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The Authentic Life of Lancelot Snurdley

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  • #16
    Ah, well. Here we go. Snurdley saves the world again, but this time, in a spoof of Jane Eyre, of all things. Next time, the set moves to...the Middle East.

    In June, Major Snurdley returned home to Upper Bolton, where he bought himself a copy of the Times and found himself to be wildly famous, much to his horror, for winning the entire Crimean War with his valiant charge to ascertain a little more intelligence. This charge, of course, ended in total disaster, for instead of doing what it was intended to do, it totally destroyed the Mongol army, and therefore rendered the use of further intelligence to nil. However, he found himself in a good position now, as Britain’s number one military hero.

    Returning home, he stayed the evening with his Aunt at her home, and stumbled upon a meeting of the Free for All Suffragette Committee, who hailed him as the greatest modern feminist alive for winning the war while belonging to the family of the suffragette ring leader. Half way through the meeting, he unaccountably vanished. The next morning, he left to visit his uncle’s cousin’s wife’s nephew and his family at Sapley-in-the Wold, Gortheringtonshire, West Mangehose, Buntley, near London. Along the way he stopped at his favorite pub, Bertie’s, and there engaged in a midget-tossing contest, a life long passion, along with pickled eggs.

    “Ha ha! Good to see you again, me boy. Heard a great deal of you since you came back from the war, what what!” said Sir Mergatroyd Gap-tooth Rotter, who met Snurdley, his cousin Peccary Filtchingham, and his butler, Butling, in the parlor. “You see, old boy, Britain rewards those who save it’s hide in war, and you are no exception…really. At least I don’t think you are…maybe not…

    “Ha! Well, old boy, everything’s jolly fine now for you, laddie. War’s won and over,” rambled on Sir Mergatroyd, as he came closer and closer to losing his marbles. “The world is your golden spoon, like the oyster born in your mouth…or something…”

    “Oh, yes, well thanks for the invitation, Sir Mergatroyd. Auntie J. was getting agitated, you see. She was worried that I wouldn’t be able to find the icebox if she were arrested again for beating another politician half to death with a placard, as she always does. It’s her motherly attitude, you see.” Snurdley always appreciated his Aunt, especially her blood thirsty, death and glory, kill for the bill attitude.

    “Ah, but enough of the words of a boring old man with few enough follicles in the old bean to be able to relate to you much of anything. Allow me to introduce my incredibly beautiful daughter…Brilliana!”

    With that gorgeous name, a vision in scarlet walked coolly down the stairs, her face like a porcelain water bowl, her hair as red as a rotten onion, her eyes as light blue as detergent. She walked forward, into the wall, and from it she turned, walked forward once again, over the chair, onto the floor, and up, walking into the mantelpiece, and tripping to the basement stairs, down which she literally tripped. Snurdley was quite enchanted with her incredible features, and her obvious charm and (half)wit.

    After she’d reentered the room, and put on the sticking plaster, she introduced herself in her breathless voice. “I’m Brilliana Rotter…I’ve heard a lot about you from…things.”

    “My word!” said Mergatroyd, with pride, “what a smart girly!”

    “Oh…let’s have a walk in the garden!” said Snurdley.

    And so they had one. Despite the wind outside, and the peach blossoms that floated down his throat and got stuck there, Snurdley thought it the most joyful occasion of his life, save that lovely time when he’d won fifty pounds on tossing a midget so incredibly high that he’d broken the world record. That midget was now his butler, Butling, and the chap with whom he discussed macroeconomics the most.

    But enough of the past. For the present, Snurdley was happy. Walking arm in arm, he and Brilliana conversed on what interested them, and found that they had much in common.

    “Artichoke?! Why!! Are you serious?! I also love artichoke…deeply!”

    “Buckingham? Why, I hated him too! Isn’t that marvelous?”

    Other such things occurred that made Snurdley feel more and more that this was the lady he was predestined to marry. Snurdley’s belief in predestination had messed him up before, especially where pig racing at Lower Bolton was concerned, or the Cucumber Affair - that was a real mess-up - but now, he believed that he was finally going to find something he was predestined for.

    Hours passed and time went by in the most extraordinary fashion as they talked and talked and talked of all they appreciated. Finally, he decided to propose. “Maybe,” she said, “Give me a week to think about it.” And so she did.

    Later that evening, after they realized they’d walked too far from Buntley (they’d recognized the Hebrides off in the distance), they turned around for dinner. As they arrived at the house, a sudden laugh was heard, and a white figure dashed across the colonnade, lizard-like, sending a shudder up and down and up and down Snurdley’s spine. “What the devil?”

    “It’s Mrs. Sauskind, our house keeper. Please excuse her…we’re afraid she may have gone insane. Oh well. She’s a Luddite, so she says. And you know how trustworthy Luddites, are…they’d go after your car without a second thought…and forget that tuna fish canning machine…they’d smash it…they send shudders up and down and up and down my spine.”

    “Same here. Well, what a nice evening we’ve had.”



    “That’s true.”

    “Yes, I know.”






    “All right.”




    “Aw huh.”

    They would have continued as such, had not someone shouted that dinner was served.

    Snurdley was given a room with two beds; one for him, the other for cousin Peccary, the famous gourmand and explorer of such exotic locations as the mysterious Amazon River, the Nile, and the Thames Embankment. The pillow was as soft as the duck it had been ripped brutally from, and despite the terrible visions of the same poor duck wandering cold and naked in the snows of that past year, Snurdley managed to get some sleep…that is until five minutes past three o’clock in the morning.

    The first thing that alerted his senses was the bark of the hounds, and then slowly the lights popped into his head. Was this the famous ghost of Sir Despard Mergatroyd, the original member of the Mergatroyd family, executed by Cromwell for being a Royalist, and seen to this day appearing in odd places in the house, like the icebox or the loo, headless, looking for revenge, bloodthirsty, screaming sometimes, laughing other times, or just being stupid. Well, no, it wasn’t. He quickly realized that it was really the torches of the hordes of pitchfork carrying villagers and estate men searching in the woods outside the house for…something.

    He even spied Sir Mergatroyd himself, grasping a hound’s leash in one hand, and a loaded shotgun in the other. He had a duck call in his jaws, and his disposition looked very poor indeed. Something was afoot…something big, bad, and tasteless, no doubt.

    Hearing his waking groans, however, the voice of Peccary came from the other side of the room, saying: “Dammit, Lancelot, cut it out, shut up, and go back to sleep…”

    Oh well, thought Lancelot. Then Mr. Sandman came along, and viciously rubbed his face in the sand.

