The Most Dangerous Game

I have hunted almost every wild beast known to man. When I was 2, I killed my first hyper-lion, at 5 my first robo-leopard, and at 8 my first electro-unicorn. My hunting abilities have been pressed to their limit, but I have always returned from the brink with a few spent cartridges, demagnetized murder-gloves, and a fresh kill to mount on the wall of my pornography mansion; that is, until one fateful day. I shall not recount the events that led to my humiliation. But truly that was the day I learned which animal is the most dangerous game: The Thundercats.

I know what you're thinking: weren't The Thundercats killed in battle with He-Man during World War II? Yes, they were. But they came back to life with the help of Houdini's ghost, and that is why I must mount them on my wall--as revenge against Houdini's ghost. I resolved to kill The Thundercats.

I trained for years in my gravity chamber. I learned languages I didn't know existed, just in case it came up, like when I had to buy, I don't know, bullets or something. I learned to doggy-paddle, in case there was water about. I went to a doctor and had him tune up my 6 extra senses (echo-location, rainbow hearing, acid breath, death aura, astral projection, and rape-vision). I practiced my marksmanship with knives, rifles, and knife-rifles. Most importantly, I studied everything I could find about my prey by breaking into Mr. Terrific's cave and using his supercomputer, may he rest in peace.

In just under ten years, my training was complete; it was time to gird my loins. After getting the blessing of the vampire pope to begin final preparations on the hunt, I assembled a crack team of mercenaries, soldiers, bushmen, and a wizard. Then I murdered them and drank their blood so that their strength might flow through me. So The Thundercats wouldn't be on their guard, I took out a full-page ad in hundreds of newspapers letting them know that, despite what they might have heard through the grapevine, I was certainly not hunting them (this is known to magicians as "misdirection," and to horses as "neigh"). This time, I would get my anthropofelinoid quarry.

With my trusty Omni-gun, a crate of beef jerky, and enough ammo to choke a wolverine, I mounted my battledog and bounded across the Atlantic toward mighty Africa. From there, I took a plane to regular Africa, home of The Thundercats. On the way, I purchased a hundred pounds of hamburger meat to pay my guide, the Hamburglar. When I arrived at his hut, he said "You got that 200 pounds of hamburger?"

"No," I said, "I have a hundred."

"That's not what we agreed on," said the Hamburglar.

"Yeah, well, life is tough, you want this meat or what?" He did, but that first night in camp was pretty tense, and if pressed, I would say that my tough-as-nails bargaining style negatively affected our enjoyment of the ritualistic pre-hunt gay sex.

The next day, the hunt began. Panthro was the easiest to kill: we waited until he went to pick up his halfling child from daycare, and then blew up the daycare while he was inside--easy. Something, however, felt wrong about it. After an hour of sifting through the pieces of dead children, I realized why I felt so bad: Panthro had been obliterated and there would be nothing left to mount. Curses! In my zeal, I had lost a Thundercat. I saved some bits of his flesh in anticipation of creating a Panthro clone, that I might mount it later.

Tygra tried to blend into the jungle, but I burned that shit down and shot him in the heart.

I trapped Jaga's spirit-form in a dreamcatcher, and then smashed the dreamcatcher against the side of a boat (not my boat, the Hamburglar's).

As the strongest and most skilled Thundercat, Lion-O proved more difficult to kill than the molestation charges that exist for me in 38 states. He was too powerful to take down with a frontal assault, so I had to use a hypno-umbrella that shot silver bullets, which was very expensive (it cost 300 pounds of hamburger).

Cheetara, the final Thundercat, was the hardest to kill, mostly because she was so fast--like some sort of speedy cat (a leopard?). I came up with a plan: I courted her for 18 months, gaining her trust, and eventually proposing to her in front of a beautiful African sunset (which I thought about hunting and mounting). I promised her the moon and the stars, as well as all the pistachios she could eat. She was carrying my child inside her. Then, on our wedding day, she ate a piece of the wedding cake I had poisoned with mercury, and victory was mine!

I had destroyed The Thundercats, and it felt wonderful. Pizza tasted cheesier, jokes sounded funnier, and all my pornography seemed more violent. I was finally at peace.