I saw this guy get bullied really badly in the UK once, I honestly felt bad for him.
It was at night and he was out with his family and this group of about 3-5 drunk british guys with 80's rocker hair wigs and outfits and fake electric guitars came up to him and started singing this song,
I don't remember exactly how it goes there was a lot of MIDGE MIDGE, THE MIDGE, and there was one guy standing in the front as the kind of lead singer who was singing it the loudest while sticking his arm up to the side with his hand pointing a finger gun at the sky and his other hand grabbing his crotch. The rest of the guys were mostly just laughing and drunkenly trying to slur the words. But several times they all hit MIDGE in perfect ear shattering unison
Every time he sang MIDGE, MIDGE, or THE MIDGE at an ear splitting volume with his eyes squeezed shut and his red face contorted by opening his mouth as wide as humanly possible, he'd violently thrust his arm up making that finger gun gesture, thrusting his crutch at the same time with his other hand on it.
And warwick, warwick was just absolutely mortified and stunned. They didn't walk away, he just stood there with his family unsure what to do. Finally those guys left and one guy in the back of the small crowd that had gathered around just called out "fucking midge" as the final humiliating blow.
Imagine just slamming into Warwick Davis as hard as you can. Just going full speed, grabbing him with both arms, lifting him clear over your head, and just slamming him down into the concrete with every fiber of muscle in your body. The noise of his destruction would be akin to a gunshot, but rather than the crack of a supersonic bullet, it is the collective cracking of every bone in his body. He could just be waddling his little midge waddle and suddenly find himself lifting into the air, and the next time he blinks he is launching towards the sidewalk at literally breakneck speed. Every little midge bone in his little midge body would be damaged, if not outright broken. Compound fractures would tear through both his skin and pierce his internal organs. Blood and cranial fluids would leak from the multiple open fractures across his skull. His lower teeth would be driven into his unhinged jaw. And as the life fades away from him and his vision would turn black, he's look up at you and beg with his eyes "Why?" Yet your casual stride away from him would give him the only answer he is worthy of: "Why not?" You see, Warwick's entire midge life is utterly beneath the notice of actual humans, and snuffing his pathetic life out was an action done so casually and so carelessly it was far beyond your notice. It was a thoughtless impulse, one already forgotten. The one and only reason nobody had ended his pitiful midge life earlier was because nobody else could be bothered. He wasn't even worth the time to put any conscious thought into killing. With that realization, Warwick Davis releases his bowels (a runny midge poop, as midges lack the intestinal length to properly process food) and dies. Nobody bothers burying him.
Oliver Harris
what's his name again?
Austin Carter
Wicket W. Warwick.
Austin Butler
cope. he probably has regular midgemares about this, waking up in his tiny bed in the middle of the night screeching like a total midge
Joseph Jackson
Cope? Look who's talking. With all that SW money he probably wakes up in a huge bed covered in midget poon. I bet you're just some midget incel actor, jealous because he hogs all the good midget rolls.
Luke Wright
>midges lack the intestinal length to properly process food learned something new today
Benjamin Ramirez
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.
Nathaniel Ramirez
I dream over Warwick Davis winning the Oscar for best actor. Dressed in his tiny little suit and beaming. He reaches the podium and is handed his statue... a large, very heavy statue. It would look silly for a real human to be holding this metal monstrosity, as well as finding it heavy and cumbersome, but to a gremlin like Davis? Tom and Jerry cartoons have looked less ridiculous than Davis accepting this award and dragging it across the stage as he tries to leave. He's panting, heaving, going red with embarrasment and shame. Then a handsome, well dressed stranger steps onto the stage. The audience of A list actors, powerful directors and producers, and Hollywood elite watch as the strong stronger rips the Oscar from Warwick's grubby hands. The midge objects but the stranger whacks the bastard over the head with it. Dazed, confused, but still conscious, Warwick moans still. He even tries to rush the stranger as he approaches an apparatus behind the red curtains with the statue in hand. Benedict Cumberpatch, having went to Harrow, just holds the midge down and buggers him. The audience laughs at this humiliating human-on-subhuman midge rape. They are in on the joke that is Warwick's life, career, and very existence. Then the stranger returns wearing... gold capped boots. Yes, the handsome stranger melted down the Oscar, the symbol of Warwick's success and talent, into the boot caps. The stranger just takes a few steps and catches him with the full force of his gold capped toe under the midge's chin, sending that faggot flying through the air. Coughing and wheezing and chocking on his own blood, his jaw a mangled mess of bones detached from the rest of his skull, Warwick looks up at the stranger as he laughs. His eyes are searching, begging him for mercy. He finds none. A boot is raised, it stomp down, and Warwick's skull is split like a melon, finally ending his pathetic life. The audience erupts into a thunderous applause over the REAL best performance of the year.
