This article is part of the Golan The Insatiable series.
As to this "rampage" and the damage done to your town ... Look, "the Insatiable" is not my family name. It is a descriptor bestowed upon me in hushes and whispers by my trembling subjects. My appetites are vast and terrifying! It is only through the uncharacteristic generosity of Golan the Insatiable that any of you are graced to live! And yes, puny Mayor Shusterman, I have been receiving your e-mails and voice messages. I have not deigned to return them because I have nothing to say to you, or any of you lowly waste!
Though I would like to say something to the girl with the pink tank top I met at Nick's Bar & Grill. Actually, everyone who isn't the girl with the pink tank top cease reading this immediately, under pain of anus mutilation!
Greetings, pink tank top girl. I was having a fun time with you the other night. It has been very hard to meet a nice female since my arrival. I am very sorry that when we went back to my place the talons on my phallus sprang out. I guess I was too excited ... because of your city leaders' childish outcry over my sex-servant abductions and your world's illogical necrophilia laws, it has been a long time since I bedded anyone. You really should not have run away; it seemed like you were bleeding very badly. I do not have any money to pay for your body repairs, but I can easily get it. The walls of your town's Wells Fargo cannot withstand my wrath and those who work there seem meek. I hope to see you again.
Okay, the rest of you can start reading again.
If the mood fits, perhaps I shall endeavor some restraint in the future. In my world, having your livestock raped to death by Golan the Insatiable is a lucky omen for a fertile harvest. Having a loved one flayed and publicly sexualized post-death is the highest of honors for a prominent family (so you see, I was attempting to honor you, puny Mayor Shusterman). You could all be far more understanding, I believe.
In summation, may your innards boil out your mouth and genital opening, Mrs. Budnick. The rest of you insignificant mortals may return to your business now. Good day.
Fear me, your rightful master and bringer of doom,
Golan the Insatiable
Godlord Terrible of Gkruool, Crusher of Wills, Raper of All
P.S. Neighbor Garcia, it was not I who backed into your mailbox. Your pitiful DMV will not see fit to give me a license, so how would that even be possible? Think before you spread rumors, tiny neighbor Garcia!
When not depicting Golan's likeness, as the lone artisan granted the honor of doing so, Ali Horn illustrates grim bathroom rituals, ghastly hell-birthings, weeping golgothaloids, and other gorgeously macabre scenes that make Golan violently homesick for the terrible pleasures of Gkruool!
After years of being misunderstood, I had hoped we finally had "our" story. I was wrong.
He had a yellow inflatable tube around his waist, the kind with a comical duck head. There was a tiny fish in one of his hands, and a trident in the other. In the background a squirrel wearing shades was water skiing.
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