#gunge

Round of last 14

Liam scholes vs olly rhodes

This time is differant both boys have no clue when the vote is done out of no where they get messy and will get their punsiment where ever they are

Liam

Olly

Totally missed the opportunity when the new movie came out to do a topical post

Liam scholes vs olly rhodes

This time is differant both boys have no clue when the vote is done out of no where they get messy and will get their punsiment where ever they are

Liam

Olly

Charlie behan vs oscar curtis

Charlie’s at the nightclub with his mates. Bass shaking the floor, drinks sloshing, everyone shouting over the music.

His phone buzzes.

`YOU WON. LAST EIGHT SECURED.`

Charlie glances at it, smirks, and holds it up. “Lads. I’m in.”

They go mental. Someone pours beer over his head. Charlie just laughs, wipes it off, and gets back to dancing. No stress. 3-win streak. He’s riding high and the night’s still young.

Meanwhile Oscar’s at the restaurant. Candlelight. Trying to look smooth.

He’s been talking about himself all night. “I’m amazing. I’m the best left. Baby Oscar was ages ago”

The girl opposite him rolls her eyes.

A waiter wheels over a pie cart and stops at their table.

The waiter looks right at Oscar.

“Word is, you lost. Before the guys pick you up for your personal punishment… the whole restaurant gets to mess you up. And we’ve heard you talk all night. So we really want to.”

Oscar opens his mouth.

_SPLAT._

Custard pie straight to the face.

He splutters.

_SPLAT._

Another one.

_SPLAT. SPLAT. SPLAT._

People at other tables are already standing up with plates. The waiter keeps firing. Custard in his hair, down his shirt, on the table.

The girl films it all.

Oscar’s sitting there dripping, while the whole restaurant gets ready for their turn.

His messy downfall starts before the guys even arrive.

The custard’s still dripping down Oscar’s face when someone from the next table stands up.

“Oi! Baby Oscar!”

_CRACK. SPLAT._

Raw egg hits him right in the forehead. Yolk runs down into his eyes.

Another one. _SPLAT._

And another. _SPLAT._

The whole restaurant joins in. Eggs flying from every direction.

Oscar’s on his feet now, shielding his face. “STOP IT—”

Doesn’t matter.

Someone grabs a bottle.

_SQUIRT._

Ketchup all over his shirt. Red streaks down the front like he’s been hit.

_SQUIRT._

More ketchup. In his hair.

_SQUIRT._

Then the cheese sauce comes. Warm. Thick. Poured right over his head. It globs in his hair and slides down his back, mixing with the egg and custard and ketchup until he’s just a mess.

The restaurant’s laughing, filming, cheering. The girl’s still recording.

Two guys in black show up at the door. “Oscar Curtis?”

Oscar turns, dripping, smelling like a bin.

“Yeah. It’s time. Personal punishment.”

They grab him by the arms. Drag him out past the tables, past the mess, past everyone clapping.

The restaurant gets its turn. Now it’s his turn.

They drag Oscar out the back of the restaurant still dripping custard, ketchup, egg and cheese. The car ride stinks. No one talks to him.

*The Field*

Middle of nowhere. Floodlights on. Mud underfoot.

Two crew members grab him and shove his bare feet into wooden stocks. _Click._

He’s stuck. Barefoot. Toes all out.

Oscar’s trying to look tough. “This is nothing—”

A girl steps forward with a feather.

She runs it under his left foot.

Oscar jerks. “Oi— ha— STOP—”

He laughs.

_WHOOOSH._

Bucket of gone-off milk dumps over his head. Cold. Sour. Runs down into the stocks.

The crowd cheers.

Another feather. Other foot.

Oscar squirms. “Don’t you— hahaha— GET OFF—”

He laughs again.

_SPLAT._

Bucket of rotten eggs this time. Shells and all. Sticks in his hair.

Every laugh = a bucket.

Custard. Stale gravy. Sour fish paste. Mud.

He’s trying not to laugh but the tickling won’t stop and the smell is making him gag.

Feet wriggling in the stocks, covered head to toe, bare toes still getting hit every time he cracks up.

His personal punishment has officially started.

The buckets stop. Oscar’s just sitting there in the stocks, dripping. Milk, egg, gravy, mud all caked together. He smells rank. His bare feet are still twitching from the tickling.

One of the crew steps up with a clipboard. “Right. Personal punishment, phase 2.

Time for you to become Baby Oscar again.”

Oscar’s eyes go wide. “No. No no I’m not—”

Doesn’t matter.

They unlock the stocks. He stumbles out, barefoot and slipping in his own mess.

Two people grab him and march him to a table. On it: a massive white onesie. Frilly. With “BABY OSCAR” printed across the front in big pink letters. Next to it, a bonnet. And booties.

“Put it on.”

Oscar shakes his head. “I’m not wearing that—”

_SPLAT._

Another bucket. Cold baby food. Carrot and apple. Right over him.

“Put. It. On.”

Shaking, humiliated, he peels off his ruined clothes. The onesie goes on. It’s tight, wet, and squeaks. The bonnet gets tied under his chin. Booties on his bare, stinky feet.

Someone holds up a mirror.

Baby Oscar is back.

The crowd pulls out their phones. The girl from the restaurant is there too, still filming.

“Smile for the camera, Baby Oscar.”

He doesn’t. But his lip wobbles anyway.

Phase 2 complete.

HUMAN CAKE TIME

The crew wheel out a massive round table. On top: a giant cake base. Sponge. Frosting. Sprinkles.

In the middle, a dent shaped exactly like a person.

“Up you get, Baby Oscar.”

Oscar’s still in the frilly onesie, bonnet on, booties soaked. He tries to back away.

Two people grab him and lay him down in the dent.

Click.

Straps go over his chest, his arms, his legs. He’s stuck. Lying there like the filling.

First comes the cream.

FWOOOSH.

Whipped cream all over him. In his hair, in the bonnet, down the onesie. They smooth it with giant spatulas until he’s just a lump of white.

Then the jam.

SQUELCH.

Strawberry. Poured in lines over the cream. Drips into his ears.

Chocolate sauce next.

GLUG GLUG.

Warm and sticky, poured over his head. It runs down and pools in the sponge under him.

Sprinkles. Hundreds and thousands. Thrown by the handful until he’s completely coated and sparkling.

The final touch: a candle. Stuck right in the cream on his chest.

Someone lights it.

“Happy Punishment, Baby Oscar!”

Phones out. Flashes everywhere.

Oscar can’t move. Can’t wipe his face. Can’t do anything except lie there in the cake, steaming, sticky, and mortified while everyone takes photos.

Human cake is served.

LAST PUNISHMENT: 24 HOURS AS A SCARECROW

They cut him out of the cake. Sticky, half-dissolved onesie, frosting in places that should not have frosting.

“Time for the last one.”

They drive him out to a field. Middle of nowhere. One lonely post in the ground.

They strip the cake and mess off him, then dress him in rags. Burlap sack over his head with two holes cut for eyes. Straw shoved down the sleeves, down the legs, into the bonnet until he’s all lumpy.

Gloves on his hands. More straw.

Then they tie him to the post. Arms out. Legs apart.

A sign hammered in the dirt in front of him: SCARECROW. DO NOT FEED.

The crew set up the extras:

The pie cannon - aimed right at his chest. Loaded and on a timer.

The snot pie - big, green, and gloopy. On a pulley above his head.

Then they leave.

Hour 1: Birds find him.

Plop. Right on the sack.

Plop. On his shoulder.

Plop plop. Down his chest.

24 hours of it.

Hour 3: THWOOMP.

Pie cannon. Custard pie straight to the gut.

Hour 7: SQUELCH.

Snot pie tips. Cold, thick, green. Pours all over his head. Runs down the burlap, into the straw.

And that’s it.

No one comes. No one talks to him.

Just him, the birds, the cannon, and the dripping pie.

24 hours.

When the crew finally come back to cut him down, he’s a soggy, smelly, bird-pooed scarecrow with straw falling out everywhere.

Baby Oscar’s punishment is done.

He has to wear the baby outfit to work tho for a year hes baby oscar forever now

Next match up tommow

https://www.gungemadstore.com/store/wheel-of-wam-13/

Such thick slimy goo

Oscar curtits vs Charlie behhan

This time is differant both boys have no clue when the vote is done out of no where they get messy and will get their punsiment where ever they are

Oscar

Charlie

Pierre moullier vs owen warner

Owen is at the gym

Owen’s mid-set. Dumbbells down. Sweat dripping. Headphones in.

His phone buzzes on the bench.

Text from unknown number:

*_"OWEN WARNER. You won

YOU ARE THROUGH TO THE QUARTER

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t react.

Just picks the dumbbells back up. One more rep. Then another.

Trainer: "You alright mate?"

Owen: _rack the weights* "Yeah. Still got work to do."

He walks to the showers. Phone stays face-down on the bench.

No celebration. No post. Just the same cold focus.

Meanwhille Pierre’s fast asleep. Snoreing. Little farts.

Smelly bare feet hanging off the bed. Pink gunge milkshake cup knocked over on the floor.

Phone buzzes on the nightstand.

*BZZZ BZZZ*

Text from unknown number:

*_"PIERRE MOULLIER.

YOU LOST THE VOTE.

YOUR PUNISHMENT STARTS NOW."

He doesn’t even stir. "Mmmfhh... five more minutes..."

_CLUNK_

A pipe above the bed opens.

