A Story with No Moral

"In gods' image, my ass," Mole grunted to himself.

Mole knew he was digging deeper and throwing dirt much harder than he needed to. But it felt good. It was something he was good at. And it was something he had to do, if only because digging kept him from thinking about Snake. What had it cost Mole, that first bet? He was trying not to think on it. But that bet was such a sure thing. I mean come on: how could any jointed vertebrate believe he was the same as an omniscient formless spirit? A goddamn clam could tell the difference. But, apparently not these humons. Maybe if Snake had not made it look so easy: just a few words, a little brown nosing, and the next thing mole knew, Humon was walking around trying to give everybody names: a real moron on a mission from god.

"Double or nothing, buddy!" Mole wondered how long he'd be haunted by that ugly smirk of Snake's: "Come on. Double or nothing. Pony on up, my friend." Looking back, even knowing what happened, Mole still couldn't believe he lost the second bet. "What, are you kidding me?" he told Snake, "You will get humons to eat the crabapples--those same bitter, nasty ass crabapples that no one will eat—AND convince the humons that god doesn't want them to eat crabapples, but humons should eat them any way, BECAUSE eating horrible fruit makes people smarter?" Harder. Front shank stroke, back leg kick. Deeper. Just get away from that smug, snakey face. How could anyone believe that eating evil tasting vegetables would make them smarter, and then still continue to eat that shmutz garbage? Worst of all, Mole told himself, just who was it telling these foolish lies to the humons? Did it even occur to humons that snakes don't eat any vegetables, let alone crabapples? At the time, Mole refused to believe that humons wouldn't first ask someone who ate fruit about crabapples, at least before eating the damn apples. Mole still wouldn't believe it-- even after seeing with his own eyes, the humons trying to choke down nasty, bitter crabapples.

"Double or nothing, my friend, double or nothing." Mole wondered how Snake could smile like that: Snake didn't have facial muscles. Had to be in those beady, unblinking snake eyes. Mole briefly wondered if Snake hypnotized the humons, and then made the humons act so stupid. But Mole knew that wasn't true: snake just preyed on peoples' weaknesses, a real bafaln tayvl, the sneaky crook. Mole liked to think his own weakness was a too-trusting nature, too much gleybn--faith in his fellow creatures. But he knew that wasn't true either. Mole was greedy: he couldn't resist a chance to get something for nothing. So Mole doubled up again for a third round of betting. Wouldn't you? Just look at it: first, some numb-nut tells you that you're just like god, so you go around calling everybody names. That one humon had a black eye for a month, because he called Elephant "Great Wide Load." Then this self-same putz tells you that in a garden filled with indescribable pleasure, you should eat the one mamzer fruit, because it will make you smarter. Smarter? After all those crabapples, the humons got the shilshl -- serious skitters -- like you've never seen. No one could stand to be near them, such a shmukht of bad smell.

And now, now this very exact same lying jerk off opfal is going to tell you that god is really pissed off—a real broygez meshugener--an angry lunatic, this god…god is so angry about you becoming so "smart" and all from eating crabapples, that this god is ordering you to right now leave the oasis, and wander around in the desert, eating rocks or whatever. Oh yeah, real klugerin – very smart, these humons. How could Mole not have doubled up for the third bet?

Dig. Dig harder. Get the shoulders, now the back into it. Deeper. Darker. Pretty clear what was humons' weakness: more narish than a box of rocks. But nothing can be that stupid. Not even humons. This time, Snake was going to get his, the stinking crook, the farshtinkener miskay. Really now: who'd make themselves totally nebekhdik miserable, just because some slip dick of a menlekher not only claims to speak for god, but then tells you that god has nothing better to do in the ever expanding multidimensional universes than get the divine's metaphysical panties all double wadded up over you personal for some stupid little thing that you did? A kleyn dover like eating crab apples for gods' sake! Impossible, mole repeated, just ummiglekh. A real dirty schmekel of a dick hole that snake. But no matter: mole was going to be all even with that hard on, that eyver of a snake and then that would be that: no more bets. Kick one, kick two, now pull, pull harder. Nothing to worry about. A little deeper, that's all. No worries; no need to be all tsiterik: Mole was going to win this bet. Even humons have their limits. Only a little more deeper. Pull, pull, kick and kick. Again. Now again. Harder. Arbetn Mole! Work. And work. Push on. Onshtrengung!