In the office of the 'Head Estate Agent', Mr Ferrettamer III.
|Mr Ferrettamer III, in repose|
Flaxen, resplendent in his byrnie of brass and iron regarded Mr Ferrettamer with his single, baleful, blue eye and retorted thusly: "Who dares question the affairs of Flaxen, king of the Tipton Saxons. Impudent wretch! I will gather my war band and burn his garth to the ground. All shall perish by the sword, Arse, big Fat Arse, Biter. None shall escape my wrath!"
"Or perhaps you could go round to the house and furnish Miss Scrotybottom with a key to the room."
"I'll pop down there later today after reviewing the contract for Mr Pindleberry's property and after my 3 o'clock viewing of 2 Winston Terrace......"
At that moment, Loki the Maltese Terrier, emitted a low growl and pounced on Ferrettamer's ankles. He tried to shake off the tenacious terrier, but to no avail. Finally, in frank despair and desperation he reached for the marble paperweight ubiquitously poised upon his leatherette feature desk. He raised the figurine, a tasteful rendition of Michelangelo's David, although some critics gave it a severe panning for not bringing out the quintessential boldness of the original piece, difficulties of working with the medium and the problem of blending texture and light, notwithstanding. Also the cock was deemed overlarge, rampant and inconsistent with the original due to the absence of a prepuce. I've digressed. Ferrettamer was poised to bring down the aforementioned paperweight upon the skull of the persistent beast, when......As if in a drunken reverie, Flaxen reached for his Danish double headed war axe, Twat Cruncher and with one mighty blow, split Ferrettamer in twain, from breastbone to coccyx. The pieces toppled to the floor and Loki immediately grasped the lighter of the two supine torsos and began to crunch on an exposed lumbar vertebrae with unrestrained relish.
Next week, Flaxen loses his car keys and has to catch the bus.