The mud tugged at your feet, forcing you to slow your pace.

A rank odor caused your stomach to churn and your eyes to water.

It was the rotting fish that hung from the branches around you.

A huge man approached. His flesh was a muddy green, and his face was square and round. Lips curled downwards in a seemingly permanent pout—further shown by the hook peeking out of his lip, like some sort of walking bass—he looked horrific. His steps were grotesque slaps against the mud.