I left the gold mine at 6:30 in the afternoon on Friday, and didn't make it home until 2 in the morning saturday. On the way home, I had plenty of time to stare blankly and ponder the imponderable - like what it would take to get a tanker truly shnockered.
So I scribbled down this bit of drabble.
Now, gather round all you young lairds and lasses, and hear my sad tale of heroes tipping glasses. The tale begins in that den of sin, the upper deck lounge in the pocket D.
'Twas myself and Pounce and Mrs. Pounce, and a /wallleaned Tish you see. She was there so it wouldn't be weird, as it often is with three.
A long day of farming had done us its worst, face punching the Council had fired our thirst.
I was drinking Dublins, a pale blondish ale, while Pounce and the missus shared a strawberry daiquiri and the warmth of her tail.
Tish nursed a shandy as we sat waiting, for Charlie to bring us the finest libation.
Earlier that day, while resetting the mission, Pounce turned to me and said "Mags, I'm a wishin', for some Rogue Island Red, it's the best you see, there's no finer liquor for you or for me."
Well I trusted Pounce, so I made some calls, 'tween punching vampire face and kicking werewolf balls.
Turns out Rogue Island Red is hard to get hold of. Us heroic types get laughed at and told off.
But Charlie knew a guy, that money spoke to, and this Major Minor lad would sneak us this brew.
So we sat and we idled, and fiddled at cards. The normal actions, you take in bars.
But Charlie arrived, trusty and true, with six shiny bottles - the tanker gets two!
The bottles were mismatched, the labels hand painted. The caps all came off, and Pounce almost fainted.
I surged ahead, ignoring the gravity, and put down a slug that tasted of depravity.
And coconuts, and paint thinner, and hamidon goo. Possibly some almonds, and a ghost or two.
The room got all fuzzy, and I said with a grin - "The first round's on me, has anyone seen my chin?"
The rest of the evening, I could not confess, but I woke up on Tuesday, wearing a dress.
An Arbiter's helmet, a Fortunata's butt cape. A shiny garter belt cinched my sartorial fate.
I counted my hands, and came up with three. Star Ranger was there, handcuffed to me.
As we dangled from Atlas' mighty hand, my head was filled with a mariachi band.
Pounce was on top of his colossal globe, and the stripes of her fur made up her wardrobe.
Tish had gone home, taking Charlie with her, and Mrs. Pounce - Paige was locked in the stir.
With a rap sheet that went from my neck to my wrist, and a stack of fines that told me, PPD was pissed.
It took three days to fully recover, and the repair and cleanup bills I've yet to discover.
So it's back to farming Council, to pay my debts you see, and maybe when we're done, we'll go to Pocket D.
But listen to my tale my friends, and stick with Dublin's brew, 'cause Rogue Island Red just ain't no good for you!
So I scribbled down this bit of drabble.
Now, gather round all you young lairds and lasses, and hear my sad tale of heroes tipping glasses. The tale begins in that den of sin, the upper deck lounge in the pocket D.
'Twas myself and Pounce and Mrs. Pounce, and a /wallleaned Tish you see. She was there so it wouldn't be weird, as it often is with three.
A long day of farming had done us its worst, face punching the Council had fired our thirst.
I was drinking Dublins, a pale blondish ale, while Pounce and the missus shared a strawberry daiquiri and the warmth of her tail.
Tish nursed a shandy as we sat waiting, for Charlie to bring us the finest libation.
Earlier that day, while resetting the mission, Pounce turned to me and said "Mags, I'm a wishin', for some Rogue Island Red, it's the best you see, there's no finer liquor for you or for me."
Well I trusted Pounce, so I made some calls, 'tween punching vampire