The One Where Mondo Bungle is Inside of Frownland
So Frownland was waxing his ball-hairs into a tiny moustache for his cock, when he discovered a small mark on his right arm. It was a red dot, similar to a bug bite. "Strange," said Frownland, as he prodded the mark with a cu
m laden finger. He hadn't recalled being bitten by a bug recently. Hell, it had been years since anything had bitten him at all, ever since the local population of insects and nippy dogs had discovered that acid fills the veins of all descendants of the Frownclan.
Peering hard at the mark, he suddenly saw something sticking out of it. Barely visible, it appeared to be a small fiber. His curiosity piqued, Frownland gingerly pinched the fiber with two fingers, and lightly pulled. The fiber grew as he continued to pull on it, growing wider and longer with every light tug. Before long, he was pulling an entire sweater out of his forearm, when suddenly, wham! A metallic fist careened into his face. "What the fu
ck?!" asked/gasped (or askped, if you will) Frownland, as his bedazzled dentures flew astray. Looking at his forearm, he could see the head, left shoulder, and left arm of a robot sticking out where the fiber had been. It seemed that the fiber was part of the robot's dashing fuzzy pink sweater. "Who are you?" asked Frownland. "And why did you hit me?"
The robot looked back at Frownland with glowing eyes, and struck him again. "Silence is golden, cockwagon," it snarled in a synthesized voice. "My name is LorenBot. I exist to impart zingers on those cursed with ineptitude. And I struck you, because one should never mess with a man's fuzzy pink sweater."
"But you're not a man," replied Frownland in a condescending tone.
LorenBot gave him a mighty smack. "I'm more of a man than you. And more than a match for, to boot."
Nursing his struck nose, Frownland whimpered. "But why are you coming out of my arm?"
"Well, I had to get out
somehow. Would you rather I came out of your a
sshole?" replied LorenBot. Smiling (in as much as his robot face would allow such an expression) he added "Or I guess you're more used to to guys coming
in your as
shole, ain'tchya?"
"That's politically incorrect as fu
ck," said Frownland. "I love it!"
The robot stretched out it's hand. "There's more where that came from. Come with me, oh innocent one, and I shall take you to a world full of sick burns and incoherent music. The land of... Qu'qumatz (or however the f
uck that shi
t is spelled, I'm too lazy to look it up)."
How could Frownland refuse? By saying no, that's how. Which he did, like a bitch. So the robot grabbed him, and pulled him into the mark, creating a weird ouroboros of pretension as Frownland was sucked into himself.
When he awoke, Frownland was in a strange jungle, near what appeared to be Aztec ruins. He could tell they were Aztec, because they didn't make his balls itch the way that Olmec, Incan, or Mayan ruins did. He had no idea what that sh
it was about, but it was a sense that was reliable, if not oddly specific. "LorenBot?" he asked, as his voice traveled through the jungle, scaring a bunch of toucans, and whatever the fuc
k other kinds of tropical birds live near Aztec ruins. "Suck di
ck! Suck d
ick!" sang a Batjay in a cheery tone, as it flew towards the ruined shell of an ancient Aztec Burger King.
Suddenly, Frownland heard a rustling noise behind him. Spinning around, he came visage-to-visage with a vision of as
s-kickage, a leather-bound hellhound wearing sunglasses, and gripping bazookas in his gloved hands. "Who the fu
ck are you?" asked Frownland.
The figure somehow managed to slide off his sunglasses without dropping either of his bazookas, and it didn't even look dumb or awkward when he did it. "My name is... Mondo," spake the figure. "Mondo, the Last Bungle. And I need your help. Ever since the forces of evil invaded Qu-qmatz, this jungle has been a trouble salad, and you and I are about to become the croutons."
To be continued in Part Two, coming Spring of 2099