In the jungles of Rattatre, a place that constantly swung to the whims of the moon, its long vines gathering at night to collect their thoughts (and never talk about them) and its orange brumbling bees never ceasing in their constant buzzicking, a monkey was born of a castigated womb. His upbringing was strict with little allowance for much monkeying of such: his mother was a bit of a bitch in fact, and she didn't like him swinging around in the fashion that was customary in Rattatre, he was only allowed to eat the rare fruit of the Yokk tree and spent his days lonely, quite a shy little ape he was, and spent much time souring over his life and his neurotic, obssessive mother, who would beat him accross the head with a Yarbi branch if he dissobayed to the least her possessive instinct.
However one day, poor Bradwitt, who had grown thin and shallow eyed over the misty months of his life, came accross a strange happening. It was on a most scorching day, when even the shade of a Lymburt wouldn't allow for the comfort of a midday napp, that he found a precautiously strange looking object by the trunk of a dead Yokk. It was long in shape, of a shiny, cold nature that reminded him of the desolate reflection he had caught here and then while drinking at the river. He lifted it cautiously with a skeptical, buffoon like espression looking back at him, and it suddenly flashed in the glare of the sun, which caused him to screech and drop it on the smallest toe of his smallest foot(he was of a strange physique you see, and the limbs did not quite match). In a moment that made horror look like jam pancakes, he stared in disbelief...
To be continued (if I can really be bothered - actually, would someone please finish it for me?)
It was a very heavy Slagnoth. He suddenly realized why he didn't fit in. He carried it back to the Blargsnokt and put it to use. He lived happily ever after, the end.
