As the story begins I did do battle, as in ages past, with the great beast and with fleets amassed in my bath tub. Forward, into the night went my gallant sub-marine sandwich; twas delicious, except my gluten allergy kicked in. I got extra bubbles in the diet soda from a stained, rusty drinking fountain. I thought it strange that my yellow pants had their color changed, as I didn't notice that these bubbles also they came from above.
As the day broke with sunshine and doves raining down upon me, it kept on coming until I finally got a very terrible idea. What have I started? Just a month ago, after preparing eons for buying a new toilet, and finding it full of polyester wrapping paper to use on a Gnomish Crusade victory party tangent unrelated to the methodical grinding of cereal.
While I shouldn't wonder why my butt aches I still have to ere the languid rays of the ellipsis... way of the ghost. There was not any hope extracting meaning through abstraction except from abstract abstraction, but including procedural procedure and redundant redundancy too.
Because of this, I solemnly swear that I will never swear again without first checking that I actually have a chance to avoid recursion. However, I may try to avoid the witch who set me up on this grand journey towards a tower and a sage's rolodex filled with data about towel-filled baskets. Don't worry, I'll reach the end, and finally sit on that hoary throne which incessantly shouted, "Behold the fourth wall breaking down!"
I then grinned and turned into a parrot but without any wings and without any wheels or anything parrot like except for occasional crackers and harsh interminable yawps, I sobbed uncontrollably: the alcohol was too bitter. Thus I scratched my dog's belly as he built a fuchsia rocket which we then rode to Josh Parnell's house. Josh was home, but busy designing the universe. We delivered the pizza but ate it ourselves.
Suddenly, from behind me three merry men leaped in very tight tights.
"We are counseled elders"
"SHIT, DATS 5 WORDS. Is this still going?"
"Don't ask that question."
Just a humble obsession with meta story telling, he stopped daydreaming and awoke to find seventeen urchins waiting for cake and ice cream sandwiches. Understandably, he gave them a gentle caress with a touch of spanking. No man could ever accuse him of lacking a firm hand. Granted, years of coding has made pizza his favorite, along with diet coke albeit without the mentos and white lab coats.
But surely I digress, surely we all do, as we meander through the fastest growing thread from here to Mars, is this thread worthy? It's very worthy alright! Adored by the Magi and blessed by many, my very most popular fantastical magic bean machine has made us rich. Functionally reflect on members like chalk on mirrors or skin on roasts; appearances can be misleading, but no less delicious.
Then wherefore do the nights fall when sunrise is so frikken bright. Hearts full of darkness and colored auroras aglow flaming sword in hand; shield of truth before valiant walls of marsupial soldiers lying dead upon gravestones of dead priests. The bell of triumphant curves rang loudly. When came the four horsemen of the apocalypse, riding on big joyful rabbits, with a pocket full of magic eight balls and chicken fried rice.
"Lo and behold!" cried one of the rabbits.
"See me very well," I replied while unceremoniously tying my left shoe. Unbeknownst to many, my giant pair of underwear also contains rabbits, because that's how I roll.
"Too much starch!" whined the smelly old man. So I punched him.
Inside my enormous boxers there is an obnoxious fellow complaining of chafing, that little rabbit bastard invited him into my unkempt and misshapen cellar which is on fire. We called the firemen, but none came because my dog had gas and paid no taxes.
That damn dog had a Tea Party bumpersticker and no less than three sets of trucknuts instead of public services. Not to worry though, for I am here putting out fires with moxy, gusto, pip, and Marty. They all had moxy, gusto, pip, and buns, but they didn't ask for any cheese, except the squirrels. Those stupid kids from uptown came with the firemen and took my girlfriend!
Dashing out the door, I tripped on the threshold on the escaped bunny and broke my back tripping the light fantastic. Before I knew it, Elysium fields bloomed crimson and Pluto took my boom stick of doom.
But I digress, cheese is really quite nutritious. I'll write a cookbook along with a codebook and focus on finally trimming my green toenails. Harvesting toenail cheese is my most favourite hobby, it is a calling venerable as is pungent, but with half the calories of a regular medium double chocolate milkshake. Yet another non sequitur, whatever that actually means, resides in my dictionary.
