Teemu Selan-Man had never heard his home alarm go off before. His eyes exploded open from a deep sleep. If this was the wife and kids coming back from grandmas early, there will be some finnish hell to pay, he thought, and rightly so, for the ducks had a very big game in only 15 hours. He grabbed the wildwing flashblade knee hockey stick he kept by his bed for beating his kids and s&m foreplay with his wife and whatever girl corey perry was dating at the time. He prodded at the alarm keypad before slowly creeping down the stairs of his giant mansion.
Slan-Man could see the kitchen light on, he jumped out from the corner.
“Yllätys! Huh...holy shit”
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| "fucking. don't." |
A mole the size of a smart car with a dingey brown miners cap stood digging (lol, digging, get it?) into his fridge, it didn’t turn around, too busy devouring the leftover spheget Teemu was so excited about eating later. ‘That cunt!’ Teemus mind teemed, and rightly so, as his concussion addled mind didnt realize sphegett was just taste-clensed shit formed into long stringy things, the food equivalent of busy work. He raised his tiny plastic stick above his head and tip-toed toward the vermin.
“fucking. don’t.”
The mole spoke plainly, with his beautiful human vocabulary. The only sound that came from Slan-man’s side of the room was the click of his stick hitting the ground and the thud of his head doing the same.
Some 30 miles east and 50 miles down below the surface of the earth a man was busy shaving. A mole holding the mirror in front of his scientifically perfect face. The beauty in its symmetry confounding the moles who had taken him in several months ago. The man was a very fucking sad man then, but over time his tears were slowly replaced by a stern grimace as the moles dug across the country for their new god. He taught them how to speak english, beautiful motherfucking english motherfucker. He taught them how shoot promos, how to get money from carpet cleaners. He taught them to go for their dreams of taking over the underworld by attacking hard and often, instead of waiting for other species to make mistakes like boring fucking pussies. But this particular day, this particular motherfucker, was in a particularly happy mood. The penny was in the air.
...and it might have something to do with that giant fucking machine the mole people have been loading with coal for the past 2 weeks.
“Do you fucking think this will fucking work, motherfucker?” said the mole holding the magic reflection slab. “We’re behind you to the cock-sucking motherfucking death, but you could fucking stay here, with us, happy and fucking safe”
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| "If I dont stop him, this years Stanley Cup will be the last." |
"Oh, Fuckface McMoleman, Ill miss you most” the man paused his shaving. “Such kindness and grace becomes you mole-people, but this ma-” his smile vanished “...this...moose. He took away everything. My past. My present. My future. If I don’t stop him, this years presentation of the Lord Stanleys Cup will be the last.”
Nothing was more of a sexual trigger for Teemu Slan Man than waking up from a hit on the head and that all too familiar feeling of a scratchy rope tied around his arms and legs, he was already rocking a 3/4 chub before his eyes opened. Seeing a mole poking at him caused his wang to shrivel so quickly the sound of a gunshot echoed through the hose.
“Leave him be” a voice from the shadows said. The mole smiled and slowly backed away.
“Who is that? What...Nothings wrong! I won’t tell you anything! Not a thing!” Teemu screamed, but in finnish so he sounded like an idiot.
“Thats not a way to treat a friend, friend. And I am your friend. I’ve brought you a present. Thats what friends do for each other!” Slan-man stayed quiet and wide-eyed staring at the giant mole using a wooden spoon to poke at the black-hole-power-suction-style-reverse-boner going on in his pants. “Of course, as your friend, I just have a real quick question, and me and my friend Fuckingmole McMoleman (ed. note: no relation to fuckface) will be out of your giant mother fucking hair.”
“wh...what kind of present”
The man in the shadow said nothing, only stretching out his hand.
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| "Duckings - 10¢/Lb." |
“Oh swe-” was all Slan-man got out before puking down his chest. “What...” he started, the puke still dribbling out the slots between his gross fucking finnish teeth “What’s your question”
The man stepped forward into the light.
“Where the fuck is Moose?”
Next: The Penny Lands.
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