A friend and I wrote this. We took turns writting a paragraph (or the equivilant). I know you guys hate text, but it's short.
The dead moon man looked around at the post-primordial ooze he found himself in.
“Where am I?” he mused…
Just then a particular foggy section of the ooze formed into a vaguely man shaped man.
“Farts,” it replied.
This was not untoward in the moon-man’s experience. He was used to unusual circumstances. Growing up on the moon created a world of challenges. The rock was a jagged, inhospitable environment to most silicon-based life-forms. Even the most mundane children’s games often involved difficult questions of survival and fate. The moon monsters, with their eternally appearing jaws and eyes from the void were always clamping out from the crannies where children would hide, their ethereal forms hopelessly grasping at the nimble ones and slurping the less fortunate. In this light a vaguely shaped form of any variety was par for the course, if only because it could not yet be deemed hostile.
The moon man, who’s name happened to be Johnny (Johnny Moon to his friends), slowly reached for his thirty million watt MoonBlaster (which was good at blowing up things from moons as well as the moons themselves). The figure repeated its request for flatulence. Johnny Moon was a grizzled sort. When one has to fight for his moon life every day one doesn’t develop a sophisticated sense of humor, and this potty-mouthed apparition was testing his patience.
“Farts. Farts. Farts!”
With a cool composure, Johnny aimed and fired in one practiced motion. The blast left a mark which quickly faded away. The figure, however, did not.
“FARTS!”
“You’re really getting on my moon nerves,” said Johnny Moon. He cranked up the power dial on his MoonBlaster to the full thirtythou. “I may not know much about ghosts but I do know what happens when thirty thousand watts of moonblast hits a thing…”
Johnny Moon fired. The figure was blown away in a shower of sparks and sparkles.
“The same thing that happens when it hits something else.”
Just then another figure appeared. “My baby! What have you done to my baby?”
“Nothing he didn’t have coming.” The sparkles spread between the two of them like horribly inappropriate confetti. The irony was not lost on Johnny moon, as the figure’s form turned to what might have been interpreted as anger.
“You shot him?”
“Twice.”
“Why? He was only fourteen years dead!”
“Am I dead then?”
“Of course… I think. I really don’t know. I always assumed.”
“You should never assume.”
“You should never shoot my son twice!”
“He got what was comin’ to him…all that dirty language.” Unnoticed by Johnny, the confetti had begun to coagulate on the floor, creating a silvery mush at the feet of the figures.
“You’re standing in him!”
Johnny looked down. She was right. The thing was in a pool at his feet, but he hadn’t even felt it. That was unusual.
“I didn’t notice.”
“You cad!”
As if to help him out, the pool of mush moved away from him, sliding along what appeared to be the floor, gurbling something that was hardly comprehensible. Then something a little more comprehensible.
“Farts.” It said.
Johnny trained the moonblasted on the puddle.
“Say it again!”
“No! Don’t!” cried the other figure.
“Why does he keep saying that?”
“He was traumatized by his death. He’s been saying it ever since.”
“I hate this crazy place. I wish I was back on the moon.”
“The moon? This IS the moon.”
“Farts.”
“You really can’t make him stop.” He said it with an air of resignation.
“Just stop trying to shoot him, and eventually he’ll forget about you.”
“What if I just walk away from all of this right now?”
“That wouldn’t really be wise.”
“FARTS!”
“How’dya figure?”
“You got anyone else to show you around?”
And with a flourish Johnny Moon pulled out his MoonCompass with its digital MoonNav. With hardly a glance over his shoulder Johnny turned and walked away.
“FARTS!
FARTS!
FARTS!
FARTS!
FARTS!
“Well hello there again, stranger.”
Johnny had to work very hard to avoid letting the disbelief register on his face.
“This place seems a little smaller than I’m used to.”
“Try again.”
He did. And just as quickly, he was treated to the same scene.
“Keep going, its fine. I can wait.”
And so he did. Again and again. What a tragic afterlife awaits us sinners. The crimes of the moon will be replayed in the unending time of death; forever reflected in melancholy eddies of mist and either. For what farts we let loose, those evil cries of stench and decay, will return forever more, never to be dispatched by any amount of watt or wit. Repent! Repent or the same fate awaits you! Dark halls and labyrinths echoing forever more with the calls of the damned. Farts. Farts! FARTS!
