Ferdinand Gaybeard Rides Again

The Polynesian nightskunk is not a toy, gentle reader. The Polynesian nightskunk is known as the black jester of the night for good reason, and is to be taken seriously, times two. Do not attempt to dance and frolic with the Polynesian nightskunk, for it is a jape you will soon regret, should you live long enough to even do so.

It will not fetch, it will not beg or roll over, and it most certainly will not snatch kibbles from betwixt your pursed lips, mid-leap, like some kind of trick pony. It will not walk on hind legs for a reward, nor will it growl "I rove rou!" in an adorable skunk voice when tempted with treats. These are mere fantasies, fanciful reader, hatched from Hollywood dreams and children's storybooks, while the grim reality of the Polynesian nightskunk is far darker indeed.

The Polynesian nightskunk will, in actuality, bite off your toes like it were eating peppermint, but this is only where its cruel efficiency of death begins. Toes snapped off like ticket stubs, you will stand in shock as the nightskunk squeezes into your foot hole and shimmies up your leg, inside the skin, devouring at its leisure your most delectable internal morsels and sweetmeats. Gobbling and snarfing, nibbling and slurping, the Polynesian nightskunk will make its way up past your knee, through the thigh, and pause only slightly to enjoy your spicy genitalia before embarking on the grand feast that is your most inner innards.

Except for the spleen. For some reason, nightskunks hate the spleen. Weird.

How do I know all this? Oh, simple, naïve reader. How joyus it must be to carry such innocence wrapped in muslin within your lovely cranium. Imagine the terror with which you would greet each day knowing that you, yes YOU! had once danced with the nightskunk in the pale moon light, living not only to tell the tale, but to recall it in fevered dreams nightly!

It's true! I was but a young man then, fresh out of a tiger cage in Laos and making my way across the sunken, mysterious expanse of Polynesia, which back then was known only as the Land of the Dark Corners. It was there, anxious readers, there that I crossed paths with this atheist-maker, this furry black Satan known to the locals only as "Gnup!" ("Shiii-skunk!").

Yes, the nightskunk ambushed me as I was sitting on a tree stump, enjoying a tin of sardines. I froze, mid-fish, as the darkness before me congealed into the form of nature's most dastardly malfeasance.

It was then that my bladder sprang immediately into action, unleashing a wet torrent of plentiful panic piss as the nightskunk reared back on two legs. Waiting patiently for my gushing display to cease, the nightskunk rocked back and forth, flaring its deadly nostrils. After a time, the nightskunk settled back down onto four legs for a moment to rest, then reared back up as my ceaseless bladder continued to evacuate. Eventually the nightskunk had to move to slightly higher ground to avoid being wetted by my growing empoolment, but this suited him finely, providing an even more impressive perch from which to display his menacing qualities in statuesque fashion. Eventually I was done pissing myself, and the skunk took this opportunity to strike.

Thankfully for me and my continuing adventures, the skunk slipped in piss and broke its neck, letting out a frustrated little squeak at the moment of impact that caused my overstressed bowels to disengorge a week's worth of feces in less than one half of a second. It reminded me vividly of the time, years ago, when I stumbled across a den of vicious ducklings and I shit my pants so hard my shoes came untied.

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