Cathedral of Learning
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The Cathedral of Learning, (often referred to as the Cathedral of Degeneration to insiders), is a front put up by the University of Pittsburgh to mask their involvement in the shady operations that the historically crime-infested city of Pittsburgh truly represents. Drug dealers, professional scumbags, and other scoundrels run rampant within city limits, and it is well-known as an gold mine by organizations such as the CIA, FBI, and ASS.
Let's talk about the Cathedral itself. The building was originally constructed in primordial America by the English under the jurisdiction of the Freemasons. Well, actually, it was the other way around but honestly, I can't be bothered. Supposedly they spent a very small loan of a bajillion dollars on it. Now, why on God's green earth would they do that? Well, back in those days before intelligence existed, a band of rebels known as the Pittsburgh Pirates scourged the land, burning African villages, burying treasure, and murdering innocent murderers who made up 99% of the population at the time. Pittsburgh was known as "Shittsburgh" back then due to the annual levels of shittiness reaching record levels year after year. The British needed this place cleaned out, so they could sell more tea in more places, and the Masons were the right scumbags for this type of operation.
The good old days[edit | edit source]
Times were tough in those days, as the place was basically what a waste lander would call a wasteland. It was also what a shit-holer would call a shithole. It was pure, unadulterated, shit. For one thing, the 3 rivers were overflowing with so much radioactive sewage that the water levels within city limits were much higher, allowing for pirate ships to travel freely through the various garbage island patches that comprised the city at the time. Nobody knows where that sewage actually came from, but there is speculation that it was just naturally put there by God to underscore what Pittsburgh was all about on a fundamental level. Noted theologist Edward Pibbster has confirmed this theory through direct communion with God via drugs. He's now dead thanks to said drugs.
Murder was also a really big problem. Landfills were overflowing with dead people, and the only reason there was even a population left there at all was because families were pooping out babies like crazy to meet the insane murderer/victim demand, which somehow tied into the stock market.
Food didn't exist in Pittsburgh back then either. People just ate dirt, garbage, drugs, corpses, or sometimes their own body parts. The streets were filled with so many steep slopes and potholes that cars would simply explode when confronted with the mere prospect of driving on them. Basically, everything was on fire all the time, bodies were everywhere, starvation ran rampant, and it smelled like shit every day and always. Who would want to live in such a place?
Let's set the stage here[edit | edit source]
The Masons originally didn't care much for Pittsburgh. It was a place that even the US Army wouldn't invade if it was literally made entirely of oil. Anyways, Captain Blackbeard made his way through the city at one point, when a giant volcano erupted right under his ship, blasting it to pieces.
Booty from the wreckage remained magically unharmed, and it was rumored to be almost priceless. A rival pirate faction led by one "El Capitan", a notorious villain known for his vicious speedboat fleet, instantly caught wind of this news and sailed for Pittsburgh.
After murdering a bunch of people and securing the wreck, a fanatical religious cult which began worshipping the wreck, and in turn, declared war on El Capitan, causing a chain reaction of wars that consumed the land. The daily murder rate spiked by about a quadrillion percent, as reported by MSNBC, a popular fake news network that you should trust. For the Masons, developing conspiracies to increase British tea sales was right up their alley, (or up their asses, for that matter), at the time. They decided that if they drew a giant pentagram around a dedicated shrine in Pittsburgh, all the murders would double up as collateral sacrifices to Satan, and thus automatically boost profit margins. This was pulled from theory described in the classical masonic formula: more death = more profit.
The Masons come to town[edit | edit source]
The Masons called Satan. The conversation involved them talking about his sex life for the most part (which they were highly interested in hearing about), however, just as he was about to hang up on them, they pitched their bullshit. Satan was pleased, as one might expect, but he had a tall order for them too. The shrine had to be "big as fuck" or their ass was toast.
They got to work in the war-torn city. Smack in the center of Pittsburgh was a little island called Shithole Island, where the worst scallywags would gather for jolly merriment. The Masons occupied the island by coating it with agent orange. The locals were instantly killed, and they said "it was good."
