- Joined
- Feb 10, 2020
Cultcow Russell Greer / Mr. Green / @ just_some_dude_named_russell29 / A Safer Nevada PAC - Swift-Obsessed Sex Pest, Convicted of E-Stalking, "Eggshell Skull Plaintiff" Pro Se Litigant, Homeless, aspiring brothel owner
- Thread starter Cryin RN
- Start date
Weeb Slinger
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Sep 4, 2019
I started writing a novel where detective Russell Greer and judge Jonathan Yaniv face off against Sargon, who is turning everybody into sceptics and refusing to rape his most vocal critics. Then I stopped, because I have other things to do. Anyway this is the chapter with Greer in it. Happy Christmas.
Chapter Two – Plights
The wall phone rang in the air. After the fifth ring, Mrs Ropra, in the apartment below, began to pound on the ceiling with her mop handle; the same one that she routinely brandished at anybody who ventured too close to the cracked-open door of her apartment. It was a traditional wooden mop handle, handmade centuries ago in the old country from a bough of Baltic Birch, and steeped in the blood of cossacks. One day it would penetrate the floorboards and erupt through the dusty carpet, flooding the room above with the noxious odour of boiled cabbage.
With slovenly effort, Detective Russell Greer managed to extricate himself from the love swing that fulfilled a triple function as his bed, his couch, and his home office. Mrs Ropra's arrhythmic pounding continued as he sloped across the open-plan living area, shedding flakes of dried-in gore from his begrimed suit. Several months ago, his well-placed gunshot had brought the criminal career of the gangster, Ethan Ralph, to an abrupt and fitting end. The red rain of shredded body parts that had showered down upon him in the aftermath had a remained bonded to his unwashed clothes ever since, like a nest of scabs. He was being haunted by the remnants of a dead man and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
In a yellow-satin crib, in one corner of the room, the child that had issued from Ralph's gunt suckled greedily on the husk of a Chinese lemon. For many months these bitter citrus fruit had been the only food that the newborn would tolerate. Greer made regular trips to the Chinese quarter of the city, where he purchased the lemons in 10kg sacks. Recently the child's tastes had broadened. Greer had watched in horror as it had devoured an unseasoned steak the size of a dinner plate, that he had prepared on the off-chance that the singer-songwriter, Taylor Swift, might drop by for a romantic candlelit dinner.
Greer grabbed the ringing phone from its base station. Before answering, he pulled out the telescopic aerial to its full extension, so that its tip scraped the paintwork on the ceiling.
“Hello, can I speak to Defective Greer, please.”
The voice on the other end of the line belonged to a woman. She sounded young and cheerful. Absently, Greer unzipped his fly, dislodging a dessicated scrap of Ethan Ralph in the process.
“Yeah, this is Greer,” he said casually. “And it's detective, not defective.”
“Oh, I am sorry, it's just your handwriting is very hard to decipher,” said the woman. “You'd think that I'd be better at reading bad handwriting, what with working in a doctors' surgery. Anyway, I'm calling on behalf of your paediatric consultant, Dr Perry. She just wants me to confirm that you and baby Ralph will be attending your appointment with her on Wednesday morning, at 11:30. She's going to assess the progress of his diet and to check his cholesterol levels.”
A queasy sensation flooded Greer's stomach, as if he had just been punched hard in the gut.
“Wait, I need to bring the baby with me?” he said, incredulously.
He cast a resentful backward glance towards the child. The boy stared back at him, kicking his pudgy legs in the air, exposing the unusual birthmark on his left heel – a patch of green felt that bore the faint markings of a blackjack table.
“Well yes, of course,” said the receptionist. “The whole point of paediatric medicine is to monitor the health of children. They need to be present in the room.”
“But I was made to understand that I would be alone with Dr Perry,” insisted Greer, somewhat petulantly.
“We can't give an appointment without the child being present for examination, except in very exceptional circumstances.”
“Couldn't this be one of those exceptional circumstances,” wheedled Greer. “I've got to be honest with you: This hurts my heart.”
“No, I don't think we could in this particular situation,” said the PA. “Anyway, she added brightly, “Even if baby Ralph wasn't present, Dr Perry would still be assisted a nurse. I think Charles will be on duty on Wednesday. He's really nice. So you don't need to worry about anything Mr Greer. Just bring baby Ralph with you twenty minutes before the appointment, so we have time to weigh him on the elephant scales.”
“Okay, I'll see you then,” replied Greer sulkily, cutting the receptionist off before she could say goodbye.
