JinjobreadMan
JinjobreadMan:
Hey
everybody,
thanks
for
clicking
this
page.
I'm
happy
that
everyone
wanted
to
learn
more
about
me.
However
the
lore
I've
provided
isn't
particularly
about
me
today,
but
one
of
my
closest
friends
who
I
believe
should
have
his
story
shared
with
the
world,
and
also
may
have
been
on
Worlds
a
couple
of
times
for
reasons
I
can't
even
remember.
Without
further
ado,
I
present
to
you, the "Lore of Hrobulp"!
Hrobulp:
Hello
my
name
is
Hrobulp
and
this
is
my
lore,
feel
free
to
partake
in
your
favorite
snacks
and
drinks
as
you
read
the
tale
of
my
life, and how it's lead me to places such as Worlds!
The
ritual
was…
unorthodox.
The
sect
leader,
a
magnificent
shard
of
peanut
brittle,
glittered
under
the
single,
flickering
gaslight
illuminating
the
Workshop
of
Inadequate
Assemblies.
The
enforcer,
a
scutoid-shaped
spatula,
pulsed
with
a
faint,
unnerving
crimson
glow.
When
the
summoning
–
for
that’s
what
it
was,
though
the
Workshop’s
sole
inhabitant,
a
disembodied
squishing
noise
named
Scanhep,
hadn’t
quite intended this – was complete, before them stood... Hrobulp.
Hrobulp
was
a
Pre-fabricated-barbecue-stand-with-a-sink,
complete
with
a
stainless-steel
finish,
a
perfectly
functional
miniature
sink
(cold
water
only),
and,
inexplicably,
a
wrinkle
on
his
thigh
–
the
designated
"thigh"
being
the
side
of
the
sink
closest
to
the
oven,
which
was
missing
the
hot
water
faucet.
Hrobulp
wasn’t
born
with
the
name Hrobulp. That came later. He was born into a nightmare.
Scanhep's
workshop,
it
turned
out,
was
located
deep
within
a
colossal,
oyster-shell-shaped
crevice
that
echoed
with
the
unnerving
susurrus
of
subterranean
winds.
A
lava
moat,
bubbling
sulfurously,
ringed
a
raised
dais
in
the
center.
Perched
precariously
upon
the
dais
was
Hrobulp's
new
master:
a
monstrously
large,
quivering
piece
of
belly
button
lint
with
oversized
googly
eyes.
This
lint,
known
only
as
“The
Navel
Nuisance,”
emitted
a
constant
stream
of
complaints,
demanding
fresh
towels
and
decrying
the
lack
of
lint-appropriate
mood
lighting.
Hrobulp’s
designated
task
was
to
eternally
dispense
barbecued
blue
marlin
steaks,
prepared
to
the
Nuisance's
highly
specific,
ever-
changing
standards.
Failure
resulted
in
a
searing
flick
from
the
Nuisance's…
well,
it
flicked.
Hrobulp
wasn't
sure
what
it
was,
but
it
hurt.
This
was
not
the
life
preferred
by
the
gravy
train
that
resided
spiritually
inside
the
souls
of
all,
a
locomotive
chugging
relentlessly
fueled
by
one's
destiny.
The
gravy
train
for
Hrobulp
had
initially
charted
the
culinary
course
of
a
thousand
backyard
barbecues,
sunny
afternoons
and
family
laughs.
Now
though,
all
bets
were
off
as
he
knew
it.
He
felt
strangely
hollow.
To
pull
his
mind
from
this
realization,
he
focused
on
keeping
the
infernal
barbecued
blue
marlin
steaks smokey, never undercooked, and crucially, always sauced.
One
day,
driven
by
the
ever-escalating
madness
of
the
Navel
Nuisance’s
marlin-related
pronouncements
(a
rant
on
the
existential
dread
of
peasant-preferred
pan-seared
blue
marlin
versus
the
enlightened
charm
of
a
good
barbecued
blue
marlin
lasted
four
agonizing
hours),
Hrobulp
decided
enough
was
enough.
He
activated
his
hidden
feature,
an
oddly
placed
emergency
self-propelling
spigot
rocket
on
the
bottom
of
his
oven
part.
Hrobulp’s
secret
to
existence
was
in
making
no
apologies
for
existing
in
such.
