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Rad Chad's Tubular Adventure

Once upon a gnarly time, there was a dad. A rad dad. His name was Rad Chad. He was five foot eight and slightly stout with a blond pompadour mullet. He was unemployed, yet managed to come by enough ‘dead presidents’ to afford his ‘wicked stunts’. Nobody knew how he came across such money, not even his children. He lived his lit life steadily and without interruption, until one day.
“Hey little dudes! I’m coming down the stairs in the tightest of ways! Look out!” Rad Chad barreled down the staircase of his own house in a hot pink ATV, completely removing the railing from the sides altogether. He then smashed directly through the wall of his house and into a tree in the yard of his leftward neighbor, La-a. Rad Chad stumbled back into his house and into the kitchen to acquire some grub, ignoring the now volatile ATV.
With a mighty shriek of, “Bogus!” Rad Chad stumbled back at the utter and wanton destruction that littered his floor. Plates, bowls, mugs, trays, cups, and toaster ovens all laid in scattered, tarnished pieces before him, but Rad Chad knew exactly whom the perpetrator was. “Bad Brad! You molded mung! You demolished my dinerware! Jeepers, how bloody bunk.”
The mad Rad Chad stormed out of his kitchen in such a way that he was inadvertently breaking the remaining fragments of mug that remained. He angrily put on his roller skates to go and confront Bad Brad, however, when he was fumbling around in a desperate attempt to stylishly open a door, he realised that he did not know the location of Bad Brad. He had never needed to know Bad Brad’s residence beforehand, but after the mighty insult to his hip honour, he couldn’t let Bad Brad get off scot free. Rad Chad knew that this was going to be a difficult task as he didn’t know much about that bugger other than the fact that he’s the most lame, evil person to ever attempt to groove. Rad Chad would need Radinforcements™, and he knew exactly where to look.
“Quepasa, Old Man Higgins. How’s it hanging? Dope? Cool. Are you jivin’ yet, dog?”
“I told you to never speak to me again, you clod!” replied the ever apprehensive elder. “You know my psychiatrist has forbidden us from speaking.” Old Man Higgins was Rad Chad’s right hand neighbor. He wore a white and fuschia plaid, cotton shirt and old khaki pants held up by ramshackle leather suspenders. His withered body quivered like a quiver with every step as he hobbled outside to confront our groovy hero. He raspily whispered, “Chadwick, I shall put this into terms you will understand. I believe you are bogus and lame.”
  “Bro!” Rad Chad was taken aback. “Woah, don’t kirk out. I was just skating over to ask for help bringing a fantabulous reaming upon that doggish Bad Brad!”
“May I ask why, perhaps?”
“Because that warped herb of mine pulverized my primo plates, beat up my bombdigity bowls, crushed my crucial cups, scrapped my sweet silverware, and mugged my mad mugs! Now I can’t get my nosh, and when I say that he’s a gnarly foe, I mean he’s gnarled, so whatcha say? Do you wanna be a Radinforcement™ mate?”
“No.”
“Why dude? It’ll be totally mondo.”
“No.”
“Come on…” Old Man Higgins slowly made his way back into his house.
“Well, I guess it’s time to try my righteous plan B.” said the crestfallen cruiser as he headed to La-a’s. Upon reaching La-a’s he saw an average scenario for anyone whom was associated with him: angry yelling, patrol cars, damaged trees, and a blue tow truck.
“Now you oughtta tell me why this’ll cost me two-hundred right now or else I’ll- I told you many times now! It is pronounced: lah! dahh! shah! ” Rad Chad knew from experience that La-a was in a bunk mood and promptly turned around.
At this point Rad Chad was at a loss; he had no Radinforcements™ and no idea where the pesky Bad Brad could be. Rad Chad sadly kicked down his door and slouched into the living room. He threw in an old kangblabla VHS and yagalisticly flopped down onto his heavily damaged couch.
It was at that point his trusted little dudes sternly trounced into the room, looking displeased. “Sorry my clutch little dudes,” replied the sad Rad Chad, “there isn’t, like, any dank dishware left to scarf wizard grindage with. Word.” His little dudes said some things, but he wasn’t listening. He kept on trying to watch his slammin VHS until he overheard something particularly inky.
“Shut up! What did you say.”
“Dad-”
“It’s Rad Dad, you ratchet narbo!”
“You broke the plates! We saw you do it!”
Rad Chad was, needless to say, surprised at this suggestion, but quickly justified it. “The ponce brainwashed my brill buddies! That means he must be nearby. Yar!” His little dudes tried to interject, but it was too late. “I’m so amped to trunkicularly give that heinous wastoid a piece of my mind!” Rad Chad began to tear apart his house searching for the Brad who was Bad. “There are just a scoshe more hiding spots that harsh square could be in!” announced our zomba hero.
There was one room left. A single, unscathed room that had not yet been touched by Rad Chad’s flash fist of property damage: the guest bedroom.
“That hater, Bad Brad, must be in this room, and when I find him, I’m going to give him some hardcore pwnage because of all of the dreck things he’s done. Sweet, it’s going to be schwigglewartleliceous!”
Rad Chad entered the room. Rad Chad scoured the closet. Rad Chad began to tear apart the bed. He tore open the dresser. He broke open the drawers. He pried open the floorboards. He clawed at the walls and screamed and cried and rolled and hurt and shouted to the great lord Chzo, harbinger of pain and sat there staring into the broken mirror. Chadwick walked out of the room.




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