Elfin: Hey memo, remember that time you left #finalfight for ever and
never, ever came back because no one likes you and you stink like shit?
Eschelon: Oh boy, those were the days.
* Eschelon is now known as memo
Elfin: Yeah, good times.
Exdeath: And then you set out on an expedition to the frozen North to find memo and bring him back.
Exdeath: You had to eat five sled dogs, if I remember correctly.
Elfin:
No, I didn't actually. Becuase no one likes memo, and no one would
rescue him. In fact, I wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire. Don't
tell him I said that, though.
memo: That was right after we took
the photos of you masturbating an antelope and printed out a bunch to
sell them on street corners for ten cents, if I remember.
memo:
What we really should have done -- and I'm still kicking myself for not
thinking of this at the time -- is locked you into a cage with an
antelope and travelled the countryside with the circus so you could
masturbate it for a live audience. We'd get much more than ten cents a
head that way.
memo: Oh well, live and learn.
Elfin: You always think of these things too late.
Exdeath: I can imagine the billboards now.
Elfin:
I can think of the billboards too! We could advertise it as 'The
World's Biggest Cunt!' and all the men come along, thinking they're
going to see a gaping vagina, but instead the curtains part to reveal
memo, standing on a small dais. Technically, it's not false advertising.
Exdeath: You have to make him take his pants off, though.
Elfin: Good idea. Two for one sort of deal. 'World's Biggest Cunt' and 'World's Smallest Dick' together under one roof!
memo: I'm considering this offer but I want to make sure I get a fair cut of the profits and sole rights to endorsement deals.
Exdeath: You could have a line of decorative mugs.
memo:
Last time I did a World's Biggest Cunt tour the fucking thieves cited a
contract clause entitling them to 60% of my Mountain Dew deal. We're
not having that shit here.
Elfin: memo, you know I wouldn't screw you in a business deal. You're the cunt, you get most of the proceedings.
Exdeath: DON'T BELIEVE HIS LIES
Elfin: Well I never.
Exdeath: HE WILL STAB YOU AND BEAT YOU AND RAPE YOU AND LEAVE YOU NAKED AND SHIVERING IN A SLUM ALLEYWAY
memo: What, a fifth time? I'm sure he's bored of it by now.
Elfin:
I have believed in memo as a genuine cunt for years, Exdeath, and you
come along and just think you can break the bond that he and I share?
Exdeath: But if you stab him again it'll flare up his illness.
Elfin:
Perhaps the two of you could do a comedy duo routine, as 'Cunt &
Asshole'. The tagline could be 'One's full of shit, and the other is a
bit fishy, but their comedy is golden!'
memo: Come along with us as "Useless Fucking Shithead" and I think we've got a deal.
Thursday 5 September 2013
You Stupid Asshole. (Originally published 19/07/2005.)
There aren't enough awards, or awards ceremonies
in life. The actors get their little statues, the war veterans get their
medals, and hopelessly non-athletic children get special ribbons for
coming eighth in a race, because children suck. But for your everyday,
middle-of-the-road, apathetic fuckwit, awards are few and far between,
so I've decided to give random people the coveted 'YOU STUPID ASSHOLE'
award, whenever I think someone deserves it.
The first recipient of this most prestigious award goes to the fucking clown who annoyed me this morning, while I was on my way to work. As the train pulled into the station, myself and about 20 other commuters made ready to disembark. The doors opened, and lo and behold, there's a some trained monkey in a suit, making his way onto the train as we're all trying to get off it. Obviously, the train was going to leave before he had a chance to get on it, so he forces his way through the people trying to get off, shoving me sideways in his attempt.
The woman to my right actually stumbled and fell as this guy muscled through, and it was only with the quick reactions of some hairy dude that she didn't fall over/backwards/into another person/underneath the fucking train.
Congratulations buddy, you must have accrued negative karma equal to being hit in the face with a spade. YOU STUPID ASSHOLE.
