http://www.votemayor.com/?p=163Elected Command: Leap into the fray, for prosperous justice!
Groaning. An unsettling, gathered groaning.
“Not today.” The Mayor vows, opening his eyes, and standing upright with the utmost of urgency. Focusing on the closest migrant to the pudgy gentleman, he fluidly leaps forward from off the ridge.
“Heeeeeelps!” the plump victim continues to plead.
With blinding speed, The Mayor clotheslines the nearest freeloader, slamming into the soil, uncharacteristically stiff. The Mayor assesses the situation. Four of them.
“Practice.” proclaims The Mayor, with the slightest hint of a phantom smile. Straightening up, he begins to shuffle his feet. Ambling forward, the next train hopper kisses the grass in the blink of an eye, as graced by The Mayor’s right hook.
The remaining two tramps attempt to encircle him, but are met with only a snigger before their craniums are forcefully collided into one another. They drop like stones.
Dusting off his hands, The Mayor curtly introduces himself, pulling up the rescued gentleman.
“Uncle Gonzo.” the gentleman replies in turn. “Buts yous probably kne- Hey, looks outs!”
An unmistakable groaning drones on from behind. The migrants are all back on their tattered feet. Beyond the deep moans, a hissing tinge can be heard. Squinting, The Mayor grabs one of the ruffians by the shoulder, turning them around with much gusto.
The Mayor’s eyes go wide.
Upon the migrant’s back, a bindle stick. Yet in place of the sack sits a horrifying jelly fish creature. Its translucent body calmly inflates and deflates in rhythm, fangs sunk into the hobos’ spine, as its long stinger wraps tighter around the stick itself.
“Povertoids! Don’t let’ems stings ya!” warns Uncle Gonzo. “They’ll turns ya! They’ll turns yaaa…”
Too late. The Mayor had seen five figures beforehand, afterall. Uncle Gonzo’s pupils dilate, as he slumps down, docile. A fresh Povertoid has latched to the back of his fatty neck.
Snip. Snap. Snip. Snap. The four others sink their slimy stingers into The Mayor’s mighty spine. The bright sky goes dark.
“I need a smoke.” acknowledges The Mayor, before faceplanting into the inviting dirt floor.
“Your name’s Sammy, isn’t it? Hey Sammy, got a question for ya.” says Craven. “Cake, or death?”
Commands: 1. Cake.
2. Death.
3. Bonk!
Voting ends within 48 hours.
Poll
