The Brutal Ballad of Fangus Klot
 

If you’re like me then you’re sad to know how Oddworld inhabitants stopped making games. I made this fan fic to conclude the quintology. This is my first fan fic so be kind.


The Ballad
of
Fangus Klot

By treehugger


Prologue

Somewhere high in the sky, past Pluto, past the Milky Way, beyond a large green nebula deemed Fart, there’s an oddworld where a delicate balance tips. This “oddworld” has many odd creatures, differing from a one legged, one eyed meep to a greedy hand walkin’ Glukkon. Far longer than a really long tine ago, industry has ruled the world, cutting trees and damming rivers, industry has basically been screwing everything up. But the air seems to have changed to an atmosphere of fear and dread. Glukkons seen absentminded and panicked, hiring more and more security personnel.
Vykkers sharpen their fine surgical syringes, looking at the skies and muttering. Outlaws now are scrambled, trying to hit pay dirt with Glukkons since the sligs can no longer mate quickly enough to fill the demand. In nature, the air also has changed. Mudokens are congregating at the raisin’s cave, sharpening spears and mastering meditation.
A Gabbit and an estimated 150 Gabbit youths swim out of the great seas and swim through the Mongo River, ignoring all things, even food. At the same banks, a Steef stares at the horizon in mourning to loss of kin, unaware of the newt-like Grubbs stockpiling weapons behind him. Yes, something big is going down, something that will change to Oddworld’s tipping balance, but the question is which side will it give its favor?



Chapter One

“What is dis thing?” the Mudoken asked, continuing his steady poling with his walking stick. The “thing” in question had a lion head, clawed hands, fluffy feet, and a short stubby tail underneath a leather kilt. The thing was scrawny and a scar ran down the length of its right arm.
“Sal, if it aint a dame, I aint know what it is.”
Once again Sal, taking a brief break from poking, checked for boobs, not even a swollen nipple. “Cryin’ shame Burt,” Sal said continuing his poking. They continued this lovely conversation for another six hours.
Soon after, a Tomahawker marched up. “Yo! What up?” he said.
Sal and Burt looked up smiling, “Hey Bo is there a prob’?” Sal asked.
The Tomahawker shook his head regrettably. “While you meatheads were up here doing lord knows what, your entire meep herd was eater by hungry paramites!”
“Why do you think we’re up on this hill!?” Burt yelled. “Those demons ate the meep and wanted dessert!”
Sal nodded in agreement and added, “Besides, this thing is way more interesting.”
Bo finally took notice of the creature. “Man, that thing looks in a bad way, better get help.” Burt and Sal seemed disappointed.
“Do you have to?” they said.
“Why, of course, it’s our duty as gentlemuds,” Bo said and made a beeline for the village, but stopped for a minute. “Hey, does it have boobs?” Bo shouted.
“Not even a swollen nipple” Burt replies.
“What a shame.” Bo quickly turned and continued on his way.
“Spoil sport!” Sal muttered and continued his poking.

Where am I? was the first thing that came to mind. It was dark, really dark. The second observation was the stench. Hack, hack. So foul! It must be an invader torture chamber! Hack, oh odd, the stench!
“You’ll never get me to talk, you fart faces!” he screamed. “Oddworld will never surrender to a bunch of sorry sons of a ---.” Then he realized his eyes were closed. When he opened his eyes he realized that a green armpit was shoved in his face.
“See, I told ya my pits work better than any stinkin’ smelling salts,” the Mud said.
Another voice chimed in “Yeah, but smelling salts wouldn’t nearly suffocate someone! Did you see how green his face got? You’re a deathtrap!”
Suddenly, the first Mud looked at him. “Sorry, small discussions are so easy to get sidetracked, what’s you name?”
“Uh, Fangus.”
“Okay Mr. Fangus ---”
“Pulse.”
“Pardon?”
“My name is Fangus Pulse.”
“Er, right. Mr. Pulse you seem to have survived a large explosion.”
“Uhm, I don’t remember . . . wait! Oh odd . . . was someone with me? Pulse asked.
“Huh? No, you were found alone,” the Mud said shaking his head.
Pulse looked like he had been hit with 500 bolts. A tear trickled down his face. “Oh odd . . . not him . . . he couldn’t die . . . Oh odd . . .”
“Dude, are you okay? the Mud asked.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Pulse said. “But, I need to know something. Where am I?”
The Mud seemed puzzled. “Well, er, I think we’re in the village Mud Hole.”
Pulse seemed to suddenly look panicked. “Is Abe here?” he asked.
“Out by the docks. Why?”
“Take me there, quick!”
“It will be a few hours to get some earls to show up.”
“Alright, you!” The second Mud looked up, thankful to finally be noticed. “Tell everyone to go to the docks, this needs everyone’s attention.”
“Alright! I can finally wear my Paul Revere outfit!” He dashed into a closet, came out in the costume, and ran through the door with the cry “The British are coming, kidding! To the docks!”
The first Mud yelled outside for an earl chariot. “Hey,” the mud said, “while we wait how about some tea and crumpets?’
Pulse looked sick. “Odd, never again.”

