Awesome lays upon the rug in the back of the van


The van is a place where the incredible goes, where the amazing come to ride in comfort, to be taken from the here to the there. They get in the van, these pieces of holy moly in their bright jams and flip flops and they kick back into the plush and they be, man they just be. These are the marvelous and this the van. And in it, they ride, my lady, do they ride. The incredulous hang in the back as they cruise the night streets, the tunes are set to smooth and the fridge is stocked with chill. The wonderful dig this van, man, they dig it because it is everything they are and more. Because the van has the storage space, dude. You can load a couch in there and still have room to lay out. And the prodigious are all over that. It’s their jam, right. They like the cool vibes you get from a plush and mobile interior. Wall to wall bear skin rugs, fridge, a place to put your beverage so that it won’t spill are all the things that the splendid are into. They like to ride. They like to relax. They don’t want to separated from both. So the van, man, the van.


FauxHawk & the VanDyker: Well-coiffed Justice


He ran his muscular hand through his silky locks, smoothing in the gel, molding his dark power mane into a Himalayas of hair that towered up from the middle longitude of his scalp. He loved the idea of the Mohawk, its tribal-punk sensibilities, but he also loved the option of just letting it go non-hawk. The only idea he loved more was that crime stank.

“Doesn’t it, Van-D?” He said.

The man standing beside him, staring into the mirror, murmured a reply, most likely a yes, as he stroked the sable-like triangle of whiskers that radiated from his chin like the Goddess’s Blessed Pubes. He did indeed believe that crime stank. And that his beard perfectly complemented his moustache. Like ketchup and mayonnaise.

“What do you think is better,” the VanDyker asked, not gazing away from his stroking, “my goatee or my moustache?”

FauxHawk took a moment from perfecting his peak to look over and study his partners facial hair. He had to hand it to the guy, no one made sweet justice with a beard/moustache combo better than Van Dyke.

“To be perfectly honest, I gotta say it’s a tie,” he said.

The VanDyker nodded, and said, “I totally agree. The only choice is no choice. And that goes the same for truth and justice. It’s a draw every time.”

“And that means crime loses,” FauxHawk said.

The VanDyker turned and faced him, their eyes locking, and he growled, “EVERY TIME.”

They shared a deep moment, charged with integrity and erotica.

“Criminals are like dandruff on the scalp of society,” FauxHawk said.

“And we are the Zinc Pyrithione,” said The VanDyker, “so let us go boldly into the darkest shadows of the urban night and feather the bangs of the city.”

FauxHawk nodded, putting in some more gel, “and pull the lawless bastards that would rob our citizens of their peace into a tight pony-tail of virtue.” He whipped out his comb, reached over and touched up The VanDykers perfect do.

And then like a holy wind they washed, cut, and styled their way into bowels of the city.