The End.
He thought to himself…..
But the farting continued….
The dead moon man looked around at the post-primordial ooze he found himself in.
“Where am I?” he mused…
Just then a particular foggy section of the ooze formed into a vaguely man shaped man.
“Farts,” it replied.
This was not untoward in the moon-man’s experience. He was used to unusual circumstances. Growing up on the moon created a world of challenges. The rock was a jagged, inhospitable environment to most silicon-based life-forms. Even the most mundane children’s games often involved difficult questions of survival and fate. The moon monsters, with their eternally appearing jaws and eyes from the void were always clamping out from the crannies where children would hide, their ethereal forms hopelessly grasping at the nimble ones and slurping the less fortunate. In this light a vaguely shaped form of any variety was par for the course, if only because it could not yet be deemed hostile.
The moon man, who’s name happened to be Johnny (Johnny Moon to his friends), slowly reached for his thirty million watt MoonBlaster (which was good at blowing up things from moons as well as the moons themselves). The figure repeated its request for flatulence. Johnny Moon was a grizzled sort. When one has to fight for his moon life every day one doesn’t develop a sophisticated sense of humor, and this potty-mouthed apparition was testing his patience.
“Farts. Farts. Farts!”
With a cool composure, Johnny aimed and fired in one practiced motion. The blast left a mark which quickly faded away. The figure, however, did not.
“FARTS!”
“You’re really getting on my moon nerves,” said Johnny Moon. He cranked up the power dial on his MoonBlaster to the full thirtythou. “I may not know much about ghosts but I do know what happens when thirty thousand watts of moonblast hits a thing…”
Johnny Moon fired. The figure was blown away in a shower of sparks and sparkles.
“The same thing that happens when it hits something else.”
Just then another figure appeared. “My baby! What have you done to my baby?”
“Nothing he didn’t have coming.” The sparkles spread between the two of them like horribly inappropriate confetti. The irony was not lost on Johnny moon, as the figure’s form turned to what might have been interpreted as anger.
“You shot him?”
“Twice.”
“Why? He was only fourteen years dead!”
“Am I dead then?”
“Of course… I think. I really don’t know. I always assumed.”
“You should never assume.”
“You should never shoot my son twice!”
“He got what was comin’ to him…all that dirty language.” Unnoticed by Johnny, the confetti had begun to coagulate on the floor, creating a silvery mush at the feet of the figures.
“You’re standing in him!”
Johnny looked down. She was right. The thing was in a pool at his feet, but he hadn’t even felt it. That was unusual.
“I didn’t notice.”
“You cad!”
As if to help him out, the pool of mush moved away from him, sliding along what appeared to be the floor, gurbling something that was hardly comprehensible. Then something a little more comprehensible.
“Farts.” It said.
Johnny trained the moonblasted on the puddle.
“Say it again!”
“No! Don’t!” cried the other figure.
“Why does he keep saying that?”
“He was traumatized by his death. He’s been saying it ever since.”
“I hate this crazy place. I wish I was back on the moon.”
“The moon? This IS the moon.”
“Farts.”
“You really can’t make him stop.” He said it with an air of resignation.
“Just stop trying to shoot him, and eventually he’ll forget about you.”
“What if I just walk away from all of this right now?”
“That wouldn’t really be wise.”
“FARTS!”
“How’dya figure?”
“You got anyone else to show you around?”
And with a flourish Johnny Moon pulled out his MoonCompass with its digital MoonNav. With hardly a glance over his shoulder Johnny turned and walked away.
“FARTS!
FARTS!
FARTS!
FARTS!
FARTS!
“Well hello there again, stranger.”
Johnny had to work very hard to avoid letting the disbelief register on his face.
“This place seems a little smaller than I’m used to.”
“Try again.”
He did. And just as quickly, he was treated to the same scene.
“Keep going, its fine. I can wait.”
And so he did. Again and again. What a tragic afterlife awaits us sinners. The crimes of the moon will be replayed in the unending time of death; forever reflected in melancholy eddies of mist and either. For what farts we let loose, those evil cries of stench and decay, will return forever more, never to be dispatched by any amount of watt or wit. Repent! Repent or the same fate awaits you! Dark halls and labyrinths echoing forever more with the calls of the damned. Farts. Farts! FARTS!
The End.
He thought to himself…..
But the farting continued….
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