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Continue This Totally Ridiculous Story...

And along they went, both Fox and Bob...through a dank dark forrest, across a rocky hill, down a narrow path, over a wide green grassy plain, across a fifty mile bridge, up a slippery slope and under a draw bridge in which they encountered an old wrinkled troll who unfortunately was cursed with a lisp.
 
"Tho," the troll said in a poor attempt to sound menacing. "thomeone dares to invade my perthonal thpathe? You thall now thuffer."

"Er...how's that?" said Bob.
"Nevermind," the Fox told him. He then stepped up to the Troll with a lisp and gave his rather large nose a very hard flick.
 
"My lisp!" the delighted troll cried out. "You cured it! You cured it! Johnny! Daisy-Poo! Big Bubba! This man just cured my lisp! HE CURED IT!"

The troll's monsterous friends came running.

"Doesth it reallyth worsk?" they all asked. Bob was temporarily employed as a troll speach therapist. The Fox was somewhat annoyed by the delay. He made this clear to Bob by. . .
 
...by viciously mauling the first bunny-rabbit he saw, pinning a sign labled, "YOUR FACE" to it, and setting it down by Bob's feet with a darkly meaningful look.

Bob was a little dense and wasn't quite getting the idea. So the fox decided to further drop a subtle hint by...
 
gnawing off all of Bob's toenails and growling menacingly to the tune of Hawaii Five O.

Bob backed up slowly. It wasn't that he wasn't ready to continue the journey. His delay among the troll people was becoming a trial for him as well. After all, he really wanted to open up his own coffee shop in Van Ives. That was all he wanted. That wasn't too much to ask for. Was it? WAS it?

"Definitely too much to ask for," said the fox, as he proceded to toss the wrappers from his valentines candy at Bob. Bob glanced at the wrappers and realized there was a woman in the fox's life, a woman he had never seen fit to introduce Bob too. Right then Bob became obsessed with finding out who this little vixen was.
 
Unfortunately for Bob, the vixen who was in love with Mr. Fox didn't want to be obsessed with. She didn't want to be found, rather. She was a secret agent for the Russian government and former KGB, comrade.

So when she got wind of Bob being obsessed with finding out who she was (yes, she had telepathic informants, wut), she sent one of her underlings to 'silence' Bob.

Or rather, she send five underlings, who had already set themselves up in strategic, hidden sniping points before Mr. Fox had flung the final candy wrapper at Bob.

"And he just wants to open up a coffee shop in Van Ives," chuckled one comrade to another, mounting his scope on top of his sniper rifle as the other took aim.
 
Unfortunately for him, the fox sighted the sniper and was seized with the compulsion to complete his life long dream . . . the dream of perfecting a death defying magic trick. The dream of catching a bullet between his teeth. Bob watched in horror as his friend leapt into the air and landed dead. He then began to snack on the left over candy.
 
Once he had satisfied his gluttonous desires for chocolate, Bob fell to his knees before the body of his fallen fox friend, surrendering to Fate in a 'STELLAAA!' position. "NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" he cried to the heavens. "DO NOT WANT!!"

And now that he was on a sugar high, it was Rambo time. Bob pulled a conveniently-placed helicopter gatling gun out from behind a bush, and took aim with a crazed grin.
 
Unfortunately for him, the last owner of this gun had left it loaded with boiled, sticky rice rather than bullets. Fortunately, the rice got into the eyes of his attackers and he managed to make his escape while they were staggering about blinded.
 
He eventually came to an ancient altar stacked with pancakes and wondered what exactly they were for. At that moment, several strangely tall and thin creatures came out and started pouring syrup on the pancakes, seemingly oblivious to his presence. Then their slow, melodious chanting began, and Bob watched in awe as they made homage to the great pancake God. At this point, Bob's mouth was watering with such force he snuck to the altar and attempted to snatch one of the pancakes without arousing the notice of these strange creatures.
 
"FIEND!!" shrieked one of the Pancake Priests as they caught Bob red-handed in his pancake pilfering. "BLASPHEMER!! MAY THE SYRUP SMITE THEE!!"

"Yeep!" yelped the startled Bob through a mouthful of pancake. But rather than flee in terror like a startled rabbit, Bob stood where he was, rooted to the spot by the heavenly taste of the Holy Pancakes. He continued to rip off bits of pancakey goodness with syrup-sticky hands and shove them into his mouth.
 
"To the juice with him!" yelled out one of the creatures. Two more creatures emerged from the woods pulling a cart, on top of which was a large glass of orange juice. Bob was incredibily alergic to citrus. Just the smell of it was enough to send him into a bloody rage while his face and hands swelled to three times their natural size. As he began to go into anaphylactic shock the creatures stared in horror.
"It is a demon! A waffle demon!"
 
"MMMRRURLLL!" Bob managed through lips the size of bananas. He turned, and hands flapping like palm fronds, disappeared into the forest.
 
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