The Mason's won the first war of their campaign, building a little fort made entirely out of their victims' dead bodies. It really was a jolly place to be. These "heroes" were attacked every day from all sides by the various powers that be. There was the threat of El Capitan with his motorboat fleet by day, Blackbeard and his demonic ghost frigate that haunted the island waters at night, and the rapturous cultists who made suicide bombing attempts by dusk.
It was chaos! The casualty level transcended infinity within the first nanosecond of war. There were more casualties than people living in the entire city, (which made no sense), but it happened anyway. They had gun-running networks stemming from Mexico, New Bangladesh, and Washington DC in order to keep the fort intact, as well as the war effort going.
Cap'n Crunch Blackbeard attacks[edit | edit source]
Blackbeard's ghost was a problem, because nobody could tell if it was actually real, or if it was just collateral from the drug parties the Masons used to cope with the stress of the situation. They needed a "ghost-mometer", a fabled ghost-busting tool that was illegal in all 57 states at the time. But where would they get such a thing in a warzone like Pittsburgh? The answer lay with the cultists. Although they were dangerous, they could be easily manipulated if fed 5 pounds of heroin or more. The problem was that George Washington, a Mason involved in defending Fort Satan, injected all the heroin they had and blamed it on some idiotic scapegoat that happened to be highly-esteemed by at least 5 scientific peer groups. Since all the syringes were thrown away, Ben Franklin had to suck all of the heroin out of George's blood by stabbing him in the ass, and using his mouth to well, suck it out.
Anyways, they shot up one of the cultists with secondhand dope, and brainwashed him using some of the ancient demonic teachings of unspeakable demonology. The cultist was given a new identity, driver's license, and sexuality. He was also given a ticket to Disneyworld to enjoy his time off with his wife and kids. He was then sent on a divine mission to Somalia in order to retrieve the ghost-mometer, which the cultists conveniently didn't actually have on hand. By the time he came back, Fort Satan was hardly standing due to it mostly being made up of arms and no legs at this point. Washington was running out of mana (and drugs) to cast resurrection spells on his friends, but not all hope was lost, as with this new superpower on their side they were given a renewed vigor. It was just in time too, as Blackbeard had imported nuclear bombs from Russia, and loaded them into all of his ghost ship's 69 cannons. They were aimed at Fort Satan, but using the power of the "magical device of magicness", a wave of fabulous mystical wizard energy was blasted at Blackbeard, exposing his ghostly arse-nal for all to see. The Masons mounted a giant mirror on Fort Satan, knowing that Blackbeard was afraid of ghosts. He saw his own reflection, and screamed so hard that he died of a ghost heart attack. His head also exploded.
His soul, along with his ghost ship, was released into purgatory, leaving behind a huge pile of ghost bones. The Masons considered these bones to be cursed, knowing that one day they may come to life and haunt the land, so they built a ghost prison underneath Fort Satan, and sealed them away in a magical grave covered in arts n' crafts glitter from Target. Blackbeard was taken care of, and they all celebrated by getting really drunk and having gay sex.
The revenge of El Capitan[edit | edit source]
El Capitan used this opportunity to strike. His wizard-pirates riding on yachts and speedboats propelled by stolen jet engines zoomed onto the scene. The shitfaced Masons had no chance at warding off this heinous attack. Frederick Johnson, a historical figure, was the most sober of them all at the time, and realized in a half-wasted stupor how fucked he was.
Knowing it was up to him to defend the fort, he climbed up on the roof, tripping over the dead bodies stacked up to make a staircase, and casted fireball spells at El Capitan's fleet. He incinerated a few pirates, and the collateral damage from their exploding munitions killed off a few more, but there were too many. Death and destruction suddenly surrounded Fort Satan. Johnson knew it was time to use the secret weapon, so he ran into the bunker, sliced Washington's head off, and loaded it into the cannon. What nobody knew was that Washington's head contained highly unstable radioactive chemicals that originated from outside of this universe.
He fired the cannon directly at El Capitan's yacht, and an explosion to end all explosions occurred. He dove back into the bunker as a shockwave of pure intensity demolished everything outside. People were screaming. Shit was flying everywhere. The sky itself got set on fire. Pittsburgh was transformed into a nuclear holocaust.