    The next morning, Snurdley found Brilliana alone at breakfast, eating a large sausage, and an egg that bore sick resemblance to a chap he’d seen in India who’d been stepped on by his elephant Tantor. “What happened this morning?”


    “The dogs…the lights…the search party? At five minutes past three o'clock?”

    “Ummmm…uhhhhh…It must have!”

    “It was about Mrs. Sauskind, wasn’t it?”

    “Blast. Yes…it was…if you must know. She escaped yesterday evening, with a laugh and a giggle and a snort, and then she was off. It was terrible. Everyone was after her. Luddites like her will lead us down a terrible road and…”

    The thing that Snurdley had noticed behind Brilliana’s chair looked at first to be just some idiot’s excuse for a wall…but then he realized that it was indeed a secret passage. Jumping forward, he leapt into the priest hole, and charged forward, discovering to his horror a giant, ancient Celtic chapel, carved out of the Cliffside, unknown to everybody above but a select few.

    Candles lit up the huge room, and in the middle stood a giant painting. The face of the man was small, chubby, and pink. Snurdley saw the ecclesiastical garb, and noticed Mrs. Sauskind kneeling before the painting with several other insane looking individuals. He then realized the truth…

    They weren’t Luddites…

    They were Laudites…

    “Hark!” shouted Mrs. Sauskind, “It’s that cursed Snurdley! He’s uncovered our devious and wicked plan to let wolverines loose in the House of Lords to avenge the murder of He Who Must Be Obeyed! Archbishop Laud will be avenged!!” With that, she pulled out a large pistol. The door opened again, however, and whacked her in the head. Sir Mergatroyd came in, and gasped.

    “So!” he said, “It’s as I thought! You were up to no good, Mrs. Sauskind! Mrs. Sauskind? Madame?”

    And so, once again, Snurdley had saved England from no gooders like Mrs. Sauskind, who lost her memory following the concussion and unhappily mistook herself for a Capuchin Monkey when she regained her senses. She was thus committed to a zoo.

    Before Brilliana could make up her mind on the proposal, however, the career of Lancelot Snurdley intervened. A letter marked “INCREDIBLY IMPORTANT” arrived by post several days later. He had received orders to go to Alexandria at once, from where he would take fast elephant to Khartoum for a special assignment from the War Office. Promotion, he was assured, lay ahead. He could not help but wonder what exactly he was supposed to do in Khartoum, however. Ah well, he thought…all of my answers will be answered shortly. And so they were. Arriving at Alexandria, he purchased a ticket with Abu the Elephant Man to ride to Khartoum the next morning. While waiting for the elephant, he stopped at Mahound’s, a favorite pub in the region, where he engaged in a midget tossing contest.
    Last edited by History Guy; February 3, 2004, 16:44.
    Empire growing,
    Pleasures flowing,
    Fortune smiles and so should you.


    • #17
      It's become wierd, I like it, but it's different now from the first coupla chapters.
      Read Blessed be the Peacemakers | Read Political Freedom | Read Pax Germania: A Story of Redemption | Read Unrelated Matters | Read Stains of Blood and Ash | Read Ripper: A Glimpse into the Life of Gen. Jack Sterling | Read Deutschland Erwachte! | Read The Best Friend | Read A Mothers Day Poem | Read Deliver us From Evil | Read The Promised Land


      • #18
        Yes, well, the idea here is to satire a good lot of things. Don't worry, that was my only little thing I'd planned for making fun of Gothic novels...

        Next time, it's Snurdley in Khartoum, battling spies, slave traders, and downright nasty fellows...
        Empire growing,
        Pleasures flowing,
        Fortune smiles and so should you.


        • #19
          sounds good, looking forward to it.
          Read Blessed be the Peacemakers | Read Political Freedom | Read Pax Germania: A Story of Redemption | Read Unrelated Matters | Read Stains of Blood and Ash | Read Ripper: A Glimpse into the Life of Gen. Jack Sterling | Read Deutschland Erwachte! | Read The Best Friend | Read A Mothers Day Poem | Read Deliver us From Evil | Read The Promised Land


          • #20
            Ah, thank heavens for days off...

            A new plot develops!

            “Ah! Ah ha! So you are the famous Major Lancelot Snurdley, once the Quartermaster of 4th Corps, the chap who rode over the Mongols at Balaklava, destroyed them at Crimea, and had your Bozo the Clown suit shout out from under you, eh? And how smart you look, little man, in your flashy red uniform, your pricey cap, and your neatly clipped mustache. Stiff upper lip, eh, boy? Catching on, eh what? Well, it isn’t the Quartermaster’s division here, boy…” said Brigadier Hardfist Ironjaw, the military governor of Khartoum, as he walked through the dimly lit office. Such men as he thrived on darkness, on the fear he could create in it. His thin, small body bore no warning to the wolf that lay beneath his skin. “No, sir…Major Snurdley would be wrong to think this was the Quartermaster’s division…

            “No, lad, listen to me…my boys don’t hate my guts for nothing…I breath down their throats, fill their noses with the raw onion that wreaks from my mouth…I make ‘em men, here…it’s a harsh land…and they need to be harshly treated! No ‘ha ha what’ here…no…here it’s ‘Yes sir, I’m a bleedin’ idiot. I have never done anything right. I’m a worthless little worm. Spit on me. I don’t care.’ That’s what I expect to hear. No ‘Oh my, what a charming day it is. No need for a brolly today, I say.’ That’s what makes you weak when the Ansars crawl up out of the dust and start screaming bloody murder in your ear…”

            “Quite, sir,” responded Lancelot Snurdley, standing in full military dress before the little man. He was so short that Snurdley could have taken him for the midget that he’d won several pounds on at the pub the other day. It was quite ridiculous to think of him breathing down anyone’s throat, except perhaps that of his pet flying squirrel.

            “Damn right. No time for the garbage.” Brigadier Ironjaw than marched over to his desk and fed his flying squirrel a cracker. “Good lad, Flappy.” The Brigadier sat down and considered his squirrel.

            “Ah, well, sir, if you’ll pardon me, might I be so bold as to ask you why I am here, actually, as I can’t quite say that I know why I am here.”

