LONG AGO, WE UPDATED THIS STORY ON TIME
NOW THE LEGEND CONTINUES
YES FRIENDS, THIS IS THE MOST ON-TIME WE'VE BEEN REGARDING UPDATING THIS SHIT IN LIKE A MONTH AND A HALF
WHAT THE ABSOLUTE SHIT IS GOING ON? YOU MIGHT BE ASKING
LET'S JUST SAY… WE GOT BORED
THERE'S SIGNIFICANTLY LESS STUFF TO DO WHEN IT'S NOT LIKE TERM TIME OR EXAM TIME
HENCE THE REASON LAST CHAPTER WAS SO FUCKING LONG
I HOPE THIS CHAPTER DOESN'T END UP TAKING 3 HOURS 20 MINUTES TO WRITE
(EDIT: AS IT TURNS OUT, WE WERE NOT ON TIME AT ALL)
WELL… GAME OF THRONES HAS FINISHED, SO WE CAN'T TALK ABOUT THAT
SO I GUESS WE SHOULD TALK ABOUT HOW OUR LACK OF PRODUCTIVITY CAN BE ATTRIBUTED TO THE FACT THAT WE HAVE BOTH BECOME ALCOHOLICS
LIKE, FROM NO CONSCIOUS DECISION; IT JUST SORT OF HAPPENED
LIKE WE'VE GOT PARTIES HAPPENING ON MONDAY NIGHTS AND IMPROMPTU GATHERINGS CREATED THE NIGHT BEFORE AND OTHER SUCH BULLSHIT
PERHAPS SOME OF OUR DRUNKEN RAMBLINGS WILL END UP BECOMING PART OF THIS STORY
IN FACT, WE WILL MAKE A PROMISE RIGHT NOW TO OUR FAN BASE OF ABOUT THREE/FOUR READERS; THERE SHALL BE NO CHAPTER 10 UNTIL WE ARE PISSED OUT OF OUR HEADS ENOUGH TO WRITE IT
OH YEAH AND ALSO, THIS CHAPTER IS DEDICATED TO ME MATE ALLAN FOR BEING A GENERAL COOL GEEZER, AND TO ALL THE PEEPS OVER AT 'THE RIGHT PEOPLE' FOR HUMOURING ME IN MY QUESTIONS ABOUT CURSED SWORDS AND REQUESTS FOR DRAWINGS OF PEOPLE WITH OCTOPI FOR HANDS
OK THEN FUCK LET'S GO
Chapter 8 - El Satan On Metallica Island
So we join the lads on their road trip with their good buddy El Satan, speeding down Route 666, on the Highway to Hell (although in this universe, there is no Christian beliefs, so such a realm is referred to as 'The Place with the Hot'). Everyone was having a jolly old time; the best lute music in the Seven Kingdoms was blasting from the high-end speakers of the Cadillac (as well as accompaniment from the skeletal mariachi band), and the lads were all chowing down on some BBQ ribs, being cooked on El Satan's BBQ, which rocked from side to side rather violently seeing as it wasn't like secured down or anything, it was just a fucking blazing hot BBQ kind of squashed into the back seat of the Cadillac. But El Satan didn't appear too worried with this brazen lack of health and safety, so no one really raised an eyebrow. No need to be a negative nelly in these times of quality banter! Although perhaps said lackadaisical attitudes were catalysed somewhat by the fact that the crew were currently on their third bottle of tequila, and Ser Pounce didn't appear to be showing any signs of slowing.
'Ayy, Ser Pendejo!' shouted El Satan. 'Are you looking forward to visiting the Land of the Hot?'
'You bet your red bulbous arse I'm looking forward to it!' cried Ser Pounce in response. He had heard tales of the Land of the Hot; that all people who are especially hot (like if there's a heatwave or if they spend too long on their sunbed) get a visit from a little Mexican devil to invite them to the Land of the Hot, and all food in the Land of the Hot has got to have a minimum level of peri peri sauce on it. He had also heard that such a land was once going to be referred to as 'The Spice Isles', but the naming committee quickly cottoned on to the fact that the term 'spice isles' is actually a rather obscure synonym for the arsehole (see also: stink-hole bay or dilberry creek). Despite this minor discrepancy, Ser Pounce was damn hyped to experience this wondrous realm.
'Doran, what sauce are you going to get on your chicken? Medium? Hot? Or dare you try the hottest of the hot?'
