I Am The Ultimate Raccoon

Raccoon playing a game of his own existence.
Damn straight, I am!

I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I’m a liar. I have fooled all of you. I am not a wolf, but a raccoon. Not only that, but I am the ultimate raccoon. Well, at least according to Ultimate Chicken Horse, which I’m sure you smart folks already know is a plentiful and unending fountain of credible scientific data. I’ve learnt so much already, such as all the many athletic capabilities of my friends and I, the many contraptions that may harm us during our friendly races, oh… And that we’re cursed with immortality within a realm run by unseen malicious gods forcing us to fight for their favour.

Squirrel being annihilated by a hockey puck in a hilariously well-timed screenshot.
The important thing is I won, not the hilarious death of Squirrel.

Their game is simple. Get to the end by any means necessary*. At the start of each race (with a little help from our invisible torturers/benefactors) we choose and place a trap or object before we set off. It’s a careful balance between screwing over your rivals without getting yourself killed, so naturally the more spry you are, the better. You need to be able to sprint, walljump and generally weasel through the course like… Well… Weasel. But we don’t speak of Weasel… Not since he stood up against the gods rule. We haven’t seen him since and none of us want to be next on the chopping block.

Raccoon shows off the point types and balancing board.
*I meant by ANY means necessary, even death.

They judge our overall performance to determine the victor. We’re scored on the way we finish, our resolve and our cunning. But in case the results become stale due to a raccoon of ultimate status repeatedly winning, per se, we can lower the value of (or turn off completely) the incredible individual’s achievements (or cowardice) using the balancing board in an attempt to please (therefore stop) our most merciful gods from unleashing their wrath upon each other. We figure it works out better this way. As long as they’re happy, we’re happy. As happy as a prisoner can be anyway.

Raccoon dances at the end of the death trap.
Showing off my moves to the competition.

You may think it’s a cruel existence, the gods refusing us our own mortality to play their dark, twisted game. I suppose it is, but I must admit, it’s pretty fun. Not only that but I am no longer your average trash panda, but the perfect specimen of a raccoon. Trained over many lifetimes to be the best version of myself I possibly could be. All the while, I’m aware I’m but a simple puppet playing out my show for the entertainment of ethereal demons. It’s a strange reality I live in but one I’ve come to peace with. Though, if I dare say, the other day the gods did have a strange request.

An impossible level made from the acronym SPUF.
They made us build this.

Well, if I HAVE to give a bit of constructive criticism, well, it’d probably be that this is the best thing ever created by anyone EVER! It’s impossible to complete, much like SPUF itself. A fitting metaphor for an ever-expanding website, no? It’s undeniably a thing of beauty, a work of art. It brings a tear to my eye just looking at such a masterpiece. It almost makes me forgive the gods for the thousands upon thousands of gruesome, agonising deaths they’ve forced me to endure and will continue to for the rest of time simply for their own amusement.








Don't worry... My articles are worse than my bite.

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