            “Oh. Is that it? You’d prefer to be back in Bolton, doing nothing, eh? Khartoum’s too remote…too old fashioned for you, eh? Too tough, too gritty? Why aren’t your lot ever satisfied, eh? Can’t ever stop whining for one minute…it’s always whining…it’s as if you can’t live if you can’t whine…you make me sick. You and your upper class, stupid, toffee-nosed, upper class, rip-off, whiny, upper-class…toffee-nosed…upper class…”

            “Well, it’s just that I…”

            “Yes, there, you see? It’s always complaining, and sissification. Not in my day, sonny. Why, in my day we walked fifty miles in ten foot snow drifts, with no clothing, just to get to school every morning at six…we didn’t take whiners seriously…those were the good old days, when men were men, and women were glad of it, and whiners were…”

            “Yes, but, you see, I still don’t know…”

            “I’m sure you don’t. You just never shut up and give anyone else a chance to talk, that’s your problem. Well, if you can’t wait, Mr. Hurry-up-so’s-I-can whine, I’ll tell you. Here in Khartoum, since the recent occupation after Abu Bakr and his boys moved out, there’s been a rash of disappearances here in the upper class…the politicians, you see…here one day and gone tomorrow…vanished…disappeared…gone, if you like…in a puff of smoke…likes theys was never there at all…then, they’ve gone. No traces, nothing. Gone. The only clue is that they all report seeing some hooded natives looking in at them through the window the night of their disappearance. Strange, eh what?”

            “Very singular, I must agree. Kidnappings, of course. Heard that there were such things with the slave market in Arabia…”

            “Quite, quite. Well…Gasp! Horror! Shock! Disgust! Stunned! I can’t believe it! My goodness! Lordy! Aaaaargh! Ye gads! Fritter my wig!”

            Snurdley turned his face to the window, just in time to catch a dark, sinister face disappear from sight. The Brigadier had turned deathly pale. “They’ve come, boyo! It’s me they’re after! I’m a dead man! Tonight’s the night! I’m done for! Gad zooks! Take care of Flappy for me…it’s the least you can do…”

            “Don’t worry. We’ll soon get to the bottom of…”

            “No way out of it now. That’s torn it. I was expecting to get back to Scotland in four months for the All Scottish-Armenian Caber-Tossing Haggis-Eating Weasle-Racing Beard-Contest Festival at Loch Lelukleelacklilicklarkleek. Now I’ll never seen Haggis McDoogal and the Amazing Seal Singers again…all is woe…what a world, what a world…when that face appeared like departed Banquo I knew the jig was up…it’s all gone…I’m a dead man! I say! They’ve got me! No way out! Aaaaaaarg!”

            “Ah, right.”

            A knock came at the door. Sergeant Major ‘Pudgy’ Bowles-Sappington arrived, and with lungs of iron, announced, “The dashing Lord Snodgrass, the new Consul, is here by fast elephant.”

            “Oh, thanks,” said Snurdley. The Brigadier was sitting in a slump; his eyes widened, his teeth chattered, reciting the beautiful words of Dogberry from Shakespeare over and over again, the only thing he could think of to settle his nerves.

            “Oh! I say, what what!” shouted the familiar voice of Lord Snodgrass as he entered, clothed in full uniform, recognizing Snurdley, “What’s up old man? Where’s that Brigadier fellow I’m supposed to meet? Oh…is this sad, disgraceful, unwashed, brainless, ape-like, joke for a man the Brigadier?”

            “Yes. Hello Snodgrass. It appears that the Brigadier has received…a threat!”

            “A threat, eh? I received one back in Cairo some years ago. This dark Sultan stepped forward, his long, scimitar gleaming from his white teeth’s reflection…he lunged forward, and I took him down with a bit of lead in the head. Took from him this magnificent specimen…” said Lord Snodgrass, removing from his coat pocket a Mickey Mouse watch. “Washed off the blood…good as new. No Sultan ever challenged me to a duel again, eh what? How’s that Bozo the Clown costume, eh? I heard it was hit badly…”

            Snurdley was vainly trying to reassure the Brigadier. Nothing seemed to grab the poor man’s attention, except the semaphores Snurdley had thankfully brought along in his pocket. “We will stay hidden in your room tonight,” signaled Snurdley, “and watch what happens. Don’t worry. We’ll get those buggers. Blast. What is the semaphore code for bugger? Oh. Sorry. I see that I am using it in these semaphores.”

            “Oh, I say, what lovely flags!” His Lordship grabbed hold of the flags, and unfortunately, by mistake, gave the signal to the quivering Brigadier for “You stupid, fat baboon. I am in on the plot. Tonight, you will die! Ha ha ha!” It could have happened to anyone, of course, but it was, all the same, an unfortunate accident, as Lord Snodgrass realized when the enraged Brigadier catapulted him through the window.

            “It’s all right! No bones broken! Except my pinky bone! Ow. Yes, my pinky bone is broken! Other than that, everything is OK! Just settle down…everything is under control! Wheeze! Oh, blast! Wheeze! Some bloody little twit just stood on me nose! Wheeze!” came His Lordship’s voice from out the broken window.

            “Sergeant Major, do be a good chap and make preparations for a small icebox to be placed behind the desk, where we three shall hide, and watch what unfortunate fate befalls the forlorn figure of Brigadier Ironjaw, who confesses to be not long for this world.”

            “SIR!” cried the Sergeant Major, stamping away idiotically.

            The Brigadier looked up sadly, a shadow of his former self. He looked at Flappy the flying squirrel, the animal looked back and they considered each other, and held each other in final embrace. Snurdley just looked away in disgust.

            “What, wheeze, are we waiting for? Wheeze,” asked Lord Snodgrass, bunkered down under the desk alongside Snurdley and the Sergeant Major, hiding themselves from view.

            “Kidnappers, old man. Whoever has been going after these politicians is coming for the Brigadier,” responded Snurdley, matter-of-factly.

            “Wheeze. The bloody state my bloody nose is bloody well in may bloody well give our bloody selves away to the bloody kidnappers, old chap. Wheeze.”

            “Snodgrass, you flaming idiot, shut up.”

            In waltzed the secretary with a cuppa chamomile tea, which she presented to the Brigadier, who was himself still in a state of shock. She then left the room without another word. After a sip or two, the Brigadier commented that it was an odd thing, but he felt sure that his tea tasted like a drug he’d had somewhere in the past, like in China, for example. He was quite right, as he felt over, stoned.

            “Oh. Well, that’s it, then,” said the Sergeant Major.

            Shortly afterward, in waltzed in a group of hooded native chaps, who lifted the Brigadier, and carried him away. They closed the door, but not before one of them left a vital clue, his wallet. Snurdley dashed forward, grabbing the wallet, and reading its contents.