'Hmm… I think I'll play it safe and get some of that Lemon and Herb.'
It was like a bomb had gone off in that car. The skeletons abruptly stopped playing their instruments, and everyone stared at Doran as though he were an especially assholish alien. 'Doran! What the fuck do you think you're getting at there?' asked Ser Pounce.
'Well, y'know, I like the medium, of course I like the medium, but I want to fully enjoy my meal, y'know?'
'It's not about enjoying your meal, Doran. It's about enduring your meal, you pussy.'
'Well, don't you have it when you're chowing down into your chicken meal, right, and then your eyes start watering a little bit too early?'
'No, tears are for the weak, and I will not shed tears for chicken. I shan't be beaten by my dinner!'
'Ayy, cabrone!' added El Satan. 'You are what we call in the Land of the Hot, a pendejo! From now on, I shall not call you Prince Doran; you are now Prince Pendejo!' He laughed to himself.
'But, you call Ser Pounce… Ser Pendejo! Is 'pendejo' an insult or not?'
'No no, you misunderstand, Prince Pendejo! I call your feline friend Ser Pendejo in an endearing way, like a joke amongst friends! I call you a pendejo out of legitimate malice, for your complete lack of tolerance for the spicier things in life!'
'Yeah!' piped up Ser Pounce. 'We should head off to the Land of the Hot, but you ought to take a detour to the Land of the Losers!' Everyone had a great giggle at that, even the skeletons. Fuck knows how. What even is a voice box? And do skeletons have them? Like I'm no expert on skeletons, much to my everlasting dismay. My mother cannot look me in the eye, knowing my lack of expertise when it comes to skeletons.
Suddenly a parrot smacked into the windshield of the Cadillac. El Satan immediately stopped the car; that could have been a bird of some importance he just crashed in to, like a member of a royal bird family or something, and he didn't want to be held accountable of any hit and run charges. El Satan is not above the law; traffic regulations are put in place for a reason and not even El Satan is exempt from them. Remember kids, you have a license to drive, but not a license to kill.
Ser Pounce went to the bird's aid. It was a huge fuck-off bright yellow macaw, that smelt slightly of oranges and lemons and other such sweet citrus fruits. The macaw, however, appeared to be fine from the crash, as it was now speaking to Ser Pounce. 'Hello there, friends, I come bearing a message from a man from far away. Your comrade in arms, Pineapple Larry.' It's voice was formal, yet tinted with a slight foreign accent that Ser Pounce could not put his dinky paw claw on.
There was a pause. 'Who?' asked Ser Pounce, genuinely confused.
'You know, Pineapple Larry.'
'No I don't know who that is.'
'Oh. Well, do you ever wonder what is west of Westeros?'
'Yeah, every day,' mused Ser Pounce wistfully.
'Who knows what wonders await us in such uncharted territory?' added Doran.
'Oh I know,' said the parrot. 'It's Metallica Island.' Everyone gawped at the parrot; this truly was a revelation and a half.
'Metallica Island?!' repeated Ser Pounce. 'Pray tell, what mysteries and magic lie in a place with a name such as that?'
The parrot (who's name is Montgomery, if you really must know; I mean I know we didn't need to give him a name, but I distinctly remember having to write down like two whole paragraphs about a goldfish called Jeremiah who wasn't even in the fucking story) stood up, and looked dramatically into the middle distance, ready to monologue the shit out of this faraway land. 'Metallica Island was not always Metallica Island. It was indeed once just a miserable stretch of land in a nondescript, underwhelming and frankly quite crap archipelago. But then, on one fateful day, something fell down from space, rocketed downwards and smashed bang into the middle of the island. When the rather morose island dwellers looked down into the huge fuck-off crater, they saw a lone CD case, from a band known as Metallica, encased in a block of golden amber. And then, things started to change.
'This was no ordinary space rock, you must understand. I mean, space rocks are already pretty out-of-the-ordinary, but this one in particular was pretty, as they say, 'kooky'. It's space magic influence leaked out onto the island, and what was once bad became excellent. Drab and drooping flowers bloomed into vibrant colours and sprouted on every surface. Decrepit sad-looking trees poofed into life, now tall and grand and imposing. And the people, once lachrymose and prone to sitting at home all day playing noughts-and-crosses and ball-in-a-cup and other such weak pointless shit, became a load of wacky drunkards with a right to party and love of the sweet jams that now pumped through every living thing. It was referred to as the Metallica effect.'
