Pope Jon wrote:
Roger the Racer was determined to win. Nothing else mattered more to him. He was competing with one purpose: to save an endangered species: The Pacific Northwest Tree Octopus!
So far, the race had gone as was normal for Roger. He'd pulled ahead early, and was using his signature strategy to stay in the lead. He was an expert at preventing other racers from moving past him, much to their dismay.
As he approached a particularly wide turn, Roger knew he needed to pull out his secret weapon to keep the lead. With a calm but determined grimace, Roger pulled a tentacle shaped lever. Just as other drivers attempted to take advantage of the wide turn to pass Roger, Roger's octopus-themed vehicle, the Octoracer 8,000, lashed out with its eight tentacles and suctioned onto passing vehicles.
As the turn ended, Roger pushed the lever back in, and the tentacles pulled the other vehicles backwards, while propelling his own car forward at great speed. The other drivers were now hopelessly far behind, and Roger even glmipsed one of the octo-haters swerve off the road and crash into a tree.
Then he won, and the completely real and not made up or a hoax Pacific Northwest Tree Octopuses (Octopi? Octopusi?) were saved!
Dana Lee wrote:
Silly octopus. Everyone knows Octopuses cannot drive, let alone drive a race car.
Silly Octopus racing along the track
Hitting top speed
Watch out Octopus
Watch out
There is
a
tree
Splat
Silly Octopus
Stood no chance
Despite the warnings
The Octopus
is
dead.
Dan Cristmann wrote:
Crook. Crook. Crook.
The sound echoed through the water, rattling the coral and causing the sea creatures to dive back into their shoals and burrows. But then the thundering would pass and the water would cease rippling. One by one, the small fish darted out first, their colorful scales flashing in the light. The larger ones inched out warily, their longer memories reminding them to be wary. But soon they too joined the smaller ones out in the lances of sunlight that splashed down through the water. It was difficult to resist. No time in recent memory had there been such sunlight. And even with their longer memories, the older fish drifted out to bask in it. To take the opportunity to absorb some of the glorious heat before-
Crook. Crook. Crook
The thundering came again and even the young ones fled like minnows to their shelters under the rock. The process was always the same. A cycle of drifting, of forgetfulness, and sudden remembrance.
But there was something deep down that did not join them. Its eyes flashed in its burrow at the bottom of the floor. It did not leave, because it did not need to remember. It did not leave because it never forgot.
Crook. Crook. Crook.
Above them, the three Formula one racers blistered by. One by one they scorched the new pavement of the Troppicalsoundingname racetrack. In the stands, hordes of young, attractive people roared, each one of them so utterly sure of themselves that the day would never end, and that they, along with it, would live forever under the smell of the sun and roasted asphalt.
Billionaire playboy and prince of Tropicalsoundingname, Sir Richard Pumpaloaf, offered a dazzling smile as he blew past the checkpoint line. This had been the best idea he’d ever had. The section of the royal forest they’d demolished for the project had been marshy and unattractive, no use for anyone. He had saved, he thought, looking at the attractive coconut seat belted to his passenger seat, the only worthwhile tree in the place. The coconut tree now rested comfortably in the royal garden, much more comfortably than where he had found it, hanging over the water, about to take a dip, it had looked like.
Crook. Crook. Crook.
The racers blew by a fourth time, ready now for the homestretch. Pumpaloaf’s car trembled, and he turned over his shoulder, grinning. Yuri, the Lithuanian, had crept up behind him, and now was bearing down on his bumper, trying to get past him on the last leg of the race. The prince laughed a quick three salvo retort, and turned his concentration back to the road. He patted the coconut in the passenger’s seat and took hold of the shifter. It was time to show that filthy Soviet how it was done.
He was pulling ahead, blistering past the ocean stretch, when he felt a small impact on the side of the car. Suddenly, he jerked forward, nearly smashing into the front window. Trying to recover himself, he gunned the engine, but the wheels spun uselessly behind him as he and the car were lifted high into the air. Outside in the stands, spectators pointed, screamed, and started running. The prince was on the verge of it himself when he saw the massive tentacles snaking out at him from the sea.
Sensing that it now had a firm grip on the car, the gigantic octopus reached through the windows and pried off its roof, flinging the flimsy piece of metal into the stands. The shoddily manufactured structure collapsed in a cloud of dust. Far away, the Lithuanian and Nepalese computer mogul gaped on, their cars still running, keys forgotten in the ignition. Prince Pumpaloaf scrambled over the seats as the tentacles brought him over the water, and began to shake the vehicle violently.
It was an eternity suspended over that water, an eternity where the only heir to the Tropicalsoundingname throne clung only by the strap of a seatbelt as the great seabeast rattled his multimillion dollar car above its head like a can of cheap pretzels. But it was over before it had begun. Over the screams of the crowd, he could hear a soft plunk, and then seconds later was crawling toward mercifully firm ground. Turning back to his vehicle, he saw that the damage was not extremely extensive, and breathed a sigh of relief. But then stopped short. Something was missing.
Over in the water, the grumpy octopus wrapped one of his arms around the coconut and pulled it down after him under the surface of the water. Three bubbles rose to break the waves as he descended back to his lair. To anyone that might have been paying attention at the time, they might have sounded something like “Crook, Crook, Crook.”
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