retardedfaggot
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Mar 15, 2026
is this dude still alive
🗑️ Trashfire StyxHexenhammer666 / Tarl Warwick - Oddball Occultist Neckbeard (who can make some interesting content) + his many scorned exes
- Thread starter Randall Fragg
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Leylon Sneed
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Nov 5, 2025
Yeah he's just retreated to Twitter. I haven't checked recently, but his "I had a stroke, lol" video had some pretty brutal comments. I guess the
icon refers to people who give money to rumble, but there's different colors and I don't know what those indicate. The rook is locals members, not sure if it is user specific where that turns up, there's a crown which is a rumble creator account, and the shield is a mod. I could have sworn there was a lightning bolt too, but maybe I'm just hallucinating.Oh, you mean that guy, not Styx?
Last edited:
- Joined
- Oct 9, 2018
I told you guys this thread is haunted!
Since Tarl is posting his poo-poo peepee fanfics, I figured I'd get in on the competition with my own entry, Adventures With Stolas: The Shitpost. Feel free to tell me I'm gay and rate me autistic, etc.
Tarl Warwick lay on his stomach on his twin bachelor's bed, his tricorne hat drooping forward over his eyes, kicking his legs behind him fretfully. The room was empty but for soiled linens, overflowing ashtrays, and empty wine boxes, and yet Tarl spoke anyway.
"Why has it come to this, Stolas? I did everything that you ASKED!" His voice quivered with high-pitched emotion and wine.
There was a fluttering sound, and the shadow of a bird cruised eerily across the grimy, yellowed walls of Castle Warwick. The stale air was charged with a new energy. The room was empty, and yet--there was still a certain presence there. Warwick sat up, adjusting his battered hat on his stringy locks.
"So, you've returned," Tarl lisped dramatically, craning his skinny neck around, but there was never anything to see. A shadow writhed on the wall behind him, then subsided.
"Stolas, why did you take my tooth?" Tarl broke out angrily. He waited for a response, like a ghost hunter collecting EVPs.
He did not have long to wait. Suddenly, from across the still room, a curled and yellowing stack of junk mail perched upon a tower of dirty paper plates and plastic forks collapsed, creating an avalanche of paper and detritus that slid to the floor. Tarl waited patiently until the dust sifted down and the roaches found new hiding places. A single tattered piece of paper had fluttered to the ground, right next to his cracked vinyl boot. Tarl picked it up.
It was a faded and grimy flyer from Tennybrook Farms.
Tarl crumpled up the flyer in his fist and threw it on the ground angrily as he jumped to his feet.
"NIKKI!" he howled, shaking his skinnyfat arm at the ceiling. His tricep jiggled furiously. There was another rushing sound of spectral wings, and the lights flickered as the shadows on the walls of Tarl's room lengthened and danced. Tarl sat down quickly, lest Stolas express his displeasure in a more carnal way.
A single feather floated down from the ceiling. Tarl did not see it manifest out of the ether, so he couldn't say for sure that it didn't come from the dilapidated down pillow that the Warwicks used for a dog bed. It hovered, crystalline, under the cracked ballast of the single overhead light in Tarl's room for a moment, then slowly settled diagonally over the Tennybrook Farms flyer. Tarl considered Stolas' message thoughtfully.
"So, you're saying I should sacrifice Nikki to you, oh Stolas?" Styx asked hopefully. In answer, a strong wind blew through the room, knocking Styx's pirate hat to the floor, revealing his pink pate, the barren crown of his head which had been cleverly hidden by the hat. Three red, oozing scratches materialized on his exposed scalp. Tarl cringed like a bitch, cowering and covering his head with his spindly arms.
"All right, all RIGHT! I'll try again!" he whined, huffing irritably. There was a moment of silence, crackling with anticipation.
"You want me to attack Tennybrook Farms and hit the rotisserie chickens with my flail," Tarl guessed. There was a cacophony of thunder, and the lights dimmed. The whole house rattled and shook as if struck by lightning.
Tarl threw himself to the floor in terror as a loud CRACK sounded just above his head. It reminded him of the time he almost shot Samantha with his Glock, but this was much louder than any handgun that he'd ever misfired.
