Out From the Depths

Hello. My name is Winston. I was born in Bulgaria, son of Freita and Long John. Many thought I was a baby lamb, others thought I was just a hairy, homosapein fetus. This is because nobody knew the species of my parents, much less who they were. I was found in a field of truffles, surrounded by piglets; how I got there, to this day, remains a mystery. Freita and Long John abandoned me in my early infancy. Eventually I made my way to the western shores of what is now known as Portugal, where I was captured by a traveling band of gypsies that snorted dandelion pollen and drank alcohol-infused medicative products. Seeing as I was a small furry beast, they decided they had no use for me. I had no fingers and I was too small for an adequate-sized meat shank. The band of gypsies decided to cash in and sell me to a ship that was setting sail for the Western World. As you can imagine, I did not 'fit in' on this ship. I was small and furry; the crew was large and rugged. The only trait they shared with me their odiferous nature, which resembled SlimJims and Easy-Cheese.

One moonlit night, the deafening silence of the autumn air was pierced by an enormous booming sound. I opened my eyes to see our ship exploding into splinters and fire engulfing the mast. That's about the time when I must have blacked out, because the next thing I remember, I was waking up on a ship of what I deemed to be inhabited by pirates. In my hazy, half-awaken state, I remember them telling me of their quest to sail for the 'new land,' in hopes of seeking out a long lost boy by the name of Lewis. Apparently this Lewis character was seen, and even revered by some, in our homeland. Since then, it has been said he left for the Western World via the Mediterranean Sea, on a dolphin, and has never been seen since. Our quest was to find this man. . . because our forefathers who had sailed to this distant land sent back letters mentioning a crazed, old hermit who had apparently constructed a transport mechanism that looked fit for a clown. Our goal was to find this man and discover the secrets of his transport. . .as well as his reported ability to mix potions and adhere gold to small particles. (Plus, it has been said he smells of bananas and Old Dutch bagged popcorn, both of which are delicacies in Bulgaria).

Somewhere along the trip, on what must have been the 5th day of our voyage, we encountered a terrible storm. Fortunately, land was in sight when the outskirts of the storm fell upon us, thus rendering us able to escape the cliché of the the storm-induced shipwreck. This land, which we originally believed to be the Western World, was later discovered to be a strange, enchanted island. . . If you could call it an island. It was a massive region of land, surrounding a body of some strange black matter, somewhat resembling a very thin donut with a true void in the middle. This thought alone made me extremely hungry for donuts. As we landed our ship upon the sandy shores, we climbed our way out onto the halo-shaped land chunk. Immediately, we were confronted by the true elevation of this land mass; apparently, it was much higher than we envisioned from our ship. I began scaling the sides of these mountainesque slopes, thinking this may be a perfect opportunity to escape the enprisonment of those rectal smelling pirates.


I have always found myself a prodigious climber. Were I not such a climber my predicament would be quite different now. Upon my abandonment by my mysterious parents I was left on the steps of the swedish milkers church of Joseph, the largest swedish milkers church in all of Bulgaria. A friar opened the door and made to scoop me up and carry me towards an inescapable life of milking, but I quickly somersaulted out of the orange crate my parents had left me in and lept, with the ferocity of a lion and the sticky appendages of a gecko, on to the poorly constructed, stucco outer walls of the church. The poor craftmanship of the swedish milking friars provided many edges of wood and bone to grapple up the wall and out of reach of the yelling friar. I stayed atop the church until night, eating passing locus, and then escaped to whatever life may bring. All through my travels to Portugal I never encountered a better climber man, babe, or beast. And so was my thinking upon the start of my nearest escape from the pirates thus far.


My would-be captors soon noticed my intentions but instead of laying pursuit about half of their numbers ran back to the moored ship. Though I had only climbed several furlongs I began to sense that the dirt and rock on which I was climbing was beginning to moisten. The rest of the pirates had returned carrying armfuls of what appeared to be wood, steel and flesh. Above me there appeared to be an out cropping which would hopefully allow me to hide and loose them forever. The pirates below were constructing some contraption out of the supplies from the ship. As I climbed higher I felt my furry little hands becoming sticky and saw that I was slowly being covere in a black filmy substance much like that surrounding the island. The mountain was oozing a increasingly thick, black mess out of every crack and cranny. As I was trying to wipe off the vexatious substance I felt a hard thwack! and sharp pain in my right shoulder like a pair of pliers twisting into my furry hide. The pirates had constructed a catapult and were fling hairless shriveled creatures up at me. The one that dug into my shoulder was now latched on firmly and smiling at me with the kind of smile that a hairless shriveled creature handing out gideon bible's at the mall would give. Between the naked beast and the sticky goo I couldn't help but fall back into the clutches of the pirates. They locked me up and I quickly became friends with the creature embedded in my back.