If her facebook photos were anything to go by, Dr Perry was a solid 8. Ordinarily he didn't date anything less than a 9. Still, there was something about her. He knew, if he could just get her alone, and explain his side to her, she would fall in love with him.
Angrily he swiped the red rose, that he had purchased from a gas station, off the kitchen counter and into the dead end of the room, scattering a trail of loose petals behind it. In the mirror, his hanging face stared back at him, like an epileptic Victorian horse that had just pulled a heavy cart up a steep hill and was now close to death.
He was drawing-in the aerial of the telephone when it rang again. Immediately Mrs Ropra began to bang on her ceiling.
He hit the answer button.
“Yeah?”
It was Detective Venti. Somehow she had managed to avoid being dismissed despite refusing to wear her police issue bra to work.
“Greer? Is that you?”
“What did I tell you about calling me on my day off,” he replied, coolly.
“Greer, you ass-wipe. Your shift started two days ago. We only just noticed you weren't here.”
“Yeah, well I was following up on some leads,” he retorted.
“You need to come in to the precinct,” said Venti. “Someone just put a hit on Judge Yaniv.”
Greer felt suddenly weak at the knees. He leaned against the kitchen counter for support. Yaniv, the transexual Canadian judge had been instrumental in helping him bring down Ethan Ralph and his gang.
“She okay?” he enquired, attempt to maintain a neutral tone.
“She's been badly triggered,” reported Venti. “They're keeping her in hospital overnight for observation. Look, I know we've had our differences Greer, but this is one of our own.”
“I'm coming in,” he replied.
He tossed the telephone onto the floor without de-telescoping the aerial. On the TV, Nick Rekieta – the owner of a Warhammer 40K-themed strip bar – was engaged in a spirited debate with the owners of various other strip bars, regarding whether he could fit a Games Workshop model Land Raider us his arse.
“Chin lems! Chin lems!” cried baby Ralph from his crib, as he made a joyful but uncoordinated attempt to clap his chubby hands together.
Greer emptied the remainder of the 10kg sack into the cot, burying the child in an avalanche of imported lemons.
“Knock yourself out kid,” he said as he made for the door.
Second-guessing himself, he returned for his cordless phone, jamming it into his pocket with the aerial still extended.
After he had closed the apartment door, the child unearthed itself from the bitter yellow fruit of communism. His slitted porcine eyes surveyed the squalid room with smouldering malevolence.
“You know, I might just break off a piece of Dr Perry myself. Heh, heh.” he said in a lascivious southern accent.
His dolphin laugh filled the room, as downstairs Mrs Ropra began to pound on the ceiling.
Greer didn't trust elevators. He took the back stairwell to the ground floor, gathering a new following of cats on every hallway, They padded softly behind him, eyeing the scraps of dried human flesh clinging to his suit.
Kenneth, the newly married cop, who lived two floors below him, leaned out of his door as Greer shuffled past.
“Hey Russell, I saw that you left some garbage bags outside your apartment. I didn't want you to get fined so I took them down for you myself.”
“Thanks,” said Greer, grudgingly.
When he was out of earshot, he muttered: “Jeez, could you be any more clingy.”
The phone in his pocket rang as he descended but he ignored it. Somewhere in the building the sound of Mrs Ropra's mop handle started up.
On the ground floor he encountered the building's janitor, Matt Jarbo, outside of his apartment, painting the flags of various nations on his collection of boulders.
“The mini-UN is touring the building next week,” he announced. “I'm getting in the spirit.”
“What's happening on the top floor?” enquired Greer. “There seems to be a lot of commotion.”
Jarbo ceased his painting of the American flag. The dripping brush added two stars to the spangled banner. Years later, after Serbia and the Ukraine had become the 51st and 52nd second states respectively he would think back on this moment and marvel at its prescience.
“It's one of those funny things,” he said. “Those 18 cowboys you liberated from Ram Ranch, after it got taken over by Ethan Ralph. Well it seems that the ranch got taken over again by a group of transexual alpaca farmers so they came here. I got 18 cowboys crammed into a two bedroom apartment.”
He shook his head in mild disbelief.
“I dunno, they must be slotting themselves in like jigsaw pieces to fit in that place. Guy named Earl's been paying the rent. One thing that confuses me is you've got these 18 studs fresh off the prairie – not one of them is interested in breeding with my wife.”
“It's a mystery,” said Greer. “Anyway, I gotta go.”
The young blonde girl, who had moved into the apartment across from Jarbo's was perched on the stoop outside.
“Yo! Yovana!” he called to her.
The woman side-eyed him with Slavic disdain, but said nothing.
