The tongue was delicious. The savory tastes and flavors that held onto the muscle coated your own with a delectable passion you simply could not describe.
At least that's what would have happened if you were FUCKING INSANE. Luckily, you are not. Ignoring said lick-tool, you check out the table next to you and finally see the foretold spider of the tales you had so previously skimmed over. You nod in agreement with the author of said scriptures, classifying the spider as delicious and not blaming him for falling into temptation of dining on said arachnid.
After appreciating the wonderful sight of death and pungent odor, you decide to head back out to the mine and check out the rest of the joint.
Oh boy something howled! Surely it must be the search party which has been looking for you for the sum of the twenty minutes you've been in this mine and you rush out to greet him with open arms. PSYCHE! It's just a demon dog which wants to chew your anus ring like the jerky you had previously found in a drawer.
Once you are done hiding like a woman (read: coward) (read read: women are not cowards, cowardly women are), you head over towards the office. Resisting the urge to make an Office Space joke referring to staplers, you head on in and get your learnage on. This takes a while, you even grow some chin hair as you flick through the pages that for some STUPID reason have no pictures.
With your newly gained knowledge of all things explosive and awesome, you pick up some baxtrin and a key for something; probably a lunchbox, you don't know, and head back out to the doghouse. Poking around the darkness with your rave utensil, you find a door and, lo and behold, that key friggin' works! Convenience is awesome, you deem, as you go on in.
Having a moment of weakness, you barricade the flimsy door with two barrels. You don't question what is in the barrels, because it may be best to not know. Apple juice. There, that's what you think it is. After blocking the door with apple juice, you check out the place and head towards the nearest source of interest: a fucking dead end. But, like all dead-ends, there is a source of hope (not really) in the form of a piece of paper. The paper reads like a stupid man saying stupid things, but her capitalizes the stupidest of words and using your immense mental cavity you quickly come to the conclusion that a code of some sort is written here.
You're fucking awesome.
Looking about the place further, you soon come across a locked door with a greasy keypad. Pressing the keys in with your shirt over your finger to avoid getting your fingers dirty because you're a germaphobe, the door opens. Seriously, how amazing can you fucking be?
Inside you find a string in a box. SCORE! You also dig out a friggin' pickaxe under some boulders. YES! Then you find an electrical fence which will fry your shit if you touch it. Aw man.
After getting stuck for twelve hours and seventeen minutes, you head back out to find a motherfucking dog just hanging out. Immediately the words "Fucketh that shit, good sir." and you head back.
Finally your brain works and you come to the conclusion that hey, maybe you could jump OVER the electrically-charged fence? With this idea in your thought-process, you grab the nearest Donkey Kong projectile and start to push.
Then, your puny arms deflate to the extreme and you are blocked by none other than your arch nemesis: A plank of wood.
This article covers parts three and four:
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