The first recipient of this most prestigious award goes to the fucking clown who annoyed me this morning, while I was on my way to work. As the train pulled into the station, myself and about 20 other commuters made ready to disembark. The doors opened, and lo and behold, there's a some trained monkey in a suit, making his way onto the train as we're all trying to get off it. Obviously, the train was going to leave before he had a chance to get on it, so he forces his way through the people trying to get off, shoving me sideways in his attempt.
The woman to my right actually stumbled and fell as this guy muscled through, and it was only with the quick reactions of some hairy dude that she didn't fall over/backwards/into another person/underneath the fucking train.
Congratulations buddy, you must have accrued negative karma equal to being hit in the face with a spade. YOU STUPID ASSHOLE.
The Metroid Disaster (or, wtf? where do u find bom pwr-up?/) (Originally published 14/07/2005.)
(I wrote this a number of years ago, initially
intending for it to be a follow up to my 'How To Kill Vampires' article
on the Amazing Friends section of Solidsharkey.com. For one reason or
another, this never came to fruition. I came across this a few days ago,
and have posted it for your viewing pleasure, if you can call it that.)
'The Metroid Disaster'
The top ranking members of the Federation were all gathered around the boardroom table, all of them quietly engaged in small talk. Cigar smoke wafted through the air, and the sound of ice cubes rattling inside glasses could be heard. Scientists, generals, engineers, doctors, all at the tops of their respected fields, had been gathered here, onboard the massive space cruiser 'Firebird', to discuss the actions of one man.
Michael F. Gilliput.
Michael had been drafted over 3 years earlier to design the B.S.L Space Station, where the Galactic Federation would continue to conduct research on the lifeforms known as 'Metroids'. A multi-billion dollar installation, no expense was to be spared by the Federation to utilise the talents of the galaxies best designers. This was where Michael came in. Over ten years ago, he had designed the space cruiser known as 'The Titanica', a massive vessel that was to be the equivalent of the ill fated ship that hit an iceberg and sunk into the depths, hundreds of years ago. The ship was a success, and Michael became the most sought after space architect in the galaxy. When the Federation heard about Michael's architectural triumphs, they immediately drafted him for this top secret mission.They left him to his own devices, and gave him free reign over the Federation's team of engineers, so that he could maximise the efficiency and strength of the new installation. So much confidence was invested in Michael, that the space station was built without the top brass even seeing the plans.
Then, things started to go wrong.
Reports came flooding back to Federation HQ every day, from scientists stating that the space station was impossible to work in. Engineers and builders were dying every week. Power outages were uncomfortably common. And so this meeting was called.Seated before the assembled professionals was Michael, a former shaow of himself. Dark circles ran under his eyes, and a five o'clock shadow had run rampant and become a 10 o'clock tangle. Reeking of cheap brandy, Michael was a sad sight. A tough, burly looking seargent stood up, his erect, proud stance making Michael cringe. The seargent's dark eyes regarded Michael with contempt, and when he spoke, his words dripped with barely disguised disgust.
'Mr. Gilliput', spoke the seargeant,' do you know why you are here today?'
'Because you're lonely?' quipped Michael, hoping a joke might ease the tension in the room.
No one laughed.
'No, Mr Gilliput. I suspect you know the real reason for your incarceration. And if you do not, I will tell you.' The gruff seargeant picked up a holograpic clipboard in fron of him and stared at it for a few minutes, his eyes never blinking. All the other eyes in the room were fixed solely on Michael's bedraggled form.
'Mr. Gilliput, are you or are you not responsible for the design of the B.S.L Space Station?
''I designed it sir, yes.' said Michael.
'Then this is the reason you sit before us today. To answer the many questions we have about your unforgivable actions. Your current state speaks volumes about the way you feel about your predicament.' said the seargeant.
Michael nodded, wiping a hand across his face.'Are you able to tell me, Mr. Gilliput, why you thought that this design would provide optimum safety and comfort to the people who lived and worked onboard the B.S.L Space Station?'