El Capitan was still there, as treacherous pirate had an energy shield around him which allowed him to become invincible to all attacks known to man. He did a backflip out of the fire, and landed feet-first onto the shores of Shithole Island. Johnson ran out of the fort and saw him approaching.
It was then clear that El Capitan was not human. For one thing, he talked entirely in cursive. He was some Archon from the demonic Netherlands. It would require a holy man to defeat him, but the problem was that Johnson was the biggest, baddest sinner that there ever was. He needed Jesus, and he needed him fast.
"What is going on?" Boomed a great voice, and a light beam shined down through a hole in the fiery clouds. Jesus came crashing down like a meteor onto the battlefield. Jesus took out his lightning bazooka, and blasted a shot of pure energy at them. A deafening sound roared out as the fantastic electrical blast rocketed away. "Bombs away!" It nearly hit Johnson in the ass, ripping his Gucci jeans, which cost him a fortune. A super-nuclear explosion rang out where the bolt hit. The sky turned red, blue, and then 50 shades of grey. Johnson suffered 50 fits of epilepsy in the process. The time to act was now. Using the power of love, Johnson did a quadruple roundhouse backflip towards Jesus, but missed, because his level was too low at the time.
There was the sound of a thousand gunshots. I don't know what a thousand gunshots actually sounds like, but I like to think that it's a good ballpark estimate of where we're at. Johnson closed his eyes. There was a white light. Johnson opened his eyes and farted. Yes, El Capitaan was using the ancient flintlock pistol of the underworld. The bullet bounced off Johnson's bulletproof dick extremely smooth elbow and hit El Capitan in the face. Just like that, he was dead.
Cultist stagnation and demise[edit | edit source]
With Blackbeard and El Capitan defeated, the cultists became wandering savages that degenerated into local Pittsburgh wildlife. Most Pittsburghers today are descendants of these people. You're probably one of them.
The death mission[edit | edit source]
The Masons had one more task to accomplish: to make the building really fucking big. They tried doing it with the only abundant building material around: dead people. Too bad it smelled so bad that some of them suffered heart attacks (and were thus instantly thrown into the building material depot). They needed a good plan. Either that, or a good man with a semi-decent plan. They didn't happen to have any of those things. That being said, the perceived scarcity wasn't entirely valid. Other building materials included shit, black magic, depression, and 5 candy wrappers. Only three of those things happen to smell worse than dead bodies, so our heroes weren't entirely screwed. With enough drugs, they eventually realized that combining these ingredients would trigger the ancient alchemical reaction of the ages. So they took all of them, started putting them in a bowl, mixed the fuck out of them, and what did they get? A lame penis tower with a big electronic billboard mounted on the side that said... something. But the problem now was that the building was just a giant penis with no balls. This made Satan mad, sad, and other words ending with the suffix "-ad". The message was clear: build some balls, or its game over.
They were all out of the magical alchemy soup, and so would have to use stone, which wasn't apparently available within city limits. They phoned their homies in the slums of Homewood, (probably the worst shithole district known to man in modern times), and learned that the Squirrel Hill Mafia had a monopoly on all stone quarries around. Their informant, a weird little shit named Perry Samuels, told them to come over to his place. He had the guns and the goons. They would raid those mafia bastards that very night for all the stone they could fit in their pockets.
But could they really trust Perry? He kept bouncing off the walls like someone lit a firecracker in his ass. He was constantly moving and shaking, probably due to cocaine withdrawal. They assumed that this would be his preferred form of payment, which unfortunately wasn't supported on Venmo at the time. He was also wearing sunglasses in a dark room, and kept bumping into everything, including his razor blade collection. Regardless, he insisted that they stay on. Perry bled all the time due to this unfortunate little mishap, but he seemed to like it that way. At one point he had to take an "asphyxiation break" where he sat down and then strangled himself. As if that wasn't enough, he had a collection of trophies for how many sheets of drywall he could run his head through.
