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Part 2 - the Mad Man's Moustache

Skrevet av michae2109 den 31 desember 2007 klokken 16:31

Alright ye mortals, for the unenlightened of you, the first part of this primitive, ebullient, ludicrous, inscrutable and genial tale of old, told the story of the ninety-and-something-year-old father and his sixteen year old son. To read the full story, guide your eyes to the first part of this story, named with a title guaranteed to stun your mind. Now, you may endeavour to discover what part of this introduction that is irony and what is not irony; but to do that, you must first read the text below and then present your judgement at the space below. Then you surely will know how much of this splendid introduction which holds truth.

Once upon a long, long, long, long, long cock-a-doodle-doo, so long ago that your inferior mind have no hope of grasping how long; you read the first part of this story, and of course several questions manifested themselves in your quizzical minds. This part will explain some of these. If it dosen't, than the fault is all yours, because I say so!!! BWA HA HA HA

Long before the sixteen year old son began his quest with a Mario so brilliantly voiced by the transcendent Mr. Bush ("Princess Peach does NOT negotiate with terror-turtles!"), long before the old father switched on his DVD-player to watch Lucy rip apart another ten security guards, long before yours truly started straining his mind writing this ridiculous story, long before the Master Sword defeated the evil king yet again, and long before the world was haunted by the stray boy wearing glasses who bewitched our minds and embittered the world with his uncontrollable hair (EXPECTO, RIDDIKULUS, THE DARK DORK IS DEAD), the tale of Telling took place. This is the story of the old ninety-and-something-year-old father's past, when his face was smooth, his hair existent, his crotch-boils non-existent, and his chances of having an erection 200 times bigger than the present probability (0 %). His son had not been born; his shoes were still tied, and his homosexual tendencies had recently been crushed by watching a parody compilation of Star Wars, to the music of "Can't touch this".

He was walking down the street in some forsaken city, with no mind of why he was there, only remembering something about a moustache, a rather large moustache with an aura of mystique, power, invincibility, and the-power-to-defeat-the-evil-lord-of-old-now-at large-again-plotting-to-dominate-us-all-essence. In short, he was searching for the One M, the most powerful artefact ever seen in our lousy world's existence, capable of banishing the evil for ever. Although yours truly know this perfectly well, this man did not remember any of it, probably because he was so thick in the head he had even forgotten to remove the experimental note he had plastered on his back the month before. The note read "I'M BAD, DO NOT KICK ME", and in the name of reverse psychology, every single person he had passed since he left his house that day had landed a hard kick on his sensitive behind. By the time he reached the before-mentioned forsaken town, his behind ached more than the ego of Snoopy when he was defeated by the Red Baron for the third time.

In short, the guy had reached his destination with no mind of why he had departed from his cosy living room in the first place.

"Fear not, brave explorer" sounded a sudden voice.

"Eh, what was that?" cried the thick-headed man

"I will guide you on the right path?"

"The right path to what"?

Suddenly, a bright light encircled the man and he sensed a movement to his right. Squinting through the light, he spotted an ornate S floating in front of him. The S had a strange appearance; "it looks like a ... tadpole?"

"Greetings, brave, thick-headed explorer, I am not your enemy."

"A floating S looking like a tadpole and sounding like Gandalf the Gay is most certainly my enemy! Shove yourself, will you!"

"But I am not an S, young man; I am something far, far more than an S. But very well, I will show myself to you."

"I said shove yourself, not sho-"

He did not have time to complete the sentence, due to a hard kick arousing an excruciating pain on his already aching behind. Moments later, the possessor of the mystical voice suddenly stepped into view, revealing that the tadpole-S was a logo printed on the speaker's chest: a man wearing slippers, a red diving suit, fake muscle plates on his shoulders and a grey beard so long it tickled the tips of his toes. As the stranger draw into clearer view, the thick-headed explorer noticed the grand sword glued to the oddball's back, decorated with many ornate note pages. Seconds later, he realised that the note pages were not part of the blade, they were real paper from a notebook, fastened to the sword with the same glue that held the weapon firmly in place on the stranger's back. The guy abruptly halted, straightened up and was about to deliver a roaring, intimidating superheroish speech, when he tripped over his beard and landed headfirst on the ground.

