It really was quite the bloody good show we had at the pool, chaps: Old Ferguson here tried to bring his pet walrus down to swim, but the man in charge would have none of it, even after he obtested and obtested the man stood firm that to bring such an animal was not consuetudinary and could not be permitted, a statement which of course drove Fergie into a rage, spitting at the man and tearing at his cymotrichous scalp, all while the walrus itself kept surreptitiously trying to eat the toy fish brought by a one of the youngsters, an action which was noticed by Fergie, who tried to stop the lubrugious creature from continuing; of course such an action against such a creature is unwise, and the mighty flipper-action from the walrus propelled Fergie straight into the tranche reserved for small children and their mothers, a wonderfully embarassing sight if I do say so myself.
"You've had yourself a right snootful already, sir," the heavyset man said, as he shuffled through the playground, doing his best to keep me from tripping over my own well-dressed feet, the whole while I tried to relate to him how the Princess Gregoretta had just severed my connection with the fifth plane and gone traipsing away with an awful satyr and how I had simply been trying to recreate the situation that led to my first meeting with that most-beautiful of fairy royalty, with her silken wings and dainty kisses that felt like snowdrops, and how well, I wouldn't usually have gone straight for the whiskey, being a sort of bon vivant with much more refined taste, but I was acting purely out of desperation to feel her warm naked skin against mine again, in the hopes that enough of any sort of alcohol could induce the effects of the original absinthe binge; of course at this point the bouncer, who must've run out of my patience for my stories, pushed me away so I tripped over the fulcrum of the rotting seesaw, my cap rolling off into the night and my former companion shaking his head while he walked away and me, lying in the mud, I began to cry.
The Camberton Mississippi Summer Riverside Carnival had become something of a local joke and embarrassment to the county by 1906, at which point the few carnival-goers and other citizens would become witness to an unusual (for the time) sight: a Mister Johnathon Dean, a local accountant and amateur pilot and extreme arachnophobe was testing his latest prototype when he discovered a massive but not at all vexatious Paraguayan tarantula sitting on the floor of his pilot’s cockpit, in which he was suspended horizontally and unable to move anything besides his hands, and seeing how the peaceful critter was out of his reach, began to toss and turn the early model airplane to try and dislodge the hairy stowaway, flying over the town and accidentally "performing" loop-de-loops and other stunts for all to see, a real barnburner the sight of which and (more importantly) the elan in whose viewer’s eyes was noted by the proprieter of the carnival, who was seven-foot-six, went by "Big Rickie", and had made it his life’s work to develop a modern carnival free from the exploitation of those like himself, so he immediately thought of a way to keep his dream alive and even though he had to deal with consistent lawsuits from the never-to-fly-again Mr. Dean, who was certain that B.R. (as his employees called him) had been in cahoots with the South American explorer who had brought the tarantula back with him and conveniently or inconveniently "lost" it, Big Rickie was, until his death, almost insufferably boastful about his role in the invention of the field of aerobatic stunt performances.
I saw the accused running from the souvenier shop with over one hundred pocket constitutions stuffed into his pants and sleeves, his Ben Franklin wig askew and poor colonial-style makeup farded all over his face; he stopped when he saw the police and started yelling that he hadn’t done anything and had written them himself, and then repeating "nulla pœna sine lege" at higher and higher decibels, refusing to kowtow until well, I ran up and slugged him across the jaw, not only because he was upsetting my young Russian wife but also because I spent many of my formative years in Derbyshire, and I always wanted to see how I would've fared in the colonial war of independence with my forte in street brawling.
In the germinal period of Stark McMannerson's golf stardom, just after his abandonment of his professional wrestling career, the former heavyweight champion's handsy style led to numerous foibles on the green; however, pace the commentators who said he might do better if he could hit the ball with a chair, McMannerson knew from his tarot readings that his eventual domination of the sport was assured.
"What kind of malediction have you cast on me, ruthless hsien?" the rotund little dictator yelled upwards, his glasses slipping ever closer to the end of his nose and his be-medaled uniform growing ever soggier; for you see, his bluffs and attempts to overawe the populace had failed miserably and completely, so that now even his military had joined the procession making its way toward his palace.
The lights of the room seemed to dim as a man sitting at the corner table said aloud, without looking at the gunslinger, "You're not much a gregarious sorta man, Willoughby, a fact which I know because we've got an capias with your name on it, as well as the agnomen I heard you use at the bar, so it'd be better for everyone if you didn't try to bluff your way out of here."
Tarrying on the treshold of the oft-debauched bar, the gunslinger slowly turned at the questioning of his bona fides.
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