Death in the Family

For those of you who don't know, my rat Penelope died of unknown causes on August 26th. That's all.

Update No.2

Quote, ride, and guitar are changed. I think they're all perfect, especially the quote. (Xenophon is an awesome name)

Bob Ch.1, again.

Sorry I tried to edit Ch.1, and it disappeared. But, here it is again. Ch.2 is below this post.

Bob the final conflict, Pt. 1

Chapter one

When Bob glanced at the dense foliage where the rustling came from, his gut did a few calisthenics, and sat down, trembling from the exertion. The blond hair on the back of neck stood up, stiff as a cadaver, quivering with excitement. The words of Bob’s Grandmamma Lena came rushing back: “Always trust your gut, Robert. Heed his advice above all others’. Unless, of course, it would be the hair on the back of your head’s.” Bob was getting the same message from both organs: RUN!

Bob ran, his fuzzy and distressingly chartreuse bunny slippers pounding the moist loam of the deciduous forest, his face torn with the daggers of fierce bramble, his hands deflecting Hoochletmuffin-Tree trunks, their dark cubic leaves and hot pink fruit raining down on him.

Bob looked back feverishly, to find that mist had obscured the forest behind. The full moon had been masked by dark clouds. Bob’s pace quickened to a full out, fear-fueled sprint, his red cape flowing out behind him dramatically, exposing his violently violet corduroy bellbottoms and “VOTE FOR PEDRO” T-shirt.

He heard a vicious keening evocative of a craven banshee, and a ravenous growling, reminiscent of a starved coyote, accompanied by snorting, roaring, barking, scraping, shrieking, hissing, whooping, cheeping, screaming, and burping redolent of various other organisms. Once or twice Bob saw disgustingly contorted black shapes through the billowing smog that was following him as fast as the multi-lingual horror was. Bob now had a firm conviction that a pack of many depraved beasts pursued his person now.

While running through the seemingly endless forest, red fungi rushing by with un-fungal speed, vegetation and rock also hurrying past at an exotic haste, Bob drew his trusty .38 Sig Sauer magnum from his orange hemp belt and grabbed his loyal serrated, double edged, hand brushed titanium knife with the ebony hilt. He spotted a stout Frogbane tree in the distance, and steeled himself for the fight to come.

He arrived at the yellow tree, and instead of dodging it he applied his back firmly to the smooth bark and let loose two flashing bullets.

Due to the ravenous evil that closed on him presently, he was prevented from shooting a third.

Bob Ch.2

Ok, people. Here's the second chapter of Bob, The final conflict Pt.1 Mr. Fluff-butt can read it now. Enjoy!

Chapter two

When Bob recovered his consciousness, he first noticed that, contrary to popular belief, and (it seemed) demand, he was fully, unequivocally, gloriously alive, and that realization, the thought that he was truly animate instead of half digested, blinded him to the fact that his right leg had been chewed off brutally, and that his pancreas was woefully absent, though no clear mark, wound, or scar existed on his abdomen, an important detail that led him to speculate, for one wild moment, that he never had a pancreas (come to think of it, he wasn’t sure what a pancreas was.)

Bob sat up, and was immediately greeted with a rushing pain emanating from his starboard thigh. He looked at his stump and suddenly felt a terrible loss. His favorite leg was gone. He started to cry, mainly from the pain, but the feeling he got when he looked at the empty space where a valuable appendage used to be definitely contributed to the intensity of his sobs. Once he was done weeping, he looked around. He was sitting in that same wood, and bright morning sun was filtering through the trunks and leaves, creating beautifully dappled patterns of green and yellow on the leaf litter and vegetation. Bob was momentarily awed by the splendor, but then his soldier-sense kicked in. He immediately searched for his weapon, and found it fully loaded and clean. His knife was stuck into the ground beside him, shinier than it had ever been. His garb seemed like it had been dry cleaned, and his right pant leg had obviously been rolled up before the monsters had chewed his extremity off.

Bob wondered where he would go from here. He had stopped hurting miraculously, and he felt completely normal. He was not bleeding, though it seemed that he hadn’t at all, a very peculiar thing, considering that his whole leg had become a meal only a while ago. He sat there thinking about strange It All was, and would have probably kept on thinking if he had not notice what looked like a neatly scrawled missive pinned to his left (duh!) slipper. Bob picked it up, relishing the feel of linen paper beneath his fingers. It looked like it had been written with thick India ink, quite possibly with a quill.

