Eh

“Just look at him dead in the eye and call him a cum-slurping faggot” He did, and the Captain was not amused. They had him tied to the mast for a fortnight. Contemplating the hilarious results of his ill advice, so cleverly delivered by a third party, Mr Lard scans the horizon, the third eye in the middle of his forehead squinting in the bright sunlight. He was a magical-looking man, and his rambling and the fact that he pronounced everything wrong made him loved and respected among the crew.

“Oi cunt! Pass the chawdah willya?” demanded Mr Lard across the mess hall, and young Mr Sterling was both swift and happy to comply. “Ya scundrils know shit.” Replied Mr Lard, a fatherly smile upon his lips. Then, a sudden roar broke the pastoral scene, and a low frequency vibration made the chowdah fall all over. “Whut da fack!”, cried Mr Lard, all his eyes on the far end of the room, where a large tentacle dropping from above looked for something. “Oh shit it has a gun!” someone screamed as the murderous tentacle emptied his mag on those poor entrepreneurs.

Amid the confusion Captain Boo emerged from his dreamless slumber. He did a somersault into the mess hall and started to wrestle the gun off the tentacle, but tentacles are crafty fuckers, and it resisted. A second tentacle appears! Captain Boo is outnumbered but never outwitted. Tentacle #2 had a knife, but Captain Boo snatched it off with a round kick. The first tentacle procured a fresh mag for his gun from a previously unseen pocket to reload his clearly illegally bought firearm and, quick to seize any opportunity, Captain Boo used this chance to issue orders upon this mesmerized crew: “Go find the tentacle owner, or at least, the creature to which this ungodly appendages must verily be attached, whether or not such entity happens to be the one in legal possession of them!” From a corner, Larry from accounting demanded clarification: “sir”-- he said “you mean that we should go find the origin of these here tentacles, even if the creature who surely wields where not the legal owner?”

“Fufucsake boi no tiem foyashit!”and whit this, Mr Lard darted to the deck. When a man faces great danger, memories from his youth often visit him. Mr Lard had flashing visions of his childhood deep in the mountains, his time as a lion and the years at the academy, where he first made acquaintance with Captan Boo-- young Mr Boo it was back then. He also had other, more painful tidbits from the past come fresh again.

Some bitter, some sour.

On deck his worst fears were confirmed, a giant sea cat perched itself against the hull and now his tentacles engulfed the ship. Its purr, now a loud, bone-shaking rumble echoed in the emptiness of it all, and Mr Lard knew the nature of the conflict to come. “Mr Lard!” yelled young Mr Sterling “Sir, before we go into battle and perchance meet out demise I want to ask you, as a friend, is it true you can see ghosts with your third eye?” Still staring at the beast, Mr Lard answered: “Boi Im not french. Tell ya this doe, ghasts sure can see me”.

Papa Farmer put the book down, both his kids looking at him, clearly eager to know more.

“Waitaminute” said PF with a frown. “this aint my bible! This is a whole other book altogether!” and he stormed out the house and into the barn. There, Horse was chillin cuz he a horse. Papa Farmer punched him out cold and Horse dropped like a little bitch! “Papa why” asked the horse, down in the ground like a rug, a single tear of heartbrokeness rolling down his long face.

“Serves you right!”