Greer caught the bus to precinct. As he was about to enter the building, he paused on the steps and checked his phone. There was a message waiting. The number was unfamiliar. He played it back:
“Hey, this is Taylor Swift,” said a young woman's voice. “Look Russell, I'm calling to thank you for all your amazing letters and gifts. Sorry I didn't get back to you sooner but I've been really busy with recording and touring. I'm real flattered to hear from you. Most men are intimidated by my success and don't think to write. I hope you don't mind, but I looked up your profile on Facebook and all I gotta say is balding men in their 30s, with facial disfigurements and controlling personalities are like vaginal kryptonite to me. You think that you drool a lot? Well let's just say, you should see my panties after reading your social media posts. Anyway I think you're a great guy. We should meet up and discuss a songwriting collaboration. I'll buy you a shake afterward.”
Greer collapsed the phone aerial and replaced the brick-size receiver inside his jacket pocket. Bounding up the remaining stairs, he swaggered into the lobby, loudly humming the foot stomping riff to I'm A Man. He knew that the estate of Bo Diddly would be on his ass for performance royalties, but, in that triumphant moment, he didn't care.
With slovenly effort, Detective Russell Greer managed to extricate himself from the love swing that fulfilled a triple function as his bed, his couch, and his home office. Mrs Ropra's arrhythmic pounding continued as he sloped across the open-plan living area, shedding flakes of dried-in gore from his begrimed suit. Several months ago, his well-placed gunshot had brought the criminal career of the gangster, Ethan Ralph, to an abrupt and fitting end. The red rain of shredded body parts that had showered down upon him in the aftermath had a remained bonded to his unwashed clothes ever since, like a nest of scabs. He was being haunted by the remnants of a dead man and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
In a yellow-satin crib, in one corner of the room, the child that had issued from Ralph's gunt suckled greedily on the husk of a Chinese lemon. For many months these bitter citrus fruit had been the only food that the newborn would tolerate. Greer made regular trips to the Chinese quarter of the city, where he purchased the lemons in 10kg sacks. Recently the child's tastes had broadened. Greer had watched in horror as it had devoured an unseasoned steak the size of a dinner plate, that he had prepared on the off-chance that the singer-songwriter, Taylor Swift, might drop by for a romantic candlelit dinner.
Greer grabbed the ringing phone from its base station. Before answering, he pulled out the telescopic aerial to its full extension, so that its tip scraped the paintwork on the ceiling.
“Hello, can I speak to Defective Greer, please.”
The voice on the other end of the line belonged to a woman. She sounded young and cheerful. Absently, Greer unzipped his fly, dislodging a dessicated scrap of Ethan Ralph in the process.
“Yeah, this is Greer,” he said casually. “And it's detective, not defective.”
“Oh, I am sorry, it's just your handwriting is very hard to decipher,” said the woman. “You'd think that I'd be better at reading bad handwriting, what with working in a doctors' surgery. Anyway, I'm calling on behalf of your paediatric consultant, Dr Perry. She just wants me to confirm that you and baby Ralph will be attending your appointment with her on Wednesday morning, at 11:30. She's going to assess the progress of his diet and to check his cholesterol levels.”
A queasy sensation flooded Greer's stomach, as if he had just been punched hard in the gut.
“Wait, I need to bring the baby with me?” he said, incredulously.
He cast a resentful backward glance towards the child. The boy stared back at him, kicking his pudgy legs in the air, exposing the unusual birthmark on his left heel – a patch of green felt that bore the faint markings of a blackjack table.
“Well yes, of course,” said the receptionist. “The whole point of paediatric medicine is to monitor the health of children. They need to be present in the room.”
“But I was made to understand that I would be alone with Dr Perry,” insisted Greer, somewhat petulantly.
“We can't give an appointment without the child being present for examination, except in very exceptional circumstances.”
“Couldn't this be one of those exceptional circumstances,” wheedled Greer. “I've got to be honest with you: This hurts my heart.”
“No, I don't think we could in this particular situation,” said the PA. “Anyway, she added brightly, “Even if baby Ralph wasn't present, Dr Perry would still be assisted a nurse. I think Charles will be on duty on Wednesday. He's really nice. So you don't need to worry about anything Mr Greer. Just bring baby Ralph with you twenty minutes before the appointment, so we have time to weigh him on the elephant scales.”
“Okay, I'll see you then,” replied Greer sulkily, cutting the receptionist off before she could say goodbye.
If her facebook photos were anything to go by, Dr Perry was a solid 8. Ordinarily he didn't date anything less than a 9. Still, there was something about her. He knew, if he could just get her alone, and explain his side to her, she would fall in love with him.