Michael stared at the floor, his hands trembling. 'I... uh... I-I'm not sure, sir.
''Are you able to tell me, Mr. Gilliput, why you thought it would be wise to design vertical shafts as a means of accessing other parts of the installation? And why these vertical shafts had randomly placed ledges down it's length?'
Michael wrung his hands together, but said nothing, his gaze concentrating on the floor near the seargeant's feet.
'I saw these shafts with my own eyes, Mr. Gilliput. Some of them extended straight down for approximately half a mile, with only a small room at the bottom. And in these rooms were strange contraptions with the legend 'Save Room' inscribed above them. What in God's name is a 'Save Room', Mr. Gilliput?'
Again, Michael said nothing.
'I was also unfortunate enough to take a tour the other parts of the installation. I can understand the need for a cold storage room, Mr. Gilliput, but I cannot see how a room filled with lava is useful to anyone. Let alone a room filled with god damn lava that I have to cross by hanging from the ceiling like some kind of damn monkey!'
Michael put his hand to his mouth and began to chew on a fingernail.
'Feeling nervous, Mr. Gilliput?' said the seargeant, sarcasm dripping from his words. 'Good. I want you to understand how annoyed I am at having to have visited your sorry excuse for a 'space station'.
'The seargeant sat down, and a General stood up to take his place. 'I too had the misfortune of visiting the B.S.L facility, and by God Mr. Gilliput, you will pay for what happened. I lost eighteen good men that day, due to your complete and utter negligence! Your utter disregard for human life! Do you know what it's like to bury your men, and then try to tell their wives that you're sorry?!
'Tears dripped slowly down Michael's cheeks. 'I'm sorry! I'm sorry!' he cried, pleading with his hands. 'I didn't think they'd b-build it! It was meant to be an experim-'.
'EXPERIMENT?!,' shouted the General. 'An experiment! So this is why you designed these ridiculous hallways. Three of my men died crossing one of your 'hallways'. I suppose you thought it would be amusing to have random holes in the ground, all filled with electrified water? Did you think it would be funny to design rooms with ledges and doors that could only be reached with a grappling hook and a mile of rope? Or maybe you thought it'd be a laugh riot to create important rooms that can only be accessed by running as fast as you can at the wall?'
While the General was shouting at him, Michael had sunk to the floor, his sobbing making his body convulse. He was a mess of tears and snot, and he kept repeating the same words over and over again. 'I'm sorry'.
'Your tears will earn you no pity here, Mr. Gilliput. We shall not be swayed by the tears of a man who designed rooms that can only be accessed by standing in the area of a detonating bomb so that the floor caves in. We shall show no pity to the disgusting human that designed retarded rooms that can only be accessed by somersaulting into the wall. There will be a place reserved for you in hell, Mr. Gilliput; the man who created a space station with no apparent place to go to the toilet'.
The General sighed, looking at the wretched figure on the floor. 'However, Mr. Gilliput, for even the worst of men there can be redemption.'
Michael looked up the General through tear-stained eyes, hope daring to enter his heart. "Y-y-you'd give me a second chance?'
'One chance, Mr. Gilliput, one chance' replied the General. 'Forgetting the fact that you designed the worst space installation in recent memory and cost the Federation upwards of 94 billion dollars, The Federation has discussed the matter and decided that only and architect as insane as yourself would be fit to design the Federation's new project.'
'Which is?' asked Michael, a thankful smile showing on his face.
'Boulder Dash Fun Park'.
'The Metroid Disaster'
The top ranking members of the Federation were all gathered around the boardroom table, all of them quietly engaged in small talk. Cigar smoke wafted through the air, and the sound of ice cubes rattling inside glasses could be heard. Scientists, generals, engineers, doctors, all at the tops of their respected fields, had been gathered here, onboard the massive space cruiser 'Firebird', to discuss the actions of one man.