Abe was impatient, he had sent a message to Munch that he needed to see him, it was top priority that he and his 150 godchildren should show up at Mud Hole. It’s time for the final strike against industry. The Gabbit has been 12 days late and now, some weirdo in a Paul Revere outfit told him somebody named Pulse wanted to see him. He currently waited with the other Mudokers to see this big announcement that was so important. Soon the earl chariot slowly parked in front of the crowd. The chariot’s door flew open and a strand lion-headed creature came out. Lionhead, a.k.a. Pulse, walked forward, standing at a position at the front of the crowd. Despite the explosion the only real damage was his scar (his family always was strong boned).
“Mudokens of Mud Hole, you’re in danger.” Murmurs of disbelief rippled through the crowds. “In two days immoral beasts know as the Invaders will attack Mud Hole. And, if you don’t prepare they’ll kill you all!” Abe couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“How do we know we can trust you?” a Mud from the crowd yelled.
“This could be a Glukkon trick!”
“I’m not lying!” Pulse yelled.
“Then how did you meet them?”
“Well, it’s a long story and I’m not sure if we have the time to . . .”
“Come on we don’t have anything better to do.”
“Well . . . alright, but this isn’t really my story, it’s my brother’s, Fangus Klot. Our story begins in Fangustan. Yeah, that would be where it began.”

And so starts The Brutal Ballad of Fangus Klot.



I hope you enjoyed chap 1. the next chapter will be posted IF you write some reviews.

Copyright 2006 by TDG

Hrm...confusing at the beginning, other than that, I'm curious to see what's next.
Let's see, then! :D

you need to clarify whats confusing. I put some holes in the story cause I plan to fill in the gaps in this story. If there is anything anyone doesn't understand they can just ask. I'm new so I like sugestions.

Damn, I was gonna have a crack at this idea...:D Ah well, still can I guess...

It's good, I like it, very interesting and it's got that mildly digusting humour that Oddworld seems to love. Great job, let's hope my ideas work just as well...

Is Fangus Pulse the brother of Fangus Klot?
I'm sorry. I only know one Fangus. :D
That's what confuses me.
And if you don't understand me, laugh. 'Cause I don't understand myself.

Pulse is Klot's bro. hope that helps.:p

Ahhhh...got's it.
Alright! Bring on the next chapter, treehugger!
(:lol: nice name)

Oh Odd, that's great!! Keep going!! Yay!!

Nice very nice keep going!

THANKS!!!! I...I never thought anyone would read this let alone like it!!!!!!!:crying: I'll try to get the next chapter up soon.:)

T'ain't a prob.
I thought the same thing, when I first posted my fic, 'til Lobo and Hobbit took interest.
I was dumbstruck. :p

Well guys treehugger got da goods enjoy chapter 2! :D

Chapter 2

It’s days like this that make one thankful for a lot of things, Fangus Klot thought, the many scars on his flesh, each it’s one unique story, his leather kilt, much like a gladiator’s, each fold having a tally mark for each creature that tried to eat his heard of Kileeps, his metal shepherd’s hat with a hole in the top showing the top of his head and ears. He sighed and patted his two large guns, Heartburster with one barrel and spinebreaker with two barrels. He opened his eyes. The constantly cloudy sky gave everything a grayish hue. Heck, his people (the Fangus Clan) had lived here so long that their skin is grayish brown.
His family had herded the flock close to the Paramonia forest and far away from Mumba Mountain, the source of the Mongo River, that bordered the east and north edges of Fangustan. Paramonia was the rest of the border. Yep, life was good.
“Klot Wake up! I can’t find Pa!”
And then the family comes along . . . “Let me guess Pulse, the old fart’s disappeared again,” Klot said getting up. He was nothing like his brother, large, muscular, and battle scared. His brother, on the other hand, was small, scrawny, and liked to wear a white t-shirt with a peace symbol on it. (Thank the Lord that it wasn’t the heart or fuzzle this time). He was the herder, the tender, and the defender, protecting his family and tending the Kileeps.
Pulse was the navigator, the mathematician, and (sadly) the peacemaker, counting moolah, using the stars as a map, and pathetically trying to bring the family back together. Klot kept his emotions inside, didn’t really care about the kileeps, and saw Pa as a useless meat sack. Pulse cried every time Klot put down a Kileep with a broken leg and acted like Pa’s nurse maid.
“Klot, what are we going to do? What if Slegs attack him? Or one of Shmo’s goons finds him?” Pulse was in complete panic mode.
Klot sighed, “Pulse, stay with me, when Pa wanders off where does he usually go?”
“Uhm . . . the flock to preach about how true Fangus should always stick together?”
“Very good, so we’ll take the twelve minute walk to the popberry bushes.”
“But, anything could happen to him!”
“Don’t worry; the old fart isn’t THAT senile.”


