[Puke]

As Dogscoff leads his rag-tag etherial army against the gates of hell, the ground shakes under the trampling of their charging feet.

smoke billows from the gates as they swing open infront of Dogscoffs phantasmal army. The horde coughs and sputters on the sulfuric fumes, as they pause to gaze inside.

As the vapors clear, there can be seen littered about, countless empty kegs - crushed and tossed aside like so many beer cans. a host of angels and demons (of the feminine variety) writhe about, quite exhausted and unable to do much more than crawl. in the center of the refuse of his own debauchery, puke gazes out at Dogscoff, as he counts his 50,000 minerals.

summoning himself up, Puke projectile vomits fifty-five gallons of wet, sticky, spew upon Dogscoff. Scoff reaches for his mighty war-axe, but the handle is coated with slipery bile, and it flies from his hand. 'Scoff aims and fires his Canon Cannon, but the barrel has been cloged by chunky vomit, and the chamber breaches with a mighty bLast. Dogscoff's white eyes blink, and stare out of his charred and blackened head, as he pulls the pin on one of his Holy Handgrenades.

he counts not to one, not to two, not to four nor five, but exactly to three, which is the number that he has counted to... and as he attempts to throw it, finds that sticky vomit has caused the device to adhere to his hand. The grenade detonates, leaving nothing behind of ghostly 'Scoff, save for his smoking etherial boots.

In a mind-numbingly appauling display of rancid raunchieness, each individual chunk of puke's vomit comes to life as a self contained sentient life-form, and the army of chunklings swarms the remainder of Dogscoff's army. the result is to horrible to describe.

"Growltigga, your will has been done."