Awoken early this morning thinking that, as predicted, the world was ending this May. A few days early, sure. So I needn't have panicked. But in the wee small hours you can't think that clearly.
There was a green, unearthly light flashing in the Moot House and a sort of electronic howling sound. So donning a dressing gown and picking up my trusty Slazenger, I headed down to the House. To find Morgwulf hanging in a net above a collection of willow wands and cherry blossom. He'd walked straight into a flower-arrangers' booby-trap while trying to smash up their latest arrangement.
Well, I'm not getting myself in the firing line. I nipped back to the armoury, picked up my father's old shotgun, came back in and shot through the ropes suspending Morgwulf from the ceiling. He fell eight feet onto an awkwardly-shaped vase, and then just lay around kind of swearing and clutching his back. No gratitude at all. You can't help some people.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Drop a thoughtful pebble in the comments bowl