Many years ago there was an Indian Chief. We know not his name, but names are not important for this tale.
One day this chief was sitting in his wigwam, cooking his dinner and pondering over many things. ‘Does life begin when the sun rises? Is the wind a companion or a stalker? When it rains, are the gods crying over a mistake we don’t know we have made?’
For many minutes he thought these questions through, coming to no real answer. So deep in thought was he though, that he forgot he was cooking and he burned his pizza.
‘Bollocks’ uttered the chief, as he tried to salvage the last edible morsels, but alas, they were of no use. A meal for the jackals they would make.
This was an unfortunate turn of events. The chief had travelled many miles and fought many battles for this dinner. In fact he had killed 3 mans, 2 womans and a cat, before salvaging his prize from a distant land called Sainsburys.
All those deaths, all those struggles had come to nought, as he stared sad-eyed at the embers of his meatfeat.
The chief needed to eat. He had eaten nothing but morsels of the earth and funions for many months, and he wasn’t about to go back to them now. He hankered after flesh. Dead flesh. Flesh granted him by the Gods.
‘I shall go hunt’ he told himself.
He picked up his bow, arrows and his plasma rifle, and traipsed stealthily outside his wigwam. The chief had not hunted for many moons, and wasn’t the warrior he once was. What a warrior he was though. The villagers still spoke in hushed tones about the time he kicket a ferrett in the face to death.
But that man had been whittled away by the ravages of time, and was a gnarled fat husk. No longer could he stride across mountains like an antelope. Now he could only trudge along pebbles like a crab, but he was intent on proving to himself that he could still hunt.
He wandered into the wild forest, blanketed in pitch darkness, illuminated only by the glistening beads of stars that punctured the skies. The forest was full of animals, from the lowly tapeworm to the mighty elephant with enormous balls. It was a true hunters paradise.
The Chief let his long dormant hunter instincts take over. He closed his eyes, and felt everything around him. Ah yes, it was all coming back to him now. He didn’t need to look to know what was going on. Behind him, he could sense a bear pawing in the lake for fish. Above him he could sense two mayflies, buzzing away through an act not of love, but primal instinct. A mile away, he sensed a horse having a poo.
Even closer though, he sensed rustling. ‘How fortunate’ he thought. ‘The quarry has come to me.’
He stood deathly still. He needed to time this just right. One false move and he’d be back to space raiders and kinder eggs for the rest of the week. That was not the way of a chief. A chief needed to revel in the spoils of his efforts. And his efforts at the minute were vast.
For a few moments more silence reigned, though not in the chief’s heart. Not in a long time had it raged as it did now.
He charged up his plasma rifle. The moment was coming soon.
The chief seized his chance, and opened fire. At what he had no clue, but he knew he’d picked the right moment. He fired straight and true, like that bit in Predator when Mac goes batshit after the Predator killed Jesse Ventura. He let out a mighty roar as he did this, unleashing round after round of plasma energy at anything that moved.
To the left he fired. To the right he fired. Above him he fired. He was 4 ft 3 inches of DEATH, and he would let nothing survive.
All of a sudden the firing stopped. The energy in his pulse weapon had depleted.
Breathing heavily he gathered himself. He couldn’t wait to see the results of his hunt.
He squirrelled among the carnage of the fauna, looking for things that had once lived.
And looked a bit more.
And another bit.
And over there.
Not there though.
His heart sank.
He had caught nothing. Somehow all his quarry had avoided his ammunition ejaculation.
He slumped dejected, against the remnants of a tree he had blown the living shit out of. He had failed. Disgraced himself. He couldn’t go back to the village now. All his mates would take the piss.
As he agonised over this though, a lonely black speck fell from the sky and landed close to where he was dormant. It startled the chief, and he got up again, ready to fight this new threat.
This would be a good death.
He stalked over to where this thing had landed and raised his fist ready for WAR…
He lowered them again though when he saw it was nothing but a crow, washing its plasma-burned bum in a nearby puddle.
In the chief’s eye formed a lonely tear. A tear that then fell silently down the contours of his lined, pock-marked face.
He trudged home and had a wank.