He took them through his house, where the walls were painted with partially-digested rotten egg salad, the popular color of the day. Our heroes were led to a bookcase, and then Perry pulled on the only book on any of the shelves, which was some manual on how to run a successful drug dealing business written by Ghandi. A click sounded, and the floor beneath them gave out, tumbling them down a repurposed sewer pipe into some godforsaken underground secret sweatshop. It was the most unbelievable thing they had ever seen. The hot-as-fuck room was filled with thousands of chained laborers building fully automatic grenade launchers. A little plaque hung on the wall above a portrait of Jeff Bezos with the text, "Hard work. Dedication. Hustle. Grind." They were all slightly fucked up from the fall, so Perry tossed them some crutches and shoved cocaine into their faces. That magically healed their ailments, and they were back in action.
Armed with new Amazon Prime grenade launchers and a squad of assholes, they stepped out into the Homewood streets at night. The district was much shittier than Squirrel Hill, Silent Hill, or any other hill you could think of. Zombies were a serious problem here, with some of them being diseased with AIDS while others were straight up rabid. They wanted to eat people's brains, but very few people actually had them to be eaten in the first place. With no meaning in their lives, the zombies would engage in meaningless activities such as wandering aimlessly, bumping into trees, or getting run over by cars. Zombie mating season was also in full swing at the time, and the moaning was widespread and hard to ignore.
Suddenly, the smell of fresh brains caught the attention of the zombie hoard. Perry, his goons, and the Masons had to get the fuck out of Homewood ASAP. They began to bug out, but a zombie that had been hiding out on the roof all this time took his chances. He came flying out of nowhere, and landed on Ben Franklin's neck. Perry busted out the hatchet, and mashed the zombie to a pulp in a coke-fueled frenzy. He then proceeded to eat the zombie's flesh before humping what was left of the corpse. It wasn't pretty, but man was it hot. "They're coming from all sides!!" Yelled one of Perry's men.
A massive orgy of zombies tumbled towards them from both ends of the block. Ben Franklin and Fred Johnson fired the big guns, and Zombies exploded left and right into enormous meat mounds. Perry had to get past the zombies on one end of the block to get to the helicopter garage. He decided to take it to the rooftops parkour style, climbing up the side of the building like a fucking squirrel. These crackheads really were something else. He jumped from building to building, being mostly undetected by the zombie hoard below. Something whistled by his ear. An explosion rang out in the distance. The zombies had RPGs now? He took out his night vision goggles, and scanned the arena. It wasn't the zombies. It was Al Qaeda! They were shooting out of an old abandoned brothel across the street.
Another missile whizzed by, this time hitting the building in front of him and destroying the way forward. His parkour game was up. He realized he might have to climb down into the zombie-infested streets where grenades were going off nonstop to advance. That wasn't a very thrilling option, so he decided to deal with Al Qaeda instead. Ducking behind some cover, he opened his trench coat to reveal his throwing-machete collection. He grabbed the first weapon of choice: a nail-covered blade with rocket engines strapped to it. Peeking out from behind the wall, he took his crackhead-aiming skills to the next level. The knife flew towards the abandoned building and sailed through the window from where the shots were heard. The terrorist had a teleportation device. He teleported onto the roof where Perry was standing. His beard must've been at least 5 miles long. He pulled out an AK-57 with a shitload of mini AKs stapled to the side, and opened fire.
Perry cartwheeled Matrix-style across the rooftop. He knew he couldn't dodge these bullets forever and might only probably survive 50 gunshot wounds, max, with all the meth he'd been taking. He threw another knife which sliced the terrorist's arm off completely. That stopped him...but only for a second. It was enough. Perry took cover behind a wall as the bullets rained down on him. He was WAY too close to the edge. One more step, and he'd fall.
He could hear the sound of his heart jumping from the usual 9999 BPM to some number currently unknown by science. Armed with dual machetes, he waited as patiently as someone like him could. The enemy didn't show. Must've been waiting for him to come out. They reached an impasse. Then Perry had an epiphany! He clawed a brick out of the wall he was hiding behind, and tossed it over. As soon as it landed, he jumped out in a leap of faith. The terrorist was distracted as he ran up to him and sliced him into exactly 1000 pieces. So, Al Qaeda was involved too. This made things more complicated. The Masons were still surrounded below, and Perry had to get over the destroyed roof. Maybe he could do it a few floors down, jumping from window to window. He ripped the roof access door off its hinges with his bare hands, and jumped into the crack house below. The staircase was filled with drug addicts partying and setting each other on fire.
