Mountie Mounting with Old Knudsen

It only seems like 2 days ago that Old Knudsen was up in the Rockies choking on stinking Husky gas and drinking my own piss while bellowing at the moon instead of tracking game. It only seems like 2 days because I'm still here covered in snow you mongers, ain't those scheduling buttons cool?  There was a time that those mountains were so full of male beaver, back pussies and bottom snatch tails that you could never get rid of the smell from your fingers. There was a time when I could have bottled my own stink and sold it for billions of dollars. Old Knudsen would hobble into Cripple Creek and people would be retching at the stench of anal man-pussy on him. Now Old Knudsen can't seem to get any man-beaver, nope he be at the self-service gas station of love, pumping his own leaded. 

The cold and lonely nights were the worse I'd lie in my log cabin tossing my wood onto the fire while re-reading my Sarah Palin swimsuit edition of Conservative cunt monthly, aye if only she would lay down and accept my man-meat then she'd be in favour of abortion, make no mistake.

One cold wet stormy night I was lying by the fire polishing my rifle when there was a knock at the door. Old Knudsen being a drunken sozzled muck raker, doesn't have a visa never mind a weapons permit as Old Knudsen is a free spirit. I quickly shoved my rifle out of sight, but the stock still stuck out a bit, ah well, the curse of having little bandy legs I guess..

I answered the door and there stood Mary Jane, oops, easy mistake to make, there stood a small stocky balding middle aged man, the rain dripped down his glasses and mustache as he stood there out of breath. He started to talk excitedly about deviants and search warrants, I could see he wasn't a lesbian blogger so I let him in.

My military training (pffffftttttttt) made me pretend not to notice him, yet see everything. He stood there with his expensive looking red tunic dripping rain unto my floor I saw his eyes look down at my thick wooden stock, but he quickly looked elsewhere in the direction of a stack of ghey porn standing in a three foot high pillar beside my bed, " It belonged to the guy that lived here before" I blurted out like a little frightened gurl. My secret was finally out, I couldn't let him leave alive so I recalled all my Italian hero training and jumped him on his blind side.

The battle was short but epic and produced even more feces than normally filters through the rear of my shorts, hey I couldn't help it I bought this tuna and onion bap and it had corn in it, and as you know corn goes right through me, bloody New world foods.

We fought like warrior poets but without the ghey poetry stuff. The Mountie seal clubber fought back and slashed at my groin. I stabbed, sometimes swiftly and sometimes in slow motion or so it seemed, we were both bloodied and tired, my old Bowie knife had snapped in two, well it was a good knife when I originally stole it. I glanced over to my side and saw my left leg hanging on by a mangled thread, NO! I screamed like a big ghey cissy in my head, I just bought those pants 12 years ago, now I was angry, the dude was regrouping and getting his strength for the final conflict. I ripped off my leg and as the guy charged I beat him to death with my severed limb.

My little ghey secret was still safe.

I used some bungee cords to attach my leg on until I was out of those mountains as the weather can just change at a moments notice and have you trapped. I had skinned the seal clubber and fed on his penis to take on it's power. Nice, but slightly salty in a ghey porridge felching type of way.

I followed the spores of the Clubber to a pub called the 'Drained Cock' I still had my rifle but I wanted to enjoy this so I put a tiny kitchen devil knife up my sleeve and walked in.
I went straight up to the bar where a figure dressed in rags was hunched over drinking some kind of wine cooler, I said "are you the cunt that sent the seal clubber up to my cabin up on old sexual peak?" He slowly turned. I braced for a glass being shoved at me or the sticky wet end of a feather duster. The man looked at me with large bulbous red eyes and said "yeah, do you have a problem Knudsen?" It was the infamous flatulent, failed blogger, Mago complete with bad breath and pubic-like mono brow. We had a pleasant evening of drinking, rimming and humorous story telling until I passed out through lack of interest, blood and excessive alcohol .

No idea how I got to the hospital, Mago left with my wallet in his pocket and my shite on his chin, the durty thieving cunt that he is. And that is the story of how I lost my leg on the Can****n side of the Rockies while out hunting man-cock. The gospel truth, which means you can believe this as literally as the bible which is totally fact, just like Old Knudsen, full of shit.

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Go ahead... shat on me again.