The battle kept going and going and going and going. Suddenly, a pink bunny walked by
beating on a drum. Combat stopped for a few seconds as everyone stopped to stare in
disbelief and wonder. The rabbit left, and combat resumed. Limbs were flying and skulls
were crushed. If only Tyrone were alive to witness this site, he would have had quite the
feast.
After hours of combat, Brian and the troll realized they were the only ones left standing. They
walked to the manor’s entrance, and the guards escorted them in. They met with Lord
McWizzle, and told them about their quest for the legendary box. Lord McWizzle had the
sacred box, and was willing to part with it, for a price. Before the Cladlings had a chance to
question the price, they were surrounded by guards so Lord McWizzle could have his way
with both of them.
Oh, the horror Brian and the troll experienced. What the dearly departed had done to their
souls the survivors had done to their flesh. But Lord McWizzle is a man of his word, and
after he got done kicking those two around like soccer balls (metaphorically speaking) they
were given the legendary box.
Afterwards, legendary box in hand, they trekked back to the concrete tundra. They needed
food after the long, horrible night, which they agreed to never speak of again, for it was the
dumbest thing they both had ever done. They went to a cheap diner for breakfast and to
dump the jugs of urine they had accumulated throughout the night (don’t ask) into a trashcan.
They discussed what they wanted to do with the box over their artificial, yet oddly satisfying,
food. After what they went through to get it, the troll wanted to sell it for mass profit and live
like a king. Brian, on the other hand, insisted they do what they both knew they needed to
do. They agreed to go to their caves and sleep, and then discuss the matter further.
After much discussion, the troll attempted to sell the box but the ridiculous price he was
offered was not quite what he wanted, so they decided to do the honorable thing and resurrect
their band mates.
Night had come, and the two guardians of the one box were outside of Dimmu Borgir. Not
the band, they were at the place in Icelandic folklore that leads into hell. But one does not
simply walk into Dimmu Borgir. Knowing the denizens of hell would be upon them, Brian and
the troll knew they would not make it out alive without help. In the one box, there lay
imprisoned the souls of 360 generations of disgraced warriors; warriors who had dishonorable
deaths in battle, but did not want to go to their rightful resting place, which would have been
Hell. They wanted to go to Valhalla, and were waiting for the day when they would finally be
in large enough numbers to fight their way in. These imprisoned souls would be their only
hope.
The troll and Brian walked into hell with the box. As they got closer to the central intake
office, they knew they had to act. And they had to be quick, for if they failed, they would join
their three dead band mates.
A couple guardians of hell saw the intruders and attacked. The troll reached for the box at the
exact time Brian did, and in a klutztastic move, the box went flying away from them. The troll
drew his axe to fight off their attackers while Brian ran to unleash the powers of the box.
Brian was able to get the box partially open, but it had that damn modern plastic casing on it
that is always extremely annoying to open.
Brian could see the troll was quickly losing the advantage in this fight, as more and more
guards swarmed around him. Brian knew that he would have one shot to do this, so he had to
aim it just right. He waited a few seconds, until he saw the troll go down. One of the
security guards raised his sword above the troll and started to plunge it down into him. Brian
threw the box, and with perfect aim the plastic casing caught the blade of the sword. The
box opened, and the soldiers flew from the box like green fire. The disgraced soldiers seeking
honorable death (or at least the afterlife for one, good old mix of something for nothing
mentality with thoughts of the afterlife) quickly took care of the guardians of hell. The
hellions had to round up all these renegade souls, and get them proper admission to their
damnation. The central intake office was quite backed up, as 360 generations of shamefully
dead had to fill out their assessment paperwork in triplicate. A sudden intake of this
magnitude was occupying the entire hell staff, and Satan would have to be paying some
overtime this check. (Author’s note: Emperor’s “Night of the Graveless Souls” came on my
mp3 shuffle during the writing of this part)
Not sure how long the commotion would last, Brian, the troll, and a few uncaught souls ran
throughout the prison section of hell looking to find those they came looking for.
Brian kicked open a door and saw his band mates chained to the wall. They all let out
bloodcurdling screams at the sight of him. The troll came into the room, and the lost souls
following them got scared by the screams and ran away. That type of courage probably had
something to do with them not earning entrance into Valhalla.
Coy looked confused and asked why Brian wasn’t angelic-looking this time, and Brian had no
idea what he was talking about. After much discussion, it was figured out that the Brian that
visited them in hell earlier was not the real Brian, but an illusion created by Satan in order to
simply trick and torment them. So in reality, Brian never did touch their souls’ tralalas. Or
call John “Snuggles.” But Snuggles was too good of a name for the troll to ignore, and has
been referring to John as Snuggles ever since. I believe it was written earlier, but to remind
everyone, John really hates the troll.
But enough of this foolishness, the band did not know how long the facility’s staff was going
to be distracted with new admits, so they all just decided to get the hell out of there. They ran
past demons that were using proton packs and ghost traps to capture the disgraced warrior
souls. The band ran past this nonsense, but one final obstacle awaited them. Guarding the
exit from hell was something most disturbing. It was a blobbish, portly ghost, with long arms
and a big mouth. It looked like the ghost that slimed things, whose name escapes me. But
you know what one to which I’m referring. He was in that one movie, about ghosts and
busting things or something like that. Except it was white. (Ew!)
It charged the band, it’s ectoplasmic body passing through Brian and leaving traces of its
presence.
“EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!” Brian looked
at himself. “I’ve been slimed,” he said in deadpan disgust, as he stood in the corridor looking
like a whore’s bed sheet.