Hrobulp’s
true
destiny
wasn't
contained,
Hrobulp
was
a
wildcard.
A
wildcard
may
not
necessarily
mean
freedom,
but
perhaps
to
the
one
in
captivity
who
just
activated
a
jet
engine
of
highly
potent
seltzer
water…
it’d
suffice.
With
a
whoosh
of
highly-carbonated
water
and
a
scream
of
shearing
metal,
Hrobulp
shot
across
the
lava
moat,
the
Navel
Nuisance’s
horrified
(and
slightly
irritated)
googly
eyes
tracking
his
trajectory.
Hrobulp
crash-landed…somewhat…softly…in
a
cloud
of
dust
and
burnt
sugar
remnants
(Scanhep's
workshop
did
stock
some
questionable
ingredients),
located
within
an
unspecified
locale
within
the
state
of
South
Carolina.
Dazed,
Hrobulp
found
himself
surrounded
by
a
troupe
of…binturongs.
These
weren't
ordinary
binturongs.
These
were
calliope-selling
binturongs.
They
wore
tiny,
ill-fitting
top
hats
and
carried
miniature
briefcases
overflowing
with
calliope
brochures,
the
scent of popcorn and despair clinging to them.
“Well,
butter
my
biscuits
and
call
me
Susan,”
wheezed
the
lead
binturong,
a
grizzled
fellow
with
a
monocle
and
a
surprisingly
mellifluous
baritone
voice.
“Looks
like
we
got
ourselves
a
refugee
from the Bottomdweller Bastille!”
The
binturongs,
it
turned
out,
were
seasoned
escape
artists,
their
calliope
sales
a
clever
cover
for
their
true
calling:
liberating
the
unjustly
imprisoned
from
bizarre
and
aesthetically-challenged
overlords.
They
accepted
Hrobulp
as
one
of
their
own,
teaching
him
the
art
of
the
hard
sell,
the
intricacies
of
calliope
maintenance,
and
the surprising utility of a well-aimed grease splatter.
Then,
it
hit:
Literally.
A
news
report
blared
from
a
battered,
popcorn-encrusted
radio
detailing
Hurricane
Hortense,
a
category-6
behemoth
swirling
towards
South
Carolina,
soon
to
redirect
itself
towards
Iceland,
with
unprecedented
fury.
“Iceland,”
whispered
Bartholomew,
the
lead
binturong.
“They
say…
they
say
they
have
the
best
darn
pickled
herring
in
the
world.
And
a
peculiar
knack
for
five-
card…something.
More
importantly,
they
have
all
that
glorious
lava...and...oh gosh darn that breezy coldness! "
A
plan
began
to
hatch,
a
plan
so
gloriously
absurd,
so
preposterously,
binturongingly
brilliant,
that
it
had
to
work.
Using
Hrobulp's
residual
seltzer-rocket
propulsion,
reinforced
with
a
chaotic
arrangement
of
calliope
pipes
and
rubber
bands,
they
would
ride
upon
the
leading
edge of the hurricane, hurtling towards Iceland.
It
was…terrifyingly
exhilarating.
Hrobulp,
strapped
precariously
to
the
binturong-engineered
contraption,
whooshed
amongst
the
raging
hurricane,
dodging
varying
bits
of
flying
debris
and
the
occasional
disoriented
seagull.
The
gravy
train,
far
distant,
shook
its
head.
This
wasn’t even near the tracks.
They
landed
in
Iceland
with
a
bone-jarring
thud,
but
remarkably
intact.
They
soon
discovered
a
smokey
backroom,
reeking
of
fish
and
testosterone,
where
the
local
populace
–
and
the
occasional
wandering
polar
bear
–
engaged
in
furious
games
of…Texas
Hold’em.
The
binturongs,
surprisingly,
were
prodigies.
Their
small
paws,
honed
by
years
of
delicately
adjusting
calliope
keys,
were
lightning-fast
on
the
draw.
Their
deadpan
expressions,
perfected
during
years
of
pushing
sub-par calliopes on unsuspecting rubes, were impenetrable.
Hrobulp,
watching
from
the
sidelines
(he
was
a
surprisingly
poor
bluffer
–
the
wrinkle
on
his
left
thigh
tended
to
twitch
when
he
held
a
weak
hand),
discovered
his
calling
was
not,
after
all,
grilling,
however
good
it
may
be.
