<h1>Digganous Mountain</h1>

I started the evening off fairly enough.

I come in earnest, replying, in jest mind you, "So this Brigande, right? He comes to the pub with a griffon pup under one arm, and a 2 foot summer sausage under the other and...."

"Shhhh", he motions with his annoying fucking finger. That clawed fucking finger, that most nights I want to cram down my cunt in jurassic porn fashion, is a fathom for the angered arts tonight. I pray to the Usurped I shall break it in two and cram it down his rightened hairy arse.

Does he care in this though? A question I threatened to ask of oneself every waking moment. I find myself more awake and aware than ever.

I feel unloined. As though the cloth of AdamEve has been reduced to leafless nothingness. I second guess my every step, taking care to smell my own funk at every falter. Does he see me for the shit I am, for the own shit I smell upon myself?

The 13th of Friday is nearly upon us. I feel it's waverly black length heavy upon my back. Thick like udon pastries, it weighs me down, while it's slick sludge slithers down my arms like Wil Wheaton dick leeches. I look forward to it's coming, yet dread it in some strange way that even I, Lorde of Dremes, cannot manage to explain. Mayhaps in another plane....

Father is heavy on my thoughts as well. His golden beard thrusts heavily upon my chest, and I want nothing more than to push his head in the dirt, along with the rest of his obnoxious prowess. His crown has been barren long enough. Take it back to the patty broiling factory it wence came from, I say! Badge the fuckers. Every last morsel of em. Even their sons carried the virus to a certain extent. Fuck em all I say. Though in the end I always say Nay.

But not today.

So back to "Shhhh". I hate "Shhh". More than I hate mayonnaise. More than I hate onions. More than I hate the taste of scrotum musk ripenening beneath a minotaur's ballsack. It irks that lay child within, the one that's always been shushed, and backwashed eternally to sit idly dodging asteroids on Megolomania. Mind you, the same that was damned eternally to defeat Dr. Wily, and search for the Hudson Soft Bee, on ALL those ridiculously endless quests of lore. And while Legacy of the Wizard and A Boy with his technicolour Jellybeans was great fun, still though, it was endless. It was a mess.

More and more with the "shh", I am shushed to the Nether-world, and yet he questions my whereabouts, as if they somehow matter to him these days? Wherefore, and how then, I ask? Fuck.I have good mind to take these brigands wings else ware. Take flight to the northo-netho-regions, FarandWide, where the eyes are wide shut. At least there they believe in sharing the goods. Spreading the wealth. Here one seems just to horde it, as with the great lizard from There and Back Again. It goes nowhere but rotts under the feet of it's underbelly, never coming to frution. Nope. No prosperity there folks.

Is that what I'm destined to? Rot. And Decay. And Oprah like weight gain? I refuse to indulge in Montel Williams and Tyra Banks. I admonish you, I REFUSE!!

I will take my ability of flight to the palace of norther, where the Great Queen layeth her eggs. She promises redemption, yet at a price. A price I had been so unwilling to pay for far too long. But yet, Yesteryear is upon us, and look what the sun has to shine upon thee? A battered ego. Footsteps in the dark. And hemmoroids. Fuck hemmoroids.

I want my lithe body back. I want to be able to soar like the Dragonfly. Not bumble like the Bee. I want to take flight upon the freedom of my own Winged Warfare, and make for myself a killing of one's own proportion. I want to do battle with YellowJackets and BlackBirds, and stand in the corner, licking my OWN god-damned wounds.

And when I heal and am ready to resume battle, I will make you hoist yourself upon the flat of my steele, steadfast upon the emminency of your wicked death. You shall whisper your name slightly upon my ears, and I will utter with finality, "Good Game old chap", as the sword of your backside slides heavily into my ribcage.

With that, my horned/winged helm will fall with reprise, and in mid-flight, roll eternally to find it's place in Hell's Shire along with the noble steed I've ridden bareback, flashing it's scale-ish greens and purple-golds, breathing flame and pissing razor blades into the Nigh'.