The door was open, still I couldn't escape because my tires were melted to the ground. A mockingbird was sitting atop a warm dumpster was serving tea and bumbled bee bonnets brashly caressed crestfallen cows; can destroy dastardly, devious demographics excluding, evidently, every Ethiopian: frightened, forgotten, fantastical followers gaining ground greedily, gone haywire. Happy hallucinogens hovered inside, increasing indigence in justifiable jovial jackasses jaunting keen Kahunas killing Kiwis lethargically, leaving less lumps. Many mighty moleskin mice never need nihilistic nitroglycerin.
"Oh! Ouch!! Oiiiiii...oops
" Possibly passable phonetic prattle quotes quarreling quantum quadratures, righteously reigning rowdy rows shamelessly speaking somewhat swiftly to the thoughtless tally. Underwhelming union, utterly unctuous vagrants vanquishing vestigial vermin. When winds whip wavingly xenophobic xeme x-irradiate xenophiles, yogi yell: "yellow yawn!"
And here we go, sallying forth in a a-less and z-less text; this impediment will not seem wrong for a skilled linguist like yourself. A tale without beginning and without an end. I could care less for I love it.
I got this feeling that my motherboard will sometimes stare longingly at my GPU, hoping that unified architecture will someday become a reality, joining graphics and processing alike. Little did I know that this unholy union would cause a quantum shift in the gamma entanglement of PCG hardware, nevermind irradiating the software. You might think that this was all nonsense, but it is beautiful; like a diesel engine running on hard candy and liquid nitrogen dreams.
Meanwhile, on planet Serendip, a huge wooly creature watches as three princes molest a hot dog in the garden birdbath. Onions and ketchup everywhere signaled the massacre's end, and the picnic's beginning. The serendipitous citizenry, horrified at the feeding frenzy, wished upon shooting stars for a hero to come and eat everybody, it's time for lunch!
"Fortune favors the bold", the hero said to his afternoon snack, gnawing hungrily on the leftovers.
"Really?" replied the obscure and self-conscious ham sandwich with mustard dripping down it's moist unscathed crust.
Perplexed, our hero then dropped a cinderblock from the aftcastle leeward side of the great airship onto a pale unsuspecting indie game developer. Then the hero apologetically said "You're not the road-runner!" At the same time, the real road-runner passed around some pepsi and coca to the developer, the drug not cola.
Fatigue and hunger fell like handfuls of dust in a sawmill sawing the last great redwood into a toothpick box. Freed of life's distractions and many spiky things, only one thing remained. Big Beard's girth must lead to a paradigm without excessive girth from those strange little pills that give range up to the divine code.
"Oh save me!", cried both buxom broads by the side of the interstate highway overpass. Surely our hero has time to eat a sandwich before the Shai-Hulud beckon with a spicy hit.
Alas, our hero was having trouble with diarrhea amongst other unpleasent matters and unpleasant smells. But since he wanted to forego this experience, he really aimed to misbehave, so he became quite drunk on watermelon brandy and cactus juice rum.
Mixology Professors worldwide shunned his iconoclastic cocktail innovation due to the poison of the nightshade he carelessly added to it. This didn't stop him from grinning sheepishly when he subsequently ate pufferfish and his head exploded, badly painting the surroundings red, gray and goop.
When our story began the galaxy was a very different place. Toilets were designed completely wrong and mirrors didn't work. But life went on in a strange manor ironically named Strange Manor, located at Strange Passage in the Normal Mountains.
Until one day, when a flightless bird flew, but without using wings and fully comprehending gravity. DaVinci set it aloft, attaching it to a rocket-powered dog made of the fluffiest stuff on Earth.
However, rare marshmallow dogs lack that special something found in peanut butter. So it crashed... hardly anything but goo remained.
Marshmallow dog reformed, terminator-style and immediately went looking for Sarah Lee the mother of an unborn wannabe future overpowered being bent on taking over all that was, is and never will be.
The search began with poor Little Debbie. She was indeed too poor.
Next came Sara Lee, Debbie's sister and best producer of processed food. She was prettier than old Rick's rotten corpse, that's for sure, though the Hostess Coalition protected all form of gorgeousness including deep fried Twinkies and Pinkies, but not candy-coated bacon filled eclairs. Those will come soon after the great suffering at the hands of our goddess Madoka, we hope.
In the meantime, our hero ate cupcakes. By the candle light:
"...why's there a colon?"