'That's pretty gnarly dude,' commented Ser Pounce.
'Yeah totally,' agreed Montgomery. 'But yeah let's go to Metallica Island. Sort some shit out.'
'Yeah sure, let's go do that.'
SO THEY WENT TO GO DO THAT. So Ser Pounce, Doran, Charlie Joe Connolly and El Satan piggy-backed on Montgomery as he flew them to Metallica Island. You would have thought that Doran would be at the bottom, because of his cumbersome wheelchair probably being difficult to like carry on a high-up people tower, but nah, there was a mix-up, and so it was Ser Pounce sitting on Doran sitting on Charlie Joe Connolly sitting on El Satan sitting on Montgomery. Ser Pounce is like the strongest, but he also needed to get a good vantage point of Metallica Island. And it was quite a nice island; all tropical trees and shining yellow beacons blaring into the sky. The lads were impressed.
So they landed, surprisingly gently considering how fucking unorthodox their travelling methods were, and they all trundled over to the little wooden hut on the white-sand beach. The hut in question was like a quaint wooden establishment, the walls adorned with countless garish golden pineapples stacked in rows, and the hatch ceiling thing festooned with little car freshener things to give the air a pungent lemon-ish scent. It would seem that this hut belonged to a certain pineapple enthusiast.
The lads caught their first glimpse of Pineapple Larry stumbling out of a porta-potty, a sad piece of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of his flip-flop. He was a pretty large guy, wearing some rather uninspired swimming trunks and Hawaiian-patterned shirt (perhaps to match his uninspired name), and his skin was like a horrible sunburnt shade of pinky-red.
'What's up, lemon lovers?' he said, in the voice of the most fat American tourist imaginable.
'We were carried here by a parrot, to search for some guy called Pineapple Larry. I'm assuming this is you?' asked Ser Pounce. His observation skills are unmatched.
'You bet your citrus caboose I'm Pineapple Larry! Ain't no one in all the lands who loves selling and consuming pineapples more than me!' (Side note: pineapple is only actually available on Metallica Island, so this whole experience is quite overwhelming for everyone. I mean obviously Ser Pounce knew what a pineapple was, because he's some sort of omniscient super genius cat hampered by our lazy writing and his own alcoholism).
'This would have seemed a rather lofty title to uphold, were it not for the fact that no one else around here seems to be selling this mysterious alien fruit', commented Doran.
'Hey now, don't get bitter with me! I'm the best around, everyone knows it! Just ask guest star passing hermit crab!' Passing hermit crab offered no decisive evidence, but he needn't have to; the truth was clear. This man here was legit.
'So shit son, we heard you've got like something you need our help with?' prompted Ser Pounce, who was itching for an excuse to explore this land of opportunity.
'Oh yeah, this land is in GRAVE DANGER,' said Pineapple Larry. 'Y'see, this land is well dangerous, because in the forest, we've got these mosquitoes that if they bite you, you might get the flu. I mean it's like a 3% chance, same as any other country really, but you can't be too careful. So I'm going to have to rub you down with my special pineapple.'
The lads were all rubbed down with the special pineapple, and El Satan lit up a huge fuck-off cigar, a glint of glee in his eye. 'Ayy gringo, I can see that you have a spicy soul.' He laughed to himself, his voice a rich baritone. 'Perhaps you would be so kind as to accompany me to my home realm, the Land of the Hot, some time…'
'Sounds pine-admirable!' said Pineapple Larry. 'But that can wait for another time. Because in addition to these here mosquitoes, we have… another threat. He goes by the name of Dr Valentine Lowrider. He's a ten-foot tall tiger man with a really big chainsaw.'
'That sounds like a pretty dangerous threat!' exclaimed Ser Pounce. 'To see a fellow feline go rogue… this can only be the work of some sort of higher power medelling with the world's affairs!'
'Could it perhaps be a result of the villainy of our old nemesis Mr Geography?' asked Doran, deep in thought.
'Perhaps,' responded Ser Pounce. 'Tigers do indeed occur in geography. Not even such a mighty beast as a super strong tiger man could resist Mr Geography's nefarious ways! Pineapple Larry, how can we combat this mighty threat?'
'Dr Valentine Lowrider's modus operandi involves the creation of trials throughout this jungle environment. To complete these trials, you've got to collect the silver and ruby monkeys from the various locations, which equate to the amount of time you're allocated in the final Temple of the Jungle King. Silver monkeys mean five seconds and ruby monkeys mean ten seconds.'
