It is a cursed year for the Dogs, the Pigs and the Cannibals. Our numbers have still dwindled and our warriors are fatigued. Yet our travels are to the ends of the realms and our enemies are mighty. This is the story of our foraging raid into the lands of the Homoans north of the river that runs red.
We have made the trek north to raid the Homoans land, led by our venerable shaman, Thomas the Bear; but the Homoans were prepared for us and although we found ourselves on the same path as a mighty Simbian warrior from the great falls of Witchitus, who donned our war colors; they smote us mightily. They were fierce and evil warriors, who were found to cheat like politicians in an election year. They made unmanly attacks on honorable men, and our ire was so stirred that one of our champions, John Longbow the Mariner, smote their field general in his face with a great ham hock of a fist. There was much gnashing of the teeth and beating of spears on shields from both sides of the battle line. Even our wisest and most grizzled warrior, Doug the Coyote Whisperer, was vexed by their cowardice and he smoked their most corpulent lock, Sausage the Savage, in his jelly roll eye. This impressed their ranks. yet they continued to put our warriors under their sword. Finally, our friendly fellow traveller drew their blood from amidst their heartiest ranks and the Homoans were so impressed with his ferocity that they fed us and plied us with beer at the Temple of the Iguana before bidding us safe passage home. We departed with injuries and some of our most experienced warriors were forced to retire to our home to heal.
The rest of us continued to rape and pillage in that unwholesome land of the wicked Homoans. The trip home was fraught with peril from roving bands of Boonic cowboys and large women who grazed on the field of Normanville. We overran a small hamlet in the valley of Lawlessness and took refuge in their natural hot springs. We broke camp upon the third day of our raid for glory and beer, trying by day and scoring by night; and we encountered a band of mercenaries in that valley of Lawlessness. That fateful day we were without our friend from Simba, but had been joined by several more Dogs who were found to wandering in the vast wilderness outside of the heaven knownst as Texas. Ron the rambler and Cody stoneboots joined our ranks and with them travelled Hobie the swift, who was previously injured and was forced to retire from the battle field early. These mercenaries were gargantuan. They were fit and fast and fierce, yet fought with honour and yielded safe quarter to vanquished Dogs at every turn. We fought valiantly, but in vain, for the mercenaries pummeled us into submission. In an odd twist of brutality, they were found to be jovial in battle and often relinquished the upper hand of warfare to us in an amazing display of truly honourable fighting spirit. It seemed like they were more willing to battle for the sake of battling than to the death and therefore have earned the respect and gratitude of the Dogs. Their reputations as great warriors and honourable opponents will precede them where ever the travel across the lands and all the bards, such as I, will sing of their glorified deeds and great prowess upon the battlefields. Once again, though they smote us at every turn and vexed our every sword thrust with a strong parry and counterattack, they were bloodied. This time by our great shaman, Thomas the Bear. He strode through their midst like a giant amongst vikings, capable men hanging off of his every limb as he sped through their ranks to draw blood from their very safe haven, the try zone. At the end of the battle we retired to the haven know as Dirty's and ate chicken wings and drank whiskey and beer.
And the Prince of Nothingness and the God of Everything, looked not upon us as our conversions fell the wayside at every score. But they blessed us with the ability to fight another day as we made quick passage back to our own homeland in Mudville.
There is a plague upon the Dogs, and as we may well be cursed, we still have great warriors who suit up to battle our opponents when their names are called. Yet we have amongst our ranks some vile scallywags, unmanly men who laugh from the safety of the forests as their brothers fight for honour; punk-assed, little sissies such as Omar the Hollow, Steven the Faggie, Matt of the fair weather, and even newly found confused warriors like Charlie of the unset alarm clock. Yet for each of these warriors, we have one more who can be named with pride and admiration, newly blooded men such as Josh the Spark, Chris the Colombian, Christian Quickstrike, KC Foulfoot and Daniel the Monkey.
When will the Nothingness and the Everything find our hearts pure once again, and allow the egg to bounce favorably for the Dogs? Maybe soon, and we will find out for there are grumblings across the land that the Mavericks of Arlingtonia will be mounting a strike force for our lands soon; and we have our own pillaging party planned to travel East to find griffin eggs and pretty lasses. May the ball bounce with us. Slainte!