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Current mood:  pirate
HICKS Do or die. We have all heard the stories. Hicks road is infested with nocturnal, flesh eating albinos. To venture into those particular hills after the sun sinks into the horizon is simply tempting suicide. But pirates live each and every day begging to die a miserable, painful death... so of corse we were tempted. Our treasure, our goal, our plan... to plant our seed deep within the bellies of hordes of delicious albino womens, creating a race of super-human albino moped fiends. Our bait. A whole, cooked chicken. Three bad assed PUCH moped bikes and a gang of rough riders, ready to slap any and all authoritarian figures upside the face with a greasy appendage. To ward off the albino males, we simple left a can of sterno to burn throughout the night, the blue flame too intense for their feeble eyes. All night long you could hear the cries of the albino warriors as their womens left them in the search for the intoxicating scent of a mouth-watering chicken. As the sound of light-footed albino vixen approached the campsite, the wolves began howling and the sky became still. We covered the sterno and grasped the lassos, squinting and attempting to focus to the moonlight. The silence was transformed into a whirlwind, the darkness became a blur of blinding light. Confidence became confusion. The next morning the bikes lay on their sides. The chicken devoured. The seed unplanted. Next August, next chicken...
12:29 AM
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