I Speak Fluent Giraffe: Henngar the Hungry

Henngar the Hungry

Henngar: hunter, barbarian king, the bald, accursed and feared, the tall and rage-beautiful, the gore-quashing, son of Mark the Moustached, who bore the sword Pansysmasher, roamed the land of Santan Monkah, and hungered mightily. So vast, primeval and cruelsome his appetite, he could have, should he have so elected, eaten an inchorous Grulgax daemon, or eyeless trogbat, in one massive gulp of the slavering maw. “Fie upon such stygian whorehounds!” he growled and spat. “I quest for chow mein, and naught else.”

The sun hung hot in the vast orange-blue sky, an obliterating sphere of melancholy and autumnal dyspepsia as Henngar trod on through the snow-flecked strewn places and parts until he found the Promenade of Threes, where food held court. “Here I shall find chow mein, or hot spurting fountains of blood will flow betwixt mine own toes!” and with his smallest finger, smashed a passing horse to prove it. “Scrofulous equine!” he snarled as the draught-beast collapsed in its own steam-enshrouded guts.

He passed through the gilt arches of the Court of Food. Vile thralls gnawed their cud in terror and gaped-mouthed awe as this mountain behemoth of a massive juggernaut of a bloodthirsty and chow mein hungry barbarian lord prince savage swaggered past them.

“You,” he grimaced, teeth gnashing as he wrapped an elephantine fist around the stick-necked neck of a skinny person. “Where is the chow mein? A wench once told me in years past that legend has it a hungry man could find chow mein here, and yet my eyes, looking thither and yon, sliding with famine in their moist sockets, catch nary a glimpse of it. Explain yourself, peasant!”

“My lord,” he pleaded, blood-flecked lips quivering like a dying man’s bowels, “they went out of business!”

“What say you?” Henngar rumbled, and kicked his gargantuan boot into the skull of a passing panda bear, to indicate his displeasure.

“The recession,” the serf whinged, “is harsh on small businesses!”

“Fool’s son of a whore’s leper bitch-dog!” scoffed Henngar. “Why this very morning, as the sun asked me for permission to rise, I heard no less esteemed and veracious a man as Matt Lauer proclaim for all the world to hear that the recession comes to a halt, though for no real reason!” And the limp corpse of the misinformed dirty peasant slid broken to the earth from whence it toiled, like a squid puppet with its very life-giving strings snapped by the gnashing jowls of an arcane thing with teeth.

No chow mein to be had, Henngar flew swiftly and with naught but evil vengeance aforethought, into a blood-fisted, ichor-squelching, sword-in-viscera-sticking mad berserker battle rage until all that remained, as far as his vicious eye could drink in, was blood and bone and sinew and connective tissue and fascia and lymph and partly digested matter and cartilage and nerve-ending exposed to the thousand wicked quills of black and inky corvids in haste.

They, at least, feasted, but Henngar, heavy with coagulant stranger bits and his own copious muscle, roamed on, forever on, hungry.


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