The Riddled and Inexplicable Journey of Three Cows.

The Riddled Journey

Of the fifteen cows of north-central Afghanastan, only the three that were party members were allowed to attend the great meeting of the eldars. It had been three days since the summoning, and they were journeying to the east, about a day from their destination. The three cows stumbled along in mirth and unsuspicious misery for a magnitude of time before the cry was heard. The great northern turtle-wolf was giving its war cry. The cows froze in their tracks only briefly enough to catch a glimpse of a shelled sillouette on the sun baked horizon before breaking into a flurry of hoofs and tails, mimicking the great flamingo migration of seventeen-forty-two. As they pounded along the rocky wasteland that they had so laboressly pondered for three hours to choose, they realized that it was not the safe path that had imagined. They rushed in and out of craggy ravines, up the side of a small river, and out onto a small landing of rock and dried reeds. The smallest of the cows glanced back before gathering speed again, and realized that the turtle-wolf was almost upon them. It was a ghastly creature, with ninty-seven sharp claws and a dizzying mouthful of teeth. The tail that rose abruptly at its back raced back and fourth, as the thrill of the hunt drove the turtle-wolf into a ravenous hunger. Its furry paws treaded quickly over sloping terrain that the cows had painstakingly trudged for minutes. He was getting close. The turtle-wolf could already taste the luscious hide and steamy muscle as he raced along behind the cows. Then all at once a giant anvil fell from the sky and the great northern turtle-wolf was no more. The cows skidded to a halt, bumping into one another by the surprise stop. "Good thing we invested in that satellite guided anvil launcher", they thought. The manic depressive goat that operated the launcher had done his duty nicely. As fast as the chase had started, it was now over, and the cows could continue their journey east. Then, as if their prayers had been answered, a great column of granite laced crisco oil rose from the ground in front of them and a light shown down from the heavens, guiding their long journey up the sloping column. Now they were sure that the end would indeed be reached. They climbed the sloping column for hours on end, stopping not for a drink of cold lemonade or a barbeque sandwich. The journey upward was tedious, stretching their muscles to full capacity. Then at once, the column ended, and the cows were faced with a fear greater than that of the turtle-wolf. Looking down, they could see nothing but the patterns in the rock, and the great rivers, as tiny threads on a godforsaken land of slimey doughnut riddled waste. Vertigo took them as they looked from the stratosphere to the land that they had intended to reach. Their destination was directly below them, but alas, they had forgotten their parachutes. They would have to make due with what they had. After several hours of sewing, they had a large sheet of stiched together kleenex, which they harnessed to themselves with hairs from their tails. And at once they jumped. Down they went, into the abyss that was the world below them. The kleenex parachute opened quickley, and the three cows floated peacefully through the lower stratosphere unhindered and content. Then a new problem occured to them. They were floating way to far south. They had not counted on the wind being so strong in a rice infested cloud bank. They were whirled around at great speed, all the while being pelted by grains of rice. All that could be heard was a great mooing. The pitiful sound of cows caught in pestilence. Their suffering was to great, and they all had heart attacks and died. The three dead cows floated for days, hanging from their own hairs to several boxes worth of stitched kleenex, and eventually landed in a lake of vanilla pudding, with multicolored sprinkles strewn across the top. The end.

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