by Griffin O'Hara
A fucking mountain of balls, cheese ones, towered before me. This would be my legacy, a clarion call throughout the generations to what is noble, and what is right. I would eat to save my soul.
At the foot of the mountain, underneath a skeletal tree stood a man with cloven feet. He disappeared whenever I looked away, and had a face that I could not remember, even while staring straight at him.
His hooves were dusted with powdered cheese, and horny with miles. My stomach quailed at the pile of cheese-balls. Ignoring the silent man, I approached the mountain and gathered an armful of cheese-balls. So it begins.
I was eating to regain my soul, which I lost in an ill-fated nerf war. Battle leaves scars that aren’t always visible. He had won the war, and in doing so, claimed my soul. Flashbacks of the pillow fort he kicked through and the close-range nerfcution he executed still woke me every night. Even years later, my right areolae was residually tender from the near-lethal muzzle velocity of a nerf dart.
Desperation leads a man to strange decisions and even stranger pussy. Tonight, however, was involved more of the former than the latter. I turned to the stranger and addressed him, my lips slightly orange with cheese powder,
“You only fire nerf guns at arm’s length, at least. You have to warn if you’re firing closer.”
“I’ve never heard of that rule.”
“But of course, I am Luicifer. Liar of liars.”
“How can I trust your word?”
“I see no choice in the matter. Your soul, or not.”
“Once I finish these fucking cheese balls I’m going to shoot both your nipples with a nerf dart. Then I’m gonna throw the fucking gun at your fucking nuts.”I finished the first armful.
The orange mountain glowed in the twilight. I was Sir Edmund Hillary, or Shackleton, or some other explorer with a chick’s name. I would conquer this mountain. But first, a nap.