"Holy Thatcher!" exclaims Gammeron, impulsively recoiling at the literal sight of the very absurd thing he has just been imagining moments earlier. While jumping back from being alarmed at the sight before him, the dinner plate flies out of his left hand out the open window, spinning beautifully like a porcelain frisbee. The moon quickly casts its luminous gaze at the spinning object as it vanishes into the horizon like an elegant departing UFO. There goes the only weapon in his possession, unless...
This oaken thing is not only sentient, but it is gazing at him with a look of unbound shock and terror. The look sort of reminds him of an unscrupulous Member of Parliament who has just realised that his secret cocaine and sex scandal has been made public by the tabloid press. Lodged into the bark is an axe, its origin from an unknown source and its properties mysterious. With a booming howl that will haunt Gammeron's soul for a good fortnight at least, the felled tree implores that he run and stay back.
Not wishing to find out what he has now potentially unleashed from the hellish wastelands of Sunderland outside, Hammy instinctively seizes the axe with his sausage fingers. An agonising five seconds pass before he can muster the strength to liberate the instrument from its quarry. With steel in hand, he can now safely run the hell away from the crumpled and mortally wounded tree, as the window now lodges against its bark, with drips of sap now raining on the resplendent red rug.
Succour! Refuge! A safe spot! Where in this house can he be safe from whatever dark forces he has unleashed into this very respectable and middle-class Englishman's manor?! The heavy, unwieldy hatchet can only impede his ability to sprint, meaning that by the time his chunky legs have carried him to a door on the south side of the landing hall, the man is now close to collapse with sheer exhaustion. He can feel his lungs falter faster than Ed Miliband can eat a bacon sandwich. With his free hand, from reaches out for the nearest doorknob to him and nearly collapses against the door as it easily swings open, as if being assisted by an equal pulling force from the other side.
The lights instantly turn on. The heck?
That pink! It's so paralysing with how...pink it is. The walls! Not even his own daughter would ever consent to having a bedroom this gaudy and pink! It's like someone has just pumped hydrochloric acid into his mask and it's now slowly seeping into his irises. It burns!
Taking the time to adjust to this vivid assault on his eyes, our lardy lead character treads further into the room with trepidation. He espies a mirror and all manners of stuff that women do in front of mirrors...whatever it is women do in front of mirrors to make themselves look presentable to men. There's an upturned bin in the corner and...and...ohhh dear. Was someone just disrobing in here, or was someone attacked? Our porky protagonist can only stare puzzled as he gazes at the undergarments strewn on the floor at the foot of the bed.
Could it be-? Is this Sexy's bedroom? Does she live here? Is she in trouble? SEEEEEEXY! THOSE VILLAINS ARE LIKELY VIOLATING HER! HE MUST SAVE HER!
As he proceeds to haul his heavy bones (and the hatchet) back towards the door, he takes an unintended look into the mirror...
This oaken thing is not only sentient, but it is gazing at him with a look of unbound shock and terror. The look sort of reminds him of an unscrupulous Member of Parliament who has just realised that his secret cocaine and sex scandal has been made public by the tabloid press. Lodged into the bark is an axe, its origin from an unknown source and its properties mysterious. With a booming howl that will haunt Gammeron's soul for a good fortnight at least, the felled tree implores that he run and stay back.
Not wishing to find out what he has now potentially unleashed from the hellish wastelands of Sunderland outside, Hammy instinctively seizes the axe with his sausage fingers. An agonising five seconds pass before he can muster the strength to liberate the instrument from its quarry. With steel in hand, he can now safely run the hell away from the crumpled and mortally wounded tree, as the window now lodges against its bark, with drips of sap now raining on the resplendent red rug.
Succour! Refuge! A safe spot! Where in this house can he be safe from whatever dark forces he has unleashed into this very respectable and middle-class Englishman's manor?! The heavy, unwieldy hatchet can only impede his ability to sprint, meaning that by the time his chunky legs have carried him to a door on the south side of the landing hall, the man is now close to collapse with sheer exhaustion. He can feel his lungs falter faster than Ed Miliband can eat a bacon sandwich. With his free hand, from reaches out for the nearest doorknob to him and nearly collapses against the door as it easily swings open, as if being assisted by an equal pulling force from the other side.
The lights instantly turn on. The heck?
That pink! It's so paralysing with how...pink it is. The walls! Not even his own daughter would ever consent to having a bedroom this gaudy and pink! It's like someone has just pumped hydrochloric acid into his mask and it's now slowly seeping into his irises. It burns!
Taking the time to adjust to this vivid assault on his eyes, our lardy lead character treads further into the room with trepidation. He espies a mirror and all manners of stuff that women do in front of mirrors...whatever it is women do in front of mirrors to make themselves look presentable to men. There's an upturned bin in the corner and...and...ohhh dear. Was someone just disrobing in here, or was someone attacked? Our porky protagonist can only stare puzzled as he gazes at the undergarments strewn on the floor at the foot of the bed.
Could it be-? Is this Sexy's bedroom? Does she live here? Is she in trouble? SEEEEEEXY! THOSE VILLAINS ARE LIKELY VIOLATING HER! HE MUST SAVE HER!
As he proceeds to haul his heavy bones (and the hatchet) back towards the door, he takes an unintended look into the mirror...
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