A good friend of mine, Gary gave me a pack of "Dinosaurs Attack! " cards, and I decided to write up what I think is going on in the card. So, without further ado, I give you #39: Trilobite Terror!
"Awwwwewwww, it's putting its tentacle in my mouuuth," Gerald moaned to himself, as one of several prehistoric lobster creatures did exactly as he had described.
Gerald had seen enough Japanese porn to know where this was going, and he supposed this could be God's punishment for his viewing of said porn. The trilobite's other tentacle touched Gerald's ear lobe almost reassuringly, as if to say, "It's okay buddy, it'll all be over in a second, and then we'll take you out for some ice cream. That sound good champ? Huh? Ice cream?"
"Trilobite Terror" was a bit of an exaggeration; "Trilobite Tension" would be more apt, or to skip the alliteration and just lay it all out there, "Trilobite Annoyance" described it best. There was absolutely nothing even approaching terrifying about the creatures. They looked like horseshoe crabs, and had the same curious nature as a puppy, albeit a puppy whose curiousity extended to what it might be like inside a human body. The Mayor had described the tiny nuisances as "flesh-eating worms from the Devonian period," but the journalist, for the purposes of maintaining the sensation of dangerous monsters on a rampage, had left out the fact that the Mayor operated in a constant state of inebriation, and could hardly be considered a subject matter expert on anything further than the contents of a mini-bar.
Gerald was minding his own fucking business, having his lunch on a park bench when four of the little bastards had dropped out of the tree limbs above him like a seafood rainstorm, and he had shrieked hard enough to ruffle his perfectly combed Geraldo Rivera moustache. Having grown tired of fighting the obvious nickname, Gerald had gone to lengths to actually invite the comparison, and he had certainly embarrassed himself in public in classic Geraldo style.
Trilobites, for fuck's sweet sake! They seemed harmless, but other than the name, Gerald knew nothing about them. He had no idea if they were quick to startle, nor what kind of self-defense mechanisms they might have. Thus, he opted for that old cautious standard, the Triple-D: Don't Do Dick. He was going to sit still and let them do their lobster thing; once they lost interest and departed, he would shake off the icky-hoo-has and call it an early day to go home and take a shower.
Currently however, the trilobites' curiousity did not alppear to be on the wane. The two on Gerald's chest gazed into his eyes with their green, button-candy orbs, a dumb intensity in their unblinking, unwavering stare. He could almost hear them thinking "what's this, what's this?" in idiot sing-song.
The Nightmare Before Christ.
One of them finally went for broke and slipped a feeler into Gerald's mouth. It was slimy. It was cold. It tasted not unlike garlic.
"Mmmmmokaythat'sitI'mDONE!" Gerald spat out the feeler and stood up explosively, thrashing his limbs and shaking his head. The trilobites were tenacious little fuckers, though, and it was a full two minutes before he bucked them. They hit the ground and skittered away, timid as cockroaches. Gerald smacked himself in the forehead. He'd been so nervous about the bugs' defensive capabilities that he'd needlessly granted them free-reign for like, ten whole fucking minutes! He'd been so focused on the situation, he'd failed to notice a small crowd had gathered around him. He looked at them, and great irritation formed in his chest.
He voiced it.
"Why the FUCK didn't anyone HELP me?!"
A young man piped up.
"You were just kind of sitting there, we weren't sure if you were digging it."
"DIGGING IT!?" Gerald screamed indignantly, and, overwhelmed by the situation, descended into a fit of body-brushing and head-shaking.
"Eeeeaaaauuuugh!" He said, through it all.
The freak show over, the crowd dispersed around Gerald, and he was left alone in the park, trilobite slime drying on his shirt.
He sobbed.
Later that afternoon in the shower, Gerald decided the most disturbing part of the whole affair was how innocent their intentions had been, and that when he'd thrown them from himself and their small forms had scurried away, the Trilobite Terror had been their own. He had actually felt sorry for them.
Fucking trilobites.
Gerald had seen enough Japanese porn to know where this was going, and he supposed this could be God's punishment for his viewing of said porn. The trilobite's other tentacle touched Gerald's ear lobe almost reassuringly, as if to say, "It's okay buddy, it'll all be over in a second, and then we'll take you out for some ice cream. That sound good champ? Huh? Ice cream?"
"Trilobite Terror" was a bit of an exaggeration; "Trilobite Tension" would be more apt, or to skip the alliteration and just lay it all out there, "Trilobite Annoyance" described it best. There was absolutely nothing even approaching terrifying about the creatures. They looked like horseshoe crabs, and had the same curious nature as a puppy, albeit a puppy whose curiousity extended to what it might be like inside a human body. The Mayor had described the tiny nuisances as "flesh-eating worms from the Devonian period," but the journalist, for the purposes of maintaining the sensation of dangerous monsters on a rampage, had left out the fact that the Mayor operated in a constant state of inebriation, and could hardly be considered a subject matter expert on anything further than the contents of a mini-bar.
Gerald was minding his own fucking business, having his lunch on a park bench when four of the little bastards had dropped out of the tree limbs above him like a seafood rainstorm, and he had shrieked hard enough to ruffle his perfectly combed Geraldo Rivera moustache. Having grown tired of fighting the obvious nickname, Gerald had gone to lengths to actually invite the comparison, and he had certainly embarrassed himself in public in classic Geraldo style.
Trilobites, for fuck's sweet sake! They seemed harmless, but other than the name, Gerald knew nothing about them. He had no idea if they were quick to startle, nor what kind of self-defense mechanisms they might have. Thus, he opted for that old cautious standard, the Triple-D: Don't Do Dick. He was going to sit still and let them do their lobster thing; once they lost interest and departed, he would shake off the icky-hoo-has and call it an early day to go home and take a shower.
Currently however, the trilobites' curiousity did not alppear to be on the wane. The two on Gerald's chest gazed into his eyes with their green, button-candy orbs, a dumb intensity in their unblinking, unwavering stare. He could almost hear them thinking "what's this, what's this?" in idiot sing-song.
The Nightmare Before Christ.
One of them finally went for broke and slipped a feeler into Gerald's mouth. It was slimy. It was cold. It tasted not unlike garlic.
"Mmmmmokaythat'sitI'mDONE!" Gerald spat out the feeler and stood up explosively, thrashing his limbs and shaking his head. The trilobites were tenacious little fuckers, though, and it was a full two minutes before he bucked them. They hit the ground and skittered away, timid as cockroaches. Gerald smacked himself in the forehead. He'd been so nervous about the bugs' defensive capabilities that he'd needlessly granted them free-reign for like, ten whole fucking minutes! He'd been so focused on the situation, he'd failed to notice a small crowd had gathered around him. He looked at them, and great irritation formed in his chest.
He voiced it.
"Why the FUCK didn't anyone HELP me?!"
A young man piped up.
"You were just kind of sitting there, we weren't sure if you were digging it."
"DIGGING IT!?" Gerald screamed indignantly, and, overwhelmed by the situation, descended into a fit of body-brushing and head-shaking.
"Eeeeaaaauuuugh!" He said, through it all.
The freak show over, the crowd dispersed around Gerald, and he was left alone in the park, trilobite slime drying on his shirt.
He sobbed.
Later that afternoon in the shower, Gerald decided the most disturbing part of the whole affair was how innocent their intentions had been, and that when he'd thrown them from himself and their small forms had scurried away, the Trilobite Terror had been their own. He had actually felt sorry for them.
Fucking trilobites.
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