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| CANADA'S SOURCE FOR IMMORTAL HUMOUR, PARODY, AND SATIRE
LOCH LORIEL, SCOTLAND-- If you happen to be on the streets of New York and you see a wild-eyed Scotsman charging towards you with an 8-foot broadsword, you had better run, because he's probably not interested in discussing the political climate, or the outcome of the latest Rangers game. More likely, he's out for your head, because as an immortal, you stand a higher risk of decapitation than your mortal human brothers.
No, it doesn't make a lot of sense that as someone who cannot die (unless your head accidentally gets separated from your neck), you fear more for your life than your puny mortal cousins. But as it was taught to you by your ostentatious mentor some five or six hundred years ago, you are required by some code to roam the Earth searching for your brethren, so that you can eliminate them and win the so-called "prize." I don't know what could be a better prize than immortality. But you'd think that someone who could live forever would be living a more care-free existence, using his knowledge, wisdom, and experience to gain worldly wealth and power. But instead of basking in your extended earthly existence, you're skulking around New York City alleys, waiting for an opportunity to behead one of your buddies with a kaitana. What the hell is it with you? During those fifty years of exile in 16th Century France, didn't you stop to think that immortality was going to be a very lonely existence when there's no one left to share it with? What you really should be doing is getting organized with guys like Frido de Luapa Xavier, born in 1538 in the tiny village of Labastagna, Spain. Screw all this 'there can be only one' crap. Call a truce, and kick some mortal ass! You know, if the mortals ever figure out the whole 'cutting off the head with a sword' weakness, there'd be only none, because you'd all be decapitated. End of immortal story. Listen. You're
blessed with this amazing power of healing. You've lived a dozen mortal
lifetimes, yet every night you sleep in fear knowing that Boris Ballslayer from
the Black Sea is going to attack you with his barbarian ballbreaking bastard sword. It doesn't need to be that way. If you could just come up with some leadership
here, you could own this planet, instead of playing this centuries-long
gladiator game.
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| This fictional story about immortals is intended for adults. | The World Leader in Canadian humour, humor, parody, and satire. | |
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