In ages far in the distant past, when dangers untold and hard ships unnumbered sailed the seven and seven eighth seas, before the Poets had so brutally and so viciously conquered the land of Larry with their barbaric tactics, and long after the Gay army had swarmed the shores, there was a time when there was not only the dead, mindless fire but the living Fire, both of which tyrannized the land and spread fear in the hearts of all harts and homebodies, all men and monsters. And for a generation, Fire and fire used one another to wreck havoc on the people of Larry, making their lives bright and warm but also desolate and destructiony.
And after that generation, there came a new brand of human to battle the burning. This brand came from the Mountains of Purple Majesty to the south, and it was said that they were made of clay, earth and stone. It was said that they were impervious to both kinds of burning, from the living and the dead. It was said that they laid to sleep sometimes on the ground, when beds became to boring. And this brand of new human was called Firefighter, for reasons which shall forever remain shrouded in mystery.
With the onslaught of the slaughtering Firefighters, the f(F)ire was beaten back, back, back into their realm of Petrol in the West, back behind the blackened gates at Oxygen Pass, and further, further pushed, back behind the barren, stony slopes of the Hydrogen Mountains, and the dead Matchstick Wood beyond, to dwell in their obsidian stone realm and leave the lively souls of Larry alone. The losses were great, but the victory was matchless, as was the celebration that followed. It would take too much time and detail to explain what happened, but the synopsis is that everybody had a really good time, there was great food and music and etcetera, and the Firefighters, men and women, had lots of sex with the humans. There. I said it. Lots of sex. Lots. Larry knows, it must have been uncomfortable for the fleshy humans to have sex with a people made of clay, earth and stone. It's best not to imagine it. But there you have it. It happened. Sex.
And so, with no f(F)ire to fight, the Firefighters interbred with the humans, leaving lots of little bastards about, and then they returned to the Mountains of Purple Majesty, leaving the halfsy-human babies behind. They left en masse, men and women, furtively in the night, exactly one year after the defeat of the burning minions. There was a great deal of confusion about their departure, as many wives and husbands suddenly found themselves bereft. Why had they gone? What could have compelled them? Eh, we'll talk about it later.
So, to deal with their disappearance, each town and city set up its own Firehouse, wherein lived the descendants of the Firefighters, who were given the honorable title of Firefighter, so that they might fight any f(F)ire that may come later. They fought small, dead, mindless fires and kept the town generally safe, eventually expanding their brains to master medical knowledge. But after yet another generation, even the dead fire came less and less, and then it came no more. Yet another generation passing, the massive, six-legged, perambulating Ambulances from the northern Deserts of Desolation were tamed, thus rendering even the scant medical knowledge of the titular Firefighters obsolete. And so the resolution that had bound Firefighters to the land of Larry waned, and those deemed to be descendants dissolved themselves into the general populace, until but one Firefighter remained in all of Larry. His name was Tim.
Created: Apr 11, 2010Document Media