During Ben and Helen's momentous hug which restored the glorious idea of world peace to the entire Earth for a brief few seconds, the warm tingling feeling occurred inside the presifrog, as he trekked through the blinding whiteness of the Antarctic tundra, with an increasingly attractive Le-Mon leading the way. It was very much like going to the toilet, thought the presifrog, or rather, watching Le-Mon go to the toilet. That was almost as good, for sure.
As they had trekked through this barren wasteland of white nothingness, Le-Mon had been becoming steadily more attractive as the minutes, hours, and days snailed by - his brown-black eyes, so unlike his counterpart's, were become more twinkling and alluring to the amphibian, his legs gaining that sultry muscular tone that always made the presifrog's webbed feet tingle. He longed to reach out and grasp those legs in his sticky green webbed hands, dragging Le-Mon down into the ice, which would melt vigorously with the heat of the situation, and then he would reach for Le-Mon's gorgeous face, and...
"Sir...not that it isn't an honour to be out in the wilderness with a powerful world leader, but could you possibly let go of my foot?" The presifrog had indeed been performing a dry but nonetheless disturbing and mildly sexual act on Le-Mon's foot, and the lemon creature from another world had been attempting to prise him off for the past half hour. "...I'm sorry, Le-Mon. It must be this cold tundra air, making me long for...human feet..to...walk easily with," "I'm not human, sir. And was it necessary to fondle my foot in such a manner?"
"..well, no, I suppose it wasn't..." - His froggy voice trailed off in the utmost embarassment and shame, as the presifrog slowly continued to hop steadily onwards, with him and his steamingly hot companion growing ever closer to their ultimate destination, which would hopefully be the place where all the answers will be solved, and when this ghastly menace that is Helen "Diglet" Tank (or Helen "Tank" Diglet, that was never made too sure, and it had always annoyed the presifrog that she had succeeded so well in keeping that particular fact hidden).
After they had made camp that night, Le-Mon had settled his lemony self into an evil-looking black sleeping bag, with the presifrog slumbering on his custom made goretex lily pad. Once again, he got the tingling feeling in...that place. That place where nobody should ever get tingly feelings at such a time and such a place. It was the kind of feeling that made him want to hop onto the sleeping Le-Mon and perform unspeakable acts of smut and disturbingly beautiful kinkiness. He managed to contain himself for a full 30 seconds, before slowly creeping across the tent (for frogs were very good at that sort of thing when they didn't hop), and slowly edging his thin slimy leg over the body of the sleeping lemon-creature-thing. He then sat, straddled, on Le-Mon's chest, feeling highly unsatisfied in every possible way. Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea after all.
He certainly knew that it wasn't a good idea when Le-Mon's eyes opened, that was for sure.
After the rest of the screaming, rather explicit language, threats to insert certain large metal objects in certain orifices, before being booted out of the tent by an almost hysterical Le-Mon, the presifrog sat huddled up against one of the tent pegs, cursing his ineptitude at hitting on someone. He should have known that Le-Mon was out of his league, to be honest. The presifrog made a mental note never to try and do things to the lemon creature while on the job ever again, especially when his evil scheme was so close to being ruined. He only hoped that his agent in the Indian Ocean was aware of the goings on at the moment; she was always so good at keeping up with such things.
Le-Mon lay in the tent, in his evilly black sleeping bag which was zipped up past his chin, his brown-black eyes staring wildly at the roof of the tent. He had seen many horrible things in his life, some of which were so unspeakable that he would never even talk about them to his own feet, let alone talk about them in an almost soliliquy in a novel written by two teenagers with far too much spare time (for it was customary for lemon creatures such as he to talk to their feet about any personal problems they may be having, or something they may have seen or heard about that is causing them any kind of distress or discomfort, such as having a small politically corrupted amphibian straddle you with an intent to plunder and invade), but he would never forget the goings on that had just occurred. His heart was practically beating into his throat as he slowly recovered from the shock, and made his own mental note to maintain a five metre radius away from the presifrog at all times during this trip. It just wasn't worth the risk any more.
The morning after this strange incident, Le-Mon turned to the presifrog tentatively as they crossed a death-defying rather horrific-looking ravine.
"Sir...I'm sorry about what I said..you know...about the iron girder"
"That's quite all right Le-Mon" the presifrog rumbled, attempting to sound professional and not in the least bit attracted to Le-Mon, "I daresay I did a few things I shouldn't have done last night as well. However, we musn't let a petty..er..disagreement such as this jeopardise our expedition, it is of the utmost importance, surely you realise?" "Well of course, sir...it's just...I didn't realise that you felt that way."
"There are many things, that you don't realise, Le-Mon. And some things are best left unsaid, believe me. Talk to either of my dads and they'll tell you exactly the same thing." They walked together in silence after that brief discussion, feeling as if this open exchange of ideas (for it certainly couldn't be called an argument of any sorts) had resolved an unspoken problem between the two creatures, and for the first time during their trip to the Antarctic, Le-Mon and the presifrog felt completely at ease with each other's company. During the consumption of mediocre foodstuffs they were obliged to partake in three times a day to keep up their strength, Le-Mon's hand slowly edged across the rock they were perched on, and briefly rested on the presifrog's for a second. The presifrog felt the tingle come back. Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all.
A small penguin was waddling across the antarctic tundra that night, on his way home from a day at the snowmine, ready to bring fresh fish home for his lovely relatively new wife, and the unborn penguin egg they were both excitedly anticipating. It was a good life, being a penguin in the Antarctic. Global warming wasn't kicking in quite as badly as up in the north, so all the little penguins were still relatively safe for the time being, and life was just beginning to get better for the little penguin, as he trudged across the blinding white plain, feeling happy with everything currently going on in his simple, penguiny little life. He had done a good day's work today, and his boss had commemorated him for waddling in a happy, Stakhanovite manner back to the mine, which apparently encouraged all the other little penguins to work as well as him. The little penguin's heart had overflowed with pride as hot as the heat of a thousand suns at that moment; it was the greatest, most proud-making thing that had ever been said to him.
As the penguin waddled on, he heard a very strange sound from the other side of a small snowdrift. It was a sound not often heard by little Antarctic penguins, a sort of hooting, grunting noise, as if made by one of those monks with dual tone voices......or just by two creatures. The little penguin, with slight apprehension, peeped around the snowdrift, his little head cocked to one side in curiosity, before he saw a strange settlement that seemed to be made of a thin material, propped up with poles. He could see shadows moving inside this thing that he had a feeling was known as a "tent", and, being the brave headstrong little penguin he was, he decided to have a peep inside, just to make sure these mysterious new creatures was okay. He had plenty of fish, after all.
The thing that the little penguin saw when he peeped through the carelessly open tentflap made his heart stop. In fact, he felt like he had just died a little inside. The truly sickening happenings going on with these two new creatures, one of them slightly humanoid, sweating bucketloads of strange yellow sweat through his back, engaged in some kind of activity with...oh dear sweet jesus, was that a FROG? The little penguin took a step back, the fish tumbling out of his wings with a splosh, as they cascaded onto the ground. The two...there was no other word for it, "merrymakers" didn't seem to have noticed him, they just carried on. Carried on. CARRIED ON.
When the little penguin got home that night, he didn't utter a single sound for a full three months. The only sound he made was a blood curdling scream when his penguiny wife gave birth to a slightly yellow baby penguin.
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