            “Ah, our forgetful friend is one Insanee-Insane, and he’s a professional madman. His job is to kidnap members of government to sell them to the Arab court for jugglers, dancers, and fools, as well as prisoners or hostages. And, he’s got twelve pounds in here…and a picture of Ellen Terry…and he’s got my winnings from the other day at the pub, that filthy little…”

            “Ah, wheeze. Well, hadn’t we jolly well pursue him to the headquarters, eh, what? Wheeze. Else, the Brigadier find himself the new belly dancer at the harem, or something unpleasant like that?”

            “Oh, yes.”

            “Righty-O, old chap.”

            Immediately, the three geniuses pursued the rapidly moving kidnappers out of the compound, and then they watched as the baddies got themselves mounted on some horses, and rode off. At this point, Snurdley summoned a carriage, and the chase was on.

            Had the carriage driver not been spiffed, the chase might have been more successful, but the poor bloke ran the carriage into the nearest palm tree, and with a word against driving drunk while leading a carriage, Snurdley and his confederates quickly pursued the riders.

            They caught up with those foul fiends at a small, disused chicken coop near the gates of Khartoum. The kidnappers were still unaware of their presence. Waiting for dawn, Snurdley prepared for a glorious attack on the chicken coop compound in the morning. He loaded his revolver, and whistled an airy tune.

            Hello Aunty J.,

            This is, in actuality, your nephew, Lancelot Snurdley, the fellow who happens to be a Major in the Reserves, and is serving in Khartoum in the Sudan at this very moment. Remember me? I’m the one with the Bozo the Clown suit that got badly wounded in the Crimea. I’m sure you recall my penchant for pickled eggs. Quite.

            Anyway, as it is, I’m in a pickle myself. You see, this message (which will reach you by fast and brave carrier pigeon), was sent from my prison inside a chicken coop. My captors took Lord Snodgrass, Sergeant Major Bowles-Sappington, and I after a short skirmish in the middle of the night that ended in the lack of a concerted effort to attack the chicken coop. Due to the darkness, and the poor quality of these matches, the kidnapping savages were able to bag us all, and we are now held prisoner in the chicken coop.

            You see, Brigadier Ironjaw summoned me to get to the bottom of these kidnappings, and so I did. Insanee-Insane, the ringleader is a master arch-criminal, and definitely working for the government of Arabia. The plot, I think, is probably to sell us as slaves for the Royal Palace, a fate worse than death! You see, we made the fatal error of waiting for dawn before attacking the savage barbarian kidnappers, and consequently, we fell prey to our prey.

            While we were engaged in a (nearly) friendly word game (the only really tense moment was the knife fight that ended in a draw), the vile evil savages attacked us. I was just about to get ‘quidnunc’ when all of the sudden, everything went black! Yes, that’s right, the candle had blown out. Without proper light to fight by, I gave in, prepared to find a way of escape when I could actually see what I was boxing into senselessness. Wouldn’t want to go after the kidnappers and find I’m beating up a very angry baboon again…

            I hope you left my bedroom window open so as the carrier pigeon can get in. Otherwise I shall be very cross indeed. It’s not every day of the week that I’m in need of urgent assistance like this…well…not every day of the week…

            Anyway, I’m about to cut my bonds and seize my revolver, which is lying nearby. Do keep in touch. You can write to me at the Chicken Coop near Akbar’s Camel Taxi Station (‘WE DO CAMELS RIGHT’).

            Your nephew,
            Lancelot Snurdley

            Empire growing,
            Pleasures flowing,
            Fortune smiles and so should you.


            • #21
              Much better, A great read.

              (I myself have a day off today, and will likely write as well)
              Read Blessed be the Peacemakers | Read Political Freedom | Read Pax Germania: A Story of Redemption | Read Unrelated Matters | Read Stains of Blood and Ash | Read Ripper: A Glimpse into the Life of Gen. Jack Sterling | Read Deutschland Erwachte! | Read The Best Friend | Read A Mothers Day Poem | Read Deliver us From Evil | Read The Promised Land


              • #22
                Undoubtedly the funniest story Ive read here on poly, well done History Guy and please dont stop. Its absolutely fabulous.
                A proud member of the "Apolyton Story Writers Guild".There are many great stories at the Civ 3 stories forum, do yourself a favour and visit the forum. Lose yourself in one of many epic tales and be inspired to write yourself, as I was.


                • #23
                  Excellent stuff, HG! Guaranteed to raise the spirits most depressed. Quite amusing. A delightful read. Keep it up.
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                  • #24
                    Yes. I know. I haven't posted in here for a year now. I should be ashamed of myself. I should beat my head with a brick. I should probably write another chapter and start this up again. In fact, that is exactly what I have done.

                    Yes, I have more time to write this stuff and you apparently have time to read, here we go. Lancelot Snurdley returns from the grave!

                    “You are no doubt admiring my many militaristic, martial, and warlike decorations hanging above the old and trusty mantelpiece, embossed between green velvet and a frame, wreathed by the grayish-blue smoke of my meerschaum, each of them depicting various feats of valor as first enacted by none other than myself,” began Major General Sir Lancelot Snurdley, leaning with his arm against the mantelpiece and breathing out large tobacco rings.

                    “No, actually, uncle,” I responded in a slight voice, “I was rather looking at your collection of tea cozies. They are all very nice and quite cozy, as would befit them all, I should add.”

                    At this, Uncle Lancelot seemed to give me a rather bemused and disgusted look. I thought I saw him dab his eyes for shame that his own nephew was awed not by his collection of medals but rather by his collection of fluffy tea cozies. A single tear rolled down his aged cheek and dropped off of his exceedingly long and gray mustache. His eyes became dewy. There was also a sense of rage faintly visible in his beady little pearls. It was as if he could have bitten off my ears for mere mention of it. After all, I was never exactly his favorite nephew. He always preferred Cousin Fatling, Jr., who had entered the military and been squashed by an elephant in India. I, on the other hand, became interested in home décor. For that, I believe, my uncle never quite forgave me.

                    “Little Aethlered…” he began.

                    “Ah, Uncle, is it true that one of these tea cozies was presented to you by the last Caliph of Baghdad himself?” I asked, attempting to squash some sort of awed expression across my abnormally lanky face.

                    “No. It isn’t.”

                    “Oh, ah, all right.”

                    “I took the middle tea cozy from the last Caliph of Baghdad. This is what started me on my collection of international tea cozies, in fact. However, I must point out to you the fact that I never actually meant to start a tea cozy collection at all.” Here he gave me a stern look. “It just…always…happened… In reality, I hate the damned things.”

                    “Oh, really?”

                    “Yes. I might tell you about it if you like,” he continued.

                    “Oh, I should be most interested in hearing that!” I said.