The creature, who's name I was told was Scrublet, informed me of his history and how he eventually fell victim to the fecal-ridden hands of those dirty pirates. Apparently his birth was initially a project; an experimentation if you will. That hot Sun Maid Raisin chick, who can be found on the box of those delectable, purple morsels, had apparently 'given up' on the simple life of raisin production. She wanted to set the record for World's Largest Raisin, in effort to turn the public eye her way and earn her much-deserved spotlight in American commercials for flavored water drinks and extra-absorptive tampons.



So Sun Maid Chick began growing a vine within her vineyard, and periodically injected it with steroid derivatives and liquified Sloppy Joe mix. Eventually, she was able to grow grapes the size of baseballs. One grape, however, would grow to be the size of a basketball. A basketball! This grape she gave the name "Scrublet." (she thought that adding "-let" as a suffix would suggest a certain type of humor because "-let" would describe something small. The Sun Maid Chick, unbeknownst to most people had a very humorous side to her. She also drank heavily and got high off stamp-licking at an early age, but these taboo facts were never publicly displayed.



In an unforunate series of events during an early April midnight, and the maturation of Scrublet's grape-growth cycle, Sun Maid Chick's vineyard was violoently plundered by a band of dirty priates who called themselves the Dirty Holes. It was not determined as to what happened to Sun Maid Chick, but you can imagine what probably took place. For two months straight, the pirates resided in her vineyard, drinking her alcohol and licking the remainder of her stamps. By this point, Scrublet had withered in the hot Spanish sun, rendering his size to that of a softball. A pirate by the name of Burt found Scrublet in the corner of the vineyard. Without hesitation, Burt swallowed Scrublet, seeds and all.



The next evening, Burt painfully pooped out Scrublet. Apparently, Scrublet, because of his pre-birth steroid/sloppy-joe injections, had a mutated DNA sequence that made him resistant to hydrochloride and enzymatic digestions. Unfortunately, Burt had mutated his own sequence so he was able to radiate his food, much like a microwave. The result? Scrublet's innards became a sloppy, gooey mess and his outsides appeared even more charred and wrinkly than his pre-digestive state. When Burt noticed Scrublet had relatively maintained his structure (although he was even smaller in size now. . .about the size of a tennis ball), Burt locked up Scrublet and the Band of Dirty Holes began asexually producing his kind, for eventual use as catapault ammo. The problem is, Scrublet and his gooey, sticky friends were never malevolent creatures to begin with. And the fusion of Scrublet's sticky, wrinkly skin with my furry scapula region was the beginning of our friendship and mutual desire to overturn and escape the Band of Dirty Holes. Scrublet also smelled like cheddar potatoes; I liked that about him.



Night fell upon the halo-like island, which Scrublet and I collectively referred to as DonutWorld. After a raging party that included Carribean Rum, hookah gatherings, and karaoke, the Band of Dirty Holes, one by one, drank themselves into what appeared to be an unconcious state. Silence fell upon the grove at the base of the mountain, and while Scrublet and I were discussing plans to escape from our cage, when we heard a noice from the dense foliage behind us. Out from the darkness came a short, chubby silhouette. When light befell his face, we discovered it was the friar from the Swedish Milkers Church of Jospeph. In an effort to clarify himself, the friar, whose name was Skip, revealed to me he was mendicant follower. His attempt was actually not to get me to join a life of milking; First and foremost, he was looking for milk, and my nipples were the perfect source. (I assure you I have none, but Skip seemed oblivious to this fact). After reaping the charitable, calcium-enriched donations of my non-existent nips, his plan was to whisk me away to enjoy the Dervish lifestyle with him, in which we could live off the earth and eat our own scabs, should we ever become hungry. He assured me he would help me escape from this cursed cage I was currently locked in, but also stated he might have to eat Scrublet if his appetite got the better of him. Scrublet, of course, despised this notion and began screaming and making quite a racket as Skip desperately tried to unlock our cage.