"Duh! Birthday cupcakes: naturally. For we hit 400! And that ain't a totally normal, reasonable occurrence. It's a magnificent milestone! Ironic cupcakes for all!"
The celebrations went on, the sweets being murdered, the drinks bubbling around until, at last, the sparkling little nova showed that it became supercalifragilisticexpialidocious! However, after the death of our universe a new universe will spawn like a champion: phoenix-like yet venerably superior.
In its ever expanding waistline, the galaxy hid snacks for later. It was pretty hungry, since being ugly hungry was what recently born universes and other furry creatures. By the might of the Great Magnificence: 42.
"Oink oink oink" said the corporation owner, as he pulled out his big ten inch record and played the song of his people, as everyone else sang along.
Might as well jump right into combat, diplomacy is for pussies, he chose to go transgender. He fought worthless things, they were worthy opponents. Bloodied, he came home only to finally realise the anomaly his struggle and the thing on on top of his redundant preposition. Anyway, that's a stove's only purpose; to kill all of the helpless cookie villagers in single combat, Thunderdome-style.
Sometime soon, we'll need to get beyond Thunderdome.
"Into the night!", shouted Mad Max to his camels as they charged their absorbent purchases to Don Quichotte's Visa card. Sancho Panza went camel-tipping, looking after his prominent monument to pure over-compensation across the fields while trying to catch pokemon in tiny, fleshy balls.
But I digress, the brown stain must go. Except it's too late to send out laundry. Guarding the laundromat, there's a cybernetic Pomeranian lapdog that prefers to eat stained, xxxxl sized underwear, patiently waiting the imminent horsemen of the apocalypse and their dirty laundry, which promises every little child a chance to display untold unimaginable powers, but only while inside a double bubble of dihydrogen monoxide with all unscorched, 1970s science textbooks.
On the other hand, children with unimaginable powers often live in cornfields. Still, evil genius thrives within those children so plant rye and sorghum in your compost, or risk the wrath of Kahn.
But I digress, and do it often.
Well, talking about children, I don't want any. As drastic that sounds, it's only common sense, because children aren't more than bitches and hoes with egos bigger than an egg on sunday.
Corn is the evil plant that the children refine into diabolical syrup of sugary, sugary goodness.
It's been a while since we talked about cake. I think the main reason cake is valued so highly on a stripper's stomach is because $10 bills aren't worth of letting yourself eat until you burst. But the point is, naked girls are awesome! Well, unless they go into the tar pit.
The fossils later found that they weren't women, but instead large toad-antelope. Or rather, forum moderators.
Like a locust plague, the forum moderators continued brutally murdering spambot fiends displaying mighty weapons and endowments beyond sane ken they strode 'cross battlefields with banhammer in hand and crushed artificial unintelligence. Their heroic march was interrupted by Google's mighty Iron's with sandalwood grips; their always iconic doodles embossed on the barrels.
"Did indeed precious noodles."
"Perfidy!" cried the Houyhnhnms.
"Cry baby cry, like the Yahoo you are." With that, the conversation died like a buttery no more at all! Stung like a bee was he, you see, man of the sea, unlike you, like me, a man of women.
"How strange," I said, to the man in the mood for love. His name is Vader Jeffrey Cornelius Marie Asymptote - that's just his nickname. His real name is Poopsiewoopsie. Yes, for real. Though I understand if he changes his name to Thunderforge Spinnaker McPowerthrottle Generalissimo Grevious Dark Sidious. But he didn't, instead continued eating his lunch.
Sometime past four o'clock, the world will end.
"Did you see that?" cried the gaping maw as it swallowed entire pink fluffy marshmallow unicorns with his dark mouth spraying galaxies like spittle.
Disgusted, the princess replied "Mario is in another smelly old warp pipe."
That plumber is a christian break-dancer superstar extraordinaire; about to jack in, on, around, and off his rocker!
"That's right, God's deader than dead."
"Perhaps, maybe, maybe not. But quite likely: yes."
"Mario isn't a prince!"
"But what about Luigi?"
The story has become sort of quite colorful and the longest by count of length-obsessed Slymodi.
"Size doesn't really matter. Unless it is me!"
"No seriously, the story could be any length, much like Slymodi's adequacy." That's what we say to our little girls when asked about Slymodi.
"Dial the creep down, this is a thriller, not a horror show."
"Where'd we go wrong?"
