I'd love to kick Warwick Davis in the head...

I'd love to kick Warwick Davis in the head. Just take a few steps run up then catch him with the full force of my steel capped toe under his chin, send that little faggot flying through the air. As he lies on the floor, coughing and wheezing and chocking on his own blood, his jaw a mangled mess of bones detached from the rest of his skull, I stand over him and laugh wickedly. He looks up at me in fear and pain, his eyes searching, begging me for mercy. He finds none. I raise my boot then stomp down, splitting his skull like a melon and finally ending his pathetic life

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Personally I'd starve Warwick Davis. It should not take too long given his size. Make him stick thin and so feeble. Then I would feign pity and serve him a plate of delicious char siu meat, with rich, sticky sauce, perfect pancakes, refreshing drinks... go all out. Give that little bastard a banquet. Watch him greedily devour the meat. His lips, teeth, and fingers sticky with the sauce as he throws manners and decorum out of the window in a mad rush to satiate himself. Then, when he's satisfied and feels thing are looking up, I shall reveal he has not been feasting on char siu pork but... char siu Harrison Davis. Yes, I will have ensured Warwick Davis greedily gobbled up the flesh of his mutant son that I butchered after growing bored with torturing him. As the tears well up in his eyes and he refuses to belief me, I shall let out a truly evil, bone chilling laugh and upend the contents of a box I'll have near me; it will be the mangled remains of his son. His legs gone, his skin flayed, castrated, eyes missing, his fingers and arms broken, and head twisted around. That is what I would do to that little bastard. The louder he screams and cries in anguish, the louder and more evil my cackle becomes. Hell, it may just kill me because I'll be struggling to breath as I'll be laughing so hard. I will then loop the footage of his son being raped by a dog, tortured, and then butchered by me 24/7 at maximum volume. This is the fate that awaits you, you vile little goblin.

feeble bone

I once met Warwick Davis at a book signing in Liverpool. I shook his hand and was surprised by how strong he was. You could tell he had a wiry strength to him that people oft underestimate. We ended up chatting for a good 10 minutes and he amazed me with how personable and warm he was. But the highlight of the evening came when a fat guy wearing a fedora and steel-capped boots walked into the room and started shouting "MIDGE, MIDGE, COME OUT, COME OUT". He was belligerent and aggressive. One of Warwick's assistants went to get security but Warwick stopped her and said he can handle it. He bravely walked into the crowd to try and resolve the issue. When the rotund aggressor saw him he went mad with rage and started running straight towards Davis. What happened next was like something out of a Matrix movie. The attacker powered up a nasty kick, aiming for Warwick's chin, but Warwick deftly spin-jumped up and to the right, avoiding the impact. In that same instant he flanked the pudgy assailant and landed a devastating punch straight to the back of the knee. The neckbeard's leg buckled from the sheer force of the punch and then gravity did the rest. He started falling back, threatening to crush Warwick beneath hundreds of pounds of lard but Warwick rolled away in the nick of time. All of this happened in less than 2 seconds. Needless to say the delinquent was knocked unconscious and Warwick was left winded but victorious. The audience gave him a heartfelt applause and he went back to signing books while the obese neckbeard was escorted from the premises and later arrested. What was particularly satisfying was his sobbing cries as he was dragged away; he kept repeating "I'm sorry Warwick, you're a not a midge after all".

very based

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KICK

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I, for one, would like to stick my thumbs into Warick Davis's eye sockets. I want to feel his ocular organs squish into a bloody, viscous pulp beneath the soft, yielding flesh of my fingertips. I want to hear his screams of absolute terror and pain as he realizes he'll never see again.

Then, I would remove my thumbs from his eyesockets, giving him a brief respite as I grabbed a pair of barbeque tongs and a dull butterknife. with the tongs I would pluck out his ruined eyeballs and sever the optic nerves with the butter knife. at this point I would already have a hot plate going with a buttered pan ready to crudely sautee Warwick's juicy macula. As they sizzled in the pan, he would smell them, and after having been starved for days on end, he might even have the nerve to comment about how good whatever I was cooking smelled - not being able to see what it was, of course.

"Here, try some." I would offer, giving him a heaping spoonful of the fried, well-seasoned sight-flesh. He would gobble it down eagerly, begging for more like the deformed goblin he was, still not aware of what he was eating. I would feed him the rest, and only after he had eaten it all would I tell him what it truly was.

As he screamed in horror and retched, I would put my thumbs into his empty eyesockets for the last time. I would drive them deep, deep into his empty ocular cavities, until I broke through the fragile bone and began to push my fingers into his brain. Slowly, his musical shrieking of pain and terror would abate as his brain becomes too damaged to operate his vocal cords, let alone comprehend what is happening to him.

At this point, I place my massive, throbbing erection in front of his vegetative face and begin to powerfuck his eye sockets. In and out, in and out, over and over, until his brains are nothing more than a mess of dead cells and tangled dendrites. As I climaxed, I would push myself balls deep into his skull, seed mixing with ruined neurons in a perverse cocktail.

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