's premier gay bar, Rumors Cabaret, Big S's choice for a battleground. The fight ended soon after, with Kon Kon-necting on a plethora of teeth-rattling blows to the head (that's what she said).

Next up on the list was crazed Spokaneon, Chipwich and his pet man-boy Crazy N8. Kon figured he could easily take the two on by himself, but didn't want to risk actually having to touch Crazy N8 without protective covering, so he elicited the assistance of his own sidekick, Mario.

Granted, Mario might've been an overpowering, overwhelmingly obvious choice, but Kon knew he needed someone to make quick work of Crazy N8 so he could focus all of his attention on Chipwich, whose battleground was a homemade rugby play area simply known as S'up Field.

Utilizing his Judo teachings from Grand Master Roarty, Mario flew into action. With a blistering series of kicks to the cranium, Crazy N8 went down in a heap, with Chipwich falling soon after. Kon was going to take Mario out for drinks after a job well done, but Mario had other fish to fry. I think he said it was a halibut.

Level 4 was shaping up to be quite the grudge match. Fresh from his second-place finish at the World's Strongest Man competition, Andrés the Giant started training for Kon's eventual arrival by snapping the necks of infants in half and eating nothing but bone marrow from elephants. Of course, he had to kill the elephants, which he did by poisoning the dead infants he fed them.

Andrés the Giant chose the one venue he knew would get Kon's attention distracted the most: The All-State District Douching Quarterfinals. All the greats would be there: Sue Bird, Christine Gregoire, David Michael Manni, and even a guest appearance from Anna Kournikova herself!

Andrés the Giant knew his foe wouldn't be able to Kon-centrate long enough to put up a fight. And yet, even as he was unable to turn away from the fast and furious douching competition, Kon deflected all that Andrés the Giant had to offer.

At halftime, Kon was finally able to focus on his opponent as the halftime-entertainment turned out to be the grotesquely overweight Green Bay Packers cheerleaders (mostly fat old women with moustaches, chomping down on sausage dogs decked out with "the works," while waiving around their flabby left arms to reveal their Buckwheat-in-a-Headlock armpits and complete imperviousness to an obscene amount of antiperspirant). But, Kon knew he wouldn't be able to defeat Andrés the Giant the same way he did Lance Peteman (you see, for the wise-cracking Jew, the giant nose is a vulnerability).

But then, all of a sudden, Kon remembered Andrés the Giant's weakness: the booty dance.

Kon called out to Steven A. Taylor (who was already in attendance because he'd heard there would be some 13 year olds from the amateur ranks in the douching quarterfinals - as well as private booths with readily available clean linens and binoculars) who sprung into action.

At the first glance towards Steven A. Taylor's in-your-face booty-shaking, Andrés the Giant started melting like the witch from the Wizard of Oz. With his job complete, Steven A. returned to the stands, primed to break his own record of 16 times in a 24 hour period.

With all of his enemies vanquished but one, Kon returned to his home in Renton, WA, to catch some sleep before the next day's battle royale.

However, in the middle of the night, the fight came to him.

Kon's number one enemy, Mark Ian Sloane, broke into his home, bound and gagged Kon's family, and stood over Kon's bed breathing heavily. With a pillow grasped firmly in both hands, Mark moved in for the kill.

But then, all of a sudden, Mark's cell phone started ringing to the tune of some Pittsburgh Steelers fight song. And Kon did what he always does when he hears anything referencing the Steelers: a kill crazy rampage.

In a flash, Kon socked Mark in the mouth and leapt to his feet, on top of the bed. After two quick kicks to the jaw, Mark staggered back to the closed bedroom door. Mark tried to open the door in retreat, but soon Kon had Mark in a headlock.

"Been drinking your milk? Is that what I heard?" Kon said mockingly.

"Steve is the coolest guy ever," Mark said, completely unrelated to the situation at hand.

Mark used his leverage, along with his strong, strapping, hairless legs, to maneuver out of the headlock. After a few of his patented Sloane-Boy wrestler moves, Mark had Kon on his back, unable to move. With his Husky shorts around his ankles, Mark was slowly lowering his tea-bag onto Kon's face.

Could this be the end for Kon???

Hell no! In a move so chillingly brilliant, it will forever be studied in Martial Science classes for centuries to come, Kon pulled out the one secret weapon he knew had no match.

Kon started to sing.

"... By the time I grab my books and I give myself a look, I'm on the corner just in time to see the bus fly by. It's all right, because I'm saved by the ..."

Mark covered his ears in anguish, but it was too late; the eardrums had already exploded. Mark fell over on his side, writhing on the ground in intense stomach agony. And, as Kon bellowed out his final notes, hitting the highest mark his limited vocal range could muster, Mark's testicles shattered like a Fabergé egg.

After that, it was nothing to stomp out Mark's windpipe and drape his body with three or four ass-wiped Terrible Towels.

With Kon's mission completed, he sought out on his other great quest: to lie down and bed all of his friends' moms. Kon knew where he had to go first.

He hopped on the next train to Tacoma that very morning ...