Jaxon Phillips
I'd tie a starving pitbull to a rusted, grounded pipe in a small, barred enclosure, maybe 2x2x2 meters, then I'd throw Warwick Davis in there. The key to the exit will be just out of arm's reach. He'll dislocate his shoulder trying to grab it, his nails will fuse to the concrete floor inches away from the key, but it won't be enough. The pipe will give, hour by hour, minute by minute, the pitbull's unceasing snarling and barking a ticking clock for Warwick. He will beg. He'll plead. I'll leave the room and come back with a bucket of old chicken and make like I'm gonna throw it at him only to stop short. He'll scream "NO, PLEASE!" I'll do it again and he'll shriek his little midget shriek as he flinches. More like a rat's cry. Bored, I finally unleash the chicken pieces upon him. The rusted pipe bends, dirt kicking up. Warwick hurls himself at the exit, reaching with his non-injured arm for the key, screaming unintelligible midgetese at me. A clink rings out, galloping paws. Warwick barely has a second to scream as his eyes meet mine. The back of his neck is torn out by the pitbull.
Isaiah Lewis
MIDGE
Colton Moore
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.
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.
Jace Rodriguez
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.
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.
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.
Warwick Davis is not a real man! Allow me to explain. 6 years ago I was hired to do some carpentry work on the set of a movie being made in the backwoods of Georgia. My crew and I were tasked with building a house which would be burnt down at the end of the movie. The job seemed to be pretty straightforward until my buddy started pointing out weird things about the floor plans. Secret rooms, a hidden tunnel, peep holes in the walls, just a lot of weird stuff. We figured ok whatever they maybe needed these things for the story or something. So we go about building this house. Halfway through this black limo pulls up to the set and Warwick Davis pops out. He runs right up to me and starts screaming. "You idiot! You retard! These nails are iron they should not be iron!" And I remember he touched the nail and it seemed to burn him. Now that was really odd. He went around inspecting all the corners in the house. Specifically the corners. At this point I was legitimately spooked. It just didn't feel right. But the money was so good. My buddy and I stayed late trying to get the job done so we could get away from this place. It was at exactly midnight that we heard a howling sound coming from the woods right by the house.
I grabbed the glock from under my truck seat and when I turned around I saw him. Warwick Davis. Pail as a ghost with red glowing eyes. He opened his mouth and inhuman sound poured out. I fired off a couple rounds but they seemed to pass right through him. I yelled to my friend but he didn't respond. I had no choice but to leave him. I drove straight home, packed, and moved across country that night. I never heard from my friend again.
Sometimes I look at the news in the areas around that place. A couple small towns. There are always reports of missing children and pets.
Isaiah Edwards
>women will sleep with a deformed half creature for money wow, im shocked
Hunter Cook
MIDGE
Alexander Hughes
Stop that.
Jaxon Hall
lmao butthurt incel detected.
Leo Thompson
i would literally rather be a sexless, lonely man, using my hand and onaholes than be a midget, even a famous one
I'm here with Warwick right now and you guys should be fucking ashamed. He's a human, just like you and me. He's telling me to hand over the keyboayou fuckers can rot fucking rot in hell wanker fucking cunts i was born this way and you are all fuckless virgin cunts if i could shrink you down youd fucking die id have your fucking guts for garters
try fucking off
Dylan Allen
He isnt half the men these people are honestly....he’s more like a quarter! But for real, he doesn’t deserve death...that would be too swift and who would want to see his misery end so soon. We all wish to live in those precious moments of life for even just a minute more and I think it would be fair to torture this wretched scumbag for as long as possible. Warwick is cursed and we are the cure