Angrily he swiped the red rose, that he had purchased from a gas station, off the kitchen counter and into the dead end of the room, scattering a trail of loose petals behind it. In the mirror, his hanging face stared back at him, like an epileptic Victorian horse that had just pulled a heavy cart up a steep hill and was now close to death.
He was drawing-in the aerial of the telephone when it rang again. Immediately Mrs Ropra began to bang on her ceiling.
He hit the answer button.
“Yeah?”
It was Detective Venti. Somehow she had managed to avoid being dismissed despite refusing to wear her police issue bra to work.
“Greer? Is that you?”
“What did I tell you about calling me on my day off,” he replied, coolly.
“Greer, you ass-wipe. Your shift started two days ago. We only just noticed you weren't here.”
“Yeah, well I was following up on some leads,” he retorted.
“You need to come in to the precinct,” said Venti. “Someone just put a hit on Judge Yaniv.”
Greer felt suddenly weak at the knees. He leaned against the kitchen counter for support. Yaniv, the transexual Canadian judge had been instrumental in helping him bring down Ethan Ralph and his gang.
“She okay?” he enquired, attempt to maintain a neutral tone.
“She's been badly triggered,” reported Venti. “They're keeping her in hospital overnight for observation. Look, I know we've had our differences Greer, but this is one of our own.”
“I'm coming in,” he replied.
He tossed the telephone onto the floor without de-telescoping the aerial. On the TV, Nick Rekieta – the owner of a Warhammer 40K-themed strip bar – was engaged in a spirited debate with the owners of various other strip bars, regarding whether he could fit a Games Workshop model Land Raider us his arse.
“Chin lems! Chin lems!” cried baby Ralph from his crib, as he made a joyful but uncoordinated attempt to clap his chubby hands together.
Greer emptied the remainder of the 10kg sack into the cot, burying the child in an avalanche of imported lemons.
“Knock yourself out kid,” he said as he made for the door.
Second-guessing himself, he returned for his cordless phone, jamming it into his pocket with the aerial still extended.
After he had closed the apartment door, the child unearthed itself from the bitter yellow fruit of communism. His slitted porcine eyes surveyed the squalid room with smouldering malevolence.
“You know, I might just break off a piece of Dr Perry myself. Heh, heh.” he said in a lascivious southern accent.
His dolphin laugh filled the room, as downstairs Mrs Ropra began to pound on the ceiling.
Greer didn't trust elevators. He took the back stairwell to the ground floor, gathering a new following of cats on every hallway, They padded softly behind him, eyeing the scraps of dried human flesh clinging to his suit.
Kenneth, the newly married cop, who lived two floors below him, leaned out of his door as Greer shuffled past.
“Hey Russell, I saw that you left some garbage bags outside your apartment. I didn't want you to get fined so I took them down for you myself.”
“Thanks,” said Greer, grudgingly.
When he was out of earshot, he muttered: “Jeez, could you be any more clingy.”
The phone in his pocket rang as he descended but he ignored it. Somewhere in the building the sound of Mrs Ropra's mop handle started up.
On the ground floor he encountered the building's janitor, Matt Jarbo, outside of his apartment, painting the flags of various nations on his collection of boulders.
“The mini-UN is touring the building next week,” he announced. “I'm getting in the spirit.”
“What's happening on the top floor?” enquired Greer. “There seems to be a lot of commotion.”
Jarbo ceased his painting of the American flag. The dripping brush added two stars to the spangled banner. Years later, after Serbia and the Ukraine had become the 51st and 52nd second states respectively he would think back on this moment and marvel at its prescience.
“It's one of those funny things,” he said. “Those 18 cowboys you liberated from Ram Ranch, after it got taken over by Ethan Ralph. Well it seems that the ranch got taken over again by a group of transexual alpaca farmers so they came here. I got 18 cowboys crammed into a two bedroom apartment.”
He shook his head in mild disbelief.
“I dunno, they must be slotting themselves in like jigsaw pieces to fit in that place. Guy named Earl's been paying the rent. One thing that confuses me is you've got these 18 studs fresh off the prairie – not one of them is interested in breeding with my wife.”
“It's a mystery,” said Greer. “Anyway, I gotta go.”
The young blonde girl, who had moved into the apartment across from Jarbo's was perched on the stoop outside.
“Yo! Yovana!” he called to her.
The woman side-eyed him with Slavic disdain, but said nothing.