"Yoooooo, Perry!" Shouted a really deep voice that sounded like the unofficial spokesman (or smokes-man) for Camel, Marlboro, and pretty much any other cigarette company combined. Perry look around. It was his old friend Tot. He didn't have a last name. It was almost like he was manufactured in some now-derelict cloning lab, only to be let loose into the world without anybody knowing about his status as a damned testament to the collateral woes of progress. He was wearing a Camel tee, and smoking 4 cigarettes at once. One of them was shoved up his nose.
"What's good, man?"
"Not much, not much. Just chillin' like a villain."
"Hey, man, this job is gonna cost me millions. My buddies are pretty much dead out there. I gotta get to the choppa and end these zombies once and for all."
"Hey, man, this sounds important. What if I hopped on board for old times' sake? We'll split the profit."
"OK Tot, but we gotta go!"
He threw Tot a machete, and together, they ran through the building to the windows.
"Hey, bro, catch this fatass rip, maaaaan," said some hippie blocking the window. They stabbed him 50 thousand times, and he was promptly defenestrated. He landed into a dumpster, which was already full of murder victims that were thrown out of these windows on a daily basis. It was on. They raced to the helicopter hangar, and stepped on the gas. Tot pulled out the minigun, and they flew into battle.
"Hey, man, this shit's outta ammo, bro."
"What the fuck do you mean?"
"What I said."
"Fuck."
They had no time, and the Masons were screwed! Something had to be done... it was now or never. Perry snorted a line of coke through a $1 bill tube and set the helicopter for a collision course into the zombie hoard. The chopper literally became a chopper with the propeller mincing the zombies to a pulp as it sailed through the street in one giant nose dive. Tot laughed in a bloodlust-induced high as body parts flew everywhere. They "landed" the helicopter by crashing it into the international headquarters of Productive Professional Dayjob Citizens International. Tot spit on the ruins of the building and took a shit on them.
The way was clear. They advanced towards the Homewood bridge by foot, scanning for any stray zombies in the darkness. Their anxious breathing was almost as disconcerting as their through-the-roof paranoia levels. It was dead quiet otherwise. They were exhausted, but they had to persevere. Suddenly, they saw headlights in the distance. A truck was driving towards them. They pointed their guns at it. It was hard to tell what exactly the truck was in all the dark, but it seemed to be unbranded "beer delivery."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. What's all this shit?" Said the driver. He had a really thick Italian accent. He didn't look Italian...
"We're on drugs and ready to kill."
"Hey, dude, no need for that. My name is John Penske. I can take you to where you need to go."
"We're heading to Squirrel Hill Mafia HQ. Can you sneak us across the border?"
"Yeah, man, I run all sorts of illegal shit from point A to B if you get my meaning. Get in the back and don't bother the hookers. They don't speak English."
They piled up into the truck. Beer cases were everywhere, but it didn't smell like alcohol at all. In fact, the air reeked of weed. The walls were covered in a suspicious mossy-green substance. It was within minutes of their departure that they could hear the Homewood Bridge border patrol rummaging through the stacks of beer casing. One of them was complaining about how the gays were taking over. The Masons didn't have to try too hard to hide, as they just wore Bud Lite attire, and kind of just blended in with the beer like chameleons. The agents said fuck it, and let Penske drive into what they called the Danger zone. They held their breath as the truck rumbled through the shitty...oops, I mean city streets.
Their spines contorted like accordions as they hit pothole after pothole. Most of the street was just either potholes, or cheap cement used to cover the old ones. The broken headlights flickered as if in response to the half-baked street lamps that turned on and off at a moment's notice. They twisted and turned through the desolate district. The road signs only became more nonsensical and contradictory as they went. Eventually they disappeared altogether and were instead replaced by DIY wooden signs with skulls spraypainted on them. Most of these were half-finished, covered in blood and bullet holes, as well as surrounded by repairman corpses. Electrical wires were ripped out of their sockets all around. Probably scrapped for copper. Penske spoke up.
