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*kicks*

Post it

I once met Warwick Davis at a book signing in Liverpool. I shook his hand and was surprised by how disgusting he was. You could tell he had a vileness to him that people oft underestimate. We ended up chatting for a good 10 minutes and he amazed me with how bitter and repugnant he was. But the highlight of the evening came when a handsome man wearing a sharp suit and steel-capped boots walked into the room and started shouting "DAVIS! Come hither, you scourge". He was confident and eloquent. One of Warwick's assistants went to get security but Warwick arrogantly stopped her and said he can handle it. He cockily waddled into the crowd to try and get into a fight. When the imperious aggressor saw him he went mad with rage and jogged straight towards Davis. What happened next was like something out of a movie. The attacker powered up a nasty kick, aiming for Warwick's chin, and succeeded by deftly connecting his boot with the midget's chin and sent him flying across the room with a devastating kick. Warwick began wheezing and choking on his own blood, his jaw a mangled ruin of blood and bone. He tried to get up but kept falling over. All of this happened in than 10 seconds. Needless to say the goblin was terrified, his eyes filled with pain and fear and searching for mercy. He found none. The attacker stomped down, split his skull open, and ended the vile man's pathetic life. The audience gave him a heartfelt applause for ridding us of the demonic monkey man. As he triumphantly sauntered off, he kept asking for the whereabouts of Harrison Davis.

Warwick Davis. Imagine this guy yelling at you. No, this isn’t just a meme post, just imagine it. You’ve had some kind of altercation in public, and before you is this deformed little creature, this sickeningly morphed little fucking gnome, screaming at you. The veins on his forehead popping out, his eyes bloodshot and his infuriating little brick head bright red as he spits out his curses. Modern society would have you believe this gruesome, odious midget it your equal, that you should stand here and take this. But that’s counter to your intuition and you know it. Your mind races back to the days of your ancestors, how their burning souls would have been inflamed by such a confrontation, this freak, this hideous little THING thinking it has right to talk to you in such a manner. That primal instinct kicks in, and without hesitation you do the sensible thing and let the foul goblin know it’s place- you stride forward with righteous zeal, his shouts cease for a moment. This is unexpected to the annoying little fuck, a flash of panic crosses his malformed, elongated cartoonish face as it contorts suddenly into a comical farce of what on a normal human would resemble fear. He almost trips stepping backward, the illusion of his right to speak, right to live, manufactured authority over you shattering as he can only let out a brief plea “No!” before you are upon him. A hook cracks right, that satisfying crunch as it connects with the hideous creature, the feeling of a bullet ripped from the barrel of a gun as your rage explodes into controlled, refined physical force. You feel his weak and unnatural bones twist and crunch around your knuckles, his flesh contort as you see his terrified and utterly shocked face fold around your fist. All for a glorious moment, before he crumples and folds like some kind of warped fleshy paper, his deformed little freak cartoon body falling like sand over the ground as the facade of his equality dissolves under nature.

Imagine the pride you would be feeling on the day of reckoning, the day that professional actor Warwick Davis finally brings Hiroshimoot into court for his many crimes. Warwick strides into the courtroom, only taking eighteen minutes to get from the door to the prosecution's table. He gets a lift up to his seat from his lawyer, and they begin their examination. Hiroshima is smiling wickedly, despite all this, and he looks almost godlike in the high heavens of the witness box, a mountain of stairs and wood insurmountable to poor Warwick.

"And you provided a forum for these trolls to make threats on my client's life, isn't that Mr. Miyamoto?!" says the prosecutor, his booming voice hurting Warwick's ears.

Nagasaki grins broadly and states, "The stories and information posted here are artistic works of fiction and falsehood. Only a fool would take anything posted here as fact," and proceeds to dab. The wind currents from his arm pick up Warwick and whisk him up through the courtroom until he crashes in the stands. The laughter of the many giants around him is deafening. The judge proclaims that Hashimoto is not only based, but redpilled, and slams his gavel--a weapon so large it could crush Warwick's entire family with a single swing. Warwick desperately tries to plead for mercy as the court's pet beetle crawls into the room to devour him. The judge decides that Warwick's daughter must also be used as a cock-sleeve because death is far too kind for a midge. The American jury engages in a standing ovation.

Warwick is taken into the jaws of the beetle, but miraculously, he fits through the atoms of his teeth and survives--only for there to be a surge of pain--he's struck by an electron and dies in agony. His body is burned to a crisp, and appears like little more than a blackened scrap of french fry in the bottom of a bag of McDonalds.

Hirosaki shoves that speck up his ass, and dabs once more.

