"Your ass is grass,"
A short story
In a land, far to the east, in a crap hole on the rim...
“Grampa, tell me a story,” asked the little Toasta, looking up at his elder with the doe eyes of a youth, hungry for excitement in the safety of his bed.
But Grampa Viscount’s eyes were troubled as he stood beside his little one. And when he spoke, his tone quivered just enough to give rise to a subtle fear in Toasta’s heart. For he had never known his Grampa to be frightened before. Never, before this night.
“Many months ago, there lived a race of curious folk, in the lands of K35 and 36, called The Undecided. Known for their insatiable hunger, these malicious beasts, while bloodthirsty, oft found themselves wandering in circles, afflicted with a disease of uncertainty and confusion. It would descend like a storm, and they would do nothing but eat everything around them in the haze of their nearsighted illness; devouring their neighbors with the appetite of a starved wolf, until there was nothing left. Lost in their hunger and confusion, they would gnash and howl until finally the storm would pass, and the screams of their victims once more could be heard all throughout the PnP’s.”
As Viscount spoke, lightning lacerated the night sky, and the bellowing thunder shook their modest Village Headquarters. Toasta ducked swiftly beneath his blankets, waiting for his grandfather to comfort him, to remind him that it is nothing but the rain; that he was just jumping at shadows. Yet no comfort came. In fact, as Viscount continued, his eyes had only grown more troubled.
“There has been a storm about, oh yes. And we have been safe for some time little one, but my old bones tell me that we cannot rest. As is true of all storms, it must soon pass.”
Trembling, Toasta's face surfaced from behind the safety of the blanket, his eyes and nose just barely visible in the shadows of dusk. “G-Grampa, is… is it true? I m-mean, they’d never come to us, I m-mean, we never fought nobody, so no one has r-reason to want to fight us, right?”
But Viscount just sighed. How naive his little one was.
“It is the promise of Christmas.”
“Christmas?” repeated Toasta, his voice lost. “That old story?”
“It’s more than a story, Toasta. It is a prophecy.”
Another crash of lightening, casting shadows throughout the room to dance and bob, before fading once more into the gloom, barely lit by candle light.
“It is said that when the monsters of the west grow full off their lands, the blessed storms would wash away, and they would become focused once more. It is then that they celebrate their holiday, their only holiday, Christmas. When the green is bathed crimson with blood, and they feast... When they unleash their secret weapon.”
Barely able to stand a moment longer, Toasta, all but whimpering, softly asked, “W-what is i-it Grampa?”
Casting a dubious glance out the window, Viscount pursed his lips, perhaps bracing his own heart to be strong enough to mutter the words that would follow. With a hardened look of resolve, he finally turned back to Toasta.
“It is written that the beasts will come east to celebrate their Christmas, and that they would unleash… their lawnmower!!”
Duh! Duh! Duuuuh!
Toasta screamed in horror, unable to comprehend the possibility of such a thing. And just then, the door burst open, as MJR rushed into the room.
“M’lord,” He gasped, clearly out of breath. “The storms have stopped! It is The Undecided, they are on their way here!!!”
“What of the frontline, is it stacked?” Viscount asked, alarmed.
“Yes milord, but… but I think they knew of our intentions to attack them! They knew we were preparing for war.”
Both sides prepared? Both aware in advance of the others intentions? It would be a long, drawn out war indeed.
Toasta shuddered, trying to comprehend the dawning horror of his reality. All of this was far too big for his youthful mind, yet he could do nothing but follow the ghastly conversation; clutching the safety of his favorite blanket.
“What of Dancing Bear?" pressed Viscount, "Surely he is ready?”
But MJR hung his head in despair. “He… he is gone milord.”
“What?!” Viscount was incredulous.
“When he heard, he defecated himself, and ran into the night screaming…”
Unable to say anymore, a single tear fell from Viscount’s eye as he looked out the window, and saw the clearing skies in the wake of the passing storm. He knew, once more, it would be time for The Undecided to have their Christmas dinner, for it seemed the monster had finally decided to move on to Greener Pastures after all, and there would be no stopping them...
There would be no hope.
[FONT="]Moral of the story: DECIDE is declaring on GREEN. Ah shizzy!
^ S.Sgt.Cat unleashing Christmas Doom!
Last edited by a moderator: