Published on February 17th, 2013 | by Tanuki0
Mystery of The Pink Slime :: Meteoroid Crashlands in Japan (PART 1)!
Kumamoto Prefecture, Japan — Just a typical February morn: the nippy air almost completely frozen in silence—such quietude, one can barely pick up the sound of the countryside’s hazy mist dissipation as dawn’s first blush peeks through the horizon. In an instance, that serene, picturesque panorama is lost. Streaking across the sky, like a yellow crayon raking across the grandiose beauty of an Ansel Adams photo with intent to vandalize, an unknown object of solid girth bullets towards the mountain slopes of Mt. Aso.
Shudders of piercing light punch the horizon in sheets of chromatic colors that can be seen for miles. Smoke billows from the head of the plummeting mass, trailing behind and appearing like a long-tailed spermatozoa, determined to crack the ovum. Crashing down, emitting the rumbling sound of a demolished skyscraper, the bulbous, rock-like visitor skitters across the bucolic landscape wrecking everything in its path. How rude! Finally slowing to a halt, three-quarters of a mile from its initial touchdown, an alien vessel of polished onyx appeared to be emerging from its outer, crusty encasing.
Near the underside of the mysterious craft, a thin horizontal slit appeared. From it, a glowing pink liquid began oozing forth onto the ground, like a fresh wound slowly pooling blood then overflowing. Slithering its way with an almost primordial intelligence of the terrain, the slimy plasma climbed itself uphill, out from the muddy crash-landing rut, then downhill towards a tiny stream leading to the Kikuchi River: a mystical body of freshwater, home to many rare amphibious critters.
Floating freely in the Kikuchi’s current, the pink slime’s neon glow began to fade as if the water were “flushing out” the last of a gaudy, stubborn stain. Finally, the snaky substance became translucent, appearing to have vanished into thin air. Several minutes later, a wild splashing could be heard from the banks of the inlet near Tamana Girls High School.
An old fisherman awoke from his bench, startled by the ruckus and began to let fly a cocktail of curse words from his mouth, stale with Suntory malted breath. He fumbled for his rod, convinced he’d come face-to-face with the legendary catch he’d pursued for the last 49 of his 73 years on this earth. Empty beer cans rattled as he knocked them over, dashing to the water’s edge to make his cast. Lofting his lure smack-dab in the middle of the splashing, he mustered his strength to put up a fight to the end.