Jungle pie and eyeballs
He hadn't been able to go to the Moon, not while the cannons were drawing secrets on the back of whales feet. Instead, Phobetor had been hiding in his hole, waving at the sandbirds when they danced on his head, washing his fingernails in jelly and ice cream. It was an idyllic life full of wellington boots, and Phobetor liked it when it wasn't there.
Since his encounter with the turtle (or Hermes, to those of sound mind), Phobetor hadn't movede from the place where he'd started to dig a tunnel to the moon. It had crossed his mind to fold himself up like a worm and roll down, into the sea, but then the enemy would see his pants, and there would be macaroons for everyone, and he would lose. Phobetor understood the concept of 'lose'. Lose was when you couldn't play games, and people talked in loud voices at you, and you had to live inside a fish. Lose didn't seem like much fun, and so Phobetor had vowed not to do it, and then he'd tied his shoes to his head.
A pair of frantic nightmare eyes peered out over the hole. The flying handbags (geese) had returned. Phobetor stayed very still, grinning silently as he waited for them not to notice him. When he was sure that they all thought he was a rainbow trout, he scrambled from the hole and began making jeep sounds at them as he flapped his arms out wide. Most of them turned into puddles and drove away in their shoes, but one remained, hissing and snapping at the little Nightmare God. Phobetor snarled and charged the handbag, pecking at it with his nose and biting it's feathers until it to retreated back to beans. That had been the final assault. Tomorrow he would disguise himself as a swedish tourist, and find their king.
Looking at the ground, Phobetor picked up a snail and ate it.
Another day, another candy.
Since his encounter with the turtle (or Hermes, to those of sound mind), Phobetor hadn't movede from the place where he'd started to dig a tunnel to the moon. It had crossed his mind to fold himself up like a worm and roll down, into the sea, but then the enemy would see his pants, and there would be macaroons for everyone, and he would lose. Phobetor understood the concept of 'lose'. Lose was when you couldn't play games, and people talked in loud voices at you, and you had to live inside a fish. Lose didn't seem like much fun, and so Phobetor had vowed not to do it, and then he'd tied his shoes to his head.
A pair of frantic nightmare eyes peered out over the hole. The flying handbags (geese) had returned. Phobetor stayed very still, grinning silently as he waited for them not to notice him. When he was sure that they all thought he was a rainbow trout, he scrambled from the hole and began making jeep sounds at them as he flapped his arms out wide. Most of them turned into puddles and drove away in their shoes, but one remained, hissing and snapping at the little Nightmare God. Phobetor snarled and charged the handbag, pecking at it with his nose and biting it's feathers until it to retreated back to beans. That had been the final assault. Tomorrow he would disguise himself as a swedish tourist, and find their king.
Looking at the ground, Phobetor picked up a snail and ate it.
Another day, another candy.