Dust sifted down from the Warwick rafters, along with a gentle pattering of loose, peeling paint chips and dislodged spiders. Warwick's thinning, stringy hair was dusted in white plaster particles by the time the room settled. Warwick cleared his throat.
"I don't know what to do, oh Stolas. Tell me what to do" he admitted, quite humbly. It was the first comprehensively true thing that Tarl Warwick had ever said aloud in his life, and the implications made him cringe inside. Tarl knew, now, that he'd never mastered Stolas. Instead, he himself was mastered BY Stolas. The Master had become the slave. He bent his head in anguish and grimaced.
As Styx considered his plights, a triangular shape near the corner of the room caught his eye. It was a souvenir NY Giants pennant, its once vibrant blue and white colors soiled and faded to a nearly uniform gray. As he pondered on the mystery of where the pennant had come from and how it had made its way to Rutlandtown and Castle Warwick, a single russet baking potato dislodged itself from the top of the pile of moldering artifacts stored in the corner and rolled down, coming to rest on top of the NY Giants pennant.
Tarl frowned, scratching his patchy goatee and sucking thoughtfully at his remaining front tooth as he stared at the pennant and the potato, still trying to absorb its message.
"I don't understand, O Stolas," he admitted, shrugging his shoulders impotently. This time, the clap of thunder came from inside the room. Tarl was thrown through the air backwards as if he'd been punched in the gut. His garments flapped in a graceful tracery of tattered pirate leather and grimy terrycloth bathrobe as he flew through the air. It looked kind of cool until Tarl landed in a pile of unwashed cum socks and ruptured wine cartons. A frenzied cloud of fruit flies rose around him as he lay winded and gasping on the floor.
Tarl noted that the world looked a lot different from his new perspective of groveling on the floor of his hovel. Ordinary things, familiar things, somehow looked different as he clawed his fingers through the tangled mildew-gold shag carpet that graced the floors of Castle Warwick. He looked upwards just as his grail-quality licensed Helluva Boss collectible Stolas talking action figure fell from his bookcase and landed on his bed.
There was a fluttering of wings and a mechanical grinding sound coming from the bed as Tarl crawled over on his belly like a worm, abasing himself to Stolas all the way. Gingerly, he pushed up on his elbows and peeked over the edge of the bed to inspect Stolas' message, sent through HIS Emissary, the Helluva Boss action figure.
The action figure lay on its back, waving its injection-molded arms and legs feebly. Styx impulsively pulled the round rubber handle and string embedded in the doll's back because he is a child.
"YOU ARE FUCKING RETARDED, TARL WARWICK!" boomed a low-pitched Satanic voice, as the string reeled in. Styx let out a low cry and dropped the doll, trembling.
The doll made a whirring, grinding sound, and its arms rose out straight in front of its chest, much like Frankenstein's monster. Suddenly there was a Pop! and the figure's two molded fists disengaged from the arms. Two sharp spikes sprang out of the flying fists as they hurtled across the room and embedded themselves in Tarl's exposed chicken chest. Blood began to trickle down his scrawny pectorals from the twin dart wounds as the first shock ran through his body.
"DON'T TASE ME, BRO!" Tarl screamed, remaining teeth chattering, but the voltage didn't stop until Tarl pulled the doll's string again.
"KEEP PULLING THE STRING, PUSSY, OR I'LL SHOCK YOU SOME MORE," Stolas boomed. Tarl genuflected, weeping, with snot dripping down his face, streaking through the dirt and dust.
"Yes, Master," Styx snivelled, pulling the string again. Stiffly, the doll swivelled its plastic head to meet Tarl's eyes, its ruby orbs piercing his soul. Styx ground his teeth in terror, chipping a few.
"LOOK, TARL WARWICK, YOU ARE REALLY STUPID, SO I CAN'T COMMUNICATE USING SIGNS AND SIGILS LIKE I USUALLY DO WITH YOU WICCAN LOSERS. I'M JUST GONNA TELL YOU STRAIGHT. I WANT YOU TO GO TO NEW YORK AND STAY WITH THE WENCH MEL. HIDE YOUR POWER LEVEL, AND THE PRIVATEERS OF RUTLAND WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO CAPTURE YOU." The room went even colder as the speech went on.
Tarl pouted out his lower lip suddenly.
