The last time I'd seen the Minotaur, he'd been wearing nothing but his tighty whities. I don't know why. Maybe he'd been shaken out of bed to chase me.
The last time I'd seen the Minotaur, he'd been wearing nothing but his tighty whities. I don't know why. Maybe he'd been shaken out of bed to chase me.
The Minotaur unstrapped his axe and swung it around. It was beautiful in a harsh I'm~going~togut~you~like~a~fish kind of way. Each of its twin blades was shaped like an omega: ?-the last letter of the Greek alphabet. Maybe that was because the axe would be the last thing his victims ever saw
Mythologically speaking, if there's anything I hate worse than trios of old ladies, it's bulls. Last summer, I fought the Minotaur on top of Half-Blood Hill. This time what I saw up there was even worse: two bulls. And not just regular bulls - bronze ones the size of elephants. And even that wasn't bad enough. Naturally they had to breathe fire, too.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories