SPOG FOR PRESIDENT: 2012

80 Years of Folley (sequel)

Gilmore Scrotland IV

In 9 A.S. (circa 1979) the Son of Sir Gilmore Scrotland III, Gilmore Scrotland IV, seemingly came out of nowhere and reached the glaciers of Antarctica. The ship was disintegrating with age and taking on water. Three hands were lost trying to save a throne of skulls that had been meticulously prepared some 50 years earlier for installment at the South Pole. Son of Scrotland shook his fist in the air and cursed the men's treachery as they sank into the frigid depths with the priceless heirloom.

He and the rest of his rag-tag team of hungry pirates then scrambled across the barrier toward solid land with the few supplies they had managed to save. They immediately began to freeze to death. Scrotland's only hope was to immediately cannibalize all of the survivors but one; his trusted scribe Theodore (origin unknown).

Theodore took a few notes to record the success of it all for posterity before they headed inland in search of shelter. Still freezing to death, they wandered the icy plains for what seemed like forever. They were in many ways lost, but Son of Scrotland was born lost and was unafraid. Soon their minds and bodies began to fail them in the frigid expanse. Just when death seemed certain they stumbled across a patch of exposed rock that shielded the entrance to a cave.

The rock was warm. Numb as they were it was undeniably warm. They pulled the slab free and raced inside. A short way down a wire was tripped, triggering a bright flash that blinded and scared the hell out of them. A brief investigation revealed a couple tiny beads of glass built right into the stone of the cave. They pulled on the wire and it flashed again. This interested them for about 3 seconds before they plunged further into the tunnel. Toward the source of the warmth they went deeper and darker.

As they felt their way into the blackness there seemed a faint glow far ahead. Before long they could almost see in the eerie glow. Then they seemed almost enveloped in it. They paused for a while, hoping their eyes could adjust to it. It was actually very warm now, almost uncomfortable. There was a bit of second-guessing at that point but they had no options and so they went on. Soon the tunnel opened up and they crept into what must have been a vast chamber. Their footfalls echoed off into the distance.

Theodore complained of a headache and threw up. The Son of Scrotland was in no mood for his insolence and warned him that fucking up this magical moment would have dire consequences. He approached the sound of Theodore's gagging to give him a taste of those consequences when he walked right into a large metal object with a reverberant thud that echoed throughout the chamber.

"What is the meaning of this!" shrieked the Son of Scrotland. "Insolence!" He declared as he tipped the metal barrel. Scrotland swore on as the barrel broke open spewing caustic liquid from fissures around the lid. The pair could hear and feel a crackling sensation from within their heads. The chamber was bathed in an almost imaginary and sparkling glow. The Son of Scrot grew light headed and drooled uncontrollably as his gums bled.

"We are undone," moaned Theodore the nauseous. He found himself in a puddle of sickness rapidly merging with the barrel's spill. He was locked in the fetal position, twitching against his instinct not to move as the crackling in his head roared to a boil.

"We are not un-bloody done!" insisted the Son of Scrotland, leaning on another barrel, drooling uncontrollably and gagging. "The taste of metal… a sign of fortitude!" And with that he pushed over the second barrel. This one crashed with a hollow bang. With some pulling, it came open and the Son of Scrotland felt his way through garments and mysterious tools. The chamber was flooded in a bright and real light. A vast grid of barrels was revealed. The Son of Scrot wielded the flashlight beam from crotch-level and swept it about like a sword through the poisonous treasure. Eventually this beam came to rest on an iron box. The iron box.

Spog's 8-year confinement in that box was no hibernation or stasis. That would imply that it had some kind of restful or reguvinative quality. This was not the case. In those black and cramped confines Spog waited, reflected and wallowed in fury. When the iron lid was removed his eyes were wide open. The men were stunned when the attack began and by the time they even thought to resist they could do little more than flail about screaming as they died. Spog had no trouble slashing their throats, liquefying their insides and in the end, removing their heads.

See Also:
Dossier: Antarctica
80 Years of Folley (prequel): Sir Gilmore Scrotland III