Friday, October 13, 2006

Chapter 4 - The Guy (2)

Thus, yet again, this great chronicle may have ended and passed into obscurity. Genie would have faded away into insignificance and Landscape would have been doomed to perpetual misery under the iron rule of King Incarnate. Life would have sucked.

Luckily this didn’t happen. Thanks solely and foremost to Sinister’s reputation for stupidity Landscape and its inhabitants gained another chance at reprieve.

ooOOoo

The Guy was never one to do things by half. Soon Dexter and Sinister, having been bumped around in the back of a covered wagon with nothing to drink or eat for ages, were dragged onto a waiting ship and thrown into a dark, damp, and smelly storage hold. Dexter still suffered from The Guy’s persuasive prowess but Sinister was calmly surveying their quarters.

“A bit stuck now, aren’t we?” muttered Sinister lazily, the blade of grass still limply protruding from the edge of his mouth.

“Uh, eh?” replied Dexter. He did not quite seem to know where he was and, quite frankly, he seemed to be relieved by the fact. Sinister gave Dexter up as a bad idea and continued his examination of the hold. The smell alone would have put King Incarnate’s socks to shame. That aside, the walls dripped despair and all was eerily quiet, except for a sailor merrily whistling somewhere far up above.

It seemed as if the ship had gone underway. If only he knew where they were headed, Sinister thought. If only he knew why his head suddenly felt so clear and full of clever things. Perhaps it was caused by the fall from the sky? Sinister gingerly felt his head and his hand met with a large lump at the back of his skull. His hypothesis now tentatively confirmed, he felt better and sat down to feel sorry for himself. He never wanted to be clever. Life suddenly seemed so confusing. He’d got all these worries whirling through his head…the meaning of life, the alcohol content of Dumbstruck, the outcome of their journey, how they would escape The Guy’s clutches…

Sinister gave himself up to a huge sigh and glanced at Dexter. He was not altogether sure he liked what he saw. Dexter was busy writing a confession on a small piece of paper, all the while chewing a grubby pencil and whispering incoherently to himself.

“I wish to express the deepest condolences to the families of all the ants I’ve ever trodden on…no…no…I’m a bad, bad person…I deserve to be keelhauled and quartered and served on a platter to the lowest bidder…no…too good for me by far…”

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