"Ey, fellas. We're comin' up on da mafia house. If you need a getaway car, you'll have to stop by my uncle Vinny's. I got responsibilities with this truck. He's down the block. Last house on da left. Your call."
"Let's shoot him and take the truck GTA style," snarled Perry in a low, bloodthirsty voice. Clearly his coke high was coming down.
"No, man, Penske might be useful to us later," said Ben. He prepped a crack pipe just in case Perry went off the rails.
"He's got a point," said one goon, "Last thing we need is his cousin on our asses."
"Fuck, man, I just gotta murder something," said Tot. He seemed even more unhinged than Perry in some really odd and subtle way. Maybe the perpetual chain-smoking helped keep that shit deeper under wraps.
The truck stopped. All they could hear was the rumbling of the shitty engine. Maybe it was some ancient truck from the Soviet Union. As the truck drove away, they took a look around. The block was cold, and nothing was happening. Destroyed cars were parked all along the road. The mafia house was located on 666 Woodcock Street. They knew this because there was a huge sign that said: "Mafia HQ: No girls allowed" in the front yard.
"Should we trust this Vinny guy? He literally lives a few houses away. He could be an informant."
"We REALLY need a getaway car, man. How do you think we'll get out of this neighborhood? If we try to steal any of these dead cars here, we won't get too far. I wouldn't even call it stealing given their condition."
Eventually they decided to talk to Vinny. He had an interesting lawn covered in little Italian flags. An ornamental graveyard sat in the corner with a pizza sauce fountain in the middle. They knocked on the door.
"No, man, you gotta do it the special Italian way," said Perry.
He rammed his head through it. The door had no chance against such an unstoppable force, and the blow demolished it into pieces, and whatever was left flew into the house at the speed of sound, taking out at least 6 walls in the process. A guy who looked exactly like Mario came flying out of nowhere, kissing them all on the cheek.
"You must be Vinny."
"Yeh." His voice was deeper than depth itself, and even more so. He had a Russian accent. Must've been some kind of Italian wannabe or something.
"We need a getaway car."
"10000." The voice got deeper.
"10000 what?"
"10000." He said something else, but the voice got so deep that it was below the human hearing threshold. He coughed uncontrollably, and a small cloud of pollution escaped his nostrils.
They gave him $10,000. Without another word, he took them into his garage and turned on the lights by tying some sketchy-looking wires together. There was a long buzz paired with a humming drone. Wild sparks flew as Vinny's hair stood up on its end. He kept holding the wires together like a boss. Smoke started fuming out of every hole in his body. His eyes glowed brighter and brighter. Finally, there was a loud bang, and a dim, shitty lightbulb smack in the middle of the room lit up to reveal a nasty-looking shopping cart, among other interesting things. The cart was rusted out badly and had a revving diesel engine strapped to it with zip ties and packaging tape. A giant circular saw for destroying roadkill was spinning menacingly out in the front. He obviously left it running often because there was hardly any oxygen left to breathe in the place. The light was having a lot of trouble penetrating the long thick, black smoke. Maybe that's why his voice was so deep.
A dismembered homeless guy was lying in a big plastic bin labeled "trash," though the "t" was quite badly banged up, and it looked like it spelled "rash." Some of the fingers periodically twitched. He walked over to a gasoline can, and started drinking from the spout. The thing was mummified in faded middle finger stickers that looked like they all came from a single sticker sheet he had no reasonable application for. It took him a solid minute to finish his clearly refreshing beverage. He let out a massive sigh of satisfaction and burped in manner that implied pain was involved. Ben noticed his fly was down this whole time.