They underestimated Pa. “You ungrateful little Punks! I know that things been tuff since your Ma passed away but that’s no reason to hang me in a tree!”
Klot and Pulse looked dumbfounded. Pa, hanging in a tree, looked at two Kileeps who were peacefully munching on a popberry bush. Pa looked at his real sons and suddenly looked calm.
“There you boys are!” Pa said, “I wanted to finally give you the speech!”
“Pulse looked like a fish out of water. “Oh my Odd! Pa, I’m coming; don’t worry, we’ll get you down!”
Klot muttered “Speak for yourself Pulse.”
Pulse quickly ran towards their ailing father. Klot shook his head and started the countdown.
“Five.”
The Kileep took notice of Pulse and gave a savage braagh!
“Four”.
Pulse saw and soiled himself.
“Three.”
The Kileep charged Pulse, wicked teeth showing.
“Two.”
Pa’s branch snapped.
“One.”
Klot dashed forward and grabbed the Kileeps by the horns. He quickly raised them off the ground. Pulse kept running and didn’t know he was under Pa when the branch snapped. In a second Pa was on top of the twitching Pulse. Kileep flailing, Klot walked up to Pulse and Pa, and sighed.
“Guys,” Klot asked his family, “must we go through this every month? It gets old.”
Suddenly, a loud gurgle came from a Kileep, the creature looked in pain. “Ah, oh,” said Klot and tossed the sad creature into the sky. At about fifty feet or so, the popberries kicked in. Fire burst from its arse causing it to go higher and higher.
Pulse slowly pusher Pa off and looked at Klot. “Did I miss something?” asked Pulse.
“Popberries kicked in,” Klot said. “Poor fellar is probably meeting the hand on the moon.”
Pulse grumbled and replied, “It’s an interesting way to survive, eating a highly combustible fruit, looks painful though.” He looked up. “Hey, I think its coming back.”
“Huh?” Klot said. “That’s impossible!”
“Wait, that’s not a Kileep.”
“What?”
“It looks like . . . Oh my Odd!!”
“The little Slurg’s back!”
The thing in question gave a loud sputter and fell down toward them. “Move! Move!” Klot yelled. He grabbed Pa and ran to the nearest hill. Pulse ran right behind him.
The creature landed with a loud crash and a voice laughed. “Duuude!!! That was a-a-a-awesome!”
Klot walked up to the crater. He found a Slig in flying pants sitting in the crater, his face a cornucopia of joy and mild drunkenness. “Hey Nigel,” Klot said.
“Hey Fangus dude! I got another message from Shmo.”
Shmo. Full name, Shmo Minded. This Glukkon wannabe was as dumb as bricks and liked the smell of arse. He owned Fangustan and charged a pretty penny for all Fanguses. The jerk was the whole reason the Kileeps were in Fangustan, selling wool to String-a-Ling Clothing Co.
“I already paid Shmo, Nigel,” Klot said.
Nigel, still annoyingly perky, slurred a reply. “Shmo said it ain’t up to standards, wants to talk to you in the Drunk and Lovin’ It.”
“I hate that tavern.”
“He knows dude, that’s the whole point.” The Slig gave a loud belch, got his pants working, and flew off.
Klot sighed and turned to Pulse, “Get Pa, we’re going to Glukaluck.”


