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Control the most powerful and merciless killer in the world who survived evolution for millions of years and rip apart humans like tiny little creatures. Simon Pearce, Christian Martin. The shank is one of the worst (and most embarrassing) mishits in golf.
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sanji has higher attack power than jinbei
the manga chapter
I had to send both the anime and manga chapter because people like to bash the anime and say the power level in the anime is inaccurate lmao l0sers, so the manga and the anime proves sanji’s attack power is above jinbei’s and last time I checked people praised jinbei when he sunt big mom flying with an attack confirmed weaker than sanji’s hell memories, yet if sanji attacked big mom with it and slightly burned her people would call @sspull lmao you people don’t watch full arcs like I do LOL, I bet you people didn’t even realize sanji can create rainbow fire and shoot it out like a mid range-long range attack like flying sword slashes
the attack is called diablo jambe poele a frire
as you can see sanji shoots out fire balls that causes a rainbow effect
and yes it happened in the manga as well
and in pirate warriors 4 sanji still creates the rainbow fire as well and Oda takes part in the one piece games confirmed when he confirmed shanks moveset in pirate warriors 3 is canon
so enough of the bullsh!t you fake one piece fans, I just hit you with canon facts back to back to back, enough of the slander about sanji
Gunfighter Dad: If This Isn't Love, I Don't Know What Is!
Let's travel back in time to Hometown, USA. The Gunfighter-life was months behind me, and I was offered a full-time position as a parent. I was learning the ropes of fatherhood, and there were a lot of days I contemplated the tensile strength of those ropes. There were days I honestly felt I had higher odds of surviving 1940s East German as an overweight paraplegic that practiced Judaism, than I did parenting Cake. Drastic? Maybe, but when was the last time you crib-midget lured your mini-human into a dog kennel because he wanted to change the channel, or the time your toddler-terrorist cut the dogs tongue in half with a scissors the following Friday? Don't recall those events? I do, because I have Cake.
Friday was my saving grace during my initial introduction to full-time fatherhood. The Monday through Thursday routine was full of power-showers and regret. My Monday through Thursday routine was leprosy, and I was falling apart. The most mentally exhausting task during the week was putting Cake to bed. It was like playing a carnival game, sure there was a possibility of winning the grand prize, but the odds are not in your fucking favor. You spend way too much time, and money, only to win that Chinese-made teddy bear that smells like cigarette smoke and regret from the last seven towns.
Putting Cake to bed was a repetitive process and game of will. The moment you declare victory and celebrate with a beer is the exact moment you hear that fucking Tickle Me Elmo toy screech, "Ha! Ha! That Tickles," and then start it's robotic roll around the floor. There were moments when I wanted to barge back in the room, put Elmo in the bed, and toss Cake in the toy box, turn the toy box upside down, and place the dresser on top of it. Not a single week went by in which I didn't contemplate calling Dr. Benny Drill to assist with knocking Cake out. I didn't want to overdo it, or have a chemical dependent toddler.
Sadly, most of the nights ended in defeat. I would typically wake up for a midnight bathroom trip and notice I now had a crib-midget, mini-human, and dog in my bed. Stealthy fucks they were. By that time, it was too late to move then back to their bed, and I didn't feel like getting shanked with a Ninja Turtles toothbrush that Cake fashioned into a shiv. I appreciate the work my spleen does, and I don't need Cake fucking that up. Dear Reader, this is how my typical week went. It was long. It was exhausting, and nobody I know likes waking up with toddler drool on their face or projectile shit on the headboard. (ACTUAL HEAD SHAKING) Mild soy and dairy allergies my ass.
I love Kelly and Cake. Despite the occasional urge to drown Cake in a bathtub full of bubbles and toys, I love him. There is a paternal instinct that all parents have. Well, some parents give reason to legalize 120th trimester abortions, but mostly all parents have a very strong desire to protect their children. I was the same with Cake. I will be Goddamned if someone else is going to fuck with my kids, especially Cake. I didn't put all this time, money, and effort into parenting my child for you to steal the bestowed privilege of beating him. You can wait in line like the rest of us. However, imagine my surprise when someone broke into my house in the dead of the night. It was joy, because it was truly about to become the "dead of night" for some poor soul.
