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Word by Word Story - Vol.46


The Killer Snark

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[i guess y'all were...]

Upon a time, a hermit lived in a very deep bedsore on Robert Baratheon’s ass cheek.

“Where can I put my bed in here?” he wondered aloud.

He wanted to move, but the place was rent controlled. He decided to post an ad for some antiseptic cream and two bean burritos with salsa verde, but felt deflated when he saw Renly and Loras bathing in the delicious green sauce.

Meanwhile, Stannis advised Robert to see a proctologist. After all, hermits living in your bedsores is a hygiene issue. He was a very small hermit after all, but a very smelly one.

Bob sobbed, “Why see a proctologist when I can use Preparation H?”

Following the tsunami of rectal excretions, the hermits wondered if that fat ass in Pentos would be better real estate. So they decided to move there straight away. It was hardly news to Stannis since his buttocks were hard as diamonds and impenetrable to even the kindest of hermits. Stannis took pride in knowing that he was right all along.

Suddenly everyone took a deep breath and screamed when Renly danced on a tavern table naked wearing strategic sausages.

“These sausages are tiny compared to Tormund’s member, but gigantic when compared to Trump’s favorite miniature rooster.

He then wondered, “When did we move from one to many?”

In a coincidence of astronomical odds, Trump showed up that very instant, waving his tiny hands and being ridden by a crocodile. Trump was mildly annoyed at being ridden and entreated the crocodile to lay on top of his head to be his new wig.

“What does a billionaire have to do to get Howland Reed’s endorsement?”

Howland then shouted from a nearby balcony, “Do the dance of the seven wigs.”

Trump outsourced this task to Chinaand the dancers fell apart in minutes. The crocodile, appointed by Trump as his new State Secretary, arranged a filibuster to delay Hillary’s campaign, for she is a wight. Her dead blue eyes bring back dead voters to campaign for employment quotoas among wildlings. Bill’s latest floozy, Melisandre, started creating shadow babies at an alarming rate.

“My lord, you should be dead by now.” Mel told Bill in amazement. Stannis was not happy when he learned that Trump was polling better than he among the peasants. Meanwhile in the nether regions of Lord Lucan’s underdrawers, a fungoid infection was growing at the junction of the thigh and testicular region. Lucan blamed Mel for the itch on his testicles even though she was more commonly known for causing burning sensations.

“The itch never bothered me anyway.” Sang mel herself, as she applied some embrocating ointment to the area where it is dark and full of terrors. Stannis groaned at the idea of mel applying her ointment in front of him. Yet an anal itch had driven all other thoughts from his mind.

“Hand some overe you Red Witch!” growled Stannis through clenched teeth.

“Under the sea, mermaids swim in their own shit. I know! I know! Oh, oh, oh!” exclaimed Patchface, who was secretly the Drowned God.

“What is grilled is never fried!” exclaimed a cheese sandwich, which was cleverly disquised as a spinach salad. Hotpie, who hated spinach, threw the salad into Mel's shadow maker.

"Begone with you, cursed greens!"

 

 

 

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