Hi, I’m Buck Pawchucker.
I’m the Mayor of Fistworld, the town where a punch in the face is as good as a kiss on the cheek, and a broken nose can mend a broken heart. Yessir, here in Fistworld, men – how you say – be punching each other, to the exclusion of every other activity. You could say that toxic masculinity has been distilled into a thick grey fisting sludge that we keep in a bucket and use as… well, to be perfectly frank, we use it as a fisting sludge.
But I do have to tell you, this job comes with a bunch of problems – problems that I would, with your indulgence, be glad to share with you boys. The first one addresses an issue that may already have occurred in your dirty little minds, if I may say so, and I do say so, if I may say so myself.
Fisting means “to punch”, no matter what you’ve heard
In 1993, a comedian by the name of Julian Clary went onto the television and said that he’d been fisting a conservative member of cabinet, Norman Lamont. Here in Fistworld, which to be honest is more of a hamlet in Essex than an actual “world”, we cheered so hard the barn owls left town, never to return. Thing is, we believe that all political problems are best solved with a good old-fashioned jab to the kisser, the old one-two. And we were finally glad that knuckle-centric politics was finally becoming respectable.
It was only after we’d erected a statue of Julian Clary, and his now deceased pet, Fanny The Wonder Dog, that we learned that Fistworld’s town square was now dominated by a twelve foot animatronic homosexual who was referring to an unheard of practice whereby a man punches another man extremely slowly in the a-pie. Not in anger, but with a form of love unknown to us.
Somewhere inside the assembled Fistworlders, as we watched Clary’s fist deliver an uppercut to an imaginary asshole in the sky, we realised that a mistake had been made. But admitting you were wrong is against the law in Fistworld, and punishable with a big punch. So we doubled down and agreed that two men fucking was actually fine, so long as the dude being the chick limits himself to neutral gasping and refrains from moans of delight as the your chests meet and you swap spit. Additionally the orgasms must be a full minute apart.
I’m getting sidetracked, here. All that stuff happens after The Duskfist Curfew. During the daylight hours, before the tourists and bussed to a Travelodge in Braintree, the word fisting here just means to punch, OK? That’s what I’m saying. Don’t make it dirty with your filthy outsider ways.
To avoid confusion, here’s a few phrases you’ll hear a lot in Fistworld
“I want my fist deep inside you”
I want to punch you so hard in the gut that my fist penetrates your belly button and stirs up your guts like a cauldron of offal
“You better not clench or your hole is gonna get ripped”
Do not to clench your fist, or I will punch your entire, or “whole”, body, will become ripped, or “muscular” from being punched
“I’m going to open my fist in your ass like a filthy flower”
This sentence and its explanation has been outlawed. If you hear someone saying this please deliver summary justice with a fist to the eye socket
When Your Only Tool Is A Fist, Every Problem Looks Like A Face
People have been complaining that the Fistworld bin men do not actually collect the bins, preferring instead to punch them over and deliver a devastating series of chain punches to the litter that falls out. On the high street, the local butcher has yet to master the art of punching off a satisfying slice of boiled ham, and even if he could, chewing is considered effeminate in this town.
Why chew, when you can, instead, punch food into your mouth and soften the food with twenty uppercuts to your own jaw before opening wide and punching the food down your throat?
It has to be said, this gruelling process takes its toll on the teeth, and if you visit the Fistworld dentist, he will generally just punch out whatever teeth you have, damaged or not. This leaves 95% of the adults on Fistworld on a strict liquid diet.
Have you ever tried to punch soup out of a bowl? If you have, then you’lll understand the need we had to install a 17 ton rubber soup-filled udder in the town square, next to our animatronic Julian Clary. This allows our elders to stand and suckle on the udders many teats, as they deliver a sustained barrage of punches on the translucent sac above their heads. This is not the future our fist-fighting forefathers envisioned, perhaps. But it is the one we have, and we are not going to change our ways now.
The Kids Have Started Kicking Each Other, Which Requires That I Must Punch Them. But I Have Only Two Punches Left Before I Must Punch Myself Fatally In The Forehead
This problem pretty much explains itself, and raises no questions about the rules of Fistworld. But it is safe to say, Kicking is punishable by a punch, and I can only deliver two more punches until the Emerald in my forehead begins to flash, and I must punch it into my brain.
The Large Cartoon FIght Cloud In The Saloon Has Just Entered It’s Eighteenth Year, And Has Achieved A Kind Of Godlike Status
Mayor is the highest position in Fistworld, and it is my honour to serve. However, I notice with concern that the large cartoon fight cloud in the town’s only Saloon, has begun to attract a cult-like gathering that will, once a year, sacrifice their best punchers into the sphere of dust. At any one time, up to twenty fists are visible, which is more fists than I can produce on any given Sunday. Sometimes I think of punching myself three times in the forehead and throwing myself into this eternal fistfight. Surely it must be heaven.