I sleep like a fucking rock. I have slept through mortar and rocket attacks. I have actually taken a quick nape during a six hour firefight. I particularly enjoy the lead jellybean exchange, but six hours of it in 130 (F) degree heat tuckers a fucker out. Needless to type, but I can find the sandman in any chaotic or rapture-like event. This night was different though. I was immediately awakened by the sound of my front door being bashed-in. My heart was pounding!
For you non-military folks; Hollywood and the video game industry honestly desensitize humanoids to violence. They over-glorify Special Operations Forces (SOF) as well. I still enjoy giving my virtual murder-boner the satisfaction of monkey-stomping an eight year old from Florida, but the aforementioned is true. They are not capable of inducing sheer fear. I have been engaged in this "tag-you're-dead" game in very confined spaces. It's not fun, until it's done. It can be downright terrifying at times. Your heart wants to beat out of your throat, but you have to dedicate all your senses to the task-at-hand; killing the people that want to kill you. This was the type of fear I had when I heard the door being bashed.
I instantaneously jumped out of my bed, and heard the second bashing of the door. It is the moments like this in which my brain wanders off. "Why continue to bash the front door? Why not try the basement door, or any door that is more likely to provide better entry and not wake the owners up?" It was either amateur hour, or the perpetrators had weapons. Meanwhile, the fucking dog has not budged. Lola is not even awake. Cake has conditioned her so well to the insanity that is my life, she would probably leave with the thief or thieves in hopes of sanctuary. Fucking dog.
The next decision I made was most likely the most difficult choice I have ever made in my life. "Do I wake Cake up, and give him a scissors?" Fuck, I could probably unleash this potato-bodied Chucky Doll and go back to bed. Maybe I tell him they stole his blanket? I know! "OP. That would have been unchaining Hell-on-Earth, and morally, and ethically wrong on numerous levels." Again, I know. I said it was a fucking difficult decision. The honest thief or thieves didn't deserve that fate. Cake looks innocent, but he is more akin to Christian Bale from "Psycho". I scurried and placed a sleeping Cake and Kelly on the bathroom floor. I then returned to the master bedroom with a fucking smile. Please don't assume I am joking either. I was nervous, I was scarred, but I was fucking smiling as I walked to get my gun.
Front Door Just Burst Open and Crashes into Doorstop!
I had just retrieved my gun, with a smile, and slowly proceeded out of my bedroom. I am trained for this shit. The desired Combat Ratio for Americans is 3-to-1. We want to have three barrel-chested and gun-slinging freedom fighters for every single Johnny Jihad. There are factors that can increase this number though. Weapon types such as Sniper Rifles, or Heave Machine Guns cause that number to rise exponentially. Furthermore, structures can add cause to increase this number, structures like bunkers or fucking houses. It was only me, but it was my house, and that is what we call a fucking "Combat Multiplier." It may be a 1960s ranch-style house, but Ward and June Cleaver are not the fucking owners, Sloppy is. It was nearing "Surprise Cock-Bag" o'clock.
I begin my methodical walk down the hall and hear commotion in the kitchen. I clear the left corner that leads to the front door to ensure I am not greeted by a thief, and then clear the right corner that leads to the kitchen. The commotion is louder now, and I believe there is only one person. I slowly make my way into the kitchen, and now I can see a human-shaped target that is begging to be engaged with my 9mm hollow points. Dear Reader, I am pretty sure I had a slight chubby. I have day-dreamed about how I would react if an intruder unluckily found himself inside my house of horror, and it was actually happening. Bless the Gods!
I transition from Step-4 to Step-6 of pistol presentation. My black angel of retribution is ready to explode with laughter. I was giddy. Then the thief pissed in my snow-cone; the thief was my wife.