Michael F. Gilliput.
Michael had been drafted over 3 years earlier to design the B.S.L Space Station, where the Galactic Federation would continue to conduct research on the lifeforms known as 'Metroids'. A multi-billion dollar installation, no expense was to be spared by the Federation to utilise the talents of the galaxies best designers. This was where Michael came in. Over ten years ago, he had designed the space cruiser known as 'The Titanica', a massive vessel that was to be the equivalent of the ill fated ship that hit an iceberg and sunk into the depths, hundreds of years ago. The ship was a success, and Michael became the most sought after space architect in the galaxy. When the Federation heard about Michael's architectural triumphs, they immediately drafted him for this top secret mission.They left him to his own devices, and gave him free reign over the Federation's team of engineers, so that he could maximise the efficiency and strength of the new installation. So much confidence was invested in Michael, that the space station was built without the top brass even seeing the plans.
Then, things started to go wrong.
Reports came flooding back to Federation HQ every day, from scientists stating that the space station was impossible to work in. Engineers and builders were dying every week. Power outages were uncomfortably common. And so this meeting was called.Seated before the assembled professionals was Michael, a former shaow of himself. Dark circles ran under his eyes, and a five o'clock shadow had run rampant and become a 10 o'clock tangle. Reeking of cheap brandy, Michael was a sad sight. A tough, burly looking seargent stood up, his erect, proud stance making Michael cringe. The seargent's dark eyes regarded Michael with contempt, and when he spoke, his words dripped with barely disguised disgust.
'Mr. Gilliput', spoke the seargeant,' do you know why you are here today?'
'Because you're lonely?' quipped Michael, hoping a joke might ease the tension in the room.
No one laughed.
'No, Mr Gilliput. I suspect you know the real reason for your incarceration. And if you do not, I will tell you.' The gruff seargeant picked up a holograpic clipboard in fron of him and stared at it for a few minutes, his eyes never blinking. All the other eyes in the room were fixed solely on Michael's bedraggled form.
'Mr. Gilliput, are you or are you not responsible for the design of the B.S.L Space Station?
''I designed it sir, yes.' said Michael.
'Then this is the reason you sit before us today. To answer the many questions we have about your unforgivable actions. Your current state speaks volumes about the way you feel about your predicament.' said the seargeant.
Michael nodded, wiping a hand across his face.'Are you able to tell me, Mr. Gilliput, why you thought that this design would provide optimum safety and comfort to the people who lived and worked onboard the B.S.L Space Station?'
Michael stared at the floor, his hands trembling. 'I... uh... I-I'm not sure, sir.
''Are you able to tell me, Mr. Gilliput, why you thought it would be wise to design vertical shafts as a means of accessing other parts of the installation? And why these vertical shafts had randomly placed ledges down it's length?'
Michael wrung his hands together, but said nothing, his gaze concentrating on the floor near the seargeant's feet.
'I saw these shafts with my own eyes, Mr. Gilliput. Some of them extended straight down for approximately half a mile, with only a small room at the bottom. And in these rooms were strange contraptions with the legend 'Save Room' inscribed above them. What in God's name is a 'Save Room', Mr. Gilliput?'
Again, Michael said nothing.
'I was also unfortunate enough to take a tour the other parts of the installation. I can understand the need for a cold storage room, Mr. Gilliput, but I cannot see how a room filled with lava is useful to anyone. Let alone a room filled with god damn lava that I have to cross by hanging from the ceiling like some kind of damn monkey!'
Michael put his hand to his mouth and began to chew on a fingernail.
'Feeling nervous, Mr. Gilliput?' said the seargeant, sarcasm dripping from his words. 'Good. I want you to understand how annoyed I am at having to have visited your sorry excuse for a 'space station'.
