||[Jan. 7th, 2006|03:36 pm]
It's been a while since I've updated my LJ. I have a lot of stories to recount of my travels.|
Not sure whether to start in the beginning of my travels, or the end, so I'll start somewhere in the middle. I'll start with the tale of Pana Valley.
Somewhere between Morocco and Algeria, there's a little known place called Pana Valley. In fact, I doubt that you could even find it on the map.
Anyway, I started off my travels with a whole $5 in my pocket. By the time I arrived at PV, I was broke and shoeless. I hadn't had food in about a week, and my breath smelled like shit.
Left with few options, I sold myself into the slave market so that at least I could get some food, shelter, and a few dunkaroos in my wallet. (Dunkaroos was the local currency. It's widely used in the Meandersi Province.)
Ironically, my owner was a poor man. He bought me as a desperate means of saving his failing grape & banana farm. As it turned out, I had a natural talent for g&b breeding, and soon, the business was thriving. Local farms closed down, and we saw our market share grow exponentially.
My owner was very grateful for my help and treated me well. He had to. Though I had asserted my loyalty to him, I could tell he was still worried that I may run away.
One day he approached me and beseeched that I marry his daughter. Of course, I resisted, but he seemed relentless and I was already undeniably in love with her, as she was quite the babe. And so, after a few hours of paddywackeling I consented, and he arranged for our wedding ceremony to be on the very next day.
News broke out instantly, as the media people of PV were always hidden in the foilage and sewage system. This celebration was gonna be huge. My owner, and soon to be in-law father, hired the most famous entertainers in the valley, including Mickey Trump and the Hallucinators.
What should have been the happiest night of my life turned out to be an utter tragedy! You see, our success had earned us lots of dunkaroos and lots of enemies. Ergo, around midnight on the night of my wedding, we were attacked -- by an army of mantaurs.
They ravaged the party, killing anyone in sight. My inebriated father was torn to shreds within seconds. I would have died that night too if it weren't for my quick-minded wife. She tossed me on her back and told me to wrap my arms tightly around her. Then she ran like a Brazilian ostrich. As I soon discovered, my wife was also quite athletic.
Most of the mantaurs were busy destroying our guests, but one caught our escape. It ran after us, howling like a pregnant cow.
The mantaur was breathing down my back for nearly 2 hours. Finally, its endurance began to weaken, and the distance between us started to grow like a German daffodil on a summer day. My wife was panting like a clown on steroids, but I urged her to continue sprinting. We finally stopped when we were sure we had lost that wretched beast.
"Where are we?" I asked. "It looks like some kind of nightmarish forest."
"I have.. no.. idea," she managed to say in between breaths.
Then! we heard a maniacal scream in the distance. It sounded like.. actually, I have no accurate comparison to make.
"Wtf was that?" I whimpered, like a baby gorilla with a mouthful of cavities.
"Oh no," my wife looked me in the eyes and continued, "I know where we are... We are in the Jungle of the Retarded Ninjas."