Wife: Hey. We were over staffed and I got off early!
OP Brain: You fucking ruined the "Surprise."
OP: Oh! (I hide the gun behind my back.)
Wife: What was that?
OP Brain: Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Wife: (IRATE.) Was that a gun? Were you POINTING A GUN AT ME OP FIRST MIDDLE LAST?
Wife: (STILL IRATE.) Were you going to fucking kill me?
OP: You didn't call, and it sounded like Magilla Gorilla trying to break down the fucking front door.
Wife: (MORE IRATE.) THE DOOR WAST STUCK!!! You had a GUN pointed at me. YOU WERE GOING TO KILL ME.
OP: (Laughing) Relax...
Wife: (YUP. IRATE) Relax? I didn't know we had a gun...
OP Brain: Don't say "relax" ever again. Bad. That was bad, very bad.
OP: We don't have a gun. I do. You'd be dangerous with a...
Wife: (IRATE) Were you going to kill me?
OP: NO. Believe it or not, I am actually pretty prepared for this type of situation. If I wanted to kill you, you'd be dead already.
Wife: (LESS IRATE.) How long have we had a gun?
OP: What's with this "we" shit? I have had a gun for about ten years now though.
My wife is not a gun person. Not a gun person at all. She was always worried about the children getting their dick-beaters on it and accidentally discharging half their face off. I am a gun person, and evidently I am better than Anne Frank at hide-and-seek.
Wife: (Still very irate.) OP FIRST MIDDLE LAST, YOU COULD HAVE KILLED ME!!!
OP: This screams how much I LOVE YOU if anything.
Wife: (Still very irate, but now puzzled.) WHAT???
OP: This was a perfect opportunity for a pistol fired separation agreement. I could have claimed the Stand-Your-Ground-Law and divorced you with hollow points. I didn't, therefore, I love you. You should be happy about this.
Wife: (Evidently not happy about this.) We can talk about this tomorrow.
I enjoy have the occasional romp in the sheets so I accept defeat and retreat to the bedroom. I need to get there first to hide the gun again. I don't know here hide-and-seek capabilities, but I was not making it easy. I tucked Anne Frank away, and apologized that my wife was not an intruder. I then jumped back in bed in hopes of meeting Mr. Sandman before the wife feels the desire to reengage the conversation.
Wife: Why the fuck are the boys sleeping on the bathroom floor?
I didn't move from the bed. I was tired. I had to leave for work in a couple hours, and I was REALLY disappointed I didn't get to kill an intruder.
OP: I put them in there before I went to see who broke into the house.
Wife: (Man. This lady was on a mission to be snooty and yell!) WHY?!?
OP: Ah. In the event the thief and I exchanged sub-sonic papercuts!
OP: If there was a gunfight, the boys were in the safest place. Please understand that, I love you, and the boys.
Wife: (Laughs. Finally coming around.) What did Lola do?
Lola now perks up. The princess heard the other princess call her name. Lola won't let an intruder disturb her beauty sleep, but she is all fucking smiles now.
OP: She didn't fucking move, until you said her name, just now!
I then drifted back off to sleep, and then awoke, but not to the sound of my alarm. The entire fucking family was in one bed. I don't know what Cakes fucking deal is, but that fucker sleeps sideways. I woke up to Fred Flintsone feet caressing my face, and the toe-fuck only a toddler Cake can produce. Then, just after I get the potato situated, my alarm goes off. I woke to silence and statue-like chaos that is my bed. Then I do my typical brain giggle and have a discussion with myself. "You know OP, there could have been one less human in this bed." I love her though, and fuck raising Cake alone. She can suffer with me. Misery enjoys company.
Oh. My heart is anything but heavy. My heart is small, withered, and black. I ain't going nowhere bitches. Besides, who would write the Hawk story next week? Hawk, you out there yet?
Cheers Fuckery Fucks!