"But what if I don't want to leave Rutland? Castle Warwick is my home!" he retorted stubbornly. The lights dimmed and there was a crackling sound and a smell of frying bacon as Styx had the first real seizure of his life from the strength of the electrical current running through his body. In his violent thrashing, he wet his pants, but managed to pull the string of the doll again.
"THEN...YOU...WILL...DIE!!!" the doll roared, in a myriad of voices, high and low, that merged into one powerful howl of command.
"All right, all right, I'll go to Mel's," Styx whined in a hectoring voice, reaching for his bindle with its red polka dot kerchief, his staff to tie the bindle to (and to cast Fireball! with if he ever learned how to do it), and his greasy pirate hat. Just as he was ready to leave Castle Warwick forever, a small item flew out of the morass and struck him sharply between the eyes, breaking his glasses and drawing blood. It was a small glass jar of Louisiana Hot Sauce. Red trickles of blood and hot sauce combined and poured down into his eyes like red tears as he shrieked in pain. He tried to wipe the hot sauce from his eyes, but that only ground in tiny shards of glass from his shattered glasses and the broken Louisiana Hot Sauce bottle.Tarl was too felted to consider the message in Stolas' parting shot. He ran for the safety of Mel's basement cupboard that very day, without looking back, hoping to leave Rutland and Stolas behind forever.
THE END.
"Why has it come to this, Stolas? I did everything that you ASKED!" His voice quivered with high-pitched emotion and wine.
There was a fluttering sound, and the shadow of a bird cruised eerily across the grimy, yellowed walls of Castle Warwick. The stale air was charged with a new energy. The room was empty, and yet--there was still a certain presence there. Warwick sat up, adjusting his battered hat on his stringy locks.
"So, you've returned," Tarl lisped dramatically, craning his skinny neck around, but there was never anything to see. A shadow writhed on the wall behind him, then subsided.
"Stolas, why did you take my tooth?" Tarl broke out angrily. He waited for a response, like a ghost hunter collecting EVPs.
He did not have long to wait. Suddenly, from across the still room, a curled and yellowing stack of junk mail perched upon a tower of dirty paper plates and plastic forks collapsed, creating an avalanche of paper and detritus that slid to the floor. Tarl waited patiently until the dust sifted down and the roaches found new hiding places. A single tattered piece of paper had fluttered to the ground, right next to his cracked vinyl boot. Tarl picked it up.
It was a faded and grimy flyer from Tennybrook Farms.
Tarl crumpled up the flyer in his fist and threw it on the ground angrily as he jumped to his feet.
"NIKKI!" he howled, shaking his skinnyfat arm at the ceiling. His tricep jiggled furiously. There was another rushing sound of spectral wings, and the lights flickered as the shadows on the walls of Tarl's room lengthened and danced. Tarl sat down quickly, lest Stolas express his displeasure in a more carnal way.
A single feather floated down from the ceiling. Tarl did not see it manifest out of the ether, so he couldn't say for sure that it didn't come from the dilapidated down pillow that the Warwicks used for a dog bed. It hovered, crystalline, under the cracked ballast of the single overhead light in Tarl's room for a moment, then slowly settled diagonally over the Tennybrook Farms flyer. Tarl considered Stolas' message thoughtfully.
"So, you're saying I should sacrifice Nikki to you, oh Stolas?" Styx asked hopefully. In answer, a strong wind blew through the room, knocking Styx's pirate hat to the floor, revealing his pink pate, the barren crown of his head which had been cleverly hidden by the hat. Three red, oozing scratches materialized on his exposed scalp. Tarl cringed like a bitch, cowering and covering his head with his spindly arms.
"All right, all RIGHT! I'll try again!" he whined, huffing irritably. There was a moment of silence, crackling with anticipation.
"You want me to attack Tennybrook Farms and hit the rotisserie chickens with my flail," Tarl guessed. There was a cacophony of thunder, and the lights dimmed. The whole house rattled and shook as if struck by lightning.
Tarl threw himself to the floor in terror as a loud CRACK sounded just above his head. It reminded him of the time he almost shot Samantha with his Glock, but this was much louder than any handgun that he'd ever misfired.
