The Flintstones in the Gardens of Death
Fred Flintstone walked through the garden of his nemesis. Poised to strike out and take vengeance for the death of his family. His mind was firm. His conviction was true. His blade was sharpened and waiting. This would end tonight.
These were the gated gardens that harbored vegetation found no where else. The plants were huge and wondrous, excruciating in their terrible beauty. He had heard that their properties were unmatched in all the world, able to cure diseases and mend the bones of the crippled. He paused only briefly to gaze at the odd flora growing all around him. It was beautiful, he reluctantly admitted to himself, but then quickly refocused his rage to the one that had destroyed his wife and children. He tightened the grip on his blade and renewed his resolve while moving forward.
Then the hounds were released. Twelve sets of six inch long razor sharp canines reflected the moonlight. Twenty-four clawed pistons pound the ground to detritus as they pushed forward six harbingers of death to their goal. They were soulless remorseless murder machines. They could not be reasoned with nor bribed, and they would not stop until any and all trespassers were dead and eaten. Before them, in the chill night, stood a feast.
Fred felt his convictions melt away into a pure white freezing streak of terror. He turned to run only to get fewer than a few yards before the first spears of agony bit high into his right thigh. His shrill cry echoed through the garden enclaves, as he reared back in a futile attempt to throw off his attacker. His thrashing only served to excite the beast, and it's jaws clamped down tighter.
The next two reached their target in perfect unity, each jumping up to grab an arm. The rotund chunk of lard was pulled to the ground, all the while flailing against the fate that awaited. Kicking and wailing as the torturous knives that split through his flesh, the man tossed his morbidly obese frame into a roll across the grass in a vain attempt to free himself from his assailants. Whatever fleeting fantasy Fred had about escaping was destroyed when the rest of the pack caught up to the fray.
The disgusting bleeding mass thrashed incoherently as the bone chiseled daggers rent through layer after layer of fat and the steel vice jaws crushed down to shatter through bone. Blood curling screeching was reduced to wet grunting and blubbering as the bloated near corpse had his large intestine was pulled savagely from his rectum. The struggle spindled down into a mild rolling as blood drained onto the ground and consciousness drained from the stupid ogre's mind. Meat was rapidly pulled from bone and organ was promptly consumed.
By dawn all that was left were cracked skeletal remains coated with only the barest ragged remains of periosteum and a large maroon stain spread though a third of the estate's grounds. Very soon the last of the Flintstone bloodline would meet his final resting place, when mixed into a very exacting blend of fertilizer designed feed something more beautiful and useful than anything he had manage to produce in all his living days. That was the secret ingredient which made the gardens bloom so elegantly. That was the reason the rest of his family had met the same fate. The gardens could only reach their unrivaled state immaculate beauty and miraculous utility with the addition of one final compound: yabba dabba doo-doo.