Friar Skip had the swift and strong hands of a milker and made short work of our locked cage door. The three of us fled on two pairs of feet past the unconscious guard and up onto the top deck. There we found at least 13 Dirty Holes asleep on the deck. We knew if we stayed hidden on the ship the Dirty Holes would assume we'd escaped to the island and we would likely move on towards their destination. Otherwise we could take our chances on DonutWorld. Skip thought it would be best to hide in a spittoon until we had reached more familiar land, but I knew that I had unfinished business in DonutWorld. We began to argue quite loudly but no one on deck stirred.
"No alms can come from a place like this! We will surely starve with nothing to milk!", Skip pleaded.
"We cannot stay on board this ship. I must go ashore."
"You are as mad as you were when I found you!"
"Mmmareff asrrfgel mmmprrasmm", was all Scrublet could say through my copious and sweaty back fur that was now beginning to grow into his nostrils.
"This land is cursed! We cann-----aaackk!"
Suddenly Skip froze stiff as a board. His eyes were screaming with the pain and terror of a bobcat having its face beat in with a 2x4. A stir of motion caught my eye on the ground and I saw a dark shape entering up the friar's smock. As I pounced for it, it slipped through my hands and I immediately recognized it as the conscious black goo from the escarpment on DonutWorld. The goo was splitting apart on the ground and the other half was moving back towards the motionless Dirty Hole from which it had apparently came. Presently Skip began to convulse and sputter while remaining on his feet. He stopped with a jerk and focused his eyes on Scrublet and I.



What Scrublet and I witnessed next was absolutely horrifying, and will forever be engrained in my mind. Skips eyes, after being fixated on my strikingly sculpted features, rolled in the back of his head and he began sputtering Agglutinative language while convulsing. "Teeny-Weeny!" "Speedometer!" "Transverse!" Scrublet and I were completely confused, when all of a sudden, Skips's orifices violently projectile-vomited black goo. The flow rate drastically began increasing until his epithelia could no longer withstand such distension, and that's when his body pretty much exploded in a pile of flesh and black goo. As we stood there, astonished and coated in this mess, our ears were filled with the diabolical laughs of the Dirty Hole behind us. We turned around, and discovered that the remaining black goo had engulfed the evil pirate, rendering him a self-made weapon of tar baby goop. Our previously indecisive minds were suddenly given confirmation about leaving the ship and returning to the island. Luckily, the pirate's weak human legs were no match for my canine composition; We lost him as soon as we hit the grove of trees in the island. However, we realized we were suddenly a wanted target for the entire band of Dirty Holes, and somehow we would either need to find a way to destroy them, or we must escape to the black void of DonutWorld. I must admit I was a bit apprehensive of this blackness because of what the black goo (which we assumed came from the Donut Center) had just done to Skip. It was about this time when we stumbled upon an entrance of what appeared to be a cave; it was engulfed in Ficus branches. We heard chirping inside and decided to check it out.


When we entered the cave there was no need to adjust our eyes for there was a shimmering luminescence coming up from the ground. Moving forward I soon learned that the ground was well below watery layer that floated on top of the ground, also known as a pond. We had entered a grotto lit from below by some strange source. Ficus trees grew upside down from the ceiling, thick and stolid. The chirping had subsided as soon as we arrived in the main space of the grotto but began again as I waded into the "pond". I could see light yellow and brunette figures flashing around my feet and I could feel Scrublet focusing on them too. Nerves had penetrated through his canine dentine and enamel and were beginning to form synaptic bridges with my own nervous system synchronizing our emotions and bowel movements.
One of the yellow streaks in the water stopped infront of us and I could hear it chriping. It allowed me to pick it up in a bowl of water formed by my hands and as I drew it close I could see that it was a beautiful naked woman in miniature. I suddenly had a very strong pelvic urge to be that tiny myself and I knew Scrublet was having the same urge though he did not posses reproductive organs. The woman dipped below the water in my hands and swirled in my tiny bowl, swimming like a seal. Breaching the surface again, she chirped at me but her mouth did not move. Then she lept out of my grasp and back into the grotto. And I leapt after her, unconsciously, bidden by my loins I had to follow. Below the water the light source was brighter but no more distinguishable. I had lost track of my diminutive desire, but more naked women were darting across my view every second. Soon I was caught in tortured ecstasy as a disorienting blur of raw, bare flesh swept me up and I lost all sense of my surroundings.