"At the beginning, for the sake of it!"
A train once derailed many Eons ago when steam power was discovered. And then this happened. What is this you've just found out?
Time to become meta, because that's the cool thing everybody is doing nowadays. But we should never ever write a story in a thread. No need to worry about four silly words when three will do. But never can we expect any narrative cohesion. This tale, as disjointed as a disjointed joint; insubstantial potpourri of haze.
Thus it became clear that kittens love wool. But wool had plans with chair, when suddenly a shocking proposition emerged. What if suns were giant balls of yarn instead of ceramics?
"Woah, what's in my tea?!"
Remember the dead scarecrow? Well, he's back, and lights everything on fire while yelling a mouthful of trash metal lyrics picking up almost light-speed.
"Are we there yet?" Asked the over-accelerated words from the wrong reference and carrying relativistic mass into a baseball stadium.
Kittens, thinking it yarn, shredded the cosmological fabric making up the stars. Such stuff dreams are proven as yarn theory. Or so we thought...
Deluded by the weave of the tight knit, we set off into the bowl of pudding to discover the secret of Gazz, we then head into his brain using shrink-ray technology sensationalized by 80s movies. Further and further we travel the winding road to our own destruction.
And then it occurred... The Great Green Arkleseizure: Rama Lama Ding Dong. The horble manifestation of horrible manifestations almost confused with actually horble ones.
"Nothing to see here," said the night watchman to the guard captain.
"Except the Titanic," replied an iceberg floating by as it cackled coldly.
Waves swarmed us all while animals drowned in. The captain became enraged, because that's what captains do at lunch time, just a minute before checking their wrist watch waiting for the right bagel to be released, but with plenty of hairy, bird-eating goliath spiders.
You see, the Titanic wasn't made of metal, but instead horse meat, entering the Eternal Marinade. The spiders were attracted shiny bright knives that can't tie sentences, only discontinuous sequences of words doomed to drift, destitute, shipwrecked and comatose, drinking nothing but salt water.
And then He entered a state of near-death, tempo changing on the crest of a wave while swirling a pizza using a washing machine like a giant blackhole.
"What do you think?" Asked the captain, twirling his magnificent moustache.
It seemed obvious to me the universe could not supercalifragilisticexpialidocious itself ever forever.
Where there's a whip, there's assuredly a dominatrix and, of course, leather. The captain's dominatrix wife was the most frightening womanlikeelectrodildo in the universe, but that's stretching it.
At any rate, he loved her with a charred wooden soup ladel-like passion. Their love expanded gigaverse-wide before it became nothing but misunderstood and wholly useless. Beyond the pain, there exists a state of nirvana. But it's not Zen, for meguca is suffering, and pleasure is almost inevitable. Strange thought, even the coolest fire burns, while becoming a dangerous but lovely to see. Within the confines of sanity, we are able to ignore other people and the danger they unwittingly - if one could only solve a crossword puzzle like the mind then we'd be rich. But who wants that?
"I want that!" cried EA, as they made money hand over fist at the expense of ... well, playable gameplay, because that's what some publishers really only care about.
But players have other interests, like cat pictures and clicking games with overpowered mouses equipped with fifty billion different buttons that don't actually work. But that's okay though, because they look great, and that's very important when it comes to bragging rights for douchebags and other skanks. All those extra buttons don't, and I repeat, don't start the jellyfish motors. They are not decorative, they simply aren't. Period. And that's all I ever wanted to say.
And now lets just think about happier times while we enjoy an extra-large bottle of that sweet, tasty, but slightly too-salty drink that we call Seawater Elixer Xtreme. Sort of overdoped hot, steamy, dirty, and satisfying - just like my girlfriend's pot of celestial beverage (that's what I call the foliage-in-water she uses as an aphrodisiac). But what could go wrong?
As I handed him the deep core of the fuming overcharged reactor, the very heart of my gay fan fiction which will hit shells and also shelfs together. Although, oddly, not shelves.
Butts twelve by pies? But a baker's dozen is not actually twelve but a complicated formula using all types of obscure psycohistorical concepts which might simply be a crypto-coded haiku poem to uncover the end-time secret: "Who killed the time?"
"I just don't know."
"The answer is thirteen."
