Post by Sawslig Steve. And William. on Oct 3, 2011 2:29:34 GMT
HERE'S YOUR SCENARIO!
You live in a swamp because you wrestle alligators for a living. Your possessions include, and are limited to, two flannel shirts, a pair of overalls, five pairs of corduroy pants, one pair of sexy women's underwear you stole from your cousin's clothesline, a hammer, three nails, a hunting rifle with 50 shots, a stuffed polar bear, seven year's supply of beer and huge, manly balls sheathed in an alligator-skin loincloth. You also own the only house in the entire swamp. It's made entirely of alligators. You have one of those cool fan-boats they use in florida, but the hull was punctured by alligators. There are no roads into or out of the swamp, but if there WERE roads, they would be buried. Beneath alligators. You have a pet alligator named Frederick, but he was recently eaten by a larger alligator and for this reason you are extremely upset.
Still, you can look after yourself, and have nothing to fear from the squalid, swampy hell in which you live. Because you're the biggest, baddest thing in the whole state. Or, you were.
Until the newts arrived.
At some point in the past a rabid dog escaped into the swamp, biting a hapless newt before being consumed by the same alligator that ate frederick. This newt felt, building within himself, a towering inferno of diseased rage that could be sated only by flesh, so he went and bit the newt next to him. Thus, the infection spread, until 98% of the swamp's newt population was transformed into a milling, writhing mass of pure incandescent fury and bloodlust capable of boring through alligators.
Attracted by your mighty nightly yodelling, they are closing in. You have 12 hours before the first wave of newts assaults your alligator palace.
Also, you're batrachophobic. I.e., the very thought of newts twists your mind into a maelstrom of panic.
KAY GO!
You live in a swamp because you wrestle alligators for a living. Your possessions include, and are limited to, two flannel shirts, a pair of overalls, five pairs of corduroy pants, one pair of sexy women's underwear you stole from your cousin's clothesline, a hammer, three nails, a hunting rifle with 50 shots, a stuffed polar bear, seven year's supply of beer and huge, manly balls sheathed in an alligator-skin loincloth. You also own the only house in the entire swamp. It's made entirely of alligators. You have one of those cool fan-boats they use in florida, but the hull was punctured by alligators. There are no roads into or out of the swamp, but if there WERE roads, they would be buried. Beneath alligators. You have a pet alligator named Frederick, but he was recently eaten by a larger alligator and for this reason you are extremely upset.
Still, you can look after yourself, and have nothing to fear from the squalid, swampy hell in which you live. Because you're the biggest, baddest thing in the whole state. Or, you were.
Until the newts arrived.
At some point in the past a rabid dog escaped into the swamp, biting a hapless newt before being consumed by the same alligator that ate frederick. This newt felt, building within himself, a towering inferno of diseased rage that could be sated only by flesh, so he went and bit the newt next to him. Thus, the infection spread, until 98% of the swamp's newt population was transformed into a milling, writhing mass of pure incandescent fury and bloodlust capable of boring through alligators.
Attracted by your mighty nightly yodelling, they are closing in. You have 12 hours before the first wave of newts assaults your alligator palace.
Also, you're batrachophobic. I.e., the very thought of newts twists your mind into a maelstrom of panic.
KAY GO!