As I was trying to make sense of what was happening, I found myself to be the disproportionately large cargo of these group of chirping, naked women. I couldn't help but think of them as ants; carrying their precious treasure back to a hole of sand and dirt; only, these were very agile mini-women who were able to swim and dive gracefully through an aquatic habitat - one that promoted Ficus growth overhead. Before I knew it, Scrublet and I were being carried through a narrow opening in the rock formation, and eventually through what must have been a 500 foot tunnel. There were rollers and brushes staggered overhead and peripherally, much like a carwash. . .only these brushes were composed of millions of tiny, naked women all linked together like sausage casings. They tunnel resounded with an enormously booming, reverberating chirping sound from the MiniWomen as they unanimously worked to furiously scrub the black goo and innards off my fur and Scrublet's. . .err. . . .skin. We eventually reached the end of the tunnel and were shot out into a much larger room that seemed to have a heavenly glow. The water was beaming much brighter than before, and the Ficus trees were no longer on the ceiling, revealing a mirror-like cavernous ceiling. Millions of MiniWomen were swimming around our feet, and the chirping was now louder than ever. As I looked on the walls, I noticed hieroglyphics etched all over its surface. In front of me was a massive etching of Sun Tzu, followed by pictures representing each of the 13 chapters of the Art of War along the rest of the wall. Each concept was illustrated with naked women as warriors. . .and PIRATES as the enemies!!!! As I slowly began to make the link between these facts in my head, while also considering the fact that it was weird for me to be attracted to diminuitive homosapiens because I am a dog, my attention was suddenly diverted at the sight in front of me. The MiniWomen were all coagulating in a dense structure, but what it was, I was still not sure. As they began taking on a more definitive shape, my jaw dropped in front of me. . .



The figure taking shape was more and more clear. Millions of tiny women were coagulating into a large figure, which loomed about 9 feet off the ground. It was a massive, pregnant, naked woman. . .with a beak. As the last few MiniWomen attached themselves to her ogreish figure, she began chirping; only her chirping was extremely low in pitch, and it's bass-like frequency rattled the floor and walls. Suddenly, from her womb came a slimy figure. . .she was giving birth!!! The obscurity of this fact was masked by the fact that the fetal human was delivering itself. . .and it was Ron Paul. With a giant thud, Ron Paul hit the ground in a gooey mess, followed by the placenta. As he scrambled to his feet, he introduced himself: "Hi. Ron Paul, Certified Obstrecian." Before I could make sense of any of this, The giant woman, turned around, bent over, and with a giant explosion, her High Alitude Flatus Expulsion got the better of her. In a cloud of methane and fecal nuggets, Ron Paul and I were propelled out of the cave, screaming and flailing. We hit the ground at the entrance, lying motionless in pain. Slowly, Ron turned his head to me and said "I hear you've got a pirate problem. I think I can help. But it will cost you. I'm looking for a boy named Lewis John, son of Lewis John, seeker of my political stance and my earnest loins." I smiled. "You've got a deal," I said.



Ron Paul then informed me that he was not only a certified obstetrician (as well as a political guru and revered god among bearded graduate students looking for a bold, alternative view on political delegation), but he was also an experienced astrophysicist in both observation and theory. He conceded that Donut World may not have necessarily been what I thought it was; he suggested it was quite possible we may have stumbled upon a Laurentzian Transversable Wormhole. The black matter within the center of Donut World may have been a white hole existing within this negative universe, and we resided outside of its event horizon. (this would explain why I constantly felt pulled. It also explains how the pirate on the ship exploded when coated in this dense material. . .essentially his matter was receding from the event horizon, located on his body, once covered in blackness). The problem with our wormhole was that, much like the Schwarzschild wormhole, it would pinch itself off as soon as it formed. We would somehow need to open it up with a form of exotic matter, thus creating an open passage for us to travel through.

I asked Ron Paul why this was necessary. He stated "This boy I am looking for. . .Lewis John; he resided in a previous life of mine. At least, I assumed it was a previous life. After some thinking and mathematical exploration, I determined that it was possible to reach a parallel world in which he existed. I believe it was in this parallel world that Lewis John only became aware of my existence in his mid-twenties. If I could go back and somehow reach him at an earlier age, I could receive the much needed press and propaganda I need during my run for presidency. Lewis John has the potential to spread my name among young twenty-somethings around the U.S.!!!"

Reluctantly, I shook my head in agreement with Ron Paul's twisted statements and his high-pitched voice. We began searching for exotic matter to create a Morris-Thorne Wormhole, when I heard Scrublet's muffled voice coming from my scapula.