Every night, I have vivid, wonderful dreams about Warwick Davis. They start with me meeting him at a press conference, and when he extends his tiny, misshapen hand for me to shake, I grab his hair and lift him off the ground. While he wildly flails his arms and legs, trying to hit me, I laugh at his impotent threats. The tears running down his face from the pain, humiliation, and frustration make me feel warm and comfortable. His voice, sounding like a real person who has inhaled helium, changes pitch, going higher and lower as i swing him from side to side. The entire crowd his publicist paid to gather laughs uncontrollably at this squirming, miniature creature as I completely dominate his entire existence with minimal effort. The whole affair only ends when I slam his useless body on the ground, and stomp on his oversized, ridiculous looking pumpkin head. Shortly thereafter, police, armed with tasers, aim and fire them angrily- at his twitching corpse. They yell "CLEAR!" as they send voltage through his lifeless, distorted carcass. When the police, the crowd, and I eventually wipe away the tears from laughing, and compose ourselves, we pose for pictures together with the little gremlin's remains, like a fish we caught that is to small to covet, but we enjoy the experience anyway. Everyone leaves with a song in their heart and pictures of themselves with this useless, creepy little thing.

How I would love to lock Warwick Davis into a lead-lined chamber with a lump of uranium-238 inside for an hour or so. I would get someone todrag him out and watch as he starts puking and stumbling over his pathetic midget leg-stumps dizzily, finally losing consciousness. I would then take him to a comfortable bed and impersonate a doctor - putting him to rest, pretending to look after him and ensuring him that he would get better. As the days pass, the disgusting little goblin will get worse and worse, vomiting, shitting piping-hot bloody diarrhoea and generally screaming in pain from his now burned and necrotic flesh, his internal organs failing and his chromosomes melting. But I would still lie to this festering imp and tell him it gets worse before it gets better. As he gets to his final stages of acute radiation poisoning, I will reveal that i lied to him the whole time and that he is going to die. The demonic pipsqueak starts bawling his beady eyes out as I let out a hearty laugh. He begs to be put out of his mercy, but I ignore his pathetic whines and start peeling his bubbling mottled skin from his tiny arms. The screams get louder and louder as I peel and peel, and I finally get some peace when I stuff the sticky, squelching flesh into his disproportionate midge-mouth. I get a bucket of his own bloody diarrhoea and rub it into his raw, exposed flesh, and finally close the curtain, turn off the lights and exit the medical room forever - leaving this satanic little munchkin to expire.

I'd bludgeon Warwick with the son, mainly cause it would kill the son before him and Warwick would cry and scream in anguish. He'd probably rush me. Trying to take down the monster that beat him bloody and slaughtered his vile son. I would laugh. Laugh so evilly that the logic triumphs over the rage and he realises how hopeless it is take down a great lumbering brute like me. When I finally see this realisation dawn on him and hopelessness touch his eyes, I shall treat him to a very wicked smirk and saunter over to his daughter, who is grieving over the remains of her halfing (or quarterling) mutant of a brother. I shall grab her by the ankles. She lets out a shriek of terror. Warwick rushes me again but I just kick him in the jaw and send him flying, and, of course, reduce his jaw to a mangled ruin of blood and broken bone. I stand of him with his daughter squirming, laugh maliciously once more for posterity's sake, raise his daughter high, and slam her down onto her vile sire again and again and again and finally end that goblin's worthless life.

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.

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.

Imagine seeing Warwick Davis shopping at the mall before Christmas. You run into him on the third floor, carrying dozens of bags that are far too heavy for his stubby little arms and puny fingers. He's struggling, sweat is pouring off his deformed little forehead as he tries to get his gifts home for his family. You feel the rage build up in you, looking at this decrepit little gnome pulling all these bags, making little grunts in his stupid little high pitched voice. Unconsciously, you find yourself striding towards him, with venomous intent in your eyes. He catches sight of you approaching, his tiny freak head lifts slightly, you can see the fear in his eyes like a zebra looking at a lion on the hunt. In an instant, you grab him by his tiny legs and begin walking over to the balcony that overlooks the mall floor, Warwick too weak to fight back, only whimpering. Three floors up is a good height to a human being, but to this imp? It might as well be the Grand Canyon. You lift him over your head like a sack of potatoes and you toss the little midge over the edge, and you hear his goofy high pitched yelps as he falls. He smacks his head off a cupcake kiosk, his tiny brains splattered all over a group of Chinese tourists like a Jackson Pollock painting, the elves from the nearby Santa Claus chair rush over, thinking one of their own has committed suicide again. In this moment, you feel triumph.

midge

I want to fling him across the state fair with a waterballoon launcher

M

Realistically, how long do you think this guy has to live?

i fucking love midgeposting

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where's the little bit of a man pasta?

imagine kidnapping him and his daughter. you bring them to a secluded location, and strap davis to a chair. "LET US GO!" he says.

His daughter is visibly scared. you approach and grab her. she resists, but it's no use against your average male strength. you take her clothes off till she's just wearing her little panties and a bra. warwick is begging you not to. he starts to tear up, knowing well what's about to happen to his daughter. you rip off her last two pieces of garment until she's standing there completely naked, infront of you and her father.