Dust sifted down from the Warwick rafters, along with a gentle pattering of loose, peeling paint chips and dislodged spiders. Warwick's thinning, stringy hair was dusted in white plaster particles by the time the room settled. Warwick cleared his throat.
"I don't know what to do, oh Stolas. Tell me what to do" he admitted, quite humbly. It was the first comprehensively true thing that Tarl Warwick had ever said aloud in his life, and the implications made him cringe inside. Tarl knew, now, that he'd never mastered Stolas. Instead, he himself was mastered BY Stolas. The Master had become the slave. He bent his head in anguish and grimaced.
As Styx considered his plights, a triangular shape near the corner of the room caught his eye. It was a souvenir NY Giants pennant, its once vibrant blue and white colors soiled and faded to a nearly uniform gray. As he pondered on the mystery of where the pennant had come from and how it had made its way to Rutlandtown and Castle Warwick, a single russet baking potato dislodged itself from the top of the pile of moldering artifacts stored in the corner and rolled down, coming to rest on top of the NY Giants pennant.
Tarl frowned, scratching his patchy goatee and sucking thoughtfully at his remaining front tooth as he stared at the pennant and the potato, still trying to absorb its message.
"I don't understand, O Stolas," he admitted, shrugging his shoulders impotently. This time, the clap of thunder came from inside the room. Tarl was thrown through the air backwards as if he'd been punched in the gut. His garments flapped in a graceful tracery of tattered pirate leather and grimy terrycloth bathrobe as he flew through the air. It looked kind of cool until Tarl landed in a pile of unwashed cum socks and ruptured wine cartons. A frenzied cloud of fruit flies rose around him as he lay winded and gasping on the floor.
Tarl noted that the world looked a lot different from his new perspective of groveling on the floor of his hovel. Ordinary things, familiar things, somehow looked different as he clawed his fingers through the tangled mildew-gold shag carpet that graced the floors of Castle Warwick. He looked upwards just as his grail-quality licensed Helluva Boss collectible Stolas talking action figure fell from his bookcase and landed on his bed.
There was a fluttering of wings and a mechanical grinding sound coming from the bed as Tarl crawled over on his belly like a worm, abasing himself to Stolas all the way. Gingerly, he pushed up on his elbows and peeked over the edge of the bed to inspect Stolas' message, sent through HIS Emissary, the Helluva Boss action figure.
The action figure lay on its back, waving its injection-molded arms and legs feebly. Styx impulsively pulled the round rubber handle and string embedded in the doll's back because he is a child.
"YOU ARE FUCKING RETARDED, TARL WARWICK!" boomed a low-pitched Satanic voice, as the string reeled in. Styx let out a low cry and dropped the doll, trembling.
The doll made a whirring, grinding sound, and its arms rose out straight in front of its chest, much like Frankenstein's monster. Suddenly there was a Pop! and the figure's two molded fists disengaged from the arms. Two sharp spikes sprang out of the flying fists as they hurtled across the room and embedded themselves in Tarl's exposed chicken chest. Blood began to trickle down his scrawny pectorals from the twin dart wounds as the first shock ran through his body.
"DON'T TASE ME, BRO!" Tarl screamed, remaining teeth chattering, but the voltage didn't stop until Tarl pulled the doll's string again.
"KEEP PULLING THE STRING, PUSSY, OR I'LL SHOCK YOU SOME MORE," Stolas boomed. Tarl genuflected, weeping, with snot dripping down his face, streaking through the dirt and dust.
"Yes, Master," Styx snivelled, pulling the string again. Stiffly, the doll swivelled its plastic head to meet Tarl's eyes, its ruby orbs piercing his soul. Styx ground his teeth in terror, chipping a few.
"LOOK, TARL WARWICK, YOU ARE REALLY STUPID, SO I CAN'T COMMUNICATE USING SIGNS AND SIGILS LIKE I USUALLY DO WITH YOU WICCAN LOSERS. I'M JUST GONNA TELL YOU STRAIGHT. I WANT YOU TO GO TO NEW YORK AND STAY WITH THE WENCH MEL. HIDE YOUR POWER LEVEL, AND THE PRIVATEERS OF RUTLAND WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO CAPTURE YOU." The room went even colder as the speech went on.
Tarl pouted out his lower lip suddenly.
