Ariabian niiiiiiiiiiiights, like Arabian daaaaaaaaaaaaaays- More often than not are hotter than hot in alot of good waaaaaaaaays. Arabian nights 'neath Arabian mooooooooooooooooooooo--
Mohs took off his headphones, his hair falling gracelessly without the support of his bespeakered headband. He lifted his index finger lazily, stopping his treadmill. A lone bead of sweat ran down from his neck, lightly grazing his asscrack, and this alone was enough to put him in a severe state if disrest. He decided in his somewhat-flustered-but-not-too-urgent mood that he'd like to do something different today.
After his workouts, Mohs generally liked to sit down on the cathedral veranda with a Mint Julep and a Virginia Slim (lites- how barbaric of you to think otherwise!), stroking Ion's hair gently. After the wonderfully lax downtime, he liked to enjoy a nice romp in the Fon Master's Chambers(Yes, with the Fon Master AND Tritheim), then take a nap. With the Fon Master absent, his daily ritual was turned completely inside out- There were just some things Tritheim couldn't do (though he made up for it with his absolute mastery of Cryptography)- not to mention him constantly saying things like "Beware this person, for he is an evil man and has nothing good to say." did absolutely nothing for Mohs in bed.
Not too apt to dwell on his androgynous manchild's absense, he hopped in the shower. After an excrutiatingly long lathering, he sat on a couch in a nondescript room and caught the pilot of "John From Cincinnati". He sighed. Like most pilot episodes, it made absolutely no sense for the first half, but left you intrigued- that John character definetly helped to provoke a bit of curiosity. Was he mentally unsound? Was his name REALLY John? Mohs KNEW he had to watch the next episode!
Left with that vague feeling of dissatisfaction that one feels after watching something, he sat in silence. There really wasn't much to do (in the most literal sense of the phrase).
Suddenly, the door to the nondescript room creaked open. Quiet squeaking sounds. Suddenly, a brick wall. Squeak. Brick wall. Squeak. Brick wall. SQUEAK BRICKWALLBRICKWALLBRICKWALLBRICKWALLBRICKWALL
...Squeak.
...Squeak.
...Squeak.
Mohs was greeted by a rediculous looking creature. Big bloated eyes, ears that looked like they were jacked from a Buneary and a grossly disproportionate body. The works.
"Master? Are you in there? Master?"
...It was a motherfucking Cheagle. Mohs cocked his eyebrows in mild interest.
"Mieuuuuu...I guess he's not here.."
Suddenly. Mohs felt himself losing all self control. It wasn't that sudden, actually-The motherfucking Cheagle stood there for about five minutes, giving Mohs plently of time to entertain his furry thoughts. Mohs ripped off his delicious robe or whatever you wish to call it and rammed his THROBBING DICK in The motherfucking Cheagle before it could even articulate an incredibly unwarranted phrase of dismay and terror.
After the event (which I assure you was described in the most eloquent fashion), Mohs opened up his incredibly official ledger-looking diary and wrote:
"Cheagle Sphincter is surprisingly loose. Will relay details to Fon Master."