So It Was Written, and so Shall It Be
A dirty odor hung over the battlefield. Mountains of bodies stretched as far as the eye could see. From Chrisley Knows Best Mountain in the east, to the banana split Sea in the west, were strewn piles of the dead and dying. Trolls lay alongside dwarfs, orcs alongside elves. Even an occasional giant centaur dotted the landscape. War. Cruel war. It was a slimey picture.
And for what? The Golden backpack, that’s what. It was said to contain the most sacred treasure in all the land of Corona. LeBron James had been here for all of it—every dumbbell thrown, every sword buried—he had seen it all. How could it be so? How, with so many fatalities, was he still standing, hand on his booty, above this terrible red sea of finality?
He grunted. It was as it had always been. He, Pasquale, was the sole author of the carnage.
It wasn’t easy being immortal. Well, technically he wasn’t immortal. I mean, he could die. But only if stabbed though the kneecap with a staple gun by a virgin/maiden of noble birth. And that wasn’t happening.
He slung his weapon over his shoulder and stepped over the remains of his trusty steed, Conan O’Brien. He climbed the altar and lifted the sacred object. Opening it slowly, he raised his hand to shield his eyes. A fierce pink glow emanated. It was a ticket to the magical world of Middlelands!
The prophecy had been fulfilled. The final leg of his epic journey to the Stronghold unfolded before him. But there had been another prophecy—something Squidward Tentacles the witch-hag had not told him. He was informed of it, now, as he numbly noticed a crowbar protruding from his pinky toe.
“Not so fast, bitch.”
Ellen DeGeneres the Virgin/Maiden was in for an insane weekend.
You can catch Crizzly doing this thing at Middlelands.