Through several . . . ahem, questionable businesses Klot ad bought himself an XXXXXXXXLLLL Dune Buggy. As they closed in on the small and humble burg of Glukaluck, Klot couldn’t stop but think of Ma. He never showed it but he missed her even after twenty years. He saw it happen . . . He saw . . .
“Klot!”
Klot jumped and the dune buggy swerved almost hitting a Clakker. Klot looked at Pulse, “What the Odd was that for?!”
Pulse shrank and stuttered, “Y-You dr-dr-drove straight into th-the town.”
Klot looked up. Clakkerz looked at him fearfully. Reasonable since most traders stopped at the sign that said no vehicles beyond this point. Klot glared at the Clakkerz and jumped out of the buggy. “Well,” he said, “let’s go to the Drunk and Lovin’ It.”
Pulse quickly looked at Pa. “Don’t worry Pa, we’ll come back soon.”
“Pa, smiling like a hyena said, “Now don’t take too long, I know you like visiting Ma but I’m pretty sure the Vykkers want to get a jump on the next shot.”
Klot flinched. Pulse, giving Pa a hug, hurried up after Klot. Klot briskly asked “Is he strapped in? I don’t want a repeat of the lederhosen incident.”
Pulse sighed, “Klot, it’s not Pa’s fault he’s old and that Clakker shouldn’t leave his trampoline in the street.” He gave Klot a stare. “Klot, I know you hate it when Pa mentions Ma but, but, you shouldn’t . . .”
“We’re off the subject,” Klot said and stopped grimacing. Of all the joints in Gluckaluck Shmo had to choose to hang out in it had to be the Drunk and Lovin’ It. The seedy bar was filled to the brim with lowlifes, heck the only reason it still stood was because Shmo loved the joint. Klot opened the door and gave a gasp.
Pulse followed and quickly puked on the floor. “That’s sick!” he said. The bar had cages, and in each cage was a Mudoken mime.
Klot, trying not to look at the mimes, surveyed the bar looking to find the table where Shmo was sitting. Bingo! Shmo was sitting in his usual booth, two Sligs guarding it using new goggles to see through the suffocating cigar smog. Klot walked to the booth and said the #$@* password: “I love Shmo, Shmo employees me, we’re a happy corporate business-ship. With a great big hug, and bit-o-moolah for you, won’t you say ‘pay up you scum!”
The Sligs parted and Shmo sat there, a cigar the size of a foot in his mouth. Shmo Minded had an odd taste in clothing, preferring clothes from the seventeenth century. He even had a powdered wig and macaroni. “Tooks ya long enough,” he said,A Slig quickly straightened his macaroni. “Now Mr. PanPus you seem to be exactly a hundred grand behind.”
Klot growled, “We told you three days ago Shmo that our herd was hit by a rabies outbreak.” Klot’s fists clenched. “We had to put half the herd down.”
Shmo guffawed (glared at the Sligs) and the Sligs joined in, “That’s the most stupidest excuse ever! There ain’t any rabies in Fangustan! Just give me the grand.”
Klot’s body started to shake with anger, guttural growls filled his chest. He slammed his fist on the table. “See this?” Klot screamed, pointing at a festering bite mark. “As I put down one of your demons, it sank its teeth in my arm! It still hurts! Oh Odd, it hurts!”
The Sligs slooowly started to back away, shaking. But, Shmo didn’t seem to notice. “Wow, that’s a baaad bite! Heh, good thing we’ve all got our shots, huh?” He looked up and saw the growing amount of foam in the corner of Klot’s mouth. “Oh Odd!!! You didn’t take your shots!”
Klot’s veins popped up, his eyes glowed red, and also did a brilliant impression of chameleon eyes. Shmo hopped as fast as a Glukkon could, yelling all the way.
Fangus grabbed his guns and screamed “Hey Shmoey! I got some lead for you!!!!!!”
Shmo gave a scream that only a tenor could do and made it to the door. “Open the door! Open the door!!” Shmo screamed. “For the love of Odd, open the door!!!”
Fangus put a bullet in Heartburster, aimed and pulled the trigger. Sadly, when you’re in a demonic rage you tend to miss, making a glukken sized hole. Shmo squirmed through the hole in the door. Screaming, he got through the hole and hopped to his limo. The door automatically opened and Shmo jumped in. As the door closed, he looked at the tavern just as Klot burst through the doors.
“Hey Shmoey,” he cried, “I got the mimes and now I’m after yooouuu!!!”
The desperate Glukkon looked at his Mudoken driver and screamed “Floor it Joe! Floor it for my life!!” The limo zoomed off leaving a maniacal Fangus behind.


Six hours after the Fangus incident, Shmo laid in his bed, cuddling his Fleech.
“Sir?”
Shmo looked up. A Mudoken stood there trying his best not to laugh. “All security personnel are closing in on the offending Fangus’s camp.”
“Good,” Shmo said. “Soon that . . . MEANY will regret shooting at Shmo Minded! Oh and get the hot milk done soon. I’ll need a bedtime story tonight!”