"No it is not," said a passing barman to a priest who craved discussing about those sorts of things. However, the topic scared him almost as much as clowns after a breakfast tryst with a grapefruit. Sitting with a rabbi at a bar, it struck me that all the jokes I could muster were simply lame. Lamer than the lamest; cheesier than the cheesiest cheese of all cheeses!
However, once I began to consider all the possibilities within the whole priest and rabbi thing, I grew accustomed to other things like rabbits nibbling on baby feet and cuddling up to trained attack doggies. It was an incredible lovely but inedible bit of information that I burped up, but thought it better to fart instead.
"What is this thing?" someone said, while sniffing glue from a bottle, although the bottle was filled with a strange orange liquid, smelling of rotting brewed pumpkin whiskey, mixed with glue and little tendrils of yarn.
And then, I thought, 'lets write a story!' But only for funny little four word sentences (whilst picking my nose and typing random words) random random words, like supercalifragilisticespialladocious ate my homework.
It's the most creative but most expensive thing in Equestria. Because the Elements of Harmony were causing horses to dance, they had a party, and painted their hooves by using a coconut full of mango juice with orange pulp and tiny flecks of coffee. All of Equestria had a drugged up night as my little ponies, sleeping in their barns, dream about cutie marks and brightly coloured bunnies with rainbow-colored crests and small fluffy tails sparkling little light wisps, hungry for human flesh.
The T-Virus epidemic began.
Rejoicing with glee, they became zombie ponies that crawled dungeons like ants harvesting food from spiders. But spiders went mad while playing monopoly with scorpions, so they decided to eat the turtles, injecting poison into everything like an Arctic delicacy, hyping like teen singers watching Twilight with angst.
Other pop stars don't fancy such sparkly vampires, but rather a much dirtier, gritty, zombie fest; their awesome band name wasn't quite aptly named as band-members weren't zombies, and zombies don't dance.
So they named themselves 'The Musical Bedwetters', hence waves of teenage incontinence washed over the nation with their #1 song 'Happy Nappy Party Pooper'.
"That (o)mega hit was what catalysed the apocalypse," that old professor told the media when he accidentally met the Titans.
"Ooga booga Istanbul", replied But for that nobody would ever sing again, because they were dead.
"God damn it all!" said Satan, viewing arrivals mounting up like ants.
"Brilliant humour, Master." Said the Snark Knight eagerly. As Hell's mightiest sycophant heard a high-pitched fart that expanded like a sonic boom. Satan's farts, while hinting of lemon, were quite sulfurous in to anyone but the grey whales under the martian soil, where they played with millennial pebbles and dug many canals within the marshmallow goodness.
Unfortunately, very few would survive the coming dangers as well as the marshmallow induced nightmares, which include graham crackers and ugly turtle totems sticked by cruelly manipulated monkeys.
Hell, located on Mars, is nothing compared to Hell located on Uranus, because that's a very smelly place to see, with all that flies, open source software and all you can eat buffets filled with poo.
However, the Chinese mafia still operated post-apocalypse due to a surprising love of criminal Chinese ancestor-spirits who taught older arts than bacon frying itself. The sacred art of dinggledoodlinging was still present but obviously, nobody expects a bad ternary joke. That can't be right.
10 kinds of people. Hundreds of different emotions. Other powers of ten. Exponents, if you will. Only in decimal, not Binary, because people that read too deeply into scary novels never find their missing car keys; only a crippling sense how it must feel when those cattle sing "Hound Dog" by Elvis, hideously out of key; the ears will bleed.
Luckily, some keys were beyond the Dark... Jumpgate, as the Qualifors called "The Knights of Ni", were famous for having a lot of eyes and one crossed 't', and they went to South Carolina...in SPACE!! Twas a silly place.
The people were all slap happy drunk; they danced all night to songs with bad rhythm and plenty of other rockin' tunes as well, but shit got real after grandma's plum pie farted on the sofa leaving a huge stain which looked like alien squirrels singing in the oodles of tasty noodles
Being drunk, they didn't notice the noodles were appendages of the FSM, wiggling and wobbling like the hairy dolphins they came from. Except that they had an intelligence high enough to avoid the nets of fishermen, but couldn't dodge the love they all shared. Canned love, tasting of something like Vienna Sausages with red hot chili and a nice cold wait for the update. 'Coz Cold-Update-Waitings are just uncomfortable, not to mention that other
thing we wear out; the refresh button on our browser.