'The seargeant sat down, and a General stood up to take his place. 'I too had the misfortune of visiting the B.S.L facility, and by God Mr. Gilliput, you will pay for what happened. I lost eighteen good men that day, due to your complete and utter negligence! Your utter disregard for human life! Do you know what it's like to bury your men, and then try to tell their wives that you're sorry?!
'Tears dripped slowly down Michael's cheeks. 'I'm sorry! I'm sorry!' he cried, pleading with his hands. 'I didn't think they'd b-build it! It was meant to be an experim-'.
'EXPERIMENT?!,' shouted the General. 'An experiment! So this is why you designed these ridiculous hallways. Three of my men died crossing one of your 'hallways'. I suppose you thought it would be amusing to have random holes in the ground, all filled with electrified water? Did you think it would be funny to design rooms with ledges and doors that could only be reached with a grappling hook and a mile of rope? Or maybe you thought it'd be a laugh riot to create important rooms that can only be accessed by running as fast as you can at the wall?'
While the General was shouting at him, Michael had sunk to the floor, his sobbing making his body convulse. He was a mess of tears and snot, and he kept repeating the same words over and over again. 'I'm sorry'.
'Your tears will earn you no pity here, Mr. Gilliput. We shall not be swayed by the tears of a man who designed rooms that can only be accessed by standing in the area of a detonating bomb so that the floor caves in. We shall show no pity to the disgusting human that designed retarded rooms that can only be accessed by somersaulting into the wall. There will be a place reserved for you in hell, Mr. Gilliput; the man who created a space station with no apparent place to go to the toilet'.
The General sighed, looking at the wretched figure on the floor. 'However, Mr. Gilliput, for even the worst of men there can be redemption.'
Michael looked up the General through tear-stained eyes, hope daring to enter his heart. "Y-y-you'd give me a second chance?'
'One chance, Mr. Gilliput, one chance' replied the General. 'Forgetting the fact that you designed the worst space installation in recent memory and cost the Federation upwards of 94 billion dollars, The Federation has discussed the matter and decided that only and architect as insane as yourself would be fit to design the Federation's new project.'
'Which is?' asked Michael, a thankful smile showing on his face.
'Boulder Dash Fun Park'.
The Infinite Dream of a Shopping Centre. (Originally published 07/07/2005.)
It's infinite because there will always be an
infinite amount of assholes to shop at one. I went to one today, and
forgot that we are in the middle of a school break. Lo and behold,
fifteen thousand children, off from school and spending their hard
earned pocket money, that their parent just seem to give them in
abundance. When I was a kid, I was given enough money for a bag of
lollies, and a kick up the arse. These kids are buying $50 brand name
label clothes, and parading around like show-ponies.I ventured into the
Food Court, to get something mildly edible, and was confronted with an
unwashed sea of filth, all vying for their allowance of fucking
McDonalds and KFC, stuffing their children with the grease of ages like
it's a fucking family tradition.
Having bought a reasonably healthy salad roll, I began my hunt for a seat amidst the crowd. Motioning to my fiancee that I had found an adequate abode for our eating, I was beaten by some fat, whore-like mother and her fat, fucking hateful children to my selected seat. She was like a vulture swooping in on it's prey. It was truly horrendous, the way her fat ass squeezed into the seat I had selected, and her kids tore asunder the film surrounding their greasy prize.I spat on them, and selected another seat.
I spent the rest of the day in 'man-stance', which is the position assumed by men in women's fashion stores while waiting for their other half. It consists of standing in one spot, arms crossed, and eyeing the other women in the store, and gauging how fat they are, or, how likely they are to take up the offer of a quick one in the change rooms.
Having bought a reasonably healthy salad roll, I began my hunt for a seat amidst the crowd. Motioning to my fiancee that I had found an adequate abode for our eating, I was beaten by some fat, whore-like mother and her fat, fucking hateful children to my selected seat. She was like a vulture swooping in on it's prey. It was truly horrendous, the way her fat ass squeezed into the seat I had selected, and her kids tore asunder the film surrounding their greasy prize.I spat on them, and selected another seat.
