Dear Diary,
I write to amuse you, my dear old book.
I left my Volcano ship to hover over the Pond of Liquified Eyes and strolled passed the Grove of Femurs to the home of my old comrade Mithras, a demon of the pit! He is well, Diary, and still tending to the eternal torture of his captives -- The Souls of Mortals Killed by Wizard Magik!
We sat for a smoke, and after, descended to the pits. On the Rack of Ages lay a pathetic bunch: a thief, a cleric of the Lords of Kobol, several men of arms, and a novitiate of the arcane. To the side I found a work of imaginative fiction, written by one of the captives. Between torments, Sir Loin, of Beef, had written an account of their deaths, form the view point of his trusty mule!
Here it is, Diary:
It’s not a bad life, thought the mule. Now that those idiots
are gone. Always heeing and hawing about who knows what. I may be tied to a
tree but at least I have my priorities straight. Won’t catch me running off
into someone else’s barn.
He grabbed at some dried grass with his large teeth. Awful
lot of dried grass around here, he though. A little burnt tasting though. He
chewed, a resolutely neutral look on his face. I could really be here all day,
he thought, if it weren’t so loud.
The door of the tower slammed open with a thud barely
audible over the lighting cracks. The mule huffed irritably as the man
practically threw himself down the stairs.
What’s he look so upset about, thought the mule, he’s not
the one who’s going to miss out on all this fantastic grass. They way they run
is so comical, with their forelegs flailing and their eyes bulging, squeaking
and whimpering like blind foals.
The mule flicked his ears at a particularly resonant crash
of electricity. Ten paces in front of him the man lit up like hay in a bonfire
and with a frantic yelp crumpled into a chunky pile of dust. Another flash of
light slammed into the ground and the pile settled into the dry earth, exposing
a blackened skull.
With a snort, the mule trundled back towards the tree to
which he was tethered.
Idiots, he thought. All of them.
I'm so happy this fool became an adventurer -- for he would have surely failed as a bard. Its no Battlefield Earth!
-L. Ron Hubbard, PlanesTraveller