'Ah yeah, that makes sense.'
'But be warned! His acolytes, Sid and Elvis, may attempt to throw a metaphorical spanner into the works by generally being a dick about things and attempting to sabotage your attempts of winning the amazing prizes! Also, he's a giant ten-foot tiger man with a chainsaw, so we probably ought to mention him as well.'
'Ooh, prizes!' cooed Doran. 'What prizes?'
'Within the Temple of the Jungle King, you'll face your biggest trial yet. But if you succeed, you have a chance of winning… a games console! Which we cannot name because of licensing reasons!'
'Wow, a games console!' says Ser Pounce. 'My favourite!'
'But wait, what's in it for me?' asked Doran.
'In second place, you can win a teddy bear!'
'Wow, a teddy bear! My favourite!' Doran has been satiated.
'Ayy pendejo, what about me, eh?'
'In third place, you can win a packet of fags!'
'Ayy! My gringo! We'll be rolling with the peri peri chicken overlords before the day is out!'
AND SO THEY ALL HEADED OUT TO GO WIN SOME PRIZES, AND SUBSEQUENTLY MURDER A TIGER MAN WHO IS TERRORISING A PINEAPPLE SALESMAN.
So Ser Pounce, Doran, Charlie Joe Connolly, El Satan and Michael Underwood (jungle explorer and lifelong friend of everybody involved in this group, coincidentally) headed off into the jungle. They found themselves on a wee wooden dock suspended above a big muddy mud pit, within which were little bowls which appeared to have something inside them! Luckily, Michael Underwood was there to explain what this trial was. It was at this point when Ser Pounce started phasing out, and thinking about what he wanted to eat for dinner. A curry, perhaps? Or maybe something simple, like a bagel. But nah, he really fancied a baguette. And then what would he do? Settle down in front of the TV? Oh, who was he kidding - he hadn't watched TV in ages! He then phased back in to the conversation and nodded, with no idea as to what he had to, but was pretty much certain he could ace it anyway.
So they all got ready, bamboo poles in hands. Michael Underwood clicked his little jungle timer, and the lads had two minutes to complete their task! Oh shit, tension! Doran, Charlie Joe Connolly and El Satan started concocting a clever plan, and Ser Pounce, wanting to look like he knew what was going on. However, he was nodding far too aggressively, and the power of his nods made him fall slap bang into the middle of the mud! What the fuck! He started to panic; firstly, because this was the domain of the mudmen, and therefore there was a chance that if he did not flee real quick, he may well be sold with the other sofas and such nonsense that the mudmen make their livelihoods out of, and secondly, because he was uncertain as to whether or not he had broken some rules in this here challenge. It appeared not; the lads were just having a bit of a giggle at his expense. Ser Pounce could accept this joke, but made a mental effort to later on pull a sick prank on Doran to balance everything out. He leapt out of the mud all graceful-like. Fortunately, the trial just kind of got solved by the other geezers whilst this whole palaver unfolded, so whatever. Y'see, no worries lads, we're refining the boring prolonged Jungle Run formula. We'll be through with these bullshit trials before you know it.
All of a sudden, angry at the fact that his trials have been trivialised and glossed over, an imposing figure leapt down from the trees and landed in front of the lads. Holy shit, it was the aforementioned ten-foot tall tiger man! And in his big smashy paws was a fucking huge chainsaw! I mean, compared to the tiger man, the chainsaw'd probably be like around the right size, but compared to the scale of the other geezers, who aren't really close to ten foot, it looks pretty fucking imposing.
'The fuck is this?' growled Dr Valentine Lowrider, in a voice frighteningly close to that of renowned Mexican Danny Trejo. (A lot of the characters we create now are done conscientiously thinking about who would play them in the inevitable Whiskers and Wheels film adaptation. Rhydian the bartender will be played by Vin Diesel, Francis the Fascist will be played by Aaron Paul, and Brother Hodge will be played by Cara Delevingne). 'How dare you glaze over my cleverly designed basket trials as though it is mere piss in the wind! That was strenuous and meticulous work, getting the bamboo grabbing things the right length and whatnot!'
'Such variables were apparently irrelevant in the long-term, fellow feline!' shouted Ser Pounce, who felt as though he needed to shout to seem imposing, not only because his adversary was considerably larger than him (in size, not in heart), but to counteract his oh-so-embarrassing cock up in the water mere minutes ago.
