It´s been a while since the Capt´n siezed his frantic whipping of our gentle cheeks to go on vacation to the annual Crappy Cow Weekend in Whales. We are ofcourse, required by federal law to miss him, so everyday we weep bitterly into a bottle, wich we plan on giving him as a gift upon his return.
This, however suddenly seems like a potential waste of time, as we discovered his journal floating by the docks this morning, along with a corncob pipe and almost an entire raft made of porn.
[LOG BEGINS]
Upon arrival, I stapled a live frog to the doormat, as is customs in Britain. I have been here before ye know – during th´grand whale swinging championship back in 1897.
Th´breakfast, ofcourse, let out an evil hiss at me as I opened th´kage. But damned be the morrow I cant silence a breakfast with my sharpen´d harpoon and bare knuckles.
I FELT AN ILL WIND FROM THE GREY FIELDS..
… AND SUDDENLY, THREE, NAY! FOUR OF THEM BEASTS HAD WADDLED UP AGAINST ME! MY HARPOON, HUNGRY FOR THE FLESH OF COW, VIBRATED IN MY CLAMMY GRASP!
UDDERS SPEWING THE WHITE FLAME! SUCH AS HELLFIRE UPON THY SKIN!
LOW, GUTTURAL BELLOWING CRIES ACCOMPANIED BY VIGOROUS GNASHING OF TEETH AGAINST GRASS SLICED THE AIR AS THESE ABOMINATIONS WALLOWED THROUGH THE FOILAGE, EVER CONSUMING ITS GREEN HARVEST
(The rest is written in what apperas to be a mix of blood and milk, suprisingly tasty)
A thousand terrible tits reached for the air, as the white rain commenced The crew, prepared and trained by countless sessions of Condemned: Criminal Origins, stood their ground, napkins holstered with itchy fingers…
[END OF LOG]
The rest of the pages are torn out, only faint marks of hooves are visible in the rough paper.
There is no real need to panic though, as most of his written work gets submitted to us floating along on something anyway.
Rest asured, the Capt´n will live to scrimshaw another Dawn!
Let´s just hope the next Dawn can get away quicklier, the old one´s gotten so incredibly fat, the poor thing..