The Chronicles of Thick Manslice (Part 2 of 2)

CHAPTER THREE

                Drong had marked on the map a series of obstacles the two would have to undertake on their way to Zagox, creatively titled “The Three Obstacles.” The two protagonists navigated the woods for hours before confronting their first Obstacle, known ominously as the Basilisk of Hammerslaw. Breadcramp’s stress level rose to eighteen kilograms, while Thick was incapable of feeling stress ever since his stress bone was amputated in the Trans-Bostonian War.

                “Well, my dear Thick, the map indicates that this area should contain the feared Basilisk of Hammerslaw. I highly suggest you unsheathe your weapon of choice,” said Breadcramp.

                Thick pulled a butter knife from his massive urethra. “So, what the fuck is a motherfuckin’ basilisk anyway, motherfucker? I tain’t readin’ no fuckin’ Harry Potter-ass shit up in dis bitch.”

                “Your guess is as good as mine, my dear man.” Breadcramp pulled a machete from his left ass-nostril. “I presume it’s some sort of feminine cleanser.”

                The two waited in battle positions for three hours. Nothing happened.

                “Well, I believe we won, Thick. And, in my opinion, we fought well. Off we go!” said Breadcramp.

CHAPTER FOUR

                “Our next Obstacle is known as ‘The Talking Tree of Johannesburg,’” said Breadcramp, taking part in his most cherished pastime - exposition.

                The two valiant warriors eventually arrived at a tree omitting peculiar snoring-like noises. Its “eyes” were closed as its “mouth” was wide-open and drooling tree sap.

                “Greetings, fellow traveler!” yelled Breadcramp. The Tree awoke.

                “Hello,” it said in a booming voice.

                “A pleasure to meet your acquaintance, good sir. Do tell, what is your name, oh great anthropomorphic sapling?”

                “Bob.”

                “Ah.”

                There was a pause. A very long pause.

                “Right then. Off we go!”

CHAPTER FIVE

                “Alright, Thick. Our final Obstacle is –“

                “Man, fuck you! Man, this whole fuckin’ time your ass has been highjackin’ this shit like it’s fuckin’ yours, man! Well, guess what, you faggy-ass mothafucka? My name’s in the fuckin’ title! I’m the fuckin’ main mothafuckin’ character ‘a this fuckin’ poorly thought out, juvenile sense of humor shit! Yet your fuckin’ advanced-diction ass has been takin’ that shit away from me, man! I’m a rich fuckin’ character! You feel me? I’m a mothafucka that’s gotta be developed, gnome sayin’? I’m the fuckin’ Walter White, of, like, fuckin’ wherever we are. Brazil or some shit. Whatever. The point bein’, mothafucka, STOP TAKIN’ MY MOTHAFUCKIN’ SCREEN TIME!”

                Thick pulled out a sledgehammer from under his toenail and struck Breadcramp’s skull, bringing him to the ground and leaving him incapacitated. Thick continued to bludgeon. With each hit, Breadcramp’s skull became gradually more concave. His brains began squirting out of his nose like silly string while his eyes began to pop out, leaving two gaping holes where they once were. Eventually, Breadcramp’s skull was reduced to several jagged shards of bone and meat mixed with liquefied brains and afro shavings. Thick looked upon his work and grinned.

                “My ass should be Pope,” he declared.

CHAPTER SIX

                “Man, what the f- How the fuck do I read this shit?!?” Thick was fumbling with the map, attempting to make sense of it by turning it in every possible direction. While he understood the route that the map outlined, he was confused on what exactly Drong meant by the phrase, “This is where Zagox is,” at the end of the map.

                “Man, fuck this shit.” Thick angrily threw the map on the ground.

                “My ass don’t need a fuckin’ map. My ass is like the fuckin’ Three Moseses; I can navigate by the fuckin’ stars.”

                Thick looked into the sky and searched for a star. He only saw one – the Sun. He felt it was sufficient.

                “A’ight, so, if the Sun’s there, and my ass is here, and the Moon’s in the sky, and Italy borders Africa, then…” Thick scanned the landscape. “…then Zagox be over there.”

                “There” was an unimaginably gigantic medieval castle on top of a razor sharp mountain shrouded in black, nebulous storm clouds. Its massive chimneys occasionally omitted terrifying plumes of fire that evoked the feeling of Hell on Earth. Indeed, such was the ideal lodging for a deviant like Zagox.

                “I know where my ass is goin’, mothafucka. Watch yo ass, Zagox. Or should I say, Gay-Cocks. Heh-heh. My ass should be Jewish.”

                Thick began the trek to his new destination. Unfortunately, he soon became drastically sidetracked and walked off a cliff and died.

THE END.