This article is part of the Golan The Insatiable series.
Oak Grove Gazette, Letters to the Editor
Dear Scrawny Fools,
Tremble, feeble readers of Oak Grove Gazette! Once more you are being awarded with addressment from Golan the Insatiable, Godlord Terrible of Gkruool, Crusher of Wills, Raper of All!
By my fury, three points shall I endow!
Point the first - In my home dimension of Gkruool, many still rave madly of my senseless decimation and indefatigable rape of the cheerful, blind peasants of the Fruun Valley, yet that blood-letting pales in wanton malevolence to the treachery that one Mrs. Budnick has shown against I, Golan the Insatiable, since my arrival in your worthless world! Surely, simple readers, you saw her cowardly letter from Sunday's edition, bleating about how I and my acolytes should be denied access to the large gazebo in Tarnhill Park this coming weekend!
Though my teeth corroded with bile from disgusted rage, did I not stand at your pathetic courthouse steps and shake hands with your fat new Mayor Dugek and vow not to kill any more of you? That was three months gone. Now I ask you, have I more than maimed anyone since that day? Were there any fatalities during my rampage at Lyndale Mall? Did a single member of the (so obviously cheating) Jefferson Data softball team die once they reached your medical house? As for puny former Mayor Shusterman, being in a coma is still being alive, is it not? (I do not see fat new Mayor Dugek complaining about that one.) So, township of Oak Grove, have I not played by your laughable laws?
Yet despite this gross debasement of myself for your unworthy appeasal, you repay my benignity by gathering your pathetic city council tomorrow to vote on whether I be granted access to the large gazebo of Tarnhill Park? I have examined your idiotic town charter. It speaks that any citizen of Oak Grove can reserve the large gazebo unless it is otherwise reserved. One Budnick says that I am not a citizen because I do not pay your taxes, and that I "stole" the home I inhabit. Well, in Gkruool my cowering subjects traveled days just to give over their livestock and attractive daughters to my lasciviously destructive whims as tribute. Do you not think it would be offensive to me to make offerings to your insignificant city hall? As to my abode, the Peterson humans who ran from the structure the day I entered have never returned to try and reclaim it through gory contest. By what other rule does one claim property in your illogical world?
Point the second - Yor the Mighty. As all seem quite aware, another native of Gkruool has managed to bridge the gap from my realm to yours. Oak Grove Gazette, you should be more thorough in your journalism if you wish respect as a news source from me. Endlessly you repeat Yor the Mighty's wordage that he is my "nemesis." If you had ever bothered to ask me, I could have laughed in your tiny faces as to indicate the untruth of this claim. In his dreams is Yor my nemesis! Ever since I ritualistically sexualized and ate his parents to honor his village, the ungrateful savage has pestered me by decapitating my dark sex priests and slaying the dreaded Thukk beast I stationed at Druune's Span over the Chasm of Madness. Let me tell you, naïve readers, killing sex priests is humorously easy, and that Thukk beast was old. I had been thinking of replacing it, actually. This Yor's claims to "mightiness" are quite up for debate, it should be clear.
Were I not so far above you common shlik I might take umbrage of the fact that Yor the Mighty has been so quickly embraced by Oak Grove. I, of course, do not care. But a parade? You give Yor the Mighty a stupid parade? Mere days after his arrival? The first fortnight I was in your world I was bothered to crush a pitiful mob you formed to destroy me. A parade? Again, not that I care in the least what you crushable mortals do. But a parade? What is the reasoning of mortals celebrating another mortal? You continue to baffle me.
The guns are gone. Now what happens to all those paper targets? Don't tell me you forgot about the paper targets. The ones hanging from little clips on fancy clotheslines at shooting ranges. With no guns to destroy these legions of paper bastards, they go unchecked.
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