'I look forward to seeing you tackle my other dastardly trials!' said Dr Valentine Lowrider with a devilish tiger grin. 'Rest assured, they shan't be so easily ignored as this one!'
'Ha, we shall see about that!' shouted Ser Pounce. 'If there's one thing you shouldn't underestimate, it's the laziness of the omnipotent narrators of this overarching tale!' This was especially true, considering how said narrators starting writing this a fortnight ago, and if they'd have kept to their schedule they'd have been on time, as twas written in the opening paragraph of this shite. But alas, it was not to be.
Ser Pounce's words fell on deaf ears, as the tiger man had already bounded away through the trees. Perhaps he ought to have paid heed to these words - perhaps they are portentous…
SO THEN THEY DID SOME OTHER CHALLENGES. They collected the everliving shit out of those little tawdry monkey statues, climbed beneath all those waterfalls and faffed about with bamboo baskets and endured the ire of those hirsute little tarrywags Sid and Elvis. (We're a fucking month behind now, allow us this bit of laziness, we've just got to get this shit finished now).
So the lads were gallivanting through the jungle bush, led by an ebullient Michael Underwood, who was just so happy that these lads here had actually had some success with their monkey statue collection. He couldn't have the entrapment of more children in that accursed temple on his conscience. He thought about their faces sometimes, the faces of the children he had doomed to rot in the fetid confines of that temple. All that remained of them now were bones strewn amidst the filthy floor. Michael Underwood's smile belied a deep pain.
The gang emerged into a clearing, and amidst the shrubbery, they saw it. The Temple of the Jungle King, in all it's splendour. The huge monkey statue stood before them - it was really big and fat, like your mum. (Apologies for the ad hominem, we've been writing this for a month now and we're really sick of everything. But also because it's the only way to sufficiently describe how fat the monkey statue was). Michael Underwood beamed at the lads.
'Look, team! It's the legendary Temple of the Jungle King. The stories tell that within the confines of this here temple, lie complex puzzles that will challenge the minds of even the smartest of alecs! Yes, you'll face big old puzzles of like monkey faces, and like little shitty jumping puzzles, and like big stupid abacus things that I'm not really sure what the fuck! Yes, this will indeed test the very boundaries of human ingenuity and endurance! Do you have what it takes?'
The lads looked amongst themselves, shrugged to one another. 'I mean yeah, sure, I guess,' put forth Ser Pounce.
'Get on with it, muchacho!' said El Satan, eager to finally receive his pack of fags.
'Alright then, my jungle explorers, you're gonna run in there and complete those damn puzzles, and you're gonna get those damn monkey statues! And then you're gonna bring 'em out here, and place them on this here ornate stone table thing, which doesn't look like the monkey statues could really balance on it very well, but whatever.'
'Yeah, there really ought to be some like indentations in the stone, so it can like support the little monkey statues like a cup holder,' mused Doran.
'I'm worried that if we accidentally drop these priceless golden artefacts, stolen from some forgotten tomb, from no fault of our own but because of the faulty table design, then we won't be able to claim out prizes. Because I really want that nonspecific games console.'
Before Michael Underwood could respond, the table was destroyed with an almighty thwack. Holy shit, it was a chainsaw thwack! A chainsaw thwack caused by one Dr Valentine Lowrider! He destroyed the everliving shit out of that table, face ablaze with fiery fury. Sid and Elvis perched on his shoulders, leering as only dickhead monkeys can do with their surprisingly expressive faces. (Side note: what the fuck is up with Sid and Elvis' faces? Like dude, what the fuck, they don't look right. It looks like they stole their eyes from ageless immortals and now masquerade as omniscient prophets. Or maybe that's just my interpretation of them). Dr Valentine Lowrider wore an ammo belt thing that criss-crossed his chest, but instead of shotgun shells or bullets or what have you, he was fully loaded with coconuts. The most dangerous of nuts.
The dust caused by the sudden stone table destruction got all up in Michael Underwood's eyes and mouth, triggering his allergies, so he bailed out to go get his Epipen. The rest of the crew stared on in awe, not knowing how they'd missed this threat, considering it's a ten foot tall tiger man with a loud whirring chainsaw clasped in his graspy paw fists.
Dr Valentine Lowrider looked up from his handiwork, and shot the protagonist crew a look of pure malice. 'You inconsiderate scapegraces! How dare you devalue my finely created trials as such! You have completely trivialised my magnum opus, my life's work! And for that, you shall pay a chainsaw and coconut based price!'