I spent the rest of the day in 'man-stance', which is the position assumed by men in women's fashion stores while waiting for their other half. It consists of standing in one spot, arms crossed, and eyeing the other women in the store, and gauging how fat they are, or, how likely they are to take up the offer of a quick one in the change rooms.
Dreams. (Originally published 01/07/2005.)
Last night, I had a dream where my father owned a
large bookstore. I would help him out from time to time, and on the
particular day of my dream, there was a single mother browsing the
shelves, while her 2 year old kid toddled around breaking shit and
wiping snot onto expensive books.The majority of the dream played out
like a cheap-ass Disney film, filled with pissweak hijinks as I ran
around the store, trying to catch the kid, as the little shit would
always surprise me by magically appearing on top of a book shelf and
comically pissing on my head while I shook my fist in anger.
The odd part started when my father, the owner, started shouting at people to 'get the fuck out of the store', and ushering people to the exit with a steel cricket bat. He was angry because no one was buying books, and that only paying customers could stay. This left the aisles empty, but a cafe full of pretentious wankers drinking decaf choco-mocha-chacha-fucking-lattes and all agreeing that women's rights were shot to all hell in China.That's when the kid popped up on a table, and I lunged to grab it. It cackled maniacally at me, but I moved forward too fast, and knocked it off the table. It fell directly onto it's face, into a bowl of yoghurt. I picked the kid up, and removed the bowl. The yoghurt was gone, and the kids head had twisted into a fucking demon visage. It had massive fangs, and screamed at me. It yanked the bowl out of my hands, which now had holes in it, and stuck it on it's face.
The little bastard now looked like Jason Fucking Voorhees, and I ran for my life, while it cut at people's shins with a bread knife. I seem to recall most people fleeing in all directions, and one bright spark leaping through a plate glass window. It started to chase me, and the the dream suddenly changed, and I was in a bikini, standing on top of some sewerage pipes, which were suspended 50 feet above a river.
Hmmm.
The odd part started when my father, the owner, started shouting at people to 'get the fuck out of the store', and ushering people to the exit with a steel cricket bat. He was angry because no one was buying books, and that only paying customers could stay. This left the aisles empty, but a cafe full of pretentious wankers drinking decaf choco-mocha-chacha-fucking-lattes and all agreeing that women's rights were shot to all hell in China.That's when the kid popped up on a table, and I lunged to grab it. It cackled maniacally at me, but I moved forward too fast, and knocked it off the table. It fell directly onto it's face, into a bowl of yoghurt. I picked the kid up, and removed the bowl. The yoghurt was gone, and the kids head had twisted into a fucking demon visage. It had massive fangs, and screamed at me. It yanked the bowl out of my hands, which now had holes in it, and stuck it on it's face.
The little bastard now looked like Jason Fucking Voorhees, and I ran for my life, while it cut at people's shins with a bread knife. I seem to recall most people fleeing in all directions, and one bright spark leaping through a plate glass window. It started to chase me, and the the dream suddenly changed, and I was in a bikini, standing on top of some sewerage pipes, which were suspended 50 feet above a river.
Hmmm.
Where Did You Get Those Scars?
Is a question I get asked on a semi-regular basis. My forearms are cris-crossed with scars, most a pink-red colour. The majority of people are to embarrassed to ask, but some people have no such qualms. Frankly, I don't really care if they ask or not.
However, the old saying that you should 'never let the truth get in the way of a good story' is too hard to resist, so when people ask 'where did you get those scars', I often just make up a story on the spot. A nice, simple answer is 'From Target. They were 25% off', but it's more enjoyable to see their expression when I tell them some utter bullshit. Here, then, is a recent story I made up.
'When I was a kid, I grew up in a small Dorset village called Tillsbury, in the south of England. It was pretty rural, I guess, at least as rural as you can be in Britain these days. I wasn't very popular with the local kids, I think mainly because of my French accent. Anyway, one day, I was at the park, and some kids came over and asked if I wanted to play a game. Always eager to be accepted, I hastily agreed, and we went down to Caemlyn River, which was really just a large stream.
