Hark Big Unga, hark! Bellow, bid our father the 1-1 King rise from the dirt full foul in his fury! Rolling ball teeming with dirt to smother this young mouth with pungent slime, to choke ye, engorging your organs til’ ye turn blue and bloated with mud and stone and can scream no more -- only when he, crowned in porcupine pelt with spinnin’ unga beef and dirty beard take up his fell be-buff arm, his blood-tine spines screech banshee-like in the dwelling and plunges right through yer gullet, bursting ye -- a bulging bladder no more, but a blasted bloody film now and nothing for the lizards and the souls of dead moles to peck and claw and feed upon only to be lapped up and swallowed by the infinite arrow traps of the Dread Emperor himself -- forgotten to any man, to any time, forgotten to any god or devil, forgotten even to volcana, for any stuff for part of Lise, even any scantling of your soul is Lise no more, but is now itself the Spelunky!
Vinebooru
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