Vinny grabbed a pack of cigs, and unceremoniously dumped them out on a steel table. Although the side said "stainless steel", it was pretty badly stained alright. One leg was also replaced with a cracked bedpost from, like, the 1st century. He crushed the cigarettes with his bare, blackened hands, doused them in gasoline, and rolled them up into a giant blunt wrap. That shit looked like a mutated breakfast burrito only palatable to, well, no one. It was then that they noticed how badly charred his lips were. That didn't stop him. He shoved it into his mouth, and chewed it for a good while before lighting it with a propane torch. It looked like he was contemplating some deep existential questions during this whole process, so they let him do his thing. A nearby pool of gas he must've spilled on the floor spontaneously combusted into a little bonfire, making the temperature at least somewhat bearable.
"Be outside da mafia house in 10." They didn't know if they could trust a gasoline junkie. They weren't common, and where they existed, they were feared. They say seeing is believing, and this sure as hell looked like proof to them. But seeing as a druggie like Perry could be reliable, they chose to trust Vinny, all things considered. Anyways, they headed back out into the street at night. It only seemed to get darker, even though it was as dark as physics themselves would allow.
They creeped up to the mafia house. It was still quiet. They crawled through the grass Vietnam War style and looked through the windows. It was a bunch of fat monopoly men smoking cigars. Sitting ducks. They demolished the windows with their weapons, and did backflips into the house (with varying levels of success).
"NOBODY MOVE!" The monopoly men threw their hands up. Perry ran around, putting them in handcuffs.
"Alright, you fuckers, we're here to take the quarries from you. You're all gonna die. Any last words?"
Suddenly, the monopoly men began to melt, distort, and deflate like balloons. They were decoys! Machine guns went off from the balcony upstairs. Perry took 3 bullets to the chest, but with a single meth tablet, he shrugged off the injury like a pro. They hid behind some fancy Greco-Roman columns, and fired back.
"You'll never defeat the Squirrel Hill Mafia! We go where we please, and we most certainly don't aim to please where we go! Hahahaha!"
7 minutes till Vinny would arrive.
Ben didn't get to cover in time and got shot in the ass. "AHHHHH! FUCK!" He crawled to safety, just barely dodging a hailstorm of fresh-out-of-the-barrel bullets. His ass was the source of all Masonic power. With this injury, no magic could be cast ever again for all ages and generations in past, present, and future! They had to summon a demon to help them fight. In order to do that, they needed to arrange themselves in a circle, but the columns only would protect them in a semicircular arc. Shit.
Perry took out a massive sack of cocaine and snorted it all. His pupils dilated to the point where they almost became separate entities. He grabbed 3 machetes in one hand, and 2 RPGs in another, along with a sniper rifle in his teeth, and ran out, guns blazing. Perry's goons and the Masons began scrambling to occupy each of the 24 columns. They couldn't lose more than 3 people, or they'd be short. Ben had to stay behind because he clearly wasn't going anywhere. Perry's bullet storm shocked them to the core. He took another 2 bullets straight to the chest, but they bounced off like Nerf darts. The mafia backed up further into the building, save one persistent sniper. Perry was so coked out, that he couldn't really do much aside from intimidate and shoot blindly. One of the goons tumbled out behind the column, shooting at the sniper. All misses. In turn, the sniper fired away and hit dead center. Fuck.
To make matters worse, Perry's animalistic rage made him shoot at his goon's dead body with an RPG point-blank. There was a massive explosion. Perry was mutilated beyond belief, but alive and kicking hard. The sniper pulled out a switchblade, and backflipped from the balcony into the crater Perry created. He tried to stab him in the face. The knife got stuck in his rock-hard brain. The sniper tried to run, but within 5 seconds he was shredded to pieces by Perry's overgrown nails. The demon circle was complete. A glorious pillar of fire formed in the center of the room, and a monstrous, spideresque hybrid horror materialized. Perry found it sexy and tried to ask it out on a date. It snarled. Drool was pouring out from behind its vicious, daggerlike teeth. Perry snarled back in excitement.
"Uhhhhhh, let's go."
