HTB Chronicills - Harold Escapes the Molemen

Harold was running at full speed towards the bridge, but the molemen were gaining ground fast. 

It all seemed like some wild drug induced nightmare. He had been minding his own business routing through someone else's trash can which they had left unattended right next to the road. Okay, sixty-five feet right next to the road, but unattended nonetheless, and he was attending to it. 

Harold had found a goldmine in a galvanized steel wrapper; two broken flashlights, a broken CD of Helen Reddy, The Las Vegas Years, and there had to be more, much more. The garbageminer dove into his work headlong in full rummage. 

Suddenly, Harold was startled from his excavation by the sound of one of them, the molemen. Extracting himself from his claim just in time to visually verify that it was BIG. As big as a man, a man with dark fur, and it was creeping towards him. Harold was fully prepared to deal with this kind of creature. With the skill of veteran ninja Harold pocketed his loot. In a Dirty Harry style he squared off with the moleman, then in the classic Harold the Bum maneuver he bravely turned and began running his ass off towards the bridge. 

Within a few seconds the moleman had multiplied by mitosis, or cell division, or some shit like that. This wasn't the time for remedial biology, this was the time for running ones' ass off towards the bridge, and was exactly what Harold was doing. 

By the time he reached the old railroad trestle, the molemen were at his heels, the sound of their armor and swords clanging metal on metal. They had flashlights too, fully functional flashlights to boot. These were obviously a very well equipped species of molemen he was attempting to evade and elude.

Harold briefly wondered which garbage cans they had been frequenting, when one of their claws swiped inches from his shoulder. Pouring on the last of his adrenaline both natural and otherwise, Harold skidded rudder full to port and down the rocky trail towards the river. Only fifty feet or so to go until he could lose these snorting and snarling beasts in the water. 

His shoes! Damn it! The weight of his shoes might pull him under in the river. Shit! Or was it your socks? Fuck! He couldn't remember. In this crucial moment both brain cells were unresponsive and hiding beneath their broken cotton swab tips. Harold went for the punt, in a graceful move seldom witnessed outside of immensely drunken bowler's circles Harold kicked off one shoe and stripped one sock as he closed the gap between himself and the river's edge. 

The molemen were falling back, Harold's gambit was paying off. Molemen feared the water!

His wallet! Man! Harold couldn't afford to lose another I.D. or the emergency condom. Reaching into his back pocket he grasped the leather bill-fold in his right hand and tossed it to his side in a slow motion action scene that would have rivaled Leonidas and his 300 Spartans any day.

One thing was for certain, but Harold was having a hard time remembering what that was... oh yeah, molemen didn't fight fair. There had to an army of them now by the thundering of their tiny paws. Tiny, sure, but with claws like Gurkha blades slicing their way through rocky ground directly towards Harold. It was time to dive for his life. 

Harold took to the air like an F14 Tomcat propelled by a steam catapult from a carrier deck... that had its wings retracted and locked in the stow position. A mouthful of water, rocks, weeds, someone else's previous emergency condom, and other assorted flotsam entered Harold's mouth, nose, ears, and probably tear ducts at a velocity roughly equal to his airspeed. But he was safe. Safe in the vast, rushing six to twenty-four inch depths of the Snoqualmie South Fork. 

Harold half swam, half crawled, and fully flailed his way down stream. Placing distance between himself and the pack of howling Homo Talpidae was the only way to escape being served up as an entree for the whole mole underground. 

A long ten to twelve yards downstream Harold came ashore looking like Tom Hanks in that movie with what's her name... the chick from Mad About You... the one that kinda looks like the lesbian chick from the Carl Sagan movie... about the aliens... with the machine. Shit! Never mind! It doesn't matter.

"Helen Hunt", whispered the molemen... No, thank God, it's just a cop!  Click went the cuffs around Harold's wrists. Relieved Harold would sleep in the friendly confines of Fortress Issaquah safe from the molemen who pursued him tonight.