| Everybody knew that Scratchwick the squirrel was basically the sickest guitarist in the whole under ground death metal scene. Like, no cap, the dude could shred so hard that pine cones would literally vibrate off the trees. His band, Acorn Apocalypse, had been selling out shows since March 15, 2024, when they headlined the infamous Hollow Log Festival and grossed $47500 in merch alone. | |
| But none of that mattered today! No, today was about beef. Pure, uncut, personal beef. | |
| "Yo, you're actually gonna stand there and tell me a snail can dance?" Scratchwick said, flicking his bushy tail in disbelief. He was posted up outside the Rusty Stump, wearing his favorite leather vest with one hundred and thirty seven tiny spikes on it. | |
| Shelley the racing snail adjusted her little flame-painted helmet and straightened her matching red jumpsuit. She had custom racing goggles pushed up on her forehead and the tiniest pair of gold sneakers anyone had ever seen. | |
| "Bruh, I don't just dance," Shelley said, sliding forward with unexpected swagger. "I slay. I stay slaying. She sells seashells, sure, but Shelley slays shell-shocked skeptics silly." | |
| Scratchwick blinked. "Did you just tongue twister flex on me right now?" | |
| "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, but Shelley picked the perfect playlist to pummel this punk." She popped her collar. An actual tiny collar on her jumpsuit. | |
| The crowd was already forming. A rack coon named Dirtbag Dave started taking bets. "Twenty bucks on the snail!" someone yelled. A chip monk in the back was literally recording on the smallest phone you've ever seen. | |
| "Aight, bet," Scratchwick growled, cracking his knuckles. All 8 of them. "But when I win, you gotta admit that death metal is superior to whatever goofy little genre you're repping." | |
| "And when I win," Shelley countered, leaving a slight trail of glitter slime behind her, "you have to wear my backup helmet for a whole week. The pink one. With the flower stickers." | |
| The crowd went absolutely feral. | |
| D.J. Stumpy, a woodpecker with a turn table bolted to an old oak stump, dropped the first beat. It was filthy. Like, disgustingly good. The bass hit so hard that three mushrooms popped out of the ground. | |
| Scratchwick went first because of course he did. He launched into this absolutely unhinged break dance routine, spinning on his tail like a furry tornado. His claws clicked against the dirt in perfect rhythm. He hit a freeze, popped back up, and did this thing where his whole body vibrated like he was having a seizure but it was actually kind of fire. | |
| "That was lowkey insane," admitted a frog in the front row. | |
| Then Shelley took the floor. Or rather, the floor took Shelley, because she moved so slow at first that everyone thought she was stalling. But then the beat switched. D.J. Stumpy scratched a wicked transition and Shelley started this hypnotic wave motion with her whole body. She rippled and rolled, spiraled and swirled, twisted and turned in ways that should have been physically impossible for a gastropod. | |
| "She's literally defying physics right now," whispered Dirtbag Dave, forgetting to collect bets. | |
| Shelley hit a spin on her shell that lasted 14 and a half seconds. The crowd counted. When she stopped, she was wearing sunglasses that nobody saw her put on. Where did she even keep those? | |
| "How much would you pay to see that again?" Shelley asked the crowd. "Because honestly that's worth at least $99.99 and I'd still say you got a deal." | |
| Scratchwick stood there, mouth open, tail drooping. "That was... actually pretty sick," he mumbled. | |
| The crowd erupted. Dirtbag Dave declared it a tie because he'd bet on both sides and couldn't afford to pay out. Scratchwick and Shelley bumped fist-to-antenna, which was honestly adorable. | |
| "Same time next month?" Shelley asked, reapplying her tiny lip gloss. | |
| "For real for real," Scratchwick nodded. "But next time I'm bringing my guitar. Red rubber baby buggy bumpers got nothing on my riffs." | |
| Shelley laughed, which sounded like a very small bubble popping. "Bet. You bring your axe, I'll bring my A-game. Six slippery snails slid sideways last time, but this snail only slides forward." | |
| They walked off together into the sunset, which was pretty dramatic considering Shelley moved at approximately 0.03 miles per hour. Scratchwick just vibed next to her, scrolling through his phone and showing her memes. It took them until well past dark, but honestly, neither of them minded at all. | |