The Pancake Games Pt. I-III

PT.1

It was a usual day back in Fort Bansworth. George was sitting on his sofa quite comfortably. He was, without a doubt, quite comfortable indeed. A hissing sound emerged from around the corner, and George stood erect. He eased down into a stealthy position and crawled around his couch. It sounded as if someone had broken in, with no other obvious possibility. Little did George know, a strange person was skulking around his kitchen looking for a spoon full of brown sugar. This man loved molasses, hence the name Molasses. Molasses was always getting into clandestine mischief, but was quite humble indeed. Despite his naughty behavior, he was quite indubitably one of the nicest men there was. Despite his quite-hideous expression, Molasses was indeed a likable one.

George was provoked by the illicit sounds in his kitchen, and he grabbed a crowbar, which he too had done some mischievious things with, and crawled around the corner. He used his peripheral vision to get a glance at the man Molasses. An unimpressed expression sweeped across George's pale skin as it came to his attention he was dealing with a sugar thief. By George's reckoning, his father was too a sugar thief. This did not make George any less provoked. George lashed his crowbar across Molasses's feet, and without any ambiguity, it was clear that the man Molasses was of no threat. He whimpered on the ground, smothered in molasses. Molasses forgot his true moniker long ago, so he had to improvise. Molasses crawled away like a swollen rat, and crawled out of a window. George chased Molasses, with a strong desire to injure him. Molasses leaped like a spider from the shingles on George's roof down onto the sidewalk below, seemingly unwavered. The man just kept crawling.

George drew in a great, deep breath. He was in no mood to chase a sugar thief of such petty proportions. George had empathy for that sort of petty criminal. After all, George was no such petty thief, but in reality he was a treason-commiting, vicious criminal with no remorse.

Since George could still see the thief running, he shouted loudly, "Find a better job!"

In response to George, Molasses spewed out a quote without meaning. "You see, I too was born without thumbs!" It became clear Molasses was illiterate.

PT.2

Molasses did indeed lack thumbs, but George was in no such condition. George was hoping to further patronize Molasses, but had no idea of his whereabouts and name label. George had big plans for the next day, so he rested his body vigorously, reaching a plentiful amount of sleep. In the morning, he rose from his bed. He was ready for his big day.

George grabbed his Tactical bow and sharpened hard tipped steel arrows. He was ready to hunt the most dangerous game.

The year was 2076, and the most dangerous game wasn't human anymore. Sorry. George was a lava boar hunter, a mutated form of a wild boar. Highly invasive, mutated, and they reproduce and grow fast. Imagine pigs, with huge tusks, and fireproof with fiery spit and a flaming back. Also, it was considered treason to kill them because of some weird "religion" thing called Biolontiantity. The American government decided to go full communism in 2069, and for some reason biolontiantity caught on hard.

Supposedly, to reach nirvana, one must praise wildlife and help mutate the world's animals. It was a dumb belief, at least to George, but it was very widespread. Also, the religion had awful customs that made George clench his teeth in horror. George was a contract killer. He killed mutated animals and specific people for money. He wanted to save up so he could be sent through space and returned back to Earth in the far future, when he hoped the whole biolontiantity thing would be over.
George remembered the most melancholy day of his life, when the communism arrived. Oh, so melancholy, the melancholy tears streamed from his melancholy face. He took melancholy steps in honor of past-non-communist leaders before the ever-so-melancholy world he faced. Melancholy it was, melancholy he felt. Melancholy is a smart word, or so he thought whilst reminiscing over his good yet melancholy moments.

End.

PT.3

In the alleyway by Pickle Trucker's Gas Stoppin' Station Arena, Molasses stood with a blowpipe while loading it with dart. The poison: tranquilizer. Molasses was no novice, but he sure as heck wasn't an adept blowpipe-er. He decided to knock everyone in the gas station out, and then looked for his good sugar.

Meanwhile, George realized that he needed to go and buy some jerky and trail mix before his lava boar hunt. He happened to stop at the same Pickle Trucker's Gas Stoppin' Station Arena, and encountered Molasses yet again. He watched everyone, unconscious inside the station.

Molasses whimpered when he saw George. Afterall, George was holding a lethal bow and arrow. Molasses's darts on the other hand...

George took a step toward Molasses, and extended his arm. Molasses, whom was scared out of his mind, readied his dart. Molasses happened to be in the way of the jerky, so George grabbed it, and decided for the sake of it, to punch Molasses straight in his forehead. Molasses stumbled over and nearly passed out.

"Holy creek are you'd done in? You flapped hit me straight in the yeiglin' face!"

Molasses had a bit of a profane mouth, and was not one who struggled to use profane language such as the "y word," yeigl. George on the other hand, with his traditional and well supported morals and values, said no such language.

Molasses was clearly a biolontiantitician to George, mostly made obvious by his language and the necklace he wore showing a sun eating moons, the most vulgar sign of biolontiantity. In a sophisticated manner, George whapped the flapjack out of Molasses's pantalones.

Molasses fell down, with a sore straining feeling in his posterior. He accidentally sucked his blowpipe, and went fully unconscious while semi-choking at the same time. George left the gas station and hopped in his truck, ready to hunt.

Molasses on the other hand died. He was left for dead, and choked to death. His character may have seemed like it held potential, but he was a rather dull moron.

George drove his truck, at a reasonable speed through the avenue. He passed many biolontiantity altars, which were embarrasing rip-offs of what was once called a church. For George, you could either be a biolontiantitician or you could have no religion. The government deported those who didn't follow those rules to another country. So much for freedom of religion.

AI ART CONCEPT