"But what if I don't want to leave Rutland? Castle Warwick is my home!" he retorted stubbornly. The lights dimmed and there was a crackling sound and a smell of frying bacon as Styx had the first real seizure of his life from the strength of the electrical current running through his body. In his violent thrashing, he wet his pants, but managed to pull the string of the doll again.
"THEN...YOU...WILL...DIE!!!" the doll roared, in a myriad of voices, high and low, that merged into one powerful howl of command.
"All right, all right, I'll go to Mel's," Styx whined in a hectoring voice, reaching for his bindle with its red polka dot kerchief, his staff to tie the bindle to (and to cast Fireball! with if he ever learned how to do it), and his greasy pirate hat. Just as he was ready to leave Castle Warwick forever, a small item flew out of the morass and struck him sharply between the eyes, breaking his glasses and drawing blood. It was a small glass jar of Louisiana Hot Sauce. Red trickles of blood and hot sauce combined and poured down into his eyes like red tears as he shrieked in pain. He tried to wipe the hot sauce from his eyes, but that only ground in tiny shards of glass from his shattered glasses and the broken Louisiana Hot Sauce bottle.Tarl was too felted to consider the message in Stolas' parting shot. He ran for the safety of Mel's basement cupboard that very day, without looking back, hoping to leave Rutland and Stolas behind forever.
THE END.
- Joined
- Aug 31, 2022
9/10, would read more.
retardedfaggot
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Mar 15, 2026
I had to use AI to summarize that
- Joined
- Aug 31, 2022
Living up to your name there, buddy?
- Joined
- Jun 19, 2019
Depends on what you mean by "alive".
- Joined
- Jul 10, 2017
He's a Vampirate. It's an especially embarassing form of undead that brings shame on all who who know of it.
- Joined
- Sep 17, 2023
The corned beef is OK. Not quite as weak as I would have expected to simmer on the lowest setting overnight, but the salt is strong, the broth is not very good- I only used beef broth- no vege stock in this one. It just tastes kind of plain. Would have been better with some stout, or possibly even some Worcestershire sauce.
- Joined
- Oct 7, 2024
I lost it.
Better than anything Tarl has ever written and far more interesting. Would read Chapter 2: the Styx under the stairs.
- Joined
- Dec 26, 2025
He has severe and malignant NPD. He is unable to stream right now without doxxing his location, which will lead to him being swatted and arrested. Using a green screen is too high-tech and high-effort.
The only content he has besides clicking through X news stories to regurgitate other people's news is to post complete xxx-rated peeepeeepooopooo gore to solicit negative attention engagement like a 12-year-old boy with parents who ignore him.
retardedfaggot
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Mar 15, 2026
I hope Styx is okay. He's the light the world needs right now in these dark days
- Joined
- Feb 5, 2025
Good news everyone! He's alive (barely). I know you were all worried.
In his latest video he explains the origin of the peepeepoopoo rape gore stories. He was punishing a woman for asking him to follow rules (Thank god he cleared that up, I thought it was going to be something weird).
In his latest video he explains the origin of the peepeepoopoo rape gore stories. He was punishing a woman for asking him to follow rules (Thank god he cleared that up, I thought it was going to be something weird).
Leylon Sneed
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Nov 5, 2025
Last edited:
retardedfaggot
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Mar 15, 2026
damn this dude is goooooooooooone
- Joined
- Aug 22, 2022
Spoke too soon. To be fair, every time he posts his short stories via Twitter, everyone tells him to "seek help" or something else negative ("turn yourself in").
It must've been worse than I thought for him to make a video.
Godmode
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Apr 30, 2023
You call that writing? No one shoved vegetables or fruit into their asshole! No cocks got ripped off and slapped anyone in the face. I give it 2 tricorne hats out of 10 on the Tarl-o-meter..
retardedfaggot
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Mar 15, 2026
HIS CORTISOL IS SPIKING
HE'S LISPING
HE'S SPLATTERPUNKMAXXING
HE'S LISPING
HE'S SPLATTERPUNKMAXXING
- Joined
- Feb 5, 2025
He probably just passed out on top of it. But my headcanon is that it tumbled off his head while he was stumbling around New York drunk and a car ran over it.