A drunken lion asleep in the fields was awoken by a neo-Nazi mouse running over and across his face. Losing his temper, he seized it with his paw and was about to kill it. The mouse crapped itself, and piteously implored him to spare his life. “Achtung, please let me go,” it cried, “and one day I will repay you for your kindness.”
The grasshopper sat atop a hill looking down on an ant village hard at work. He took a long puff from his corn kernel pipe and exhaled a smoke ring or two. The gentle wind pushed the smoke rings over the anthill below. He focused in on one ant in particular, the one toting two bread crumbs on his back, panting and heaving, and sweating in a way only an ant can.
The fox still had a very long, long way to go before he reached his hole. At least three hours, probably longer in his current weakened state. His stomach growled loudly. This just made the fox weaker, you know, one of those psychosomatic things.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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