Moo. Image via Wikipedia
Endless fields.

 They stretched as far as the eye could see, field after field, as if there was no end to the fields. It was worse than space.



We were not at Woodstock. We were in a crappy field. There were 14 hippies overall, and about 7 cows. To my eternal disappointment, the cows weren't wearing hats, but that's not the issue here. I'd made some general enquiries as to where we were, but the cows were too stoned to help and the hippies generally just mooed.

 Some time passed on that grassy hell, stretching out like something long and stretchy. A big elastic band, perhaps. But I digress. Max was getting hungry. So was I, but I wasn't planning cannibalism yet.

 "So, you still don't know where we are?" I asked the lead hippie.

 "You can't, like, be here man." He replied distantly.

 "Seriously? We're doing this? You're a cliche. You're all cliches!" I raged, "Why can't I meet fleshed-out, relatable characters?"

 "You've got me!" Max chirped up from behind a cow.

 "You're not fleshed-out!" I yelled angrily. It was true, Max was just a stupid sidekick really. I mean, he has a tramautic backstory and a dogey past filled with tragedy and triumph, but you never ask about that, do you? No, all you want to hear is another story about Max getting his head stuck in an ostrich or carrying out race crimes against Smurfs.

 Damn you! Damn you all!

In which I float and am cowed at.

Image via Wikipedia

Outside, it was still raining. My house, badly built and with floats instead of foundations, had gently lifted itself onto the rising flood waters outside, caressed their gentle waves, and deposited itself in the middle of a field of cows. Kevin, being a snail, had set off to forage for supplies, and I had stayed to make sure no bovines stole the house. Such is the natural order.

 "Mooo. I say, old fellow. Moo."

I turned slowly to look at the cow standing near me. A bowler hat rested on his head at a rakish angle, black make-up around one eye, all in white. He looked like Alex, minus the droogs, but he talked slowly and with purpose, like Gregory Peck.
 "I wonder, friend. Could you perhaps..."
 "Look." I cut in. "I've already got one anthropomorphic animal in my life right now, I don't need another. Are you going to commit violent crimes towards me?"
 "No." The cow replied. He hung his head in shame, and I did likewise. After a few minutes, we began to back off, not meeting the other's eye. I retreated into my hallway, and hid behind the umbrella stand. I felt safe there.

Max and I have reached a crossroads...

Literally. We're standing at a point where two roads cross. Max, angered by his recent inability to defeat a starved, out-of-shape tramp, his pride damaged and his ear crudely sewn to his hair, wanted to get in shape. Of course, Max is rather lazy and easily distracted, making exercise a dangerous thing. So, never one to live life safely, he leaped to the extreme solution - trading his soul for the ripped physique of a some sort of well-physiqued person. Hence why we had travelled to meet him at a crossroads in the middle of nowhere.
 Satan, suited in the finest Parisian fashions (All of them), appeared on the hour. Stepping from the back of a yellow cab, he approached Max, ripped his shirt off, and painted fake abs onto his stomach. Standing back, he nodded as an artist appreciating his work, and turned to leave. Max, keen to try his new strength out, hopped a fence and punched a cow. The cow, mooing calmly, flew away into the distance. I however did not moo calmly. I was worried. Very worried.
 Flexing his muscles, Max hoisted me onto his back and set off at a run. Apparently, he had a list, and we were going to punch our way through it. I didn't like where this was going...

A mooving story...

"Two hundred?..."
 "Two hundred head of cattle, that's what we want to buy."
I looked back at the two cowboys stood on my doorstep. This was getting stupid. Yesterday, the council came 'round and tore down the railway line - which apparently lacked planning permission, and also sped trains onto a busy road and killed a lot of people - which left several carriages sitting around in my garden, looking bored. From these carriages, in due course, had opened shyly and released a large amount of cows, who proceeded to moo and wander around my garden. Since no-one else seemed to claim ownership of the creatures - who were now debated the works of Socrates and eating my hats - they were assumed to belong to me. As such, any passing cow fancier was attempting to purchase the animals from me for what they thought a fair price. To bring this paragraph back to where it began, I shall explain that these men were two such would-be cow buyers.
 "Well," I replied. "Two hundred head? Yes. Yes, that sounds fine."
I then sold them two hundred cows, and they left. My sale made a rather pleasing conclusion to the incident, which is more than can be said for this sentence.