A scar of Wildberry pink day slashed the ice over the River Lum. Frank scratched his coal eyes and wiped his face with the sticks that he used for hands. He looked around and saw love and joy to all, even the goblins. "Good morrow!" he called, but they all cowered away.
A brave soul approached him.
What in Zamorak's name does he think he's doing?
thought Frank.
Then it hit him.
Smash.
They attacked him with his own body. "No," he cried, although it was too late. Many a person was joining in; before long a fat red man with an unkempt beard removed his head and desecrated it. "Well done," the fat man cried, "we killed the Snow-ho-hoverload!"
The people cheered, and feasted on roast potatoes and turkey legs. They pulled crackers and enjoyed their Christmas.
"Merry Christmas!"
I am a ghost. The darling glow of gold. You are paltry in your coarse brass. You came from an anatomy of snarling mouths, a zealotry of those iron-shackle bound to the kismet of a second-hand brain hanging invisibly like a phantom limb.
13-Dec-2014 14:23:11
- Last edited on
13-Dec-2014 14:40:15
by
The Mad King