'Oh shit, that sounds pretty ominous', muttered Doran.
'I dunno, he could be referring to like, chopping up some coconuts for us. For us to eat,' said Ser Pounce, ever the optimist.
'That sounds quite nice actually. But it would appear that the tiger man is approaching us quite menacingly, and his chainsaw is indeed quite threatening looking. When he like waves it around, that could easily be construed as a threatening gesture.'
'We needn't jump to conclusions.'
'I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!' screamed Dr Valentine Lowrider, irritated that he was being misunderstood. In his eyes, chainsaws weren't exactly the most ambiguous things in the world.
'Maybe he's talking to someone else,' said Ser Pounce, looking around for who that could be.
'Ayy, muchacho gringo, cabrone cabrone,' said El Satan.
Dr Valentine Lowrider started screaming in anguish and rage, and the lads were just about to contrive another reason for his newfound angst when all of a sudden, there was a resounding crash and crumble of rubble. Quick as a flash, all eyes were on the origin of the noise - gasp! The monkey belly door of the Temple of the Jungle King was making a rumbling noise. Around them, the trees started shaking, and a dramatic soundtrack began to rumble through the jungle. I mean I'll probably just look like a fool here, but I'll try and imitate what the song sounded like: DUN, DUN DUN DUN, DUN DUN, DUN DUN DUN. Yeah, you probably just had to be there to fully understand how dramatic this here song was.
With a big booming crash, the monkey belly door of the Temple of the Jungle King fucking exploded outwards, revealing a lone man, standing with a fist outstretched. Incredulous looks were exchanged; had this one man just punched his way through a big ole stone monkey belly door? Why, yes he had, there could be no other explanation. But then, the man stepped out of the dust cloud caused by the sudden stone destruction, and all eyes were upon the man. And everything became clear.
Standing there was a muscle-bound man, who could only be described as 'inspirational'. He was tall, he was buff, he had a smile that dazzled all, he managed to look like a trustworthy and chill fellow despite only wearing a pair of hot pants. And what's more, he was golden-brown - so golden that he shone like the sun, like a literal beacon of hope.
'Holy shit!' cried Ser Pounce. 'Is that the renowned warrior and overall cool guy Ser Mike of House Danton, missing and presumed dead for several years, emerged once more where we least expected him to, in the Temple of the Jungle King!?'
'Aye, it would appear so!' responded Doran. 'What a strange and sudden appearance of a character! It's almost like, God stepped in to help us with our situation at hand, and gave us the renowned lad Mike Danton!'
'Well I'm not complaining! Mike of House Danton is a total geezer from what I've heard! Well, so long as you remember his House's one fiery hatred…'
Ser Pounce left this last sentence to settle in the air for a bit, a hint of what is to come. For you see, whilst Danton has been trapped in the Temple of the Jungle King for many years, surviving off of floor dust and willpower for nourishment, perhaps also seeking out the tempting prizes of a games console or a teddy bear, he had not forgotten his family's mantra: '… Fuck Guys With Sunglasses'.
Unfortunately, Dr Valentine Lowrider, despite being an acclaimed doctor, had never really left Metallica Island, and so was not aware of such mantras. And so, finding it difficult to look at this shining example of a perfect human being, he and his monkey accomplices all whipped out their aviator sunglasses to better examine this newcomer.
BUT OH SHIT. He shouldn't have done that. Danton's placid facial expression contorted into one of wild rage. He flung himself forward and landed gracefully on the chainsaw, much to everyone's surprise, and with a perfectly executed leap upwards he double-punched Sid and Elvis right in their weird fucking monkey faces. The monkeys flew backwards into the trees, no doubt eventually smashing to the ground somewhere, smoking craters where their faces once were. Dr Valentine Lowrider looked behind him in shock, his monkey companions swiped away from him as simply as taking candy from a baby. With that split second of Dr Valentine Lowrider's attention being diverted, Danton started frantically smacking Dr Valentine Lowrider around his tiger face, side to side like a rapid fly swatting machine. Like what are those obnoxious clackety things you get at football matches that spin around really really fast? Yeah, imagine one of them clobbering into your face really fucking quickly, and that pretty much emulates the situation Dr Valentine Lowrider is going through right now. In his shock, Dr Valentine Lowrider dropped his chainsaw, so that he could like cover his face or something. But that was the one invitation Danton needed. With a graceful flip backwards, he landed on the floor and with the strength of ten oxen hefted the chainsaw above his head, pulled on the little pulley thing to get the huge fuck-off mechanata roaring again, and then smashed this huge hunk of metal down on Dr Valentine Lowrider's arm.