                    “Really? I thought you were much more interested in drapery?” he said, crossly. “Drapery, bed sheets, doormats, all of those sorts of things. You know, curtains, doilies, napkins…”

                    “Oh, but tea cozies are also interesting!” I said, attempting to gain his esteem.

                    “It’s not the blasted tea cozies that I care about!” he said, angrily. “It’s the blasted military feats of honor! Why do I care about tea cozies? The only reason I have them is because I’m jolly well stuck with them! Do you actually believe that I, a veteran of just about every single war in the last half century, have any interest in tea cozies? I mean, really? I’d have sold the Caliph’s cozy a long time ago had it not been for the most undesirable Curse of Extreme Doom…”

                    “The Curse of Extreme Doom, Uncle?” I asked, shocked. I absent-mindedly prodded the cushions of the sofa with a poker from the fireplace in order to root out any wicked, evil, savage individual of pagan persuasion who might be lurking behind it in expectation of fulfilling this fantastically evil curse.

                    “Yes, my nephew, the Curse of Extreme Doom. The Maharajah of Stubistan placed it upon that cozy when the last Caliph’s grandfather executed him. Actually, it was just before execution time. The Caliph was having tea and fooling around with his harem dancers. They were rolling the Stubistanian up in a carpet in order to turn him into a human sausage when all of the sudden he cursed the owner of the tea cozy with what is roughly translated in the Arabic tongue as: The Curse of Extreme Doom!”

                    “What happened?” I asked, my teeth chattering with fear.

                    “Well, just as they were grilling the Maharajah, a large bird’s egg fell upon the Caliph’s head from a great height and just about flattened his head. Ever since then, the owner of the cozy was doomed never to be able to sell or give away the thing, lest the curse strike again, for it was only in stealing the cozy from the rightful owner that the curse was born!”

                    “So, you are cursed, then, Uncle?”

                    “Well, I suppose so. I mean, my teeth are pretty rotten and I can’t hear out of one ear and my eyes get watery and I have a touch of rheumatism and I’m rather short-sighted…and I bite my tongue a lot by accident.”

                    “Merciful heavens!”

                    “Yes, and the worst bit was that I was always unable to sell the thing for fear of getting squashed by a bird’s egg. This, and this alone, is the only reason that you see that demonic, hell-spawned tea cozy before you now. If only I had known it then, I should have sawed off my digits so as not to be able to grip that accursed object! I tell you, my boy, that is Satan’s tea cozy!”

                    “Dear Lord!” I shouted, genuinely shocked. “How ever did you come across that most detestable of things?” I asked, my face white like death.

                    “Well, it all started long, long ago, far, far away in a chicken coop…”

                    The insanely wicked Insanee-Insane was chewing a chaw of camel jerky in the back of the chicken coop, eyeing carefully his four prisoners with squinty corneas, drooling maliciously all the while. The scent of camel was heavy on his coarse breath. He lifted a lantern above the prisoners, scaring the chickens and revealing to him Major Lancelot Snurdley, Lord Snodgrass, Sergeant-Major Bowles-Sappington, and Brigadier Ironjaw, who happened to be bound and gagged and rolling around on the floor like a weevil grub.

                    “Yeheheheheheh,” grunted Insanee-Insane. “You stupid, silly, foolish, unwise hairy Western crusading devils from the pits of hell itself! Wreaking of tea and crumpets and eel pies and pork chops! Woe to you! Ahahaha! Just wait till the Evil One-Eyed Jinn of the Desert arrives to chop off your nose and turn you by his magic into dancing girls for the Caliph! Then shall you be justly punished by Allah, and thus shall you be alive until you are not alive, and thus are dead, and thus your stomachs shall be roasted in Hell! You see, I have a full deck of cards! Ahahaha! I have not lost the marbles of fortune, but rather gained them! Yes, to use your English expression, I have the bird by the hand in the bush!” He then laughed in a bone-chilling and utterly diabolical manner. “In other words, you have lost!”

                    “Delightful fellow,” commented the Sergeant Major.

                    “Well, old chaps,” said Lord Snodgrass with a wheeze, “let’s hope help arrives before this magician fellow bounces forth and turns us all into dancing girls. I’m not quite up on my dancing moves, and I don’t fancy the idea of having my belly button ornamented or anything to that effect. Oh, I say, we have rather made a pig’s breakfast of things, haven’t we?”

                    With that allusion, the wicked Insanee-Insane looked at the prisoners with an insanely evil glint in his eyes, sneering malevolently as though he had just heard them calling his grandmother unpleasant names. The Englishmen shuddered as they realized for the first time that he was undoubtedly insane.

                    Unbeknownst to the wicked one and his three dastardly accomplices, Snurdley was sawing the ropes on his hands in half upon the sharpened beak of a rooster who happened to be sitting nearby.

                    “Hey!” shouted Insanee-Insane, suddenly. “Where in the name of Allah did I put my wallet?”

                    Suddenly, the door to the little chicken coop swung open and in jumped an Evil One-Eyed Jinn of the Desert.

                    “Aha! The Evil One-Eyed Jinn of the desert!” shouted Insanee-Insane. “Master, here are the prisoners, ripe for turning into a bunch of girls with the black and evil magic so inherent in the makeup of any Evil One-Eyed Jinn of the Desert.”

                    “Excuse me?” asked the one-eyed, wicked looking fellow, who suddenly produced a common Arabic pooper-scooper. “I’m Haji the Chicken Coop Cleaner. I’m only here to expunge the chicken droppings from the walls. It’s how I make my living, you know.”

                    Insanee-Insane immediately shot him, being the evil sort of fellow who quite nastily does that sort of thing, only because it is mean and unsporting.

                    “Blast it all, by the hounds of hell!” shouted the evil kidnapper. “Where is that magician? What’s taking him so long?”

                    Snurdley at this point found that his bonds were cut. Snodgrass noted this as well. “Oh, good show, old boy. That’s really remarkable. I say, now that your fetters are gone, what is next on the agenda?”

                    “What? I beg the pardon of you evil crusading devils? Did I hear your evil tongues refer to cutting their fetters?” asked Insanee-Insane.

                    “Well, on second thought, you didn’t, old chap. Sorry, sorry, I was just, ah, you know, a bit, um, mistaken. Really.” Snodgrass then punctuated his point by curling up in a little ball in the straw.

                    With this, Snurdley leapt boldly forward with the pistol, tripping over a chicken and shooting one of the kidnappers in the noggin quite by accident.

