He also needed to wee.
'Aarrghhrrhnanannaaggrh' he sang soothingly to himself as he urinated over a small prehistoric mammal of indeterminate identity.
His thoughts tripped over themselves.
His lovelife, his weapon, the hunt, respect, the wheel, and the hard surface of mud on his back.
He felt like they should somehow combine... Grok knew that if the outcome was right, he would not only be the talk of the tribe, but he would no longer have to smack women over the head to woo them.
The wheel... The hard, virtually impenetrable mud casing... The hide piercing spike... Grok rocked back and forth, and waited for the inspiration to hit him.
Inspiration hits Grok in the back of the head and knocks him forwards.
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