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Reality bent, didn’t break.
By Daniel | July 16, 2007
Cold Blooded Confusion
The snow fell and turned this world into a Albino Earth. The shaky red eye of the cold December sun shone down but to no avail; for t’was cold. Ice hung, breath clouded before thine very eyes, boogers and snots froze. “Brrr” thought Wolferines’ mind, “clanky clank and chitter chatter” said his teeth. His backpack was full of dead animals; rabbits, squarles, and oh my–opossum. Today, a feast for thee.
He looked down, his eyes visioned something amiss: a drop of blood red blood in the Snow White snow, like a Japan flag, circa 1942. Time stood still as if a Sub-Zero opponent. His Wolf-sense was going crazy like Beatlemania all over again. But its not and the Beatles are cancered and dead. Wolferine rubbed rocks together and thusly created a flame for all the better to cook his squarle with. As Confusious say; never battre on empty berry. Eat and be joyous, for soon night shall fall and danger spread it’s wing of knife-feathers.
—
The sun decented as Wolferine climed the walls of Mount Metallicor. Smoke swindled it’s way thru the air like a gray haired First Place ribbon. But for what? For warming? Or for to threaten a hostage, “caution; here be fire. Flame eternal; you’re life, er, not so much.” Wolferines’ mind raced down streets best left untraveled upon: Dead Mans Chest Lane. Corpse Blood Boulevarde. Skull Road. He shivered. He climed. He mustn’t succum to internal ills and misgivings; for is not the way of tru warriors.
Suddenly and all of a sudden a booted foot was upon him. A stomp and a kick. But wait! Wolferine is classicly trained in Jujitsi and wrestling so he grabbed the foot; he twisted: Sharpshooter. The proverbial bell rang as Wolferine stuck a hunting knife into the aorta vain of the villain. Blood geisered like red oil. “Fools’ gold” thought Wolferine. He knew this week hearted nincompoop was mearly a booty trap. A bear trap for the Human bear leg that is Wolferine.
A hushly quiete fell upon the woods of Mount Metallicor as if a sleeping bag at a 4-H meeting. But tonight there would be no Smores. “What manner of darkness hath thou brought upon thee” thought Wolferine. Smores no more. Indeed.
—
Wolferine walked as if a Jew in the dessert. Though t’was cold as a witches’ breast, sweat beaded upon the beards of Wolferines’ face and scruffle. Things were looking bleak when Just then a flame in the distance. Just the light at the end of this tunnell that Wolferine was praying for.
He couched down onto all fores, like a beast. A beast with the handsome features of a man, and cunning brain just the same. But as they say, he was the beast there is, the beast there ever was, and the beast there will ever be. He sniffed the wind and the cents that he smellt brought to mind his childhood cat, Corey. A cat? In the cold Montana night air? Reality bent, didn’t break. He moved closer.
In the distants: A bulkish figure of a being. Big enough to be a Hulk Hogan but furry enough to be a Shaggy Dog. Surely this is no Tim Allen. Wolferine binocularized his eyes and saw a sight yet unseen in the human world. Is it man? Is it sabretooth? Its neither. Its both. Try as he might to fight it, he shaked in his boots. A little. But he shaked none the less. But blood hath been spilt so justice must be servt. Whether it be via violince or democracy, Wolferine would leave it as a multiple choise question. He moved closer still.
—
The Being stood beside a hunched crumpling of a human body. He turned quickly; like a cat like reflexes. But before he could see what had hit him Wolferine speared him like a riled Goldberg of the ages. “Listen, Bud. I’m gonna to tell you once and once time only, your’e going down to Hurt Town and my fist is the Taxi cab. Confession is: punch” and then he punched his mouth with all the force of a moon-born meteor. The Being layed flat as a seven year old girl. He was hurt. Wolferine stood to his feet and dusted the snow from his v-neck.
But was the Being hurt? Or was he being an opossum? Suddenly sharp fingernales were upon Wolferines’ shoulders and cutting him real bad thru his v-neck. Backwards chokeslam, Peoples’ elbow and then the Boston Crab. Wolferine felt like a rock in a hard place. But he knew what to do.
SNICK! and like that his Adamantium laced claws were out and in full effect. He spun his body like a woman ice skater and he was upon the Being. He clawed his claws into the Beings arms and also his pectoral muscle to. The Being hissed and thru Wolferine into a nearby tree like a Chinese karate star at a dart board. Wolferine was hurt. The Being grabbed him by his body and thru him over the ledge of Mount Metallicor.
But Wolferine was to smart to go so quietly into that night. He reached, he grabbed, a tree root. “Hey, Bud. Over hear, I got something for you.”
The Being was a creature of brute force, an Alonzo Mourning if ever there was one; but in the brains department, ah how you say? Ah yes… not so much. He lurched forward like Lurch, he looked over the edge. Needless to say; Two claws thru two eyes equals one dead Being. Its’ simple arithmatic.
Wolferine stood utop the body; Alexander the Great with sideburns. Wolferine meant excellence. Wolferine meant hard work. Wolferine meant self respect. He meant to rid this world of all murder and rape and thievery and if that makes him crazy, then Wolferine is the Craziest Cracker in a Crazy Cracker world.
Topics: By: Daniel, Wolferine | No Comments »