Ellylidan

How much would I have to sweet talk you for your entry point in to the swamp that kept even your toes dry? Common You miserable sacks of snot. If you want a hint, here’s a hint: go find some lame parking lot or guardrail cache and then you don’t have to worry about getting your delicate feet wet. Maybe you’d like to just wait in your car and have me bring Mr. Thomas out to you? Or would you prefer I tear your arms and legs from your gelatinous torsos? Maybe the mixing of your blood with the clay will make a sweet fragrant mud that won’t offend you? The mighty Fen Dweller had no respect for cheaters and crybabies, so what do you think Swamp Thing will opine? You better pray he doesn’t get wind of your offer of ”sweet talk” or he may just decide to see how loudly he can make you scream, you disgusting pus bags. I’m going to have to send Swampy a memo; he’s not killing enough of you. All my love, E

This is my favorite time of year. I enjoy sitting in the swamp with Swampy and chewing your fat. You pitiful sacks of lard! Your cowardice is apparent and your excuses are deplorable. What time should I expect the one soul who can find no excuse not to come?

You miserable sacks of pus and fat, always asking questions when you really do not want the answer. If you want to play in the dark, go find Mr. Thomas. Please, go find Mr. Thomas so I can rip your head from your torso and shower in your spurting blood. The last I heard, some were going to look for his sad-faced head on Halloween night. Good luck.

Would it be more fun if I just walked it out to the parking lot for you?

<<Yaaawwwnnn>>> Mmm. Just woke up. Some one mention my name? xx( Ah, the mighty Fen. How are you my old friend? For long you have slumbered; have you finally awakened? Is it the mere mention of your name that rousts you? I imagine you hunger for the flesh of a bipod, no? No animosity my old friend, just a salute to my only peer in the regions of men. Please die slowly, for certainly even you must admit, you owe me that. All my love, E

There are 63 of you disgusting sacks of fat and snot watching my cache. I believe I have eaten a few of them.

I skinned the shrieking carcass of Mr. Thomas alive, he wouldn’t find charitable death until I had eaten most of him. Skinning a human alive is a delicate process, you don’t want them to bleed to death before you’ve finished, and they do struggle so. After I hollowed out his skull, I placed some trinkets into the cavity and published the spot as a geocache. Now, every so often, one of you miserable sacks of snot and fat come to visit me. If it pleases me, I allow the trespasser to live.

My one cache has 10 bookmarks. By the way, you are all just tasty sacks of fat and snot.

You disgusting bags of fetid lard don’t know what a GOOD cache is! A good cache should have certain elements, like surprise, shock, and maybe the decapitated head of your first victim. Oh, and maybe the risk of being viciously attacked and dismembered alive too.

What about a bloated festering severed human head?

If anyone should be banned, it's someone who places a cache where people can die. You can bet I'm angry, becuase it almost happened to me. Good that you didn't come looking for my cache you disgusting sack of fetid butter. I have killed geocachers many times and yet they still come to me.

That would be mine, you disgusting pus fill sack of fat and gristle.

If your tight on time in Tacoma, Fear This: Claustrophobia is a quickie that is sure to be memorable. What do you seek, easy or memorable? Come see me you wretched disgusting sacks of putrid lard, you’ll not soon forget, unless you die.

Choking on a femur while stripping the flesh off the leg of some miserable sack of fetid lard geocacher who thought finding my cache would be ‘easy’ or ‘fun’.

You miserable sack of crap, come hunt my cache if you want extreme. Afraid? You should be. There are many other butter bags that think what I have written about my lair is all just fairytale. Some came in and made it out alive to tell the tale, the ones who didn’t tell sat warmly in my belly.

Wuss caches for wuss cachers.

Many disgusting sacks of fat, much like yourselves, have found a human head to be a somewhat revolting cache container. I prefer them fresh, juicy, and screaming in misery as I eat their face right off the bone.

There is only one cache that you miserable sacks of fetid butter and snot both love and fear. It is also the only cache I own.

There are 49 greasy fat sacks watching mine, the same amount as are watching the Groundspeak HQ cache.

It seems like a lot of greasy fat sacks will be tromping through my bog. You will try extra hard to avoid any damage won’t you? If all those hooves create a trail I will kill you. Oh wait, I was probably going to do that anyway. All my love E.

YOU? I was only last night pondering if I'd see you again. Listen you fetid sack of butter, I double-dog dare you to revisit me. I'm on a diet until then.

While children don’t have the same crunchiness that helps keep my teeth clean, they do make terrific little snacks while I’m resting. Bring them south, let them hunt a cache they’ll never forget.

Hack your way to my cache you miserable sacks of putrid lard and I’ll kill you in the most gruesome way any human can die. Well, in all honesty, I’m likely to do that anyway.

None that have seen me survived the encounter. They have all died painful and horrifying deaths, and slowly at that.

If you make a trail to my cache, I will kill you. But then, I’m likely to kill you anyway.