Mischa and Rupert were travelling across Europe, trying to find more warriors for the impending battle. They had become very close friends – comrades, if you will – despite their vast, vast differences. For example, Mischa was a Communist whereas Rupert had sworn a blood oath to brutalize all Communists.
Nonetheless, they forged a friendship, probably due to Mischa’s strategy for not getting Rupert to kill him: lying. Mischa had been well trained in the art of lying, having been forced to agree with everything Josiah said, even when he thought differently.
So onward they walked, neither one having enough money for faster, more efficient means of transportation. One morning, they came upon a valley through which they had to pass in order to get to their (as of yet undecided) destination.
“Comrade!” shouted Mischa, “I do not think we will be able to get through this valley without walking along the base of this mountain. But look! There is something very strange about it!”
Indeed, it was a very strange mountain, probably the strangest one ever. The first thing they noticed about this flamboyantly eccentric mountain was that it was bright purple. Not many mountains are purple at all, and bright purple? Forget about it. Also, it had a face, and it was quite obviously breathing. That’s pretty strange too.
“WHO DARES DISTURB MY SLUMBER?” demanded the (evidently) living mountain. “I WAS DREAMING ABOUT PUPPIES.”
Mischa and Rupert were taken aback, clearly not having expected the mountain to start talking. They also vaguely wondered how they’d disturbed its slumber, still being at least a mile away and not having talked especially loudly.
“We m-mean you n-no harm, Comrade!” said Mischa, his voice regaining the tremulousness usually reserved for conversations with Josiah. “We j-just want to p-pass through the valley!”
“YOU…YOU JUST WANT TO LEAVE?” asked the mountain. “YOU DON’T WANT TO STAY AND TALK OR SOMETHING? NOT MANY PEOPLE PASS THROUGH HERE. IT GETS LONELY BEING A HOMICIDAL PURPLE MOUNTAIN.”
“Wait, a what?” demanded Rupert.
“PURPLE MOUNTAIN. I’M A PURPLE MOUNTAIN. I CAN ALSO PREDICT THE FUTURE. WANT ME TO?” asked the mountain who, not waiting for a response, continued, “YOU MUST TRAVEL TO THE EAST. THERE YOU SHALL FIND WHAT YOU SEEK. PRETTY COOL, HUH? ONLY I CAN DO THAT. THE OTHER TALKING MOUNTAINS SUCK AT FORTUNE TELLING.”
It paused for a moment, then said, “WELL? GO AWAY.”
“Err…okay, Comrade. Thank you!” called Mischa, hurrying past the mountain with Rupert.
They walked for a few more miles, eager to put as much distance between themselves and the rentsy purple mountain as possible. At length they passed a felled tree, which they decided to sit on for a moment, to rest.
“Do you think we should listen to that mountain?” asked Rupert. “It seems to know what it’s talking about.”
“We might as well, Comrade. After all, why would a mountain lie?” responded Mischa. “Besides, we were going east anyway, so it’s not like it makes a difference.”
“You have a point there, Mischa,” said Rupert. “Like the point of this knife, which I’ve driven into the hearts of many a Communist!”
“That is a spoon, Comrade,” said Mischa.
“Oh. So it is. That certainly explains why they never die.”
“Indeed! Now, let us keep going,” urged Mischa.
And the two companions merrily skipped away.