Posts Categorized “George”
The heifer chewed her cud. It was thicker than yesterday’s. Oh, what was that? There was something crunchy in her mouth. Cud wasn’t supposed to crunch. Had she eaten something unusual? The heifer couldn’t remember.
In the burning depths of Hades, Cyborg George massaged his seething soul, already plotting revenge.
THE END
(Or is it?)
Whirring, spinning, and hissing, Cyborg George advanced towards the unimpressed heifer, who stood at the fence chewing her cud.
“This ends NOW!” cried George, cocking the shotgun mounted on his arm. He raised his metallic arm high. “NOW!”
As if on cue, a bolt of lightning burst from the sky.
Twelve ravens watched as the door of the farmhouse opened and a grime-smeared figure emerged.
His left leg was steel and pistons; steam whiffed out of the joints as he moved. A shotgun was mounted along his handless right forearm.
“Death, death, raawk!” croaked the ravens.
Cyborg George laughed aloud.
George slaved beside a roaring fire, a wild look in his eyes.
“Fool me once, shame on you,” he mumbled, dripping sweat as he steadied the anvil.
“Fool me twice, shame on me!” he cried, swinging the hammer above his head.
He held his creations high. “WHO’S THE FOOL NOW!?”
The heifer chewed her cud.
That funny one-legged man stood in front of her, holding some kind of metal tube and balancing precariously on a crutch.
Now he was pointing the metal thing at her forehead. It smelled delicious.
Later, in the farm house, George softly rubbed his bandaged hand.
Cock gun, point gun, pull trigger. Only three simple steps separated George from vengeance. The stupid cow stood and blinked its heavy-lidded eyes, oblivious.
This isn’t difficult, George chided himself. Cock, point, pull.
He couldn’t do it.
It wasn’t his conscience. It was just hard to balance on one leg.
Twelve ravens settled on the field.
“Raaawk, twelve of us? Somethin’ big!” croaked Elwitch, the biggest raven.
“Death, death, raawk!” agreed Eegar, the oldest.
Esaud, the loudest, squawked, “Raawk, George, the farmer!”
George, left leg missing below the knee, hobbled past on crutches, with a shotgun slung across his back.
The heifer chewed her cud. It was thicker than yesterday’s. Oh, what was that? There was something crunchy in her mouth. Cud wasn’t supposed to crunch. Had she eaten something unusual this afternoon? The heifer couldn’t remember.
In the farm house, George softly rubbed his bandaged stump, already plotting revenge.