There were more kids there, and one of them said that his father had recently been to Mexico on a business trip, and had brought him back a capybara. I said that that was pretty awesome, even though I had no idea what a capybara was. The kid went on and said that it had escaped from its cage and was hiding in the trunk of an oak, a few hundred feet downstream.
Apparently, most of the other kids had been to scared to try and fish it out, and would I be interested in having a go?
Naturally, I jumped at the chance, and they led me down to a massive tree by the side of the water. Bored into the trunk was a hole, the interior made dark by the canopy of leaves above us. As forbidding as it seemed, I was so desperate to be one of the gang, I instantly shoved my hands in, to try and find whatever this capybara creature was.
Of course, there was no such thing, and the kids had simply filled the hole with dog shit, which my searching hands found rather quickly. The smell hit me instantly, but I put on a brave face and kept my hands in the hole, while the kids began to laugh.
As they stood there laughing and jeering, I wondered how I was going to get out of this situation with any kind of dignity. That's when the pain started. I remember screaming and trying to pull my hands out of the trunk, the smell of dog shit invading my nostrils. My hands were held fast, however. It felt like something was trying to eat my arms, and my attempts to pull free only caused more pain.
After what seemed like an eternity, whatever creature hid inside that dark hole released me, and I pulled out my tattered arms, blood running like a river onto the ground around me. I held my arms out for help, towards the gathered kids, but they just screamed and ran. I must have passed out then, because the next time I awoke, I was in the hospital. And these scars are what remain of that day'.
However, the old saying that you should 'never let the truth get in the way of a good story' is too hard to resist, so when people ask 'where did you get those scars', I often just make up a story on the spot. A nice, simple answer is 'From Target. They were 25% off', but it's more enjoyable to see their expression when I tell them some utter bullshit. Here, then, is a recent story I made up.
'When I was a kid, I grew up in a small Dorset village called Tillsbury, in the south of England. It was pretty rural, I guess, at least as rural as you can be in Britain these days. I wasn't very popular with the local kids, I think mainly because of my French accent. Anyway, one day, I was at the park, and some kids came over and asked if I wanted to play a game. Always eager to be accepted, I hastily agreed, and we went down to Caemlyn River, which was really just a large stream.
There were more kids there, and one of them said that his father had recently been to Mexico on a business trip, and had brought him back a capybara. I said that that was pretty awesome, even though I had no idea what a capybara was. The kid went on and said that it had escaped from its cage and was hiding in the trunk of an oak, a few hundred feet downstream.
Apparently, most of the other kids had been to scared to try and fish it out, and would I be interested in having a go?
Naturally, I jumped at the chance, and they led me down to a massive tree by the side of the water. Bored into the trunk was a hole, the interior made dark by the canopy of leaves above us. As forbidding as it seemed, I was so desperate to be one of the gang, I instantly shoved my hands in, to try and find whatever this capybara creature was.
Of course, there was no such thing, and the kids had simply filled the hole with dog shit, which my searching hands found rather quickly. The smell hit me instantly, but I put on a brave face and kept my hands in the hole, while the kids began to laugh.
As they stood there laughing and jeering, I wondered how I was going to get out of this situation with any kind of dignity. That's when the pain started. I remember screaming and trying to pull my hands out of the trunk, the smell of dog shit invading my nostrils. My hands were held fast, however. It felt like something was trying to eat my arms, and my attempts to pull free only caused more pain.
After what seemed like an eternity, whatever creature hid inside that dark hole released me, and I pulled out my tattered arms, blood running like a river onto the ground around me. I held my arms out for help, towards the gathered kids, but they just screamed and ran. I must have passed out then, because the next time I awoke, I was in the hospital. And these scars are what remain of that day'.
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