*SPLAAAAATCH*

Thick green snot-like gunge. Cold. Stringy. Abd sticky

It pours all over him. Head to toe. Pillow. Duvet. Everything.

Pierre jolts awake. "WHA— PHTH— IT’S IN MY MOUTH"

He’s sitting up, dripping, hair plastered down. Gunge in his ears, in his nose, sliding off his toes.

He looks like a human boogie.

Pierre just stares at the ceiling,

Pierre’s still sitting there dripping green snot-gunge.

Then the whole bed _lurches_.

_CLICK-CLUNK_

The mattress drops out from under him.

*"WHOA—"*

Trap door.

He falls straight through.

*FWOOOSH*

He lands hard.

But not on the floor.

He lands in something soft, warm, and long.

It’s a giant hot dog bun.

Pierre is the sausage.

He sits up, covered in green gunge, inside the bun. It’s sticky and warm against his skin.

Above him: a ceiling full of pipes. Dozens of them.

Labels on each one.

*KETCHUP*

*MUSTARD*

*CHEESE SAUCE*

*MAYO*

*RELISH*

*ONIONS*

A voice echoes:

*"HUMAN HOT DOG TIME.

*THE POURING*

*KETCHUP*

The pipe opens.

Thick red ketchup pours out. Cold and sticky. It hits his head first, then runs down his face, into his ears, down his chest. It pools in the bun around him. Smells sharp and sweet.

*MUSTARD*

_HISSS_

Bright yellow mustard sprays next. Straight into his eyes.

He chokes. It’s grainy and burns. More of it globs onto his shoulders and gets tangled in his hair.

*CHEESE SAUCE*

_GLOOOOP_

Hot cheese sauce.

It comes down in one thick wave over his back. It steams when it hits the ketchup. Sticks to his skin and to the bun. The smell is heavy and sour.

*MAYO*

_SPLORP_

Big cold plops of mayo drop onto him. On his arms. On his legs. It coats the cheese and ketchup, turning everything pale and slimy.

Now he’s sitting in the bun completely covered. Red, yellow, white, all of it sliding off him and soaking the bread.

The pipes drip. Sauce drips off him onto the bun.

Pierre doesn’t move. He just lays there in the bun, a human hot dog.

Two guys in aprons come in. They don’t say anything.

They just grab the edges of the bun with Pierre in it and lift.

_SQUELCH_

Sauces drip everywhere as they carry him.

They dump the whole bun onto a flat moving cart. Wheels squeak.

Pierre’s stuck in it. Ketchup and cheese and mayo all sliding to one side.

The doors open.

Outside. Sunlight. Noise.

They’re pushing him down the street toward the local fete. People turn and stare.

The cart bumps over pavement. More sauce sloshes onto him.

They hit the fete entrance.

A group of kids spot him first.

One kid runs up with a bag.

_PFFT_

Dry dog food pours right onto Pierre’s face. It sticks in the ketchup and mustard. Crunchy bits in his hair, in his ears.

Another kid kneels down.

"Tiny toes!"

Fingers go straight to his bare feet.

Pierre jerks and twitches but he’s glued in by cheese. The kids just giggle harder and tickle more.

A third kid shows up with a bucket.

_SPLASH_

Cold baked beans. Over his head. They mix with the mayo and run down into the bun.

Someone else throws a handful of soggy chips. They land on his chest and stick.

The guys pushing the cart don’t stop. They just keep rolling him past the stalls, past the candy floss, past everyone filming on their phones.

Pierre’s covered in sauces, dog food, beans, chips. His toes are still getting poked.

The cart keeps moving toward the middle of the fete.

The cart screeches to a stop.

Right in front of them: six big tubs lined up on the fete field. Each one steaming, sloshing, or squirming.

A sign above reads *"THE SIX TUBS OF DOOM"*

The guys lift the bun with Pierre still in it and drag him to the first tub.

*TUB 1: BAKED BEANS*

_HEAVE_

They tip the bun forward.

Pierre slides out and lands face-first.

Hot baked beans. Thick tomato sauce. Whole beans hitting his face, going up his nose. It’s sticky and heavy and smells like sugar.

*TUB 2: CUSTARD*

They yank him up, dripping beans, and drop him in the next one.

Cold, thick custard. It coats everything. Fills his ears. Goes in his mouth when he gasps. Sweet and cloying. Now he’s beans AND custard.

*TUB 3: PEANUT BUTTER*

_SQUELCH_

This one’s the worst.

Warm peanut butter. It sticks to the custard and beans and won’t let go. Gets in his hair and hardens. Pulls at his skin when he tries to move. Smells nutty and gross.

*TUB 4: HONEY*

_GLOOP_

Golden honey pours over him as they drag him through.

It’s everywhere. In the peanut butter, in the beans. It’s stringy and slow and attracts flies immediately.