After hiding for six hours, Pulse looked out from behind the bar counter. The Drunk and Lovin’ It looked like a warhead had blown it up. As he searched what remained of Gluckaluck he found hundreds of bodies showing all that remained of the citizens, mostly drumsticks. Pulse finally found a dozing Klot in the dune buggy.
Pulse looked at a smiling Pa who said, “You boys and your pals! You always seemed to come back more tired than a Kileep in Orcan Valley.”
Pulse slowly reached out and touched Klot. Klot jumped and gave a snort. “What happened? Why am I in the dune buggy?”
Pulse shook his head and said “Klot you have rabies.”
Klot snorted “No I don’t!”
“You need to see the Vykkers.”
“No, I don’t Pulse.”
“You need to take a rabies shot.”
“I’m not taking a shot! Shots killed Ma!!”
“Klot, I told you we needed the moolah-”
“I don’t care how much moolah we needed! That’s no reason to donate your body to the Vykkers to test vaccines, it isn’t worth it! You were too young to see her take the rabies shot! I saw her go mad, getting killed by Interns ‘humanely’! I’m not taking a shot and you’ll get in the dune buggy so we can leave this Odd forsaken place!”
Pulse quickly got in the dune buggy and they went home. It may be his imagination or was that foam in the corner of Klot’s mouth?




hope it's satisfiyng

:eek:

Blimey...that was very intense. Equal parts funny, completely Oddworld-esque, just plain weird, rather ominous and mildly despressing...

And I completely adored it! Very good job! We'll just have to see if my stuff can match up when I get around to it. Once again, fantastic and lookin' forward to more. :D

thanks lobo.:bow:

Yeh, c'mon people, give the guy a break...sheesh, where has the appreciation of decent fics gone?

Sorry fer not replyin' earlier. I was finishing my fic...and it was tiring...:mumble:

Hmm! Very interesting chapter, treehugger. Just how I'd imagine Lorne would make up the story of Klot. Awesome! Keep postin' it up!

Who's lorn:fuzconf:

Lorne Lanning, creator of Oddworld, he runs Oddworld Inhabitants. It's his rather odd (excuse the pun) sense of humour we can thank for the Oddworld games. :D

Yeah! Thank him for his exceptionally odd imagination he gave to us!
PRAISE THY LORNE LANNING AS A GOD!

WHAT?!?:eek: You're.... just............joking, .....right?


I love your FanFic, but you simply can't be serious about that question.

Oh Odd! You mean that Lorne! sorry I'ts hard to remember all the geniuses.
(Let us never speak of this again.:robot:

N.I.C.E story buddy:D:D:D like it alot, write some more, please:D


~DS~

thanks dancing steef.

Good story so far Treehugger! I know your new but please do try and refrain from two word posts, double posts, and spamful posts, otherwise I will have to issue a warning. Cheers and if you have any questions refer to my sticky "A simple reminder in Fan Corner." Or leave me a PM and I'll get back to you as soon as possible! :)

New Chapter!!!!
 

My story has something I saw in another fic but I had the idea before I saw it, honest! p.s sorry it took me abit:blush: Treehugger