Greer caught the bus to precinct. As he was about to enter the building, he paused on the steps and checked his phone. There was a message waiting. The number was unfamiliar. He played it back:
“Hey, this is Taylor Swift,” said a young woman's voice. “Look Russell, I'm calling to thank you for all your amazing letters and gifts. Sorry I didn't get back to you sooner but I've been really busy with recording and touring. I'm real flattered to hear from you. Most men are intimidated by my success and don't think to write. I hope you don't mind, but I looked up your profile on Facebook and all I gotta say is balding men in their 30s, with facial disfigurements and controlling personalities are like vaginal kryptonite to me. You think that you drool a lot? Well let's just say, you should see my panties after reading your social media posts. Anyway I think you're a great guy. We should meet up and discuss a songwriting collaboration. I'll buy you a shake afterward.”
Greer collapsed the phone aerial and replaced the brick-size receiver inside his jacket pocket. Bounding up the remaining stairs, he swaggered into the lobby, loudly humming the foot stomping riff to I'm A Man. He knew that the estate of Bo Diddly would be on his ass for performance royalties, but, in that triumphant moment, he didn't care.
Kugelsak Kastengrus 6th
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Jun 7, 2016
I highly doubt Rusty would be able to properly drink alcohol. Especially if he tries baby birding it. His postings are a clear case of him developing a terminal case of coom-brain.
- Joined
- Aug 19, 2018
- Joined
- Mar 30, 2020
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2020
This lady is a cheerleader on the same team as SAM BAM.
Bridgeburner
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Oct 1, 2018
- Joined
- Sep 23, 2016
Russ, wash what's left of your manky hair. WITH shampoo.
As for him and alcohol, last spring he found the alcohol aisle of Walmart thrilling enough to take a selfie (also balding and greasy) in, so maybe he's worked up the courage to sip the Devil's juice like he did with coffee.
As for him and alcohol, last spring he found the alcohol aisle of Walmart thrilling enough to take a selfie (also balding and greasy) in, so maybe he's worked up the courage to sip the Devil's juice like he did with coffee.
- Joined
- Nov 4, 2017
Watch out!
Why the fuck does he always have a single grease-clotted lock of hair hanging down over his forehead like a strip of tattered cloth?
- Joined
- Dec 28, 2014
How did he get his grotesque nose hair to intertwine with his pedophile mustache?
- Joined
- Dec 13, 2022
If the women don't find you handsome, they should at least find you handsy.
Wait, no...
- Joined
- Dec 12, 2022
Uh... same as with "nice guy" and "social justice warrior", "fabulousness" doesn't really mean what you think it does, Pipsqueak.
Fortunately (or not) for him, he doesn't come across as neither what he thinks it means, nor what it actually does.
Is it just me or is his lower jaw sliding further to his right?
Fortunately (or not) for him, he doesn't come across as neither what he thinks it means, nor what it actually does.
Is it just me or is his lower jaw sliding further to his right?
Skullshatterer
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Aug 26, 2018
He only gets more and more disgusting. He is genuinely so gross that I try to scroll it as fast as I can whenever his face shows up in this thread. It's like a jumpscare.
Rasputinee
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Jul 25, 2016
It's actually kind of impressive, I could swear his hair gets greasier every time I see him.
- Joined
- Jan 4, 2021
The general theory here is that he purposely forces a forelock a la Superman... So you know he is the good guy (he always is forelocked in court)
What bothers me is the purposely askew tie. He's even mentioned he knows it's crooked but he does it on purpose to be cool/draw attention. I dunno if he thinks it will subconsciously draw attention like a PUA thing, or if it will strike up conscious conversation, or if someone will be so bothered they grab him and fix it, or simply showing off it's a big boy tied tie.
- Joined
- Nov 4, 2017
The problem with this is that, the balder he gets, the longer the forelock has to be to reach the bottom of his forehead.
- Joined
- Apr 8, 2020
Those fucking hashtags bro; he keeps posting like an insecure teenager. My armchair psychological analysis is that he never moved away from being an insecure teenager, hence the hashtags and his weirdass “just some dude named Russell” shit.
- Joined
- Feb 7, 2015
He asked some random Instagram model out for "drinks." We dunno if he was just imitating what normal adult humans do, or if he really meant that, but he's not quite as anti-booze as he was(unless it's a hooker running up the tab so she won't have to fuck him).
- Joined
- Mar 24, 2013
Can't wait for Russhole's increasingly thinning hair to get to the point where he has nothing on his head but a few whispy (greasy) strands of hair that he desperately tries to get to reach his collar and to form that forelock. He will look like a Ken doll that some little girl tried to give a haircut, then nuked in a microwave for ten minutes.
- Joined
- Feb 7, 2015
You, good sir, win the Internet for today with that phrase.