5 minutes to go. They all ran up the stairs, demon in tow. The ground exploded beneath its feet with every step. It shrieked violently, and the massive, oak doors blocking entry into the next chamber were obliterated with fire. It slowly walked into the next room on its awkward 3 legs. Machine gun fire rang out. The thing was fucking bulletproof. The shots stopped. The mafia guys came out with crosses. The demon didn't like the power of Jesus very much. Our heroes shot a few mafia guys as they stormed the room. More horrid screeching. The mafia people literally popped like bubbles into showers of blood and guts. They had no chance, and ran further into the building. It looked like they were going to win the war with minimal casualties. The wall on the other end of the room crumbled to dust and a massive mechanical menace machine jumped out of the scattered rubble and landed dead center with a big KABOOM! They had their own powerhouse, and it had miniguns on it. It was the size of 5 planet Earths crammed into a single room, and was covered in blue lightning armor. The demon took the bait and charged at the robot, while the mafia guys split up into 2 groups. Some went for the demon with their crosses, and others went for the gang with their firepower. Blue lightning combined with green fire fused together to erupt into a mini-nuclear bomb that sent the room into a kind of chaos that has only been described in the ancient cosmic space battles of the bible.
"How many of these assholes ARE there???" Yelled Johnson. They needed a plan that would end this fast. The clock was ticking. Even Perry, the human bulldozer, was showing signs of wear and tear. The demon screamed out in pain as the holy light was burning its disgusting flesh. But there was no giving up now! "NO, NOT MY BEAUTY!" Perry completely lost it. He ran into the room to the demon, and in a fit of blind rage, swung a machete at the robot. The blade literally melted from the friction as it completely sliced a leg off. Spark showers exploded violently around the room. In the chaos of the moment, the gang bum-rushed the enemy, and very soon they were victorious.
"Great job, Perry!"
But he wasn't listening because he was too busy making out with the demon. "Look!" A goon pointed to the robot cockpit. The guy inside had just armed the self destruct sequence. They ran, leaving Perry to his own affairs. There was no saving that man, for he had found true love. Vinny had been parked outside in his shopping cart. They all piled in, and shot off into the sunrise with a blaze of glory as the mafia house exploded in a firestorm ...and Perry was obliterated into a quadrobajillion tiny pieces. Rest in piss. The demon shrugged, and walked back to the 666th dimension where it had come from, wondering why the fuck it got involved in this bullshit the first place.
Aftermath[edit | edit source]
Years passed, and the Cathedral of Satan was completed, as requested. Daily death was capitalized off of, and all was peaceful in Pittsburgh under the jurisdiction of the British Royal Tea Company who colonized the city. A second, smaller cathedral was built out back in memory of Perry, the local Pittsburgher who gave his life for love. Benjamin Franklin seceded from the Masons, and made the building the central hub for drug trafficking. The university front was established shortly after, and the building soon became known as the Cathedral of Learning.
The scum-infested city of danger remains as the Pittsburgh status quo. The only difference is that now things are more subtle, and violence is a less popular sport compared to how it used to be. The Cathedral, commonly dubbed Cathy, is still a hot zone for the distribution of various illegal narcotics, contraband, guns, bodies, and heist loads. It is also a common vacation spot for escaped criminals and home to vice and thuggery, though the guise of civility still exists due to pressure from Mayor Peduto to keep shit under wraps.
What to Do if You Suspect Your Kids Are in the Cathedral of Learning[edit | edit source]
First of all, don't panic. Give up hope, but whatever you do, don't panic. Panic is illegal and also not allowed by law. That's what the aluminum warning sign on the wall says, and we all know that official-looking aluminum warning signs can only be installed by God himself. Understand that there is no saving your kids. They're fucked. Forget about them. Chances are that they already turned to a life of degeneracy, lust, greed, and sin just by so much as looking at the Cathedral. Hell, they're probably straight up dead and gone. So what do you do? If you're like me, you always think of the children first. Little Timmy from across the block went in there once, and WAS NEVER HEARD FROM AGAIN. My daughter went in there and literally rolled out 5 seconds later, dead as a doorknob. Are you scared yet? Your first move should be to call your probation officer and confirm that you are not on any illicit or recreational substances. Once you've established that you can trust your own senses, you have to actually call your probation officer and stop bullshitting yourself. After that, steal some police gear, and raid the cathedral to save your family. Of course, this won't actually work because you'll most certainly end up dead in there. So here my solution for you: just do drugs and forget about it. I've done this, and I'm living a happier life as a result.
