|Flaxen in a moment of clarity- but only in the right eye|
For continuity and sanity, you are recommended to read this and this and this before you read this. Otherwise, you will be bewildered and think me a madman. Arse.
Flaxen sat replete at the faux Formica dining table in the bijou but perfectly appointed kitchenette type dining area. His hand rested on his double headed Danish war axe, 'Twat Cruncher' as the other set of digits shovelled a variety of dainty, delicate, delicious pastries into his gaping, pitiless maw. Loki/Bubbles, half wolf, half Maltese terrier rested supine, his coal black, limpid orbs forever restlessly resting on his master as he continued to consume sundry comestibles (?Flaxen or the halfling). The only sound to be heard was the jingling and jangling of Flaxen's chain mail. Flaxen's mastication was suddenly aroused and interrupted by the appearance of Flaxen's house mate, Roger, the flamboyant homosexual replete with a comb-over, pink bouffant. "Good morning dear heart, you scrummy northern generic barbarian type personage." Flaxen slowly regarded Roger's countenance with his bright blue, unblinking eye. A low growl hissed between tightened lips and an involuntary blast of flatus escaped from Flaxen's sphincter. Loki/Bubbles momentarily choked before rolling on his back, legs writhing akimbo as low whimpers left his poor writhing body. Small flecks of foam and blood be-speckled the snow white fur of his muzzle. Flaxen growled: "Hrogar, you test me sorely. If it was not for the fact that you make a divine Paella to die for, I would remove your turbulent bonce and place it on a stake for my future rumination and delight." Roger stood respondent/resplendent in a gold spandex 'onsie' bestrewn with cunningly fashioned peep holes and sequins. "O, Flaxen you do make me chortle and judging from the pungent effusion emanating from your posterior you have not been eating up your golden, wheaty oaty bran flakes, have you". Loki/Bubbles stirred and let out a low gasp before collapsing anew. "No viewings today, Flaxen. No dream homes to be inspected by an ever stream of rose cheeked couples looking for a place to call their own." Flaxen pursed his pastry encrusted lips and narrowed his one good eye, before replying. "I have been suspended on full pay pending an investigation into why an alarming percentage of prospective home owners seem to disappear under my watch. My explanation that they have been taken by a wandering war band of Jutish reavers did not go down well. I did myself a disservice by shouting out: 'I will brook no dissent from wastrels and knaves!' Thereafter it all got a bit sketchy. A dark mist descended upon my soul and when I awoke several middle managers had entered
Valhalla before their appointed time".
"O my, seems a bit of a to do. I'd better make some Paella, that'll fix it."
|Roger and fiends, resplendent|
Next week Roger dies of AIDS and Flaxen arranges the funeral.
To be continued........