Post by Bengl Von Shadowstein on Apr 23, 2008 9:23:28 GMT -5
'Twas warm summer night in the rural farmlands of Puerto Rico. The moon was not in the sky this night, a perfect night for Central Americas most feared inhabitant, El Chupacabra, to feed.
He'd waited all day, hiding in the trees and tall grass that surrounded the farm, for that god forsaken shotgun-wielding farmer to bed down. As the lights in the house dimmed, he saw his chance.
El Chupacabra crept silently through the fields, constantly salivating, as he stalked a lone goat out in the open, peacefully chewing on the fresh grass. The goat spotted him, El Chupacabra froze in his tracks and slowly crouched into the grass and raised his quills; a sign he was ready to pounce.
The goat stood up, an AK 47 clutched in his hooves, a cigar in his teeth, and a headband flapping in the wind.
El Chupacabra stood up in shock, and stood in awe of this badass. The Goat Sucker knew right then and there, he'd chosen the wrong farm.
"Ba-a-ack off, pu-u-unk!"
