Congratulations Martini Martins!

Your name is whispered with a heady mix of wonderment and fear in bars throughout the northeast.  Martini Martins is a name to know, a face to recognize, a living legend, walking shadow.

But fame has a way of creeping up on you and turning from favor to curse.  So tonight when you roll into a pub outside of Portsmouth, New Hampshire and everyone puts a napkin over the top of their drink, you’ll know that your reputation as the most prolific date rapist in recent memory will have caught up with you.

“Oh my,” you’ll murmur to yourself.  You’ll wonder, for a moment, if you’re not going to get laid tonight after all.  But after five minutes of standing stock still and letting your eyes dart about in a wild, fiendish frenzy an attractive woman will walk past you and wink at you.  After that you’ll know that you’re going to do alright.

You’ll follow her to the bar and lean in next to her, asking her name.

“Chartreuse,” she’ll lie.  You’ll believe her.

“What a colorful name,” you’ll all but shout in an effort to impress her.  She’ll respond by backing away slightly, her seemingly unflappable smile flapping for a moment.

“Okay,” she’ll murmur.  Then she’ll get back into her stride and, four shots later, maneuver a dose of rohypnol into your drink.  After that you’ll be putty in her hands.

By “you’ll be putty in her hands” we mean “she’ll take you to a warehouse where her and a number of your previous date rape victims will take turns violently sodomizing you with a series of fiendishly constructed strap-on dildos.  When you finally come to, it will be in mid-buttfuck, and your ass will be terribly sore.

“Oh my,” you’ll weakly whisper to yourself as a young woman named Barbara who was once date raped by you pulls your hair and laughs as she ploughs you from behind.

“The tables have turned,” you’ll weakly observe before you begin weeping uncontrollably.

Congratulations Martini Martins!