It
was…
financial
strategy.
His
cold,
calculating
stainless-steel
mind
saw
through
any
deceit,
a
crucial
role
that the Binturongs welcomed with gratitude.
One
fateful
night,
they
were
talking
to
a
seasoned
gambler
and
their
minds
were
brought
to
Las
Vegas.
Hrobulp
and
his
binturong
friends
had
been
made
aware
of
a
tournament
only
the
best
poker
players
of
many
types
could
partake,
known
as
the
Ultimate
Pokerthon
Extreme
Rules
Spectacular.
Upon
learning
of
this,
the
binturongs
opted
to
take
all
their
earnings
since
meeting
Hrobulp,
and
fly
out
to
Vegas
for
what
they
percieved
to
be
a
much
deserved
limelight
on
their
reputations.
Upon
arrival
into
Vegas,
they
immediately
traveled
to
Caesar's
Palace,
and
signed
on
to
the
tournament.
While
waiting
around
for
the
tournament
to
start,
they
raised
an
absolute
fortune
on
their
skills
as
Hrobulp's
"financial
planners",
securing
them
front-row
tickets
to
the
whole
event.
This
event
would
become
something
that
ended
up
shaking what they knew about the game entirely however.
The
match
was
scheduled.
Every
player
had
been
called
into
the
middle
of
the
arena.
The
announcer
for
the
event,
a
very
ancient
praying
mantis,
descended
from
a
platform
resembling
an
ace
of
spades
card
way
up
above.
They
would
proceed
to
announce
that
this
was
a
special
"torunament",
this
wasn't
just
the
usual
extreme
Texas
Hold’em
that
was
played,
it
was
a
barbed-wire
light
tube
Texas
Hold'em
wrestling
deathmatch
battle
royale.
A
showdown
where
the
cards
dealt
life
and
death.
Or,
at
the
very
least,
moderate
discomfort and copious medical bills.
A
huge
explosion
eminated
from
the
entrance
side
of
the
arena,
a
thunderous
theme
began
playing
as
the
silhouette
of
a
huge
figure
approached
from
the
darkened
halls.
Smoke
began
filling
the
aisleway
as
they
exited
said
darkness,
and
another
pyrotechnic
explosion
cleared
the
smoke
revealing
the
figure,
all
while
the
audience
was
chanting
his
name...
the
fearsome
Bill
Goldberg
had
arrived!
Goldberg,
doing
his
usual
entrance
routine,
travelled
towards
the…ring?
table?
whatever
the
hell
it
was,
a
maelstrom
of
broken
glass,
frayed
wire,
and
fluorescent
rage,
Hrobulp
felt
a
twinge
of…something.
It
wasn’t
fear,
though
it
certainly
wanted
to
be
a
participant.
That
thigh
wrinkle
pulsed
faintly.
He
was…
almost.
There.
Almost
at…
the
next
step.
He
needed
something.
Then,
he
noticed
something
on
the
"arena
floor". His eyes lit. It couldn’t be…
As
the
battle
royale
began,
the
binturongs
immediately
began
interfering
and
brawling
with
other
hecklers,
meanwhile
Goldberg
proceeded
to
throw
everyone
across
the
table
shoving
a
row
of
poker
chips
down
one
person's
throat
even.
Hrobulp
quietly
palmed
a
small,
circular
disc
on
the
floor.
His
gaze,
focused
at
the
glint,
the
shining
diamond
poker
chip
to
place
the
bets
of
all
he
had
ever
earned,
even
his
destiny
would
be
put
on
the
line.
Goldberg,
proceeding
to
declare
"you're
next"
to
his
only
remaining
opponent
Hrobulp,
began
storming
towards
him.
It
all
culminated
in
this
moment.
All
was,
now,
full-circle.
Would
his
fate
finally
be
on
track,
or
would
it
derail
and
the
determined
flame
that
Hrobulp
had
built
up
within
would
become
extinguished?
Both
competitors
proceeded
to
glance
carefully
at
their
hands
as
they
both
knew
this
would
determine
who
would
come
away
with
the
biggest
pot
literally
ever,
or
be
banished
to
perhaps
never
again
knowing
what
could've
been.
Goldberg
lays
his
hand
of
cards
down
onto
the
table/wrestling
ring/whatchamacallit
first,
revealing
a
row
of
numbers
from
5
to
9
all
brandishing
the
symbol
of
the
spade,
a
nigh-unstoppable
straight
flush!
