No mole snout will touch these.
They are here, you know. They burrow beneath us, their webbed paws ever clawing and their whiskers ever twitching their way in the earth’s darkness. They are the mole people, digging beneath the surface, squinting their eyes against the never ending dust, wearing tiny spectacles and yellow vests as commanded by their prophet-king.
Speaking with British accents to one another, they live only to dig tunnels and sacrifice chocolate chips to their strange mole gods. They grow tired of the incessant noise they hear from above.
The prophet-king tells them the gods have grown angry for forgetting the proper grammar of mole-speak and misplacing the chocolate chips meant for sacrifice, for offering the holy beings only mole skim milk instead of full cream.
The noise from above increases, the pounding, hammering, shrieking, and rumbling. The burrowers believe they feel the very pain of the earth. “We must do something,” declares their leader. “Do we sit in silence as our own folly threatens to destroy us? No. We will be smarter. We will go above and cleanse the earth of its ailments. We will find better and richer chocolate chips with which to appease our gods and we will then burrow beneath the surface once again, forever. But now we rise. To the top!”
The moles are coming. Hide your chocolate chips.
Snotting black 