You can tell she has never been with a man before. You pick her up, and enter her. She's fucking tight. You barely get the tip fully in before she begins to bleed. She screams in pain as you go deeper and deeper. in and out, blood smears further down your shaft as you progress.

As you stretch her virgin pussy out more and more, it gradually becomes easier to penetrate her deeper and faster.
your average sized cock begins poking out of her stomach with every thrust. she still screams out of pain and fear, but now her little midge pussy tells a different story.

I think his life expectancy is rather short

>Have a debilitating genetic condition
>Wilfully have children with another carrier of the defect, consciously inflicting your children with the same horrible malformations
He should be tried and executed desu

>You could tell he had a vileness to him that people oft underestimate. We ended up chatting for a good 10 minutes and he amazed me with how bitter and repugnant he was.

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These are my favourite threads

Yeah, I think I can beat his ass

While visiting another country for a week, I came across a device. The natives had assembled a dastardly fly trap out of a plastic bag and bait. Bloated with insects and the stench of rot, the bag dangled from a tree branch. Near the bottom, there was nothing more than black sludge, but as one's eye followed up, there were more defined fly corpses, a layer of squirming maggots, and finally, a layer of buzzing, live flies. As I pondered the life cycle of this trap, I began to smile, picturing Warwick Davis as a maggot in this hellish ecosystem. First, I'd need to get a trash bag and bait it with a little morsel of cheese to tempt him in. Maybe set up a ladder so he could reach it. Like all the flies drawn by sugar water, he'd fall in the sack and be unable to escape the one-way opening. Then, I'd wait. Naturally, the little sliver of a man would struggle at first, but the durability of my trash bag would thwart the punches from his drumstick-sized arms. After a few days, his feces and sweat from being left in the trap would draw in even more flies, and the real fun would begin. Left to starve, he would begin eating the buzzing swarm around him, which in turn, would be feasting on his shit and the corpses of previous generations of flies. Eventually, there would be too much even for his greedy little jaws, and he'd begin to sink in a layer of liquid filth. The layer of maggots sustained on that would probably start burrowing into his skin, while the buzzing storm of flies would torment him. Any screams from him would be quieted by a stray fly going down his gullet and choking him. Eventually, the midget would start to blend in with his surroundings, his skin stained black from the thousands of bodies, his flesh rotting away and his stocky but tiny chest becoming a home for more flies attracted to the pestilence in the bag. By eating from the pile of goop building up to his neck, he showed himself as the little maggot he is, writhing in and sustained by death.

I think there is a 25% chance the child will be of normal height , but a 25% chance of death and 50% chance of making cookies in a tree for the rest of its life

Warwick Davis is an example of unchecked hubris. This "man", as modern science chooses to describe him; this stunted apelike freak with his oversized head and hideous little limbs. This thing is a tottering abomination fit only for slaughter. Sometimes, in times of weakness, I wonder if maybe he has a soul - if, perhaps, somewhere inside that misshapen and monstrous skull lies an intelligence not unlike that of a child's... But then I come to my senses. I remember that God would never expect righteous men to suffer the existence of such a creature. It's place upon the Earth is only as fodder for the marshals of strength and virtue, so that we may steel ourselves against these gawking Satanic legions and plunge them back into the unending fires of hell. May they burn for all eternity, yet be unable to die.

What the fuck did I stumble into?

>Drake disapproves: Breeding a normal woman thus giving your potential offspring a fighting chance.
>Drake disapproves: How about just don't spread your cursed seed at all!
>Drake approves: Bonk another midge thus combining your strains of midgeism to create mutated midges that are ever dead or even more pathetically handicapped than you are, Super Midges boi!

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>What the fuck did I stumble into?
A good question, Warwick. Yes, I know it's you. I can imagine you now sat in your high chair, specially built to accommodate your unnatural build. Yes, Warwick, what have your ugly little stump legs stumbled into? The truth, Warwick. The truth that everyone hates you. The world utterly despises you. Were it not for the unnatural laws of this age you would be left on the streets to beg and dance for scraps of food. Perhaps, if you were able to put away your seething envy of your biological betters, you might be put in a tentshow, to somersault with bears and be cackled at by children. I would take my children to throw stones at you and spit on your hideous little fleshmask. Alas, I cannot kill over a computer screen. If only I had you quivering before me in this moment, I would delight in beating you to a pulp until your filthy goblin face was a mangled waste of dead flesh.

lmao

Why are these all so eloquently written

When these pastas were being pumped out regularly it basically a game of one upmanship, i.e. who can write the most verbose, elaborate pasta about torturing/murdering Warwick? Nature of the meme is going to attract anons capable of writing eloquent posts, not inarticulate halfwits.