The year is 2033. The world is blanketed in chaos, as the war between man and machine heads toward a frighteningly close nuclear finale. Grown men cower with their women and children, hiding from the soulless creatures that move silently through the night. However, there is one who walks through the huddled masses, unafraid of the robot killers, instilling hope in all he meets. The world knows him as General “Gene” Snitsky, humanity’s last chance in The War To End All Wars. This is his story.
“I have a job to do.” The gruff yet monotone voice echoed throughout the warehouse basement. Unlike most basements, however, this one is made of 3,000 tons of stainless steel and titanium, contains a multitude of high-radiation areas, and has surveillance systems covering every centimeter within 4 miles of the building. Before the hard times hit, the building also had Guinness on tap. Now, only Pabst Blue Ribbon flows through the slowly corroding pipes, but this is not the time for drinking.
“Sir, you’ve established that. But I don’t see how traveling back in time to 2004 helps us in anyway. The machines will use their warheads anytime now, and the window for a preemptive strike is closing more with each passing hour. With all due respect, General, we need you here.” This type of insubordinate backtalk would normally be met by Snitsky’s stiff right hand, but Jeff Hardy was never afraid of taking risks. While not always the smoothest of performers, as Second-in-Command he knew the General better than anyone; one could argue that he existed simply to inspire him. Now around 60 years old, Hardy also knew the stakes were greater than ever, and that he had to ensure things ran smoothly and without error. Yes, at times the very fate of the world rested on Jeff Hardy not blowing spots.
General Snitsky paused for a moment and looked at Jeff’s face, the middle-aged man’s neon green streaks illuminating the near-darkness. Why was there a blacklight in the time machine room anyway? He turned around and put his hands on a nearby table, palms flat as he bowed his head and leaned like a runner unable to catch his breath after a sprint. A heavy sigh escaped his lips; he never thought that, at 28, he would have to explain to a middle-aged former pro wrestler why he was responsible for the downfall of the entire human race. Rubbing his chin, he gathered himself and faced his right-hand man. Yes, he did have a job to do. First the truth, then the sacrifice.
“Jeff, I’m…I’m not who you think I am. You see, you’ve known me for what, 10 years? And to you, I’ve always been General, I’ve always been Snitski. But I haven’t always worn this uniform and these tags…” He gripped the metal around his neck and stood entranced by the inscribed letters. Although it was only ten seconds, when he continued his voiced seemed ten years older. “These tags haven’t always said ‘Snitsky.’ They used to say…” He paused again, this time deliberately. He turned away again, closed his eyes, and lifted his head skyward.
“Jeff, my name used to be…” He swallowed, fighting to say the word. “Kane. I'm the son of the man who murdered your brother."
“I have a job to do.” The gruff yet monotone voice echoed throughout the warehouse basement. Unlike most basements, however, this one is made of 3,000 tons of stainless steel and titanium, contains a multitude of high-radiation areas, and has surveillance systems covering every centimeter within 4 miles of the building. Before the hard times hit, the building also had Guinness on tap. Now, only Pabst Blue Ribbon flows through the slowly corroding pipes, but this is not the time for drinking.
“Sir, you’ve established that. But I don’t see how traveling back in time to 2004 helps us in anyway. The machines will use their warheads anytime now, and the window for a preemptive strike is closing more with each passing hour. With all due respect, General, we need you here.” This type of insubordinate backtalk would normally be met by Snitsky’s stiff right hand, but Jeff Hardy was never afraid of taking risks. While not always the smoothest of performers, as Second-in-Command he knew the General better than anyone; one could argue that he existed simply to inspire him. Now around 60 years old, Hardy also knew the stakes were greater than ever, and that he had to ensure things ran smoothly and without error. Yes, at times the very fate of the world rested on Jeff Hardy not blowing spots.
General Snitsky paused for a moment and looked at Jeff’s face, the middle-aged man’s neon green streaks illuminating the near-darkness. Why was there a blacklight in the time machine room anyway? He turned around and put his hands on a nearby table, palms flat as he bowed his head and leaned like a runner unable to catch his breath after a sprint. A heavy sigh escaped his lips; he never thought that, at 28, he would have to explain to a middle-aged former pro wrestler why he was responsible for the downfall of the entire human race. Rubbing his chin, he gathered himself and faced his right-hand man. Yes, he did have a job to do. First the truth, then the sacrifice.
“Jeff, I’m…I’m not who you think I am. You see, you’ve known me for what, 10 years? And to you, I’ve always been General, I’ve always been Snitski. But I haven’t always worn this uniform and these tags…” He gripped the metal around his neck and stood entranced by the inscribed letters. Although it was only ten seconds, when he continued his voiced seemed ten years older. “These tags haven’t always said ‘Snitsky.’ They used to say…” He paused again, this time deliberately. He turned away again, closed his eyes, and lifted his head skyward.
“Jeff, my name used to be…” He swallowed, fighting to say the word. “Kane. I'm the son of the man who murdered your brother."
by gokujont @ Gamefaqs.com October 6, 2004
Get the Gene Snitsky: Time Travelermug. Ryan Gosling is the epitome of good genes in good jeans; he could get it every day and twice on Sunday.
by RCL37 May 26, 2014
Get the Good Genes in Good Jeansmug. A more defined version of "don't breed" and "kill yourself." However, the insult can be interpreted in different ways.
by zcarter644 September 20, 2016
Get the Drop out of the gene poolmug. Jackson: So you're down to bang tonight?
Lucy: No, I don't ever wanna bang you. Keep your genes in your jeans buddy.
Lucy: No, I don't ever wanna bang you. Keep your genes in your jeans buddy.
by poopyhands88 May 11, 2019
Get the Keep your genes in your jeansmug. A made up movie title that people in the Bridgeport neighborhood of Chicago invented during the 1940s
Person One: What pictures did you see at the double feature last night?
Person Two: Champion and Who Shit In Gene Autry's Bag?
Person One: Haha
Person Two: Champion and Who Shit In Gene Autry's Bag?
Person One: Haha
by El Bimbo December 14, 2010
Get the Who Shit In Gene Autry's Bag?mug. The sexiest man ever in the existence, he has a 20 inch penis and will penetrate your mother if he ever seen her
by TheGoatOfCrossmaglen March 4, 2024
Get the Gene Duffymug. Again... If THIS ☝️has been what's happening... And society is collapsing or deteriorating... Then how can you make the claim that the best genes are reproducing?
Hym "Dual gene theory? Jesus Christ... 🤦 ♂️ No. 'The best genes' is clearly just a euphemism for 'fat cock'. Really. It's just... It's getting pathetic at this point. 'Women are trying to find the most competent man' or 'Women are looking for the best genes' give me a break. They want free money so that WORK is optional and to fund whatever enterprise they want to engage in. And they want a fat cock. In their pussy. But not ALL the time. Cervical orgasm wears off after a while, remember? No Cervical orgasm and what are you left with? Just the piece of shit useless retard. Like the cripple! Or Tyrone!"
by Hym Iam April 24, 2023
Get the Dual Gene Theorymug.