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Rated: E · Fiction · Nonsense · #2268770
Nonsense for The Whatever Contest

Right before he slung me into the slippery slope of sad suffering, the ornery old Wurst of All Possible Sausages gave my poor old elbone a final twist and breathed his garlicky rampridden brimstone breath into my left gizzard so I would understand that he was the first and wurst booger to ever haint Dismal Creek. The whole sorry sordid story flooded out my earballs and into my eyestalks whether I liked it or not.

Old Herr Koch the sausage maker settled on Dismal Creek way back. He was proud of his bratwurst and knockwurst that he prepared with such disregard for anybody’s health and well-being of a most excellent terribility. The Scotch-Irish folks living there didn’t appreciate such flavors and turned up their tails in distain. The old man swore to make this wrong. He gathered together the lungs and sweetbreads and udders and prime ribs of the maddest cow and the bologniest bull in old Mad Maurice O'Riordan Mulrooney's disease ridden herd of cattle, the hams and hocks and spleens and snouts and toesles of the 78th born second cousin thrice removed of the mother-in-law of the Demon Sow of Nürnberg and the antlers and the left hind hoof of the orneriest tick on the left hind hand of the Devil Buck of Țara Românească. He ground these together on the dark of the Moon with a bit of direwolf fat and ramps and garlic and fiery peppers and baneful herbs of a most dark and dangerous manner of action and deportment. He packed this wonderfully delicious and flavorful mixture into the chitlin of the third born fourth nephew on the daddy’s side of said aforementioned direwolf. He then smoked the sausage over the coals of the wood of the Hanging Tree of Salem.

After all these terribly wondrous magicks Herr Koch put the wurst to age in the leafmold at the bottom of the deepest darkest ravine in the holler till it became the Wurst of All Possible Sausages. Said sausage came up out from under thar and terrorized and fascinated and hainted all the folks around Dismal Creek forevermore and blamed it all on poor Lydia the Ghost Girl till his ego got the best of him and he just had to take credit for all these ungodly goings on so he forced the arcane knowledge upon my poor unsuspecting alamagordamus.
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