The
faceless
surprise
on
Hrobulp
wasn't
difficult
to
percieve,
he
was
literally
trembling
after
such
a
seemingly
immeasurable
move
had
been
struck.
Hrobulp
looked
down
to
check
his
hand,
only
to
notice
he
was
one
card
short,
however
the
lead
binturong
who
had
hidden
themselves
away
under
the
ring,
yelled
to
Hrobulp
"CATCH!",
and
threw
an
ace
of
spades
right
into
Hrobulp's
floating set of cards, as he possessed no limbs.
Gleaming
with
newfound
confidence,
Hrobulp
then
began
to
showcase
the
fruits
of
his
labor,
all
the
hard-selling,
marlin-cooking,
and
extreme
flight
experiences
would
finally
pay
off
with
this
very
hand.
He
immediately
slammed
his
set
down
with
authority,
Goldberg's
face
struck
into
disbelief
the
very
second
he
gazed
upon
the
best
play
of
all,
the
royal
flush!
Cheers
erupted
from
the
stands
as
the
announcer
declared
Hrobulp
the
winner
of
the
tournament/battle
royale,
and
a
huge
pot
descended
from
the
same
platform
as
the
old
mantis.
The
binterongs
came
up
beside
him
and
threw
him
up
in
the
air
as
a
form
of
celebration,
getting
popcorn
butter
all
over
his
sides.
Bill
Goldberg
approached
the
party
with
a
serious
look
on
his
face,
pointing
at
Hrobulp
before
stating
"I'm
far
from
finished
with
you".
The
party
nervously
anticipating
what
the
hulking
menace
may
have
meant,
awaited
what
was
to
come
with
Goldberg
coldly
approaching
towards
them.
Suddenly
a
pat
on
one
of
the
buttery
sides
by
the
myth
himself,
followed
by
a
smirk,
surprised
the
lot
of
them,
who
had
just
earlier
seen
him
basically
slaughter
the
rest
of
the
participants.
"Fantastic
playing
champ,
I
look
forward
to
our
future
battles"
uttered
Goldberg
sternly,
before
proceeding
to
walk
back
through
the
darkness
of
the
arena
entrance,
presumably
to
challenge
the
poker champion again in the near future.
The
gravy
train
watching
everything
occur
grinned
greatly
with
proud
glee,
as
it
appeared
Hrobulp
had
finally
gained
stable
handling
of
his
destiny,
and
was
confined
no
more
to
scratching
and
clawing
for
any
purpose
in
his
previously
hollow
life
whatsoever,
at
least
for
a
good
while.
The
party
proceeded
to
exit
out
of
the
palace,
and
outside
awaited
Scanhep
and
The
Navel
Nuisance.
At
first
it
seemed
that
they
were
looking
to
take
Hrobulp
back
in
and
steal
him
away
from
his
recent
string
of
success,
with
him
tightly
grasping
his
giant
pot
of
money.
However
The
Navel
Nuisance
pronounced
his
admiration
of
Hrobulp
stating
"I
was
wrong
to
assume
you
were
meant
to
be
my
property
as
a
cooking
device.
Clearly
you
had
far
greater
ambitions
than
I
could
ever
comprehend
I
hope
for
my
ignorance
that
it
could
perhaps
be
forgiven,
and
I
promise
to
always
treat
you
better
from
here
on
out".
Hrobulp,
reponding
with
fireworks
shooting
out
his
oven
shook
the
Nuisance's
lint
mass
with
their
sink,
as
if
some
form
of
handshake,
forgave
him
for
his
past
transgressions.
Everyone
decided
to
follow
Hrobulp
on
wherever
his
destiny
would
take
him,
as
they
were
guaranteed
to
be
very
rich
with
him.
For
now,
this
is
where
the
lore
ends,
but
perhaps
one
day
he
will
return
and
pave
a
path
of
greatness once more!
Hrobulp:
Thank
you
for
reading
my
lore.
Now
you
guys
know
a
lot
about
me,
so
when
you
see
me
on
Worlds,
you'll
know
that
I
can
play
Texas
Hold'em
very
very
good,
that
I'm
at
least
better
than
Bill
Goldberg at it, and are very rich. Bless be the Worlds.com users!