Chapter 3 Ballad of Fangus Klot

Klot gave a raucous yawn. It was the day after Shmo was chased by Klot, and he amazingly felt well! He looked around. Their tent was a good size, about the size of an old school house classroom. Pa was sleeping in his cot, Pulse was asleep at the metal folding table, counting moolah deduction before falling asleep. Klot left his cot and grabbed for his hat. Weird, it’s usually under his cot. Where could it be? He looked around one more time. Nothing. Maybe outside? Sure enough, his hat was sitting on the ground. He smiled and grabbed it.
“Finally,” he murmured. “I kinda felt naked without . . . you?” He looked up to discover a Big Bro had rested the barrel of his Blitzpacker on his cranium.
“Fangus Klot,” it growled in a deep monotone voice (it had evidently gone through the speech several times). “You have been charged with attempt of killing the great, marvelous, supreme, overbearing, and shallow Shmo Minded. Surrender and we will only shoot you twice.”
Klot gave a small growl, “Yeah? You and what army?”
The Big Bro pointed behind him and said, “The Wolvark Army behind me.”
Klot looked around the especially meaty Slig and, sure enough, thousands of Wolvarks were there. “Dude,” he said, “you need to get off the steroids.”
“At least I don’t have rabies.”
“I don’t have . . .”
“Whatever. So, do we shoot you twice? Or, ‘til you stop twitching?”
Klot grimaced. It only he had his guns . . . “Hey,” he said, trying to look dejected, “can’t I say good-by to my family?”
The Slig shook its head. “What do you think Fangustan is, a democracy? You don’t get a last request!”
“How do you live with yourself?” Klot asked.
“After killing sixty other guys you stop feeling guilt.”
“You killed sixty people?”
“Mostly Jaywalkers.”
“Look, I have a few grand, I could . . .”
“How much?”
“One grand.”
“That all?”
“I’m a shepherd. What do you expect?”
“’Kay, you’ve got five minutes.”
He turned around towards the Wolvarks. “Sorry guys. We have to wait a few more minutes.”
The Wolvarks booed, made rude hand signals, and one threw down his gun and screamed “There goes my life! Thanks a lot jerks!” and ran off crying.
In the tent, Klot went to Pulse and roughly shook him. Pulse jumped and screamed, “Oh Lord, not the dress, not the dress! . . . oh . . . Klot . . . What’s wrong?”
Klot quickly whispered, “Pulse, Shmo’s goons are out for me. Get Pa and take the buggy. Drive as far as you can. I’ll hold them off.”
“Klot!” Pulse said, “You do care about us!”
“Look pea brain! I wasted ten years protecting this freak show and no stinking army is going to break my ten years of torture! Just wait for me to go berserk.” He went to his cot and grabbed his guns from underneath it. He walked outside with his guns behind his back.
“So,” the Bro said, “where’s da grand?”
“What grand?” Klot said innocently, slowly putting bullets in the chambers.
“Don’t play dumb! Give me the grand!”
Klot looked to his left, Pulse was just strapping Pa in the dune buggy. “We waited five minutes for this ?!!?” a Wolvark yelled. Another Wolvark ran off crying. Pa was strapped in.
“For the last time! Give me the moolah,” the Big Bro screamed.
Klot faced him and said “Sorry, no grand.” He quickly pointed the guns at the Bro’s chest. “But I do have some lead.” Everything seemed to slow down. The Wolvarks fumbled for their guns, Pulse revved up the buggy, Klot roared, and Pa started to yodel. And then the clouds parted.
Everyone looked up. For the first time in centuries, the clouds had parted, but instead of sunlight, a strange blue fire came down. Slowly, a disc the size of a coffee table descended to the ground. Everyone just stared at the disc. Suddenly, a blue hologram of a strange creature appeared on the disk. They had no idea who it was. The creature was a girl, a pretty girl, probably twelve.
“Hello,” she said sweetly with a door-to-door salesperson’s smile. “I’m Tiffany Tanner. I represent Starscrapers Demolition Company and the genus Homo Sapiens. We, you see, destroyed our own planet, what with global warming and all, so we humbly ask you to give us your land, Mr. Klot, and we’ll be on our way.”
Klot looked at the butt ugly (cretins!) Homowhatever. “I’m sorry sir, or whatever gender you may be, but I worked for a long time to keep this land and I’m not giving it up.”
Tiffany wore her cheesy smile for another minute. Then as quickly as a Stunkz poots, her face was red and she seemed to be trying to keep her cool. “I’m sorry,” she said, teeth grinding nosily, “but the sound receptors must be acting up again. I thought you turned down my MORE than generous offer.”
“Well sorry, but I did say no,” Klot said.
Tiffany lost it. “You listen here you neanderthalic knuckle dragging, pooslinger! You are going to give us this heap of sod or . . .”
“Wait a scaly scrab minute!” The Big Bro’s steroid induced brain had finally grasped the meaning of the conversation. “Why ya asking the herder? This land is legal property of Shmo Mind . . . huh?” A mouse-sized tuning fork-shaped object popped up from a slot on the disc’s side. “What’s this?” he asked in mock fear. A small blue electric pulse wriggled between the prongs. “Ooooooo you’re to shock me? Ha ha ha! Oh, you’re sooo mean! You little . . .” Suddenly, a blue lightening bolt zapped from between the prongs and hit the Big Bro right in the chest and kept going in ‘til it was on the other side of the army. The Big Bro just stood there, then suddenly crumbled into ash leaving only a pile of ash. Klot and Pulse watched, dumbfounded, as a large hole appeared in the Wolvark ranks. The Wolvarks could only stare at the ashes of their not so dearly departed comrade, not noticing a second object, same as the first, but the size of a Clakker, rise from the disc and fire a larger blast. The blast quickly obliterated the army.
“See that?” Tiff growled, pointing at the ashes. “We use this to kill pests! If you don’t give us this field, you pea brained cockroach, you’ll feel the wrath of an egotistical human empire!”
“Klot pointed his chest burster at the disk and said, “I’m done talking.” With a quick shot the disk exploded. “For such a great race you make pretty crummy stuff.”

