User:Cat the Colourful/The Aristocrats Any% Speedrun by xXxCaTxXx (WR)
Bruce Beaumont took another glance at the slowly moving hands of his Seiko Prospect SNR043J1 Über Mega Limited Deluxe Dyslexia-edition watch. It was the 15th time he had done so in the past 10 minutes, and no matter how fierce his stare was it still didn't seem to cause any noticeable alterations in space-time. He had anxiously looked forward to ending his work shift at the Fukui talent agency's premises the whole day, and he would finally be freed in just mere 5 minutes. But don't get him wrong, he really does enjoy his line of work. He had strived his entire life in order to get to be a talent agent, into a profession that was the subject of some of his favorite jokes on the internet. The issue just was that the World Tour finals of Tekken 7, his favorite fighting game among the thousands of identical fighting games, had been airing on the internet the whole day, all while Beaumont had wasted his time trying to bypass the strict firewalls of his workplace's internet that affected everything that wasn't a direct link to his work e-mail. It had been an exceptionally quiet and slow Sunday evening too, with most of the noises in the building merely being Beaumont's angry grunts towards his "stupid jackass piece of utter fucking shit ass god fucking dammit" work computer.
"Just 4 minutes and 46 seconds left.... 4 minutes and 42 seconds.... 4 minutes and 39 seconds......" Beaumont was changing out from his work clothes while intensely staring at his watch and audibly reporting the time's passing, just in case that the flow of time would get his hint and finally make haste. However, if anything, time seemed to begin flowing even slower as a result. Cursing Aion and Kruonis and all the other deities of time he could recall to the deepest pits of Hell, Beaumont placed his hand on the door handle of his office and mentally prepared himself to run past through the corridor as fast as he could, before any of his co-workers would be able to stop him and ask him to join for afterwork beers. Usually Beaumont would have agreed to join, and he usually did so too, which was apparent from the 5 liver transplant operations he had had already that year alone, but seeing this Tekken tournament was a matter of life and death to him. Beaumont took another glance at his watch, but could barely get past reciting the minutes of his remaining work time aloud when the office door slammed directly into his face, knocking Beaumont over.
Confused and mildly injured, Beaumont laid on the floor as if paralyzed, trying his best to adapt to this new angle of his office he had been presented with. He could see from the corner of his eye how a group of people stepped inside the office and made their way to Beaumont's empty desk, seemingly unaware of the clash they had just had. The group wore tight, black outfits splattered with colorful logos and names, presumably of sponsors or such, and had appearances which Beaumont could only refer to as "Chinese-like" due to his somewhat racist views on Asians. They were four "Chinese-likes"; a man, a woman and two children. Beaumont deducted that the group was a family, although after his initial glance on the incomers he really wasn't sure if any of the Chinese-likes were even male, which was something that he proudly attributed to both his racist and sexist views on Asians.
Either way, this meant trouble; Beaumont certainly didn't have the time to take in any more possible clients. He took another panicked glance at his watch and began making plans of escaping the situation, but the presumed father of the group had already turned around and noticed him. "Mr. Beaumont!" he yelled in a thick, Asian accent and offered his hand. Refusing the hand, Beaumont rose up from the floor by himself and, before the mysterious Asian could even introduce himself, launched a barrage of excuses for having to leave immediately and not having the time for the group since he just heard that a close relative of his has gotten morbidly sick and was also kidnapped by aliens and- But he couldn't finish his dramatic story, as the Asian man had already placed his index finger gently against Beaumont's lips, effectively shutting him up.
"Mr. Beaumont.. I understand that you're in a hurry, but we've taken that into account already. In fact, we deliberately entered your work station during the end of your work shift, just to... to prove a point. This will take only mere seconds of your precious time."
Beaumont could only give a muffled sound as a reply, as the Asian man now had both his index and middle finger inside Beaumont's mouth, swirling them around seductively. The man also spoke really quickly and in a really weird, almost manic manner, with each pronounced word beginning on top of the previous one. He could barely make out what the man was even saying, but continued listening nevertheless.
"Allows us to introduce ourselves.. We're a performance group and we call ourselves the Aristocrats Done Quick. We specialize in performing our special act efficiently, but as quickly as possibly. It is a fully perfected product of hundreds of hours spent on practice, and of course also enabled by our superior Asian genes. Mr. Beaumont, if we're granted the opportunity, we would like to show you our act. And we promise to keep it under 100 words in the next paragraph," the man said while already beginning to unzip his pants.
A series of unspeakable ancient horrors immediately filled Beaumont's field of vision. He hadn't even given his permission for the group to the begin their act, nor ask what the man meant by a "paragraph", but the act was surely taking place either way. Beaumont knew that he was watching it all - that he had just been taken into to a scene of something utterly immoral and degenerated. But he couldn't comprehend nor register anything. It was a flash, and then it was over.
Beaumont was covered head-to-toes in blood and feces. He couldn't even begin to clean himself up as he was too focused on trying to instead piece together what had just occurred. But he couldn't. The world had gone through both the apocalypse and the post-apocalypse, and it was all centralized inside his office. The walls were covered in a mix of indefinite fluids and Arabic letters. Where his desk had once been, now laid the bodies of the entire Russian National Orchestra, piled atop a pentagram drawn in what was undoubtedly virgin blood - Beaumont knew this solely because of his previous experiences in the talent agency business. Beaumont kept walking around the hellscape that was his office, tumbling on atrocities after another, until he finally re-encountered the Asian man stuffing his children into a cryonic chamber.
"Satisfied?" The Asian asked smiling, fully covered in glitter and semen. Upon a closer look, Beaumont realized that this was really not the same Asian man he had just talked with before the act took place. Beaumont gasped as he began to understand the severity of what that meant.
"No.. Could it be.. Oh my God... You're not the Asian man like I first thought, but.. you're his wife...... and my racist sexist stereotype-filled presumptions about Asian people kicked in again momentarily and I mixed you two up."
The woman smiled and nodded in response. A moment of mutual awkward silence was shared.
"Well... to answer your question", Beaumont finally declared while taking a glance at his watch again. The whole act had taken just 30 seconds. "You guys were fast, I'll give you that, but you still need heaps of work to get this half-assed, clearly unfinished atrocity anywhere. I know there's an entire scene of glitching your way through the system, but how is that even real gameplay? I mean, life. It's cheating, complete cheating. Like, what is the point of an Aristocrats-joke if the actual detailed cruelties are missing from it? It's the meat and potatoes of the act. What I'm seeing here is, see, only the plate covered with the leftovers of the meal." He paused to take another look at his office. "Now, I'd like to give you some more constructive criticism, but I really am in a hurry, and I cannot stress that enough. I am, quite honestly, very disappointed, to the point of being actually offended. Normally, at this point, I'd call the security in here to throw you out of my office in a comical, cartoonish manner, but believe me when I say that I really don't have the time and patience for any of that authoritative condescending bullshit. And now", Beaumont halted momentarily while turning the door handle in his tight grip and continued; "I really must leave now. I trust that you folks are smart enough to find your own way out of the office, no? My keys appear to be over that burning corpse right there. Please remember to lock the doors with them as you leave. You can send the keys into the address found on my business cards - I don't really have the slightest clue where the fuck you guys scattered them but I trust in that you guys will find a single of them eventually."
He turned around, and took his first step outside office when he suddenly remembered something. "Oh but, before I leave - the punchline, right? So - what is it that you people even call this act?"
"Ah, I'm glad you asked, it's called The Aristocr-"
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