bursts forth from cocoon,
new wings drink in fresh spring air
the raptor is back
The raptor sat in the darkened room, pondering; no, plotting his next move. How had the world turned it's back on him in his hour of need after all he had done? Had the adversity of his ever full flagon of failure not brought about a togetherness that had united a once greatly and deeply divided populace? How dare they attempt to eradicate that which will not be eradicated!
He grunted hard as he squatted over his raptor litter box, his acidic waste, from all of the 30 day old Taco Bell and Kim Chi burning like acid as it melted through the freshly shredded activated credit cards. Oh they thought they had beaten him, but he would be back.
It had started out such a mundane affair: He had asked that whelp JJ if perhaps he could "Pay you to lick on your honey's pussy a little bit niggie", and had been laughed at. By golly he wasn't going to take constantly being declined the sloppy seconds he so desperately needed to regain his full power so blithely!
He had gotten into his new car, a Ford Explorer with no door handles running on poorly photocopied temporary tags, purchased from the fine automakers on 44th and Troost, just like all the other cars he had bought, and decided the town, like a coveted piece of candy in an infant's hand, was his for the taking (negating the fact that those damn infants usually defeated him in unarmed combat on a regular basis)! He hardly noticed that he has physically pumped his fist and muttered an evil laugh as he drove away, a faint unpleasant odor, stopped up toilet and wafting sounds of Wham!'s "Jitterbug" the only sign he had even been there, and went to the finest restaurant in Kansas City, nay in the world: The tamale vendor outside U-Wrench-It.
Purchasing a few tamales with his hard earned monies form all that booty ass overtime he worked assaulting the infirm, Smeagol sat in his car to think about how he would reclaim the world that had so wrongly been stolen from him in the Middle Tyme, when he was promised a partnership in ruling the world if only he would cast out the dragon-folk of Middle Uberion with his flaming +4 Cloak of Enfeebling Failure, which had like a +50 instant mana burn and took strength, constitution and Dexterity down even lower than that of a halfling. Believing the Fabled King Arthur was nowhere near as crafty as he, Smeagol had cast his cloak about, whomping up on those bitch motherfuckers with extreme rage niggie. The devastation would cause the very Earth to cry over the deep chasm the cloak had created, pulling the dragons and valiant Orc-trolls into what we now know as the Marianas Trench.
But treachery had been afoot. The fiend Arthur had tricked Smeagol, had stolen his preciousssss.... his Rent-a-center Preferred awards card, and Smeagol had been cast out of Upper Ilyarnikka into the dungeons of his own lair, never to see the light of day again. A seal of valid credit cards, approved credit applications and the Runestone holding the spell 'Bob' had sealed him to his fate.
But the economy had failed, and the cards and apps had disappeared, weakening the barrier, and finally the foolish Tylester of Kansa had spoken the name Bob, freeing Smeagol from his dungeon to wreak havoc upon an unsuspecting world, and thats what he would have done right after his nap, but then it happened: what he had assumed was another innertube of poopy had in reality turned out to be food poisoning from the tamales, and since failure had permeated his very being, there were no longer defenses to keep the poison from attacking his frail body like an unstoppable rebel force. Would this be the end of the Raptor's siren song?