Thread: The Mary-Sue Project

Genre: True Crime, gritty tough-guy, etc, etc, etc.

The Rules: This is a community project. Anyone can contribute (and should). The story must follow the guidelines set out here: The Original Fiction Mary Sue Litmus Test. SPaG errors are not only tolerated but encouraged. Let your inner bad-writer out! Finally, the story must make sense.

Ready, set, go!

The Mary-Sue Project

Lance Morningwood glanced down at his own immense bulge. Nothing pleased him more than to admire the years of work he’d put into the sculpting of his own perfect, flawless, impeccable physique. This bicep was his and his alone.


“You ready?” he asked his partner of fourteen years.


Buck Thunder scowled. Nothing infuriated him more than a bunch of girlish chatter. By way of answer, he cocked his Springfield XD9 the only gun a man should carry, not a pussy little Glock like every swinging dick or cop carried. He nodded preferring killing over talking anyday.


Morningwood put his hand lovingly to his own Glock 17. It was time.


The two men walked dangerously close together and mounted their matching Suzuki GSX-R bikes. The saddle felt good between their strong bulging thighs.

Lacey Underwire knew they would come. Well, it was hardly rocket surgery, right? She would be ready though, oh yes, dressed in her form-fitting sequined red gown that fitted her lissome yet incredibly buxom form as lovingly as banana skin. She stepped over the dead man, her five-inch stiletto heels making no noise and neither did he.

It was no use being a lounge singer with a PhD in chemistry without her incredible ninja skills. Considering that she was only twenty-three and a perfect ten among other numbers that was pretty good.

She adjusted a slender strap which strained to the breaking point and flicked her long blonde hair out of her crystal blue eyes. Lance Morningwood would never know what hit him. Taking a seat in the nearby wing back chair, Lacey lit a cigarette, parked it in her perfect pout, slipped off her shoe, and crossed her gorgeous gams. Certain portions of her anatomy might have been said to have quivered with eagerness if it wasn't for guidelines dictating good taste.

Sucking down a heavenly lungful of smoke, Lacey waited for Lance to come through the door, size six and a half spikey Italian import at the ready.

(Apologies, reworded underneath the striking out)
A fat clown of a man, who, incidentally, had a degree in clownonomics, was busy getting dressed on his first floor apartment. He had a day of entertaining a bunch of snot-nosed morons, also known as children, ahead of him. He despised children, and Greedy had a strap of grenades lying underneath his fat folds to protect his hidden food stash. Sure, a stupid child could very well accidently trigger one of the grenades, but at least his food would never be stolen, and he would take a few horrid children with him. You may ask why he became a clown if he despised children. Well, it all started with his birth.

“I shall name him Greedy” proudly announced his mother, as he arrived out of the womb.
“It’s a bright day for clowns everywhere” proclaimed his father.
Then some bad stuff happened...

It was Hitler. He had risen to power Clownland with an evil agenda, and none but the most shrewd of the Clownpeople knew. Within no time at all he had all of the clowns put in gas chambers, after claiming they were all Jews in disguise. Greedy was the only one to survive.

And so there he was, in a job he felt obligated to do. He could not let the teachings of his proud Clown Forefathers be forgotten. He glared into the mirror at the tub of lard that lay before him, and grinned, “I’ve lost weight! This is reason to celebrate!”.

He threw a burger into the microwave and greedily rubbed his hands together in glee. “Oi, Fatty, Your foods done” His microwave taunted. Greedy paid no attention to the microwaves cruel words, and scoffed down the burger with delight.


It was to his shock to find an odd noise emanating out from under his feet. The floor was creaking... Indeed, it seemed Greedy had lost no weight at all, but rather, ate one burger too many, as the floor groaned and tortured beneath him. It could no longer hold Greedy, and he fell through, landing on top of his unsuspecting ninja chemist of a neighbour that lived in the ground floor flat.
“Smoking’s bad for your health, y’know” Greedy said self-righteously.

A muscled god of a man, who had a degree in politics, was busy getting dressed on his first floor apartment. He had a day of tracking down and killing a never-ending supply of criminals. Joseph Godlyman's prefered choice of a weapon was a grenade. Sure, a good person might get caught up in an explosion, but at least the worlds safety would be intact, and they'd die for a good cause.

And so there he was, getting ready for a fantastic job that he loved. He gazed into the mirror at the brilliantly sculpted body that lay before him. He threw a protein shake into the blender. He drank it and felt himself become even more muscular, if such a thing were possible.

It was to his shock to find an odd noise emanating out from under his feet. The floor was creaking... Indeed, it seemed that the floor could no longer hold up such a visually appealing man. Godly Joseph fell through the floor and landed on top of his unsuspecting ninja chemist of a neighbour that lived in the ground floor flat.
“A beautiful woman and a free cigarette, brilliant!" he said, before snatching the cigarette out of her hand.

