The Golden Voyage of Barney Rubble, part 6

When I awoke, the sun was shining brightly and Rubble was buffeting the ship against choppy waves and being thumped up and down onto the deck as he clung to the wheel. He displayed a glint of madness in his eye and I decided to stay clear of him until I got my booze level back up again after the long night’s sleep and the lengthy dream ramble. Greedily I gulped the centipede juice, which burned as much going down as much as it would benumb my brain a few minutes after slugging it down from the the cask. I reflected that I had never been as drunk or as drunk for as long as I now was and frankly, I knew that I was enjoying it.

The moronic crew was oblivious as they ate their rancid breakfasts, trimmed sails and shat on deck for the shit bird to alchemize. Their glittering golden breastplates, helmets and shin-guards were all beaten from the copious amounts of shit they had produced for the bird. O, they were a sight to see and each of them as stupid as hell. The bird did his dirty work and then returned to his perch, squealing and squalling enough to raise the minions of a thousand dark afterlives.

We now were entering onto a humid sea full of snake-headed sea monsters. There were millions of them, jumping and diving through the air, squawking loudly as they did so. Every once in awhile one would land on deck and one of the crew would slice its head off. The headless monster would them flop about on deck, spurting vile-looking green blood. When it stopped flopping, a sweating moron would gut it and load slabs of it onto bindles for drying into monster jerky. The morons were all over the monster jerky all of the time. As they chewed it, they would slobber and adopt rapt, even stupider moron looks. And now, there would be enough jerky made from this catch of the day to last such a band of slobbering morons for months.

The shit bird began shitting on the monster heads, turning them into gold and the morons tacked them all up along on the rail, giving the golden boat an even more finished, impressive appearance. I watched happily, sipping centipede juice as all of the filthy moron work with the monsters continued unabatingly.

“Yea! War, war, war! Great god of lighting!
May the tourney erupt into brutal fires!
May the scenery shift magnificently about me!
War, war, war! Great gods of lighting!”

I never got tired of that compact little ditty, singing it often on deck as I drank. The morons would bob their heads up and down rhythmically as I belted it coarsely out.

Suddenly, I looked up at a bright light in the sky. Apparently, a super-dense planet was heating up at some remove in the solar system. It was really pretty and as I watched, the super-dense planet exploded like a gas jet in the sky, making a beautiful shower of psychedelic light. Rubble and the morons didn’t even notice, but it was from this celestial event that the eventual, so-called “Fog of Ruin” would descend. Either that, or I was too drunk to know the difference.