Bob suddenly stopped slobbering over a note, and read. I enjoyed our little game, Bob. Your leg was very good grilled with a mint-lemon sauce. Next time, I’ll eat your entire person. Sincerely, Hugh. P.S. You owe me for dry cleaning your clothes and cleaning your weapons. I thought it the least I could do, have chewed your leg off, but undoubtedly you’ll be all ungrateful and stuff, and try to kill me. I wouldn’t advise it, but there you are. Human nature is not to listen. P.P.S. The Cyborg leg is on me. I thought it would be more sporting to let you walk.

Bob crumpled the note. Anger filled his mind. First, he missed his leg. Second, the note was very confusing, rambling over several different and not altogether lucid subjects as it did. Third, he hated people named Hugh. Fourth, this Hugh character seemed a very slippery and arrogant guy. Fifth, the letter mentioned a Cyborg leg, something that perplexed poor Bob even further. And sixth, it made no mention of a pancreas, and that threw doubts and yet more uncertainty at Bob. Had he ever had one? If so, where was it? How the heck did he know it was gone? If he knew it was gone, then it surely had to have been sometime, right? If he never had, a pancreas, how had he lived thus far? And again, What in blue blazing barbecued barnacles was a pancreas?

Bob concluded that no, he never had a pancreas just to settle his mind.

He scooted backward until his back met a tree, and leaned against it wondering what he would without a leg. By the end of his wondering he was quite depressed, because he realized that he could not go anywhere quickly. Bob, having hunted these woods before, knew that immobility spelled death because of the large packs of Northeastern Roaming Creepclimbers and numerous Bulky Hairless Flesh-Eating Slime-Panthers the forest supported. Bob picked up his gun and laid it on his lap, stroking it. It was a comfort thing.

Bob sat stroking for an hour, and then realized he was hungry. He supposed he should look for a berry bush or some kind of edible tuber. He decided he rather have the berries. He sheathed his knife, and put his gun in his pocket, and got down on his belly, ready to crawl like a worm, when he felt his remaining foot hit against something hard, and definitely non-organic. He turned around cumbersomely, still on his stomach, and looked. There was a largish black case near the tree he had been leaning on.

Bob turned over so that he was once again seated, and picked the box up. He listened for a ticking time bomb. Having heard no ticking, he tapped it in various places to see if there was a mechanism that would expel a poisonous gas if opened the container. There was no audible irregularity, so Bob opened.

He first saw a packet of antiseptic powder, which he opened and rubbed into his wound. Under the disinfectant was a Cyborg leg! Complete with assembly and attachment instructions! Bob quickly read the manual and directions, and simply fit the Nerve-O-Receptotron socket onto his stump and screwed in the Multiple-Tite-Fit©-Fastening screws, primed the triple Calibrating Orbs, and stood up. His new leg moved lithely and naturally, and when he rolled his pant leg down (his bunny slipper was already on it), he could barely tell it was mechanical. He kicked out at a sapling, and it snapped in two easily, the Patent-Applied-For-Carbon-Fiber-Pressure-Absorbing-Octobonds disposing of all shock, so his leg was undamaged.

Bob was whole again. He stood, and started to run. In minutes he found a clear brook to drink from, and had filled himself with berries.

It was afternoon now, and the sun was orange and warm. He found a shady, Fuzz Moss clump and lay down, his hunger gone and thirst quenched. He lay for a few moments, and started dozing. In an hour, the forest was dim, and Bob was fast asleep.

Bob was in very deep sleep, not twitching or murmuring. He slept like the large granite boulder he rested by, a fact that was not lost on a particularly fearsome female Hairless Slime-Panther.

Announcement

Everyone, don't say my real name for security reasons. There are presently four countries after me for various illegal enterprises, and if they knew you knew me they would surely kill you. Just FYI. Just call me Peacefinger, or The Finger, or Fingo-rama, or Finginator, or Peace-ola, or Your Imperial Awesome Illustrious Royal Highness Master-of-Everything, Sir, or whatever. Just not my real name, got it?

Quote

I love the quote for this week. Check it out. I've removed the featured article thing, because I realized that no one cares.

Update

Ride and guitar are changed.

I'm back

And I've got a new trick. It's been a long while since a wrote a real post, but since none of you weasels give a hoot in Hanover, it's cool. I've been busy moving and doing sweet summer nothings. Our new house ROCKS. The Finger, over and out.

Malfunction

Sorry, I can't the featured guitar um... feature to work. It has been objectively removed.