|Colin 'The Closer' Collins before the accident|
After a series of unfortunate incidences, not all associated with Flaxen's unrestrained and violent disposition, Flaxen had to flee Tipton when perused by an angry delegation of local Real Estate Agents. After collecting his faithful wolf cum Maltese Terrier, Loki/Bubbles, he managed to cross the metropolitan border heading south. His only visible/risible possession was a blood rimed burlap sack containing the heads of two incalcitrant/intransigent potential home owners; the head of Colin, 'The Closer' Collins (Area Head Office Manager) and a double cheese bugger McPuffin.
Flaxen's double headed Danish war axe (Twat Cruncher) swung lasciviously on his left hip and a blood besmirched long sword (Arse, Big Fat Arse Biter) was clenched in Flaxen's calloused, begrimed, right paw. The left hand carried a rolled up copy of the local newspaper, 'The Tipton Bugle incorporating the Dudley Wester Marches and Smethwick Hinterland'. Upon his head sat a spangenhelm resplendent in brass and gold. A byrnie of bronze encased his sinew, muscle bedecked, and lightly oiled, torso. Thus, Flaxen blended inauspiciously, inexplicably and inconspicuously with the evening commuter traffic heading south-eastward, ho.
As night fell, Flaxen halted his progress and reached in the burlap bag for the double cheese bugger McPuffin and shared said comestible with his trusty lupine/canine. As they dined heartily, Flaxen's brow furrowed deep as he pontificated on nature’s imponderable enigmas and wondered why Puffins looked nothing like their representation in the glossy ads. Bugger.......
|"Loki, get here!"|
Flaxen awoke as if from a dream and after, a light moisturising, continued his trek anew, heading southeast, always southeast. Arse.
|Dat one tasty bugger, sans fries|
As fate decreed, Flaxen and Loki/Bubbles found themselves unaccountably in the city of Cambridge; the beautiful city coddled by the meandering river, Cam. Before long they were bestriding the hallowed grounds and courtyards of the famed ancient university like colossi. Eventually, Flaxen espied a brass plaque upon an old oaken door: ‘Professor Stephen Hawking Lucasian Professor of Mathematics’. With a single mighty blow of 'Twat Cruncher' the door was twained/twatted and split asunder to reveal a curiously twisted human form framed in a metallic contraption of doom. The Skraeling intoned in a dull, metallic, robotic, monotone: "Are you here for the 3.00pm tutorial”. Flaxen appeared aghast and turned to his defecating and shuddering companion: "What sorcerer be this, Loki- he talks funny and yet his lips move, not at all".
|Loki/Bubbles contemplating the vicissitudes of existence|
To be continued.......
Next week Professor Hawking is introduced to West Saxon cosmology and the etiquette of the blood feud.