                    “Now look at what you have done!” shouted Insanee-Insane, lifting his scimitar after scooting some chickens off of it. “First you conquer us with your legions, then you get mad at us when we destroy your empire and start invading France and Spain, then you launch a crusade at us, and now…now you’ve killed Akbar! That’s it! I’ve had enough! The Jinn can have you, but only after I’ve killed you a few times first!”

                    He then swung the scimitar absent-mindedly in an attempt to show that he meant business, cutting off the head of his second companion quite by accident.

                    “Oh, damn…” he said. “Look what you made me do now! By the Will of Allah, I shall kill you myself before the Jinn arrives, and then I shall kill you a second time when he is here! A third time I shall kill you after he has left! Ahahahaha!”

                    “Ah, Mr. Insanee-Insane, sir,” began Snurdley, helpfully, “I believe that the language barrier is not at all helpful here. Your English is, quite understandably, not very clear to us, seeing as it was not your first tongue. Indeed, it seems, by your latest remarks regarding how you will kill us thrice over, you are quite struggling with making your point known to us. This is not by any fault of your own, of course. I can imagine that English is a very difficult language to learn. I suppose if you tried to learn Finnish you should have just as much trouble. Then again, I suspect very deeply that if I were to attempt to learn Arabic I should have just as much of a problem. Perhaps you require some assistance in your learning, I do not know, but sadly, I must say that…”

                    “You idiots! Aha! You fools! You western crusaders! You crusaders of the western west! You foolish fools! Do you not know that the Jinn is not just some mere mere person? He is more than a mere mere person! He is a spirit of the desert! By magic he can bring you back to life…thus allowing me to kill you several times over! I shall ask him this favor expressly! You dumb stupid foolish fools! Aha! You shall die! And then you shall die again! And your stomach shall be roasted forever in hell!”

                    With this horrible realization, everyone gulped. Well, not everyone. Insanee-Insane and Mustafa, his one remaining flunky, did not gulp.
                    Empire growing,
                    Pleasures flowing,
                    Fortune smiles and so should you.


                    • #25
                      Well thank you very much.

                      That is a pleasure to read.

                      I certainly do hope that you will be back a bit more often...
                      Gurka 17, People of the Valley
                      I am of the Horde.


                      • #26

                        Hilarious. Magnificent.
                        Read Blessed be the Peacemakers | Read Political Freedom | Read Pax Germania: A Story of Redemption | Read Unrelated Matters | Read Stains of Blood and Ash | Read Ripper: A Glimpse into the Life of Gen. Jack Sterling | Read Deutschland Erwachte! | Read The Best Friend | Read A Mothers Day Poem | Read Deliver us From Evil | Read The Promised Land


                        • #27
                          Thanks all.

                          Chrisius Maximus, are you still reading these things? *cough* *cough*

                          “But how ever did you manage to evade this excessively ghastly and repulsive destiny, dear uncle?” I shrieked, shrinking back in utter terror as Uncle Lancelot poured forth his shocking memories of the eternally awkward affair of Satan’s tea cozy. “I can imagine little that is actually worse in all this world than to be transformed into…into…dare I say it?…a dancing harem girl!”

                          “Yes,” my uncle cooed, massaging his gray mustachios while taking another puff from his trusty meerschaum, “it would have been a remarkably terrible fate to befall any upright sort of chap who prides himself about his masculine persona and that sort of thing. Nobody really wants to be turned into a dancing harem girl when one boils it all down.”

                          “When one boils what all down, uncle?” I asked.

                          “Ahhhh…that’s very…simple. Really. One boils it all down…ummm…it…ah…boils…humph…the…it…”

                          “What does one boil down?”

                          “Um, the…ah…well…you know… What does anyone boil down?”

                          “I’ve boiled down water, uncle.”

                          “That’s quite correct. When one boils down water, nobody wants to be turned into a dancing harem girl. However, when you have an Evil One-Eyed Jinn of the Desert running about, there is relatively little than one can do to avoid it. Even a remarkably good disguise might not even be able to stop the wicked enchanter in his diabolically hell-spawned machinations.”

                          “Are you absolutely sure?” I asked. My eyes darted from left to right; my senses created imaginary Evil One-Eyed Jinns of the Desert hiding behind the bookshelves and under the sofa; my ears shrunk back in fright from my uncle’s voice; my knees quaked and slapped one another in abject horror; my nostrils flared with cold fear; beads of sweat rolled down my forehead; my tea-cup rattled noisily in my hand; the fish in my uncle’s fishbowl swam around in circles; an owl outside dropped dead of a heart-attack; some insects were devoured by a bat as they flew happily through the night sky; a local politician smoked a cigar in his favorite pub; the milkman went to bed with images of dancing milk-bottles floating in his head; a music hall dancer suddenly lost a bobby-pin; some person wrote a letter to her Aunt Griselda; an Oxford don tripped on a staircase and spilled his glass of port… Oh, sorry.

                          “Yes. I’m absolutely sure. I knew a chap who tried it once. He was a big Irish fellow with a nasty disposition, and we all laughed when it happened because we felt he entirely deserved it. Of course, we don’t have to worry about that sort of hocus-pocus piffle anymore these days. All of the Evil One-Eyed Jinns of the Desert are, fortunately, no longer enchanting people and converting them into dancing harem girls. When we took over Baghdad, we made some government reforms, you see. That was one of them.”

                          “What was one of them?” My heart wasn’t beating so fast anymore. I was calming down. The process was gradual, but eventually I had simmered down into my normal complacent self.

                          “Evil One-Eyed Jinns of the Desert were no longer legally allowed to go around enchanting people and turning them into dancing harem girls, of course!” shouted my uncle, twirling his mustache with a gleam analogous to ire in his beady little eyes. “Those who continued to do so were dispossessed and fined. Yes, it was a hard life for all Evil One-Eyed Jinns of the Desert ever afterward. A few die-hards asked that Parliament end this discrimination against them and their nefarious turning-someone-into-a-dancing-harem-girl activities. Of course, this was not tolerable. From that time one, all of those chaps just gave up and some of them were even sent to Australia. The remaining Evil One-Eyed Jinns of the Desert had to content themselves by turning rats or camels into dancing harem girls. But it just wasn’t the same anymore. Faced with such a depressing future, some turned themselves into corpses or feather-dusters or donkeys or pickle jars and retired from the trade.”

                          “How exceedingly fortunate!” I said.

                          “It wasn’t very fortunate for the Mrs. Evil One-Eyed Jinns of the Desert, and all of the little Jinns who relied on their fathers for shoes and milk and that sort of thing, I dare say! Imagine what they must have felt, you heartless, unfeeling donkey!”

