You Can Call Me Alf

Hello, the name is Butrim.  This is my story.

"The Ravager" humbly calls his campaign one of baseless accusations.  I thank him for this discretion, but I believe that it's time for the whole truth to come out.  Everything "The Ravager" says is real.  Now it is time for my story--and his--to finally be revealed.

We begin in the year 2000.  I was eight years old at the time, and had come into my inheritance; namely, the crown of Carnation.  Spoiled by my posh childhood I wasn't the greatest King the world had seen, and I regularly laughed at the slaves working in the meth labs and routinely mocked those of lesser intelligence.  My harem, which had over nine-thousand beautiful women, all of them volunteers, lay in untouched disorder.  Yes, I'll admit, I was a bad King at the time.  I was selfish and greedy and I didn't yet understand what my Uncle Ben told me the day before a bank robber killed him.  "With great power comes great responsibility."  But the day that I first met "The Ravager" changed me.

No, I wasn't a eunuch.

The bastard child of an illegitimate escapade between a brown bear and the world's last hobbit, "The Ravager" was abandoned in the forests of Carnation at birth.  The villagers scorned the sorry beast and it grew up feeding on raw squirrel flesh and minnow carcass.  But "The Ravager" was a persistent bastard.  Every day it suffered the hateful cries of my serfs who drove it off with pitchforks and torches.  It struggled against the attacks of the local bears who would not accept "The Ravager" as one of their own.  And yet, "The Ravager" survived.  Why?  I think it was because though "The Ravager" was pitiful, and bitter, really, all it wanted was a home.

I was writing poetry in the garden when I first saw "The Ravager" crawl out of the woods.
"!@@$*$" said I, in absolute shock.
"Hrrrngh" said "the Ravager."
"!@@$*$" I said again.
And then it croaked out a mournful cry of growls mixed with primitive British speech that pierced me through my greasy heart.  As I looked at the pitiful creature groveling on the ground before me, I saw that all the poshness and indulgence of my life meant nothing.  My harem, my GameCube, and my Ferrari, none of them meant anything to this sad little beast.  So I decided to take it in and raise it as if it was a real person.
"But what should I call you?" I wondered out loud.
"You can call me Alf" growled the bear-hobbit that we now know as "the Ravager."

"I can be your long lost pal"

To Be Continued: Next Time, The Betrayal!