There was a crash, and the incredibly young-looking and yet mature man without a shirt whirled around, his lightning reflexes second in speed only to the lightning-like speed of his superintelligent mind, his spiky black hair jutting into the blue topaz sky which coincidentally matched his clear and knowing eyes, their clarity intermingled with a hint of world-weary sorrow. His name: Hunter Alan Ravenhurst. His story: tragic and yet romantic. His tight european jeans, trendy boot-shoes, and sexy tattoo might have looked out of place in this dingy neighborhood, but the truth was that his stylish demeanor was out of place everywhere but the pages of a International Male catalogue.

Intuitively intrigued by a slightly louder than normal noise which most likely had a perfectly normal explanation, he leaped up the stone steps to the door of the building. A security lock on the door would have foiled most would-be rescuers, but he whipped out his citrus-orange leatherman and made short work of the primitive mechanism. He moved gracefully into the hallway, approached another locked door and opened it, sauntering in with the cool assurance of his own superiority.

He stopped short. A clown, grossly fat and breathing heavy. A hot chick or transvestite underneath. Room a mess.

"Ewww!" he exclaimed.

"You two try to keep your kinky sex games down to a dull roar!" he directed menacingly. "Especially you, clown. You're not even attractive!"

The sound of approaching motorcycles distracted him. Not the CIA again, he thought to himself. He left the sickos to their sick game, slipping down the hallway to the back door and sliding out before the motorcyclists arrived, to the swooning approval of two young college coeds and an emo boy with a load of black laundry.

(Apologies, reworded underneath the striking out)

The fat man, still crushing Lacey underneath, shouted after Hunter, "How dare you!" he paused for breath, "I've worked all my life to get this fat, you skinny little runt!". He waved his arm angrily in the air after him, but it tired him out, and Greedy began to fall asleep. Truly, no muscled up man would be able to enjoy such a life so free of care. He also had the company of a beautfiul woman, who was still crushed beneath him and, by this point, lying in a pool of oily sweat.

"Fat clown!? Come here and say that you little runt!" Joseph yelled, before returning to his cigarette. Indeed, Hunter was obviously jealous that Joseph had gotten himself a free cigarette and ninja woman.

Two men on bikes, a cool-looking ninja girl, a not-so-thin clown... This is going to be interesting...

A tall, lean man in his late twenties was peering through his window of an office building across the street. He was wearing his favorite black pinstripe coat, red sleeves shirt and white slacks. As a consigliere, you have to look the part. He rubbed his chin as he anticipated about what will happen next. Who will get the sexy ninja woman as prize? He thought about it then an idea came to him.

He quickly turned around to face his office desk. He grabbed the phone and punched in a number. "Tony? I need you here now. Bring a couple of your friends with you. I have something for you to do."

After returning the phone to its cradle, he walked past his desk towards a mirror and looked at himself. He looked really slick, and his grin showed his satisfaction. He returned to his desk, opened the drawer and took out his favorite gold-plated Smith & Wesson. He then walked towards the door.

Who will get the sexy ninja woman as prize? Its going to be Don Elias Nataniales, the youngest consigliere in history.

A'kira Ray-Van Huntington grinned, gripping the handlebars of his CIA motorcycle tightly as he turned a corner with the rest of his squad. The notorious Lacey Underwire had been up to no good again, and of course, being the top man in the force, he was the one to receive the call to action. He knew, of course, that Lacey would fall for him as soon as he arrived on the scene. The pretty ones always did. Well, so did the not-so-pretty ones. And everyone else.

But A'kira was used to this. His vast intelligence, legendary charm, excellent looks, and perfect hair were the envy of the rest of the force. Of course, the fact that he was the youngest member ever hired by the CIA didn't hurt either. He had been his college's valedictorian at the age of 16, and was hired by the government immediately after. It was not for nothing that everyone called him "The Brain."

He slammed on the brakes, sending his motorcycle screeching to a stop just outside the building. What a scene, A'kira thought. Before him stood a stunningly beautiful woman, barely contained by dress so tight it might as well have been body paint. Another man was awkwardly crawling away, holding a cigarette. A'kira couldn't tell if the man was grossly obese or simply the reincarnation of Hercules himself, but it didn't matter. The woman had his full attention, and it was time for a witty one liner.

"Prepare to be Huntington'ed!"

Nailed it, he thought.

Lacey Underwire, having used her bodacious curves in a little-known ninja skill to bounce her erring cigarette-pinching neighbor off of her, idly crossed her legs the other way and raised a bored eyebrow at the CIA agent as he burst in.

"Prepare to be Huntington'ed!"

She considered swooning but it had been such a busy day. Instead she heaved a sigh that strained the neckline of the skintight gown well beyond manufacturer specs and stated, "You aren't Lance Morningwood. I've seen pictures."

She swung the spiked heel in her hand, eyes narrowing on her perfectly coiffed devilishly handsome prey. CIA, probably dumb as a box of rocks.