                          “Yes,” I said, much ashamed, “you are right, uncle.”

                          “One must have a broad perspective on these matters, lest one appear to be a brainless, insolent booby.”

                          “Thank you, yes.”

                          “Or a doltish, brutal twit.”

                          “Yes, I understand.”

                          “Or a cold, despicable puffin.”

                          “All right, uncle. I’ll never behave in such a manner again. I have learned this valuable lesson to heart and will…”

                          “Or an asinine, caddish fish.”


                          “As I was saying, the affair in the chicken coop was dangerous business. Would you like it if I continued to regale you with further frightening reminiscences of my long and exceedingly glorious martial past?” he asked, running his finger past all of the military decorations that lined the wall above his mantelpiece, blushing with obvious pride.



                          “Yes, sorry. I meant to say ‘yes’.”

                          He eyed me suspiciously, stamped on my shoe, tripped me with his boot, shoved me back into a chair, and began to tell me more about the horrifying chicken coop adventure.

                          Half an hour passed by as the prisoners and the Arab assassins waited patiently like little soldiers in the chicken coop near Akbar’s Camel Taxi Station and Rent-a-Camel. To Major Lancelot Snurdley, Sergeant-Major Bowles-Sappington, Lord Snodgrass, and the bound-and-gagged Brigadier Ironjaw, this period of time seemed almost to last about twenty-three years and fifty-nine days. Such was the bitter anticipation felt by all of the prisoners sitting around in the chicken coop.

                          For Insanee-Insane and Mustafa, this prolonged period of waiting for the arrival of the Evil One-Eyed Jinn of the Desert was no less tiresome and tedious. Insanee-Insane had run out of camel jerky and was thus forced to resort to chewing nervously on the coils of his exceedingly large and greasy turban. Mustafa, who was always thought to be too doltish to do much of anything even remarkably near intelligence, was scratching his chin with the nozzle of his revolver. After a while, they began to play tic-tac-toe, and Insanee-Insane became increasingly jealous of the fact that Mustafa always seemed to win. They had some chalk on hand, and had found a nice brown rooster to use as a board. However, the agitation that grew in Insanee-Insane’s beady little mind was immense. Mustafa kept winning whatever tactic he took. Surely - Insanee-Insane began to suspect - Mustafa must be cheating.

                          The chickens were also nervous, and they thus kept walking around in circles and clucking. Insanee-Insane turned around and told them to cut it out a bit, but they continued to act as chickens do. This annoyed him also. A little angry cloud began to churn relentlessly over the landscape of his sweaty little pate.

                          Outside, a little slip of a moon shone down its silver light over the great city of Khartoum. On a hill outside the chicken coop, a tall, black-clad solitary figure rode slowly into view on the back of a large smelly camel with a goofy expression on its face. One dour brown eye shown malevolently through the little gap between this chap’s turban and his tastefully checkered cravat. When he noted the chicken coop in sight, he made a little clicking noise with his teeth in order to make the camel move on faster. It didn’t particularly produce any effect. “Hup, hup!” called his whiny, annoying little high-pitched voice. The camel spat on the desert dust and looked up dolefully at its rider. “Come on, stupid! Forward! Faster! I’ve got an appointment to keep, you little twit!” said the mounted man of the desert wastes. The camel made a belching noise and flickered its eyelashes seductively at another passing camel. “You ignorant little bastard!” cried the man on camelback. “Get a move on! Will you just go on?” He gave the camel a little slap across the back of its head. In rebellion, the camel stopped to turn its head around and take a spit at the fellow on its back. Angrily, the mounted man kicked at its sides with his remarkably expensive-looking spats. Immediately, the camel took off, bounding forward over the hill, arriving at the chicken coop in under a minute.

                          Inside the chicken coop, all was chaos. Chickens were fluttering around screaming (as best as they could) and losing feathers as Insanee-Insane started kicking at them in his rage. The British prisoners looked on disdainfully as Mustafa tripped over the head of the late second Arab assassin. This was all too much. How very tasteless, Lancelot Snurdley thought.

                          “You son of a motherless goat!” screamed Insanee-Insane at Mustafa, tossing a pile of straw in his direction. “You cheating cheat! I shall saw off your kneecaps and feed them to the desert squirrels!”

                          “You pigeon-brained…person!” screamed Mustafa in response, tossing a pooper-scooper at Insanee-Insane. “I will cut off your nostrils and leave two holes where they once were!”

                          Sergeant-Major Bowles-Sappington stood up gravely and gave Insanee-Insane a little smack on the back of the head. “Calm down, you two. Where do you think you are? What’s all this about? Why in the name of St. Attila can’t you two just get along and stop your blasted quarreling?”

                          “He started it!” shouted Mustafa, fingering Insanee-Insane with a diabolical gleam in his eye.

                          “What? How is this? Explain, young man!”

                          “Well…” responded the evil Arabic assassin chief sheepishly, “Mustafa here was cheating. He was cheating at tic-tact-toe. I saw him. Really. He would have continued to cheat and cheat and lie and cheat and trick and deviate had I not stopped him.”

                          “He’s lying! He’s lying!” shouted Mustafa, leaping around in little circles and tripping over the squirming Brigadier Ironjaw.

                          “What? Then you weren’t cheating, Mustafa?” asked Sergeant-Major Bowles-Sappington, knitting his eyebrows. “Your brother told me that you had been.”

                          “He’s just jealous of my tic-tac-toe prowess! He always has been! He been always jealous of me because I smarter am than him,” said Mustafa. “And handsomer.” He spat at Insanee-Insane, who responded by throttling him and banging his head against a chicken bunk, scaring some birds and upsetting some eggs onto his head.

                          Now Lord Snodgrass got up and pulled them apart. “Settle down, you two! What an irresponsible lot of kidnappers you are!”

                          Lancelot was then struck by a brilliant idea. “I have a plan!” he shouted. Everyone looked at him, even Insanee-Insane. Mustafa then lunged forward and throttled him for a change, banging his head against the wall and slapping him with a chicken.

                          “What is that?” asked Brigadier Ironjaw, spitting out his gag.

                          “That we escape!”

                          “Brilliant!” cried Lord Snodgrass, flinging open wide the chicken coop door. He then shrunk back in terror as he noted the huge, black form standing in the darkness blocking the exit. “My God! It’s…it’s…the Evil One-Eyed Jinn of the Desert!”

                          “The very same,” said the Evil One-Eyed Jinn of the Desert, entering and brushing some dust off of his cravat. “Some call me Tim.”