The story continues as with little to no sense, as we didn't words. Randomly. Sentences. Make.
Another update confusion abates, and primal desire satisfies the most ardent souls that seek the stars, scanning the heavens afar for any glimmer of that valuable asteroid belt we all dreamed of containing wonders utterly untold. I'll start mining before heading out into deep space, but then I'll never be able to eat my space-dinner without the agonizing thought of sugar-coated powder puffs floating amongst the miky-way, where lovers dare dream.
So, with empty stomach, I started thinking of french fries with mayonnaise, but not freedom fries. But why shouldn't I stuff my face with diamond pulver and caustic yummy, (furry) Trible steaks?
"Why indeed," I asked, "would we not feast on furry reproductive beasts?"
"Not in the least, while their numbers increased, they were wearing wreaths dedicated to their deceased, worn to victory feasts where their ancestors released, a greased priest artiste who the rhyming-game ceased."
"Damn it!", I responded. "No rhythm, no rhyme, but it was fine, for rhyme is mine, and it's so divine, to drink good wine, while looking a swine."
I stopped rhyming, because I shaved my fuzz with all that fuss. I needed an orange, thanks to that door-hinge, I decided to drink-binge. Because I was unintelligent. The good thing is the rhyming seemingly abated. Or so I debated. Refusing to be baited!
Thusly I further instigated, and I eventually mated, with myself by paradox. My fell offspring arose, in the Oedipal throws. A Freudian slip supposed? I broke my nose, Because of this prose?
"How did this happen?"
"I do not know!"
"Is the de rigueur amnesia?"
Question upon question, my question remained sadly unanswered. But I asked more, for I craved knowledge even more than bacon. That was pretty clear, due to my weight and bursting pants seams.
But that's better than losing one's pants, like it happened to me, back then when I still visited prostitutes. The incident occurred when I got caught in one of the girl's glasses of non-alcoholic wine, when she wasn't looking for Sean Connery.
Unfortunately, my belt got hooked on phonics and began to read words like a deaf first grader. It quickly became famous like in "Beautiful Mind"; schizoprenia and multiple personalities, just like me, since the other me has the other one on a flavorful pizza topping. Thus, I ate myself into an early grave.
But that was only the beginning of the story, as we just finished the prologue. The actual story is in another thread entirely.
The limited theory story, prophetic in limitless glory, glories in limited prophecy, prophecies in limited glory.
The spoony bard however was stupid, bards are sometimes awfully thick, however they usually sing well. Singing for their supper, and tea and coffee, and delicious dessert cake.
And the women... oh there goes another one wearing nice red dress that hardly covers her state of the art dipped chrome muffler assembly
we call a donut, which is a torus, with a tasty hole - a sweet, tasty hole, filled with whitish cream.
But that ain't what we had for dinner.
Instead, we had glazed the coast, with many coatings of frosting and then braved marmalade seas on a toast boat. Suddenly waking, the bard ate the flute and had really bad indigestion. He died, but luckily he got better. Somewhat.
But, being reincarnated as a bucket, he didn't know how to flap due to the hole in my bucket, Delilah, oh oh oh Delilah, sing me dumb lyrics.
Because that's what I do when I can't go hover-skating along the rippling lava lakes of the land of Mordor, where the shadows lie.
But, the hole persists. And still cream filled. It lies in Z'ha'dum for twenty more years; Where the shadows lie.
"How do shadows lie?"
"My spaceship is flying... but not very far?" Asked the blind man, to the deaf man who could not speak or use a hammer.
"Brick! Bring me brick!"
"Steel! Bring me steel!"
"Chicks! Bring me fowl!"
The ruckus grow more, the sillier we progress, as the drinking continued to eradicate our livers.
"Are we not men? Or, the sheep nervous?"
"Let us set forth..." They said, hovering pungently. "...and clean this cess-pool, and without my toothbrush because my teeth're filthy."
I have no idea what teeth are, actually.
Just like my life, I go forth ignorant of the future problems caused by irregular hygiene and innumerable cave bats. They were vampire bats. Even though batshit crazy, grown man dressed as teeny boppers from a really weird 60's party with copious methcoheroin abound.
"Someone mentioned Boogie Nights?" Said DWMagus as he completely ruined this story, but there was no story to ruin; this random collection of words was called a prologue - the thread ends thus.