Mangy Moe McSleazy, they called him, and he'd come looking for pelts; not the varmint kind either, mind you, but rather fiendish slobbering wackobeast pelts, and he wasn't about to leave empty-handed.
Ramming his hands down his pants and fondling his balls didn't count, neither; so he was gonna hafta do some huntin'.
This led him to use wackobeast trapping tactics that were considered unethical even to your average stirge.
The first thing he did was dig a deep hole, jump down into it, and then bury himself up to his neck -- later birds flew down to feast upon his eyeballs.
Crom almost smiled about it
The dumb birds went to a Pub in the hollow of a gnarly old tree, frustrated about not getting their fill of eyeballs; they drank worm-beer until dawn all the time lamenting upon the short comings of the Irish.
While our hero was in the hole several locals decided to use it as an outhouse, and to make things worse, the wackobeasts were all partying with the Irish, who were a lot more fun that the local birds realized--they just kept to themselves.
He thought, "what a bizarre way to increase my post count."
It was the spanish inquisition!
The lead man pulled a little on his right gauntlet and spoke, "It is time for you to return to your b*tch's teets, did you think you could hide from us forever comrade?"
With a yelp and a hoot, Crazy Horse the Sioux Indian war chief led his complement of indian fighter in a charge towards the men in red robes – “cut my cuffs, you fool”, our hero gasp, “and give me my bolter or we are all dead!”
"No!"
"You shooting me in the back..."
the squint in his eye held death back, that cold eyed stare from a man that saw hell first hand.
"You're insane."
"Do you have any toilet paper?" he asked our still-somewhat-reeking-of-the outhouse hero.
But you may recycle it, he continued.
"I'll use my horse thanks" Crazy Horse grumbled as whoever it was he was talking to indicated a hole at the foot of a nearby tree.
The Indian War party and the men in Red Robes looked at each other, each ready to rock and roll.
The did a few lines while tuning up: Crazy's axe was a 1958 Gibson Les Paul Standard.
It was infused with the souls of hundred thousand virgins.
And all but the still reeking hero were blown away.
The amp hummed feedback and the screeching notes of E filled the air and scattered all life before it.
Of those who stayed, only the coelenterates survived.
And ofcourse our hero, he wasn't one for nothing ofcourse.
Curiously, now that everyone had evaporated, our hero noticed an unbroken black line on the ground leading to the southwest - the line was unblemished and of equal width stretching around the landscape and out of sight – who could have made this he wondered, and with a shrug started following it.
He been following the trail for days now, living on brackish water and the coelenterates for sustenance.
At last he saw a sign ahead and it read "Frogtown population 666 est.1666.
The Denny's was a run down haunt that attracted the thralls and agents of dark powers, anything could be purchased here magic, drugs, slaves, demonic art and sexual favors from a plethora of vendors of many walks and forms of life, however the liquior license was siezed in a raid two months ago.
A shadowy player approached our hero, "You're not from around here are you?"