FLORG

Florg

licked the inside of his glass helmet, and tasted salt. It reminded him of his days in the briny deep, glaring upward through the shadows of fishing boats and grinding his fangs. The helmet never fit exactly right, and he could always get his forked tongue out through the burst seals, and taste the brack and kelp. There was always a little seawater sloshing around his purplish catcher’s-mitt face, which he couldn’t empty out since one hand was a huge mechanical lobster claw and the other hand was tightly gripping his cleaver. So the seawater just sloshed around his chin and lower lips, like a plague of blowflies.

After he crushed his first trawler with his insane claw, and gnawed the good meat out of the fishermen, he was convinced that his divine purpose on Earth was to find more good eatin’. He spent a few minutes choosing his favorite scimitar from the pile of relics he had foraged from the ruins of Hy-Brazil, and wrangled it angrily into his belt. He also folded the enormous Sig Sauer P210, which he had found in the unrealistically gigantic undersea colony of genetically modified Danish Jægerkorpset, into its custom-made holster at his belt.
And began to surface.

Surprisingly, he found himself in Lake Huron. There began a terrifying roiling of the lake’s surface, as though the lake were in a pot that had been set to boil. To make some boiled ham, for instance. Or boiled potatoes. Men, children, even women pointed from various directions at the terrifying roiling of the lake’s surface. Even the six members of the failed D12 posse, Bizarre, Artis, Kuniva, Swifty McVay, Eminem, and Fuzz Scoota, pointed at the terrifying roiling of the lake’s surface! They began to compose a multi-layered rap about the terrifying roiling of the lake’s surface, but a giant mechanical claw as big as the Guardian Building surfaced before they even finished their rap, and separated all the rappers into little segments that rained down on the picnic table where they had been rapping like pinata candy. Detroit was in trouble! Florg was about to destroy the "the great arsenal of democracy"! Florg, stop!! Florg, what the crabs!!!! KNOCK IT OFF!!!

The two deceased members of the D12 posse, Bugz and Proof, set up a Lasonic iPod Ghetto Blaster: old school boom box with built in ipod dock in heaven and played The Dirtbombs’ Ultraglide in Black and some other crazy crabs that Florg was just not ready to hear. His glass helmet kind of twisted on the broken seals, and then some of the smelly old seawater escaped, FINALLY, and he knew he could get that annoying glass helmet off at last. Then he could really hear the Dirtbombs and stuff, even without external ears or anything, and he used his scimitar from Hy-Brazil and his enormous Sig Sauer P210 to rebuild Detroit into a great arsenal of democracy, which it really always was.