                          Brigadier Ironjaw began quaking and frothing uncontrollably. He rolled about in the straw, frightening the chickens to no end. Snurdley stood resolute, but fell over backwards when Mustafa rolled into his leg by accident. Lord Snodgrass attempted to look brave by pulling his pants up high in an utterly ridiculously manner. Sergeant-Major Bowles-Sappington just slapped Insanee-Insane with his baton and told him to pay attention. Insanee-Insane paid so much attention, in fact, that he lunged forward, grabbing Mustafa by the collar, and tossing him before the Evil One-Eyed Jinn of the Desert’s spats.

                          “Turn him into a dancing harem girl as well, O Great, Wise, and Evil One-Eyed Jinn of the Desert,” Insanee-Insane said, beating his head in the dust three times and quacking, as was customary. “He deserves it heartily. He, the heathen wicked vile heretic Mustafa, a hairy devil of the Eastern variety, did cheat in a game against me. I ask for justice.”

                          “Watch out!” cried the Evil One-Eyed Jinn of the Desert in his horrifying, squeaky voice. “You don’t want to make me wroth! The last fellow who did…well…I transformed him into a bicycle!” At this, Brigadier Ironjaw began to weep. Everyone else merely shook with horror. “In fact, if the two of you continue to bother me, I shall transform you both into something incredibly unpleasant! For example,” he said, pointing to Insanee-Insane, “I might transform you into an antelope. And you!” - here he pointed to the cowering Mustafa - “Yes…I might transform you into a watermelon! It would serve you both right if I did so, in fact. So, don’t irritate me!”

                          “Oh, yes, O Great, O Wise, O Magnificent, O Benevolent, O Cheery, O Affable, O Buoyant Evil One-Eyed Jinn of the Desert!” cried Insanee-Insane, beating his head in the dust and quacking three times.

                          “Right, right, right, I know, I know, I know,” said the Evil One-Eyed Jinn of the Desert. “Now, where are the girls?”

                          “Over here!” responded Insanee-Insane, pointing to Brigadier Ironjaw, Lancelot, Snodgrass, and the Sergeant-Major.

                          The Evil One-Eyed Jinn of the Desert fumbled about in the folds of his mysterious cloak for his monocle. He eyed the prisoners suspiciously. He looked them over, one by one, scrutinizing their faces and their garments. He pinched Snodgrass on the nose. He poked Ironjaw in the eye in as scientific a manner as was possible. He blew through Lancelot’s ear. He did something else to the Sergeant-Major, but it wasn’t terribly interesting. He then stepped back and made his judgment.

                          “You twit! These aren’t girls!”

                          “What?” said Insanee-Insane, taken aback, “I thought you were going to turn them into dancing harem girls! By Allah, is this not so?”

                          “Oh, yes, right. That’s it. But in future, try and be a little more helpful and actually find some girls for turning into dancing harem girls. It’s much easier to do, you understand. This, well, requires some really long spells that take forever to say and that sort of thing.”

                          Insanee-Insane looked at him expectantly and everyone else gasped.

                          “OK. When going to turn them into dancing harem girls are you?” he asked.

                          “Well…later, I suppose.”

                          “What? Why not now?!”

                          “I’m a very fastidious Evil One-Eyed Jinn of the Desert,” he responded, rather matter-of-factly. “I don’t like trying to work when people are watching.”

                          “What? This sounds suspicious! I might think that you are a false Evil One-Eyed Jinn of the Desert!!” shouted Insanee-Insane accusingly. He pointed at the Evil One-Eyed Jinn of the Desert and stamped his foot angrily. He then leapt around in circles cursing.

                          “Not so! Everyone…look at that chicken!” shouted the Evil One-Eyed Jinn of the Desert. He pointed at a little white chicken that was walking around aimlessly. It eventually bumped into the wall.

                          “Yes, we’re looking,” said everyone.

                          “Just a few minutes ago…that chicken was my camel.”

                          “What?” responded everyone.

                          “I got annoyed with it and transformed it into a chicken. Honestly.”

                          Everyone was suspicious at this, but eventually they decided that it was best not to anger the Evil One-Eyed Jinn of the Desert any more than they already had. Thus, they decided unanimously to let the topic drop as it was.

                          “Now, if you four would follow me this way, we will go to Baghdad,” said the Evil One-Eyed Jinn of the Desert.

                          “And what,” said Lancelot in a brave voice, “if we refuse?”

                          “I’ll turn you into a donkey.”

                          “Right. Come along, chaps, let’s go.”

                          And thus, the four men and one Evil One-Eyed Jinn of the Desert set out on the camels waiting outside (including – mysteriously – a camel strangely similar to the one that the Evil One-Eyed Jinn of the Desert had been riding on earlier). They made for a little port city in which they engaged in a midget-tossing contest before setting out on the voyage to Baghdad.

                          Inside the chicken coop, Insanee-Insane and Mustafa continued to quarrel and rant and rage and that sort of thing. “Thanks to you,” shouted Mustafa, “I was almost turned into a watermelon.”

                          “Shut up, you greedy, furry pig,” shouted Insanee-Insane. “He nearly turned me into an antelope.”

                          In response, Mustafa grabbed a chicken and hit his brother over the head with it. Snarling angrily, Insanee-Insane responded by tossing an egg into Mustafa’s face. He then turned around and left the chicken coop in a sulk.
                          Empire growing,
                          Pleasures flowing,
                          Fortune smiles and so should you.


                          • #28
                            Why I most certainly am

                            And its about time too Id say

                            Its great to have you back HG, loving this and **** a hoop to see it up and running again Absolutely hilarious old chap
                            A proud member of the "Apolyton Story Writers Guild".There are many great stories at the Civ 3 stories forum, do yourself a favour and visit the forum. Lose yourself in one of many epic tales and be inspired to write yourself, as I was.


                            • #29
                              very nice, yes, quite.
                              Read Blessed be the Peacemakers | Read Political Freedom | Read Pax Germania: A Story of Redemption | Read Unrelated Matters | Read Stains of Blood and Ash | Read Ripper: A Glimpse into the Life of Gen. Jack Sterling | Read Deutschland Erwachte! | Read The Best Friend | Read A Mothers Day Poem | Read Deliver us From Evil | Read The Promised Land


                              • #30
                                The four stars were c o c k, oh what a silly world we live in when so many words cannot be used due to Political correctness.
                                A proud member of the "Apolyton Story Writers Guild".There are many great stories at the Civ 3 stories forum, do yourself a favour and visit the forum. Lose yourself in one of many epic tales and be inspired to write yourself, as I was.