Meanwhile, Shmo was also getting a visit from the Homowhatevers. He was peacefully lying in bed listening to his soothing Gabbit songs CD (our equivalent to a whale song CD) when a disc whirred through his window. Shmo screamed, wet himself, dumped a load, and fainted. (A 4.5 on the freactor scale.) The disc took out some smelling salts and waved them in front of his face. When Shmo woke up the hologram started up. This one was a boy with a similarity to Tiffany though a bit fatter.
“Okay,” he said, “let’s get this over with. I’m Tim, a representative of the human race, blah, blah, blah. Screwed up our planet, blah, blah. Give us your country or fry!”
Shmo, being one who does not think diplomatically, screamed, “Screw you, jerk! I ain’t giving up Fangustan! I sweated and made other people toil for this country and I ain’t givin’ it to a butt ugly walking cesspool.”
The boy sighed and rubbed his temples. “’Kay,” he said, “hold still.” Once again the rat killer raised slowly from the disc, started to change, then suddenly combusted. “Oh man! Tiff is going to kill me! Fine. But mark my words Shmo Minded. You will die!”
“Whatever,” Shmo said impatiently, getting back to bed. “I have hundreds of escape routes. I’ll get out of here before you can scratch your . . .”
“We destroyed your jet . . . ,” Tim said, examining a large zit on his forehead.
“Huh?” Shmo grumbled.
“We blew up your jet. . . ”
“Well, I still have the . . .”
“And, the submersible . . .”
“Well . . .”
“And, the Zeppelin . . . ”
“Uh . . .”
“And, the fuzzle motique go cart.”
“Chicken Teriyaki!”
“And the pink tricyc . . . wait . . . What? Actually I don’t want to know. Point is, you’re dead unless you give us Fangustan.”
“You knew about my three-wheeler?” Shmo inquired.
“Oh, we know a lot about you Shmo Lee Minded,” Tim said, popping the zit. “Your alias is Dumb-a-dumb Crackers, you have an affinity for corn, you won Fangustan in a game of cards with the Fangus Clan elders, you Mother’s maiden name is Scrab Vittles, and your shoe size in a foot and two centimeters.”
Shmo just stared, mouth agape, then wheezed, “But how?”
Tim smiled and cackled, “We see and know all Shmo . . . and, your webpage helped.”
Shmo gave a look of sheer confusion. “I have a webpage?”
Tim yawned and muttered, “Yeah, didn’t you know? It’s on www.dumbdictators.com. It was written by Nigel Duuuude.” Shmo swore and made a mental note: Find Nigel Duuuude. Nigel was sort of competent, he could track him down. “Last chance Shmo,” Tim said. “Give up!”
“No!” Shmo screamed.
“Right then, see ya.” The disc floated up as Tim vanished. Shmo just watched as the disc zoomed out his window and blew up.
“Yeah, what can you do?!” he shouted.

Klot was having a lovely dream where he was rich and famous. Ladies from all over the continent flocked just to see him. Pa was in a nursing home, Pulse was in college, and he had sold all of the Kileeps to a meat processing plant. Then that racket had to start up. Klot jolted awake to the sound of baa-ing roars and large explosions. No doubt some stupid kids from the new reservation were setting off fireworks nearby. Klot, getting off his cot and cussing, walked outside the tent. “Listen, you snot-nosed brats!” he screamed. “I know reservation life can be a bore but there’s no reason to . . .” Klot gasped. All around him Kileeps ro-aared as fiery missiles rained from the nighttime sky. Klot was mesmerized, looking up he saw that the missiles seemed aimed at this specific spot and dodged a shrieking bomb.
Klot quickly got up and dashed for the tent. Inside, he quickly grabbed his guns and hat, trying not to trip in the dark or puke at the stench of burnt Kileep. Guns loaded and hat on, Klot rushed towards his brother. Pulse was already awake. “What’s all of the commotion about? Are more goons here for cash?”
“I wish, Pulse. The Homowhatevers are raining missiles from the sky,” Klot gasped.
Pulse went pale, “I’ll wake Pa!”
“He’ll just slow us down.”
“I’m not leaving him!!!”
“Alright, alright! I’ll start the buggy, you wake the old fart!” Klot rushed off, going back around the tent to where he last parked the buggy . . Just in time to see a missile nuke the buggy. “No! Not the buggy! Oh Odd, why the buggy?!”
Meanwhile, Pulse was having difficulty with Pa. “Pa, please, we can just sneak out by lifting the tarp,” Pulse begged.
“But, I want to see the fireworks!” Pa wailed.
“Pa, please, we need to go,” Pulse said quietly, gently grabbing Pa’s arm.
“No! I’m going to see the fireworks!” Pa yanked his arm away and dashed out the tent.
“Pa!!! Nooooooo!!!!!!!!”

