You jumped out, because of something your gut told you. The orangutan-lizard-aliens deftly net you with a net that feels like it's made of seaweed or raw bacon. You can't help but feel a little disappointed in your gut; he forced you to buy bigger pants last week, and repays you with this. You give him a few pinches of disgust before blacking out from a blue gas the bug-iguana-hunters release from orifices at the tips of each of their fingers. You dream about a movie you once saw, a game you once played, and that Thanksgiving dinner at Aunt Maggies where you choked on a drumstick.
You awaken, eyes still closed. You feel your jammies surrounding your skin, and a nice, crisp sheet surrounding that, with a super-sick quilt acting as the tortilla to your bed burrito. 'Aha!' you think, 'this was totally a nightmare, how could it not have been, weird alien trolls are not real things, and caves don't work like that, and my gut isn't that big in real life. I will open my eyes and see my bookshelf filled with like twenty different dorky books about Middle Earth, and make some Eggos, and chat about this with my significant other.' You open your eyes and realize that you had only dreamed the pajamas and the bed and other stuff, because you are in fact tied up to a bug-alien folding chair with that same slippery bug-alien rope. Also you are in fact significantly paunchy, and couldn't get through The Hobbit. Also you are in a cave, although whether or not it is The Cave With the Squeezy Mouth is up in the air. Also someone/thing is walking/slinking/locomoting closer, but you can't really see them/it because they are around a corner.
They get around that corner, and you are face-to-face with some of those nutballs that must have tied you up.
“Hey,” you shout, trying to act tough. “What's the deal here, bug-aliens, what's the big idea with regards to chasing and capturing innocent woods-wanderers?”
“We aren't bugs or aliens, tubby,” says one of the not-bug-aliens in a voice that could be described as a 'baritone pigsnort'. “We are hunters, and you already knew that.”
“Well, I thought you were human hunters, like guns-n-camoflauge, stuffed deer head over the mantle kinds of guys. Which is totally not the case,” you say.
“Not that kind of hunter, tubby,” says one of the hunters. “We aren't hunting for meat...” At this point, the non-speaking hunter whispers something into the other's ear, and they laugh, and jab eachother with their elbows, and you swear to god you can see one of them mouthing (mandibling?) the words 'we will totally eat him later, he looks plump and juicy', but then you aren't sure. “No, we aren't hunting for meat. We're hunting for an All-Universe caliber stallcruncher to play on our Glaxball team in this century's upcomign Glaxball tournament. You totally fit the bill.”
“Glaxball? Stallcrucher?” you query. “How can I be All-Universe caliber in a game I've never heard of.”
“Um... you look like a natural?” says hunter number one, while hunter number two shakes some salt on you, and licks your ear, and says “tastes like a natural, too, yukyukyuk.”
“So will you take on the challenge and fulfill your destiny, Tubby the Great? If so, step on into our Galactic Glaxball portal and be transported to the Dimension of Glory!” You think that the Galactic Glaxball portal looks a lot like a wood-fired oven. Hunter number two unties you (after shaking a little of what smells like barbecue sauce into your hair).
“Well, what are you waiting for?” says number one, perhaps a little too eagerly.
If you decide to zoom through the Galactic Glaxball portal, click here!
If you decide to kick hunters one and two into the portal that's totally an oven, click here!
If you decide to reason with them peacefully, click here!
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