*TUB 5: FEATHERS*

They don’t drop him. They roll him.

A tub full of white and pink feathers.

They stick to the honey instantly. His whole body is now fuzzy. Feathers in his mouth, in the peanut butter, stuck to his eyelashes.

*TUB 6: MUD AND WORMS*

The last one.

They tip him in.

Cold mud. And it’s moving.

Worms squirming through it. Over his face. In the feathers. In the honey. In his mouth.

The mud is gritty and the worms are cold.

Pierre’s in the last tub. Completely covered. Beans, custard, peanut butter, honey, feathers, mud, worms.

The fete crowd is watching. Kids are pointing.

He tries to lift his head. A worm falls off his nose.

The guys haul Pierre out of tub six. He’s dripping mud, worms falling off him, feathers stuck everywhere.

They drag him across the fete to a big wooden frame.

*PAIR OF STOCKS*

_CLUNK_

They shove his head and hands through.

_CLICK_

Locked in. He can’t move. Just stuck there, covered in everything.

A crowd gathers.

From behind the tent, two clowns roll out a trolley. It’s stacked high with pies.

Clown 1 has a red nose and squeaky shoes.

Clown 2 is honking a little horn.

*THE PIES*

*CREAM PIES x 33*

_FWAP_ _FWAP_ _FWAP_

First wave. White whipped cream smashes into his face. Gets in his eyes, his hair, mixes with the mud. Cold and fluffy. The clowns are laughing, throwing them fast.

*CUSTARD PIES x 33*

_SPLORCH_ _SPLORCH_

Yellow custard pies next. Hot and thick. They hit his chest and slide down, mixing with the cream and the peanut butter from before. It runs down into the stocks.

*SNOT PIES x 17*

_GLOORP_

Green. Stringy. Smells awful.

These ones are wobbly and cold. They land on his head and slowly slide down his face. Some of it gets in his mouth. The crowd groans.

*MANURE PIES x 17*

_THUD_

Brown. Heavy.

The last ones. They smell like a farm in summer. They hit him and break apart, bits falling into his hair, down the front of him, onto the ground.

100 pies total.

The clowns bow. The trolley is empty.

Pierre’s just there in the stocks. Covered in cream, custard, green snot, manure, plus everything from the tubs underneath.

A fly lands on his nose.

He can’t even wipe it off.

The clowns unlock the stocks.

_CLICK_

Pierre slumps forward. Still dripping everything.

Clown 1 grabs him by the arm. Clown 2 holds up a big red clown suit. Oversized shoes, floppy pants, polka dot shirt. All of it smells like old circus tent.

They strip the muddy mess off him and shove him into the outfit.

It sticks to the sauce and peanut butter underneath.

Red wig. Big floppy hat. White face paint over the gunk.

Clown 1 honks the horn right in his ear.

*"WELCOME TO THE CIRCUS, STINKY BOY!"*

He’s theirs now. For a year.

*SLAPSTICK YEAR FROM HELL - THE LINEUP*

*1. CANNON*

_BOOM_

They stuff him in a cannon in the clown suit.

Shoot him across the fete field. He lands in a net full of whipped cream. Then they tip the net.

*2. GUNGE TANK*

Every Friday.

A trap door opens under him on stage.

_SPLASH_

Green snot gunge, blue slime, purple goo. Different each week. He pops up wearing a rubber chicken hat.

*3. ELEPHANT DUNG*

The circus elephants’ pen.

They make him do a dance in it. Bare feet. The suit gets ruined. They hose him off after. Barely.

*4. CUSTARD TRUCK*

They drive past and someone leans out with a fire hose.

_WHOOOSH_

Hot custard. Covers the whole front row too. Pierre’s just standing there taking it.

*5. FEATHER MACHINE*

Giant fan + barrel of feathers.

_FWOOOSH_

They turn it on while he’s doing a tightrope. He comes down looking like a drowned chicken.

*6. BULLSEYE*

They put a target on his chest.

Kids throw wet sponges. Then tomatoes. Then water balloons filled with baked beans.

*7. TREADMILL OF DOOM*

He has to run in those big clown shoes.

While the floor sprays oil. Then soap. Then dog food.

*8. PIE WALL*

10 clowns. 200 pies. One Pierre.

They don’t stop until the trolley’s empty. Cream, custard, snot, manure, all of it.

*9. THE ELEPHANT TRUNK*

On his birthday.

The elephant picks him up by the pants and drops him in the dung pile again. Twice.

He lives in a tiny trailer behind the big top now.

Smells like gunge and feathers and peanut butter forever.

Every day: new mess, new pie, new fall.

Clown 2 pats him on the back. Leaves a handprint of custard.

*"ONE YEAR, STINKY BOY!"*

Pierre is in for a slapstick year from hell

Next match up tommow