Despite the abnormally red sky, both the snow and trees are as inconveniently thick as usual and it is the worst pain to dodge frozen trunk after frozen trunk. Tool Shed finds it more than a bit taxing to have to be swerving in, out, and around in order to avoid obstacles. He hears the rumbling gradually grow louder, the distant roar now slightly less distant. He should be making his way back to the road by now. He turns not completely backwards but more to the left and heads in the direction of the frozen-over street. He's lucky he didn't completely lose his sense of direction amongst all the chaos. Finally the still, black river of tar and gravel appears small before him behind the trees. His gaze wanders further back down it and above the trees. Towering in the sky is the enormous blob of slime, nearly as tall as South Park Elementary. The plan worked then. Mysterion found a way to distract the thing and is now leading it (hopefully) in the direction away from town. Tool Shed looks below and sure enough, between moving tree trunks as he strides, so does the hooded figure with the neon blur bouncing noticeably above his head. Tool Shed knows now that this is his chance. He reaches around to his back where he now carries his toolbox. He had made sure that fresh, new batteries had been put in his power drill before he left for R'lyeh. He opens the box and pulls it out before closing it and bringing it around to the front to behold it in all it's glory. Then he begins to pick up speed, changing his direction into moving ever closer toward the monster. If the thing really is made of bubblegum, then the plan will hold.
He is quickly able to reach the creature, having had to run alongside and then later catch up with it on account of its speed. Eventually he makes his way to the road and keeps pace right beside its fleshy goop as best as he can. He flips the on switch on the drill and pulls its plastic, red trigger, sending the thin, metal point into a whirring flurry. It isn't easy, but he is somehow able to get a good grip on the moist, squishy flesh and plunge the nice, clean drill into it for a clear cut. Luckily, the drill is brand new and the only thing the blade has touched was a sharpener. It should be able to drill right through most softened substances. Unluckily, this may very well apply only to substances known to man, and it does not appear as if the giant, big, puddle creature has ever stepped outside of R'lyeh. Plus, the thing is as flabby as Cartman when he melded with the Trapper Keeper 3000. There is no knowing just how long or far the drill will even end up lasting. When Tool Shed equipped it, he had no idea what he was in for. There was no chance to test it out on anything before he entered R'lyeh, and nothing could prepare him for what they are up against currently.
Chunks of pink skin and flesh fly out of the puncture hole and onto his goggles. Not again, he thinks. This is the same bullshit that started this whole eldritch mess in the first place. After the skin come the pulsing, purple veins, and then after that, some lumpy, green liquid that only can be described as guts. Bile rises in Stan's throat. He can no longer see a thing. The thermo resin in front of his eyes behold no clear pathway, only a sickly, green sludge that is revealed to have tiny parasites squirming around if one looks closely.
By now, the drill has pulled in more than half of Tool Shed's bare arm as it digs deeper and deeper into the pile of goop. He can feel the disgusting wetness slide against his arm in the form of fat sacks. It gets to the point where his entire arm has been dragged inside and the rubber handle of the drill has become slippery with untold bodily fluids. Still, he doesn't dare even give a thought to letting go. Otherwise, there would be absolutely no chance of success, and a short survival rate for everyone in town. The foul-smelling mass pushes up against his head as he is pulled even more inside the hole. By now his legs and half of his torso have been consumed by the vicious flesh of the beast. He is up to his chest, his once white t-shirt soaking in the boiling, bubbling fluid. His legs are closed to frying and he has long since lost feeling of his feet. He's sure that the guts stuck to his goggles have dried up and refuse to budge. The flesh softly rises above his chest where the fear in his heart beats the strongest. It encases his body and squeezes the life out of him. Before losing his sense of touch in lastly his hands, the drill- still working through the gross flesh- finally slips through his fingers. He can't feel any of his body parts and the circulation cuts off from his face. He can barely breathe. This is the end for him.
There is nothing. Nothing he can remember. Nothing he can even think of. No traces of oxygen remain any longer within his brain. It's pretty much over and the boy knows this. Everything he has worked for will fail and what he knows will be destroyed. But still, amidst all the hopelessness, there is a small spark of hope. Stan has no idea why he feels this way or why the faint sound of vibration is hopeful at all.
Suddenly, the guts slide out with another deafening explosion and Stan is shot out of the hole, the drill still doing its work.