the PrOONphecy

>be me, bonky
>i'm with my pickle horse-man pal, pickle horse-man
>we're pursuing mr. hands
>we have to know
>why
>"why!" we shout
>not a question
>we are demanding!
>WHY DID YOU DO IT!
>but mr. hands is slippery
>we barely catch a glimpse of his devilish smile, shaded in the shifting angular models of western antique furnishings
>but still we dog his trail
>we follow him out to the countryside and through the twisting dead chapparal
>we finally corner him in the engine fields far outside sacramento
>where they run engines in the 120 degree heat
>under the sun all day
>teams of smoke-stained immigrants
>feed the gas and oil into these machines
>and run the machines until they die or explode
>then the engine is replaced
>we stand before him, demanding answers
>"Why did you do it, Mr. Hands?" I shout. "Why did you commit these crimes against horse-kind?"
>his face is obscured under his dipped cowboy hat
>just his lipless mouth pulled back like a slit in his face
>his hands clenched in fists
>he takes a deep breath and speaks
>"I did it because I wanted to show the world the power of horse-kind! I wanted to show the world of men that a horse could fuck them to death one by one if it were ever the wish of the horse! I wanted to SHOW THEM!"
>and with that he screamed, and as the metallic dust and grime from the engine fields lifted up around him we beheld a horrible transformation
>the skull of a horse suddenly protruded from his back, and several horse limbs  curled around until he was lifted up under them, as though a spider had him in its maw
>then he descended from a long protuberance
>and it became clear that he was attached to this horse-spider by a long horse phallus
>and we watched as, at the base of this horse phallus, a bulge travelled down its length
>feeding mr. hands in through his rectum
>and the bulge disappeared into him and seemed to intensify his every cell and bulge every vein and artery
>now we could see his face
>his pupils had shrunk to the size of needle-points
>and his skin was waxy
>all of his pores were gone
>and liquid discharged from his eyes and nose and he drooled it from his mouth and it dropped and piled below, sizzling in the sun-scorched wasteland
>our fight or flight reflex overcharged our brains
>and we stood locked in place
>very cautiously, i extended a hoof to pickle horse-man
>because i was very certain we were going to die
>and i wanted to be touching him in some way before we went
>then the thunder came all at once
>as POON arrived!
>Poon! we shouted
>you're a hero!
>do something heroic!
>and Poon nodded his trademark nod
>that lets you know everything is going to be okay
>in every way
>his hair is perfect
>and even when the horrible mr. hands ejects a stream of burning discharge at Poon
>he is protected
>by a heat-resistant super suit
>and his hair remains untouched
>in a contractually obligated sort of way
>Poon bounds into the mystifying labyrinth of Mr. Hand's tangled horse-parts
>and begins to break them away
>the horrible mr. hands howls
>not the howl of mr. hands
>but a long tunnel connected to some ancient horror twisting in anguish
>for truly Poon has become the chosen one
>the bonk-prophecy has ended
>and the time of the PrOONphecy is certainly upon us
>Mr. Hands raises his horrible appendages to the sky
>calling down upon the engine field a rain of black rain
>but Poon stands firm
>and moves his hooves in a graceful arc
>and the black fire harmlessly runs over his  snout and jowls, down his body
>his receptive horse senses transforming through alchemy his skin into squishy marshmallow substance
>but not pickle horse-man and me
>we burn in agony
>but we're not bothered by it
>because we want to watch Poon's heroics
>it's a mind-over-matter moment
>and we must bare witness
>we do our best to shelter our ocular inputs
>but my hooves can hardly keep out the black rain
>and i quickly lose one eye
>and the dust devils that crawl across the wasteland
>are blowing this wicked rain around
>in crazy patterns
>up into pickle horse-man's face
>and he screams
>and he shouts
>I may not be able to see!
>but i can still see, FOR YOU!
>and he leaps up onto my head and plunges his hands into his stomach
>and the horrible rain has softened his skin
>so his hand ploughs through
>and he grabs out his intestines
>and stretches them out
>into a thin sheet
>and wraps that around my head
>shrink-wrapping my remaining eye
>so it might still bear witness
>through the film I see Poon darting among the exploding engines
>and it seems mr. hands has lost his target among the columns of smoke now rising at regular intervals
>so he fixes his attention on us
>and we are, by now, a quivering pile of burned flesh
>insulated by our own intestines
>which pickle horse-man blindly wraps around us
>helpless
>just as Mr. Hands descends upon us
>and sets his lips on my forehead
>for some unholy kiss
>Poon breaks through the smoke
>sailing through the air
>and delivers a tremendous kick to Mr. Hands
>which sends him bouncing and juggling around beneath the woobly horse legs
>caraeening wildly into a crowd of engine-servicing immigrants
>who had been watching the whole spectacle from the sidelines
>and who Poon had protected
>because he recognizes the value they bring to Sacramento
>he saved them from the black rain through the use of herbal essence lotions he keeps on him
>he smothered them with herbal essences
>they were afraid at first
>but when they saw what he was doing
>they began giggling and laughing
>and dancing in the black rain
>and singing their native musics
>and one man approached poon
>and he said 'thank you for this,
>i have not sung the songs of my youth since i left my native acapulco"
>and Poon said, "think nothing of it, acapulcan. you are insulated from all harm
>as long as i am here."
>and at that moment the dreaded mr. hands swept a long spindly organ across the wastes
>and hooked Poon in thick bands of coursing horse-fibers
>but Poon was protected in his inimitable way
>by a wondrous umbrella
>that he opened up and, grabbing the acapulcan, was carried out of harm's way, into the clear atmosphere
>mr. hands, unable to cease his momentum, stumbled over the fields of diesel engines
>collecting them up into himself
>absorbing their HORSE POWER
>so horrible a sight of man and horse and technology and destruction
>and knowing that he could not defeat the mighty POON, begat mad creatures
>of horse-flesh and iron
>four foul beings emerged
>THE HORSECYCLERIANS WERE BIRTHED into the scorched earth
>burning in their hatred
>forever bleeding black oils glittering with metallic shards
>gunning the sixteen pistons of their ribcages powering combustive hearts
>destined to destroy the Great Church of Sacramento on the hill
>dooming the city to being just 'mento
>from the greek
>musterion
>meaning mystery
>and indeed the great shady lady would fall to such a horrible fate
>eons in the future
>and that time would be very hard for its people
>the mysterians.