[TheRaisin]

Skrit ran. Skrit leaped. Skrit skittered. But mostly Skrit just ran. And with good reason.
"Five moolah if ya get one in da head!" Blam, blam-bla-blam!
"Yer on!" Blamblamblamblamblamblamblam!
"Whoa, did ya see that one explode? Hawhawhawhaw!"
Skrit was a paramite, a pack leader in fact, fierce and quick and clever and a damn nice guy. But right now he didn't feel very in control, and he was running out of paramites to lead.
The sligs (what else?) ran tirelessly on their mechanical legs, blasting and laughing and making wagers and blasting some more and getting paid to do it. They were a clearing crew, an especially brainless and trigger-happy group of sligs whose job was to flush out or eliminate any "potentially dangerous" wildlife (all of it) so the Glukkons could bring in heavy machinery and Mudokon slaves and tear down a five thousand-year-old old growth forest to make room for a new highly addictive leisure drug or toothpick factory.
But Skrit didn't know any of this at the time. All he knew was that he and his pack and every creature in the forest was being chased away by many sligs with shiny black sticks that kill things.
Mudokons, paramites, elums, slurgs, fleeches, birds, and countless others began fleeing the forest like water bursting out of a dam: first just a trickle, then pairs, then large groups, until finally there was a huge rush of life, flying, running, leaping, trying to preserve and pass on their genes for the betterment of the species.
As Skrit's now ludicrously small rag-tag band of paramites shot out of the trees and onto the cracked, lifeless soil of the great desert, the sligs stopped firing and turned back towards their small encampment: their job was done. And Skrit's troubles were just beginning.