Part 1 can be found here
Godzilla is a monster from Japan who was created through exposure to extreme atomic radiation. I needed to create a massive earthquake in the Pacific Ocean that would in turn cause a tsunami that would knock out the power to the Japanese Fukishima NPP, causing a meltdown and showering the surrounding area and a strategically placed lizard with radiation. The radiation would cause the lizard to mutate and get all pissed off. Bam. Godzilla. Bam. Headbutt to the nuts. Bam, I win at everything. Again.
The easiest and most awesome way to cause an earthquake would be to bombard a fault zone with soundwaves. Not just any soundwaves will cause an earthquake though, only soundwaves vibrating to the tune of manly will work, and there is only one source of manly soundwaves that are strong enough to cause an earthquake: Motorhead.
Given that I’m filthy rich for being the smartest man alive, I figured I would just call up Lemmie and pay him to play a show for me. Then I realized that being as amazing at everything as I am, it was my civic responsibility to share with the world the blessings of my own life. So instead of hiring them for one show, I paid them for an entire tour, that way everyone could bask in my victory with me.
And so it came to pass that on the night of March 10th, 2011, at my local concert venue, Lemmie, Phil, and Mikkie took the stage and began to melt souls and destroy eardrums for miles around. They rocked so fucking hard and loud that the soundwaves from the show vibrated through the earth’s crust all the way around the world. As soon as they hit the fault lines at Tōhoku off the coast of Japan, all hell broke loose. As the fault began to shake harder, it whipped up a tsunami large enough to give Neptune a boner, which then smashed into the eastern coast of Japan. The tidal waves, over 100 feet tall, washed up against the Fukushima Nuclear Power Plant and bitch smacked it so hard that half its reactors died of shame. I had achieved the first phase of my goal, I could only hope that the iguana I chained to the beach right outside of the plant didn’t get killed in the initial smackdown.
Vindication came soon after. Within days of the initial media frenzy, reports of damage moving in a trajectory originating from the NPP began to spread. Of course, they were lost in the shuffle because after all, a God damned nuclear disaster just occurred. But I knew exactly what it meant, and what to do, because I had already flown myself and my cannon to Japan.
If I had learned anything from 50+ Godzilla movies, its that the big lizard fucking hates Tokyo. At least, he hates it often enough for it to be a reliable indicator of his plans. Based on the damage reports, I had figured that Godzilla was making a beeline right to Tokyo to dish out some atomic-powered beat down, so I set up myself and my cannon directly in his path and waited, passing the time by capturing wild mamushi in between my gigantic nuts and throwing them like lawn darts. Before too much time had passed, the distant rumbling of giant pissed off footsteps let me know that the time had come.
As soon as I saw Godzilla cresting the nearest hill, I climbed into my giant cannon, and dialed in the cannon’s point of aim by yelling at it. When I was ready, I lit the trail of fuse I had led to the front end. A few seconds later, I was hurling through the air, headed straight for the irradiated nuts of my prey. Imagine flopping onto a bean bag chair from a standing position. Now imagine running headlong into a wall made out of bean bag chairs. That was a bit like how it felt to headbutt Godzilla in the nuts, only without the feeling of insurmountable glory. Glory that was only further compounded by watching a 160 foot tall gigantic bringer of atomic death fall over crying like a bitch. And I captured it all on video.
After sending the video to Odin and accidentally cc’ing all of the major news outlets in Japan, I returned to Tokyo with a hero’s welcome. On my way to the airport, I was accosted by a group of Japanese schoolgirls who all wanted my autograph. To be fair, that statement is a little less impressive when you consider that according to every Japanese form of media, ALL females in Japan are schoolgirls. Even though I was going to miss my flight to Valhalla to claim my reward, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to interact with my biggest foreign fans and sign autographs. Or commit date rape, I forget which. While reveling in the reception that true, virile men are wont to revel in, I noticed that a different group of people was fighting through the crowd to make their way to me.
The air filled with the smell of patchouli, boxed wine, and hypocritical self-righteousness. I was about to be mobbed by a group of God damn dirt-licking environmentalists. In true hippie-bullshit fashion, they held protest signs over their heads, wore Birkenstocks, and had iPhones in their pockets. I never learned how to speak “whiny faggot” in school, so I couldn’t really make out what they were saying, but their signs left the message clear: headbutting the King of the Monsters in the nuts equated animal cruelty. Given my new found celebrity status, they knew that I was above the law like all famous people are, so like a bunch of leaf-chewing vigilantes, they wanted to take matters into their own hands. How they thought they could put the smackdown on someone who beat the shit out of a gigantic lizard mutant, I’ll never know.
When they got close enough to me, I took off my shirt and was all “Come at me, bro!” as I usually do when I’m about to go Goldberg on someone, when the damnedest thing happened. All of those Japanese schoolgirls I was surrounded by struck karate poses and started beating the shit out of the environmentalists for me. To be fair, that statement is a little less impressive when you consider that according to every Japanese form of media, ALL Asians know martial arts. At first I was a little bummed out that I didn’t get to line up all of these losers and throat punch them all at the same time, Three Stooges style, but then I realized that having your woman do shit for you is equally as manly, so I was cool with it. After the waifus finished beating up hippies for me, I found the leader of their group amidst the pile of broken bodies. She was a whale of a woman, as short as she was fat, clothed in a wolf tee shirt, to nobody’s surprise. I smacked her so hard her hair fell out, then I tied her up and put her in a wooden crate and sent her as cargo on a whaling ship, a place where should could once again be with her own kind while simultaneously being surrounded by the one thing the hates the most.
After a long week of adventuring, I was finally ready to call it in. After a quick trip to Valhalla to pick up my prize and a month of binge drinking (about 36 hours in Norse God time), I returned home with my prize. A bag of powdered soul belonging to the most vicious pirate in the history of mankind: Roche Braziliano. The bag had a slip of paper with one sentence written on it in blood: “Just add water.” Never one to settle for the bare minimum, I instead went out and killed a man to collect the tears of his widow. After pouring my jar of widow tears on the bag of powdered soul, a bolt of hellfire came from the sky and when the smoke cleared, Roche Braziliano himself was chilling in my living room. He looked at me, I looked at him. He looked at me, I looked at him. Then I handed him a bottle of Wild Turkey and he was all “Awesome, is there a place around here I can massacre Spaniards for a little while?” I told him that in the 21st century, there really wasn’t much of a Spaniard menace to these parts of the world, but promised him that in the morning I would teach him what Pakistanis were instead, which he eagerly agreed to. From then on, Braziliano had a new drinking buddy on weekends. After that, I beat Stephen Hawking at chess and went to bed.