After mourning his buggy, Klot jogged back to the front of the tent. When he reached it he dodged a dashing Pa who stopped and stood still a few feet away watching a missile fall straight at him. “Perdy,” Pa whispered as Klot and Pulse watched the missile explode on his head.
“Well, hell, there goes my inheritance,” Klot said.
“Pa?” Pulse whispered and walked to the spot where Pa had stood.
Klot heard an explosion close by and turned to see the tent in flames. “Pulse, I think it’s time to run,” Klot said.
“Not without Pa.”
“Pulse, Pa is dead.”
“No he’s not! He just wandered off again!”
“Pulse, come on!”
“Nooooo!!”
Klot grabbed Pulse, but he just wriggled out of his grasp. “Sorry Pulse but this is for your own good,” Klot said and hit Pulse over the head with the butt of his gun. He swung Pulse over his shoulder and dashed off into the nigh, flanked by three Kileeps on each side, the bombs only moments behind.

Wait, this ain’t no toilet! Shmo opened his eyes, indeed, it was not a toilet but a large bush. Shmo, every night at one o’clock, had a servant lead him to a toilet. This time he had been lead 26 miles from his mansion to pee on a bush. He surveyed his surroundings, searching for the perpetrator of this most heinous crime. “Nigel!!!!!” Shmo yelled, his eye starting to twitch.
Nigel turned around, pants stopping with a reluctant screech. “Hey boss dude,” he said. “You getting some brew in town too?”
Shmo’s eye stopped twitching, can’t say his legs didn’t start shaking, “You dumb scum bum!” he screeched. “When you get back home you’ll feel the pain of fifteen Slegs boring into your fat, ugly, . . .” Shmo stopped screaming and looked at what appeared to be an amazing comet arcing over their heads. “Pretty,” Shmo gurgled, looking like an entranced babe.
“Those darn comets are prettier every year,” Nigel whispered.
The comet continued its arc, seeming to get bigger until it was big enough that even Shmo could scream, “That’s an Odd darned missile!!” The missile shrieked and hit Shmo’s mansion scattering debris and body parts everywhere.
If Glukkons had tear ducts Shmo would’ve cried. Nigel turned to the open-mouthed Shmo. Staring at Shmo, the alcoholic Slig could only say one thing. “Duuuude! That was aaaawesoooome!”

:lol: :lol: :lol:
'tis a funny chapter, treehugger! Glad you replied to it again!
I just hope you reply soon again...I missed reading this...

Not bad, Treehugger. I likes.

A Note:
Fangus and Stranger aren't in the quintology. Abe's Oddysee and Abe's Exoddus made up the first chapter, and Munch's Oddysee was the second chapter. Stranger's Wrath wasn't part of the original quintology, and Fangus wasn't supposed to be, either.
But this doesn't mean your story stinks. In fact, it's pretty rawesome. I look forward to the next installment.

A pink tricycle...buahahahahahahaha! Genius, pure genius. Well treehugger, I am lovin' this story, you should send it to Lorne, I mean seriously, he'd love it. :D

Yes,I know that fangus and stranger aren't part of the quintology. I just mean i'm bringing the stories to a conclusion. that all.

This is not an official chapter but a hint of things to come.

Interlude

He looked inquisitively at the creature sitting near the river. He had lived for at least 150 years and yet he had never seen such an ugly . . . Thing. The creature was in an army uniform with a name tag that read in amazing cursive letters Lieutenant Jones. Could it be a suitable substitute? Suddenly the Jones beast looked left then right and started to pee in the river. His river!!! With a coma inducing shriek he jumped out of the water and onto the man’s face. Though Jones’ body squirmed, he was able to crawl to the top of the man’s skull and start pumping stimulant into his blood. He sighed as the body’s nutrients filled him, feeding him. Then the flood of memories of bars, faces, and mating (he’d store that one for later).
He was about to stop the tide when memories of something stopped him. War machines, money, and troops who only knew to serve. Liking what he remembered he clumsily made the body move beyond the tree line. On the other side the troops saw him and started to pull out guns to shoot him. He didn’t think that would do.
“Stop!” he cried, manipulating Jones’ vocal cords, “I’m not interested in you. I only wish to speak with leaders.”
A nervous Marshall walked back to send a telegram while the others just stood, guns pointing until one chef, armed with a stainless steel spatula, asked him, “Who are yee Kraaken?”
His eye ridges rose, “Call me . . . Sekto.”