'Holy shit!' screamed Ser Pounce, as all the lads went apeshit at this incredible battle unfolding before them, music blaring all around. 'It's Mike Danton's signature finisher move! The Hackman's Arm Massacre! In which he chops off someone's arm! Holy shit, I say again!'
'I concur wholeheartedly!' screamed Doran, spinning around on his wheelchair wheels.
Dr Valentine Lowrider was currently getting smacked with his own arm, in typical Danton fashion, but this is a whimsical story free of gratuitous violence, so we'll just kind of gloss over that. It's not important. I think at this point it's pretty obvious that Danton is victorious, and with a final big bombastic music explosion, Danton ran away into the jungle, perhaps to swim all the way back to Westeros. Godspeed that glorious man.
So the lads were kind of bewildered with this turn of events. The late Dr Valentine Lowrider was screaming in anguish at some unspecified menace - couldn't have been them though, they'd been excellent sports all day - and then the renowned madman Danton fled into the jungle. The squad bumbled around the area for a wee bit, before Ser Pounce called them all over to where the monkey belly door of the temple used to be.
'Here, guys, come check this shit out!' he said, gesturing them to come see this shit. 'Where that beautiful man Danton punched his way through the door, it buggered up the door close mechanism! The temple is pretty much open permanently now!'
'Hmm,' thought Doran. 'Does that mean that we can pretty much faff around in there all we want, with no time limit, and go grab all the prizes we want and then skedaddle?'
'Yeah, seems that way.'
'Alright, sweet. I wasn't sure if I'd have been able to enter the temple, because I wasn't sure if it was wheelchair accessible enough for me to be able to make a speedy escape, but this simplifies matters somewhat.'
'Ayy pendejos, let's go and get some quality prizes, ayy!' said El Satan.
So that's what they did. They got those damn monkey statues, and they cashed them in with Shifty Dave round the corner (a smuggler of priceless artefacts and procurer of quality prizes). Ser Pounce claimed his prizes, and then remembered that a certain friendly fisherman's birthday was coming up, and so made a mental note to wrap it up nice for the fisherman and give it to him on his special day.
AND THEN THEY ALL FUCKED OFF BACK HOME AGAIN.
THIS CHAPTER TOOK US, OVER THE COURSE OF A MONTH, AND IN LIKE SIX SEPARATE WRITING SESSIONS, FIVE FUCKING HOURS, AND WE'RE SICK OF IT
FUN FACT: WHEN WE WERE WRITING THIS, WE CAME UP WITH CONCEPTS FOR THREE NEW SPIN-OFFS FOR THIS FUCKING FANFICTION, ALL OF WHICH ARE BETTER THAN THIS
ENJOY SOME INANE SHITTY QUOTES THAT WERE SAID DURING THE WRITING PROCESS OF THIS:
- Banter is perhaps the most important fruit
- It smells like primary school
- Thanks Glorm
- Hume won woop
- Look forward to next year when we write 'Benjen Stark 'Avin' A Lark' - all his adventures take place beyond the Wall, where fortunately, not enough time has been spent in the show to fully explain what is there, and so we can say that there's all sorts of theme parks or illegal poultry farms up there and no one can say that we're wrong
- Neither of us know where the name 'Dr Valentine Lowrider' came from
- Don't you dare mistake shit-weasels for arse-monkeys
- We don't drink milk, we drink gilk - because you know what they say, every 'm' is better as a 'g'
- Sunglasses are good, but gunglasses are better
- All I want to do is wear shot glasses on my eyes and pretend to be an alien
- My grandmother was too trusting of men with flails
- Why spunk when you can spelunk?
- I too am a big fan of the celestial giants that watch down on us from their lofty pristine empyrean; not sure about chocolate though
CHAPTER NINE WILL BE OUT AT SOME POINT, AS SOON AS WE'VE DECIDED WHAT IT'LL BE ABOUT
GOING BY HOW LONG IT TOOK TO WRITE THIS CHAPTER, I'D ESTIMATE IT'LL BE OUT SOMETIME IN THE NEXT THREE YEARS
LATERZ
