Seven years on a boat to Antarctica. Ran out of food on day 3. Ate sea turtles and narwhals, used their skins as coats. When we finally arrived at our destination we found that not only was there no pole at the north pole, but santa's workshop had been burned to the ground by rabid lion-Nazi hybrids. Results of experiments gone horribly wrong and left to fend for themselves in the harsh arctic tundra. Sated on the blood of elves, they approached us calmly, offering us the grand prize of the evening. Having grown weary of the taste of narwhal flesh, we accepted. And dined on the bloated carcass of Santa Claus together.
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Photoset reblogged from You Have Been in every word I have ever read with 65,744 notes
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