He sat cross legged, the way the Indian had

He sat cross legged, the way the Indian had showed him. He started the chanting. His soul lifted from his body, floated through the ceiling and into his brother's bedroom. He

had picked an inopportune time to have an out of body experience. His brother was watching YouTube and abusing himself to videos of dancing night elves. He tried to look away, but

and said a brief prayer to Mr. T before plunging into the cataclysm. If he'd been watching his brother, he might have been able to duck what happened next. As his back stab landed

a perfect dismount. The Judges awarded him with scores of 10, 10 and 9.5 as the crowd cheered their

crowded cheers, as cheery crowds are wont to do. After the superb dismount, it was quite a surprise when

the mechanical bull gored him in the chest. The idea to mount some Texas longhorns on it was Fergy's and he ducked behind the bar. The atmosphere at the Honkytonk was less cheery

but an anonymous hero decided to man up. He broke off gracefully from his line-dance partner, tipping his hat at her, whipped out his lariat and tossed it at the clockwork bovine.

He wasn't a bad roper, but the lasso didn't wrap around as he had hoped. Luckily, it got stuck in the gears of the front legs and the cow went to the floor. The dancers elegantly

pranced forward, and raised their laser swords. With scything slashes, they carved the cow up into a pile of assorted scrap metal. The crowd went wild, but he felt empty. The end.