"Holy crap and for the mother of Santa Claus' yellowish brother, why didn't I get rid of that beard when I had the chance!?" the stranger bellowed as he gingerly got to his feet.

"Who the hell are you?" asked the thick-headed man, "and why are you dressed like a hybrid of Marvel, Disney and a dead drunk Churchill?"

"I am the guardian of this land, protector of the One M and the supreme fertiliser of the world. My name is Ssp-uhrm-Man! I have come to you in person to tell you that I have deemed you worthy of finding the One M. I have long watched you, ever since I sensed your determination of travelling to these lands in order to find the powerful artefact. However, the villainous trickster Sst-uh-ryle-Man confounded your memory about 546, 56453 kilometres from here and left you wandering aimlessly in the desert. I was not allowed to interfere and could not help you. Fortunately, you made it here on your known despite having lost all memory of the One M, proving once and for all that you are the one destined to find the powerful artefact, the almighty moustache that no evil soul may touch."

The thick-headed man, who in the eyes of yours truly does not appear to be such a numbskull anymore, strived to contemplate all of this, when he suddenly was hit by a magic anime-ish return of a veritable ton of memories, streaming into his mind 10 000 times faster than YouTube. He yelled in pain and crouched while holding his hairs, but didn't had to stay like this for long. Two anime-ish seconds later, the pain was gone, subsiding as fast as it had come.

"I REMEMBER!" The not-so-thick-headed-man-after-all shouted

"GOOD, YOUR MEMORIES OF THE GREAT ARTEFACT HAS RETURNED. YOU ARE THE CHOSEN ONE!"

"Why the heck are you screaming? I'm not deaf!"

"Sorry about that, got a bit carried away, there" chuckled the stranger. "How does it feel having all those memories returned to you?" he asked with a grin

"As if a male genital just pierced my head! Anyhow, what's this One M you're blabbering about, exactly?"

"As I told you, it is the One M (Moustache), the divine artefact shaved from the lips of Odin himself, kissed by Frigg and Freya, ridiculed by Thor, stolen by Loki, nearly burned by Trym the Jötunn Chief, retrieved by Olaf the Stout, unshaved by Idun the keeper of the apples, restolen by Baldr and brought to Earth by his most faithful of servants, me! Since then I have been protecting it from intruders and the furious assaults of the Norse Gods (I've still got scars from the last time Mjolnir hit me in the head!), awaiting the arrival of the one predestined to claim it and cleanse all evil from this lousy world."

"Ok, so I'm supposed to get a magical moustache, I got that." But why am I the chosen one for this un-awesomeness?"

"Because you have all the right qualities of the chosen one as prophesised by Master Baldr!" You are lazy, down to earth, a firm lover of pornography, an outcast in your family, ridiculed by your equals and forever distrusted since you ended up sterilising your own mother on your way to the groceries' store!"

"Hey, hey, HEY, how the hell do you know all that?"

"Because I come from the future young thick-headed explorer, a future where you are a ninety-and-something-year-old man and have some very odd hobbies. A future where internet, WoW and animation series consumes the minds of the younglings"!

"What the-

And with THIS, the second part of the tale of Telling ends. I hope your feeble mortal minds enjoyed this ludicrous, profligate trash of a story. Brace yourself for the next part, its title which I will not reveal! It is too early for you numbskulls to hear the name! Hang on, all ye faithful, for the next part, and adieu for now! But before we part, listen to some wise words of old.

One, two, three
Run, you must all flee
Four, five, six
Beware of his mortal mix
Seven, eight, nine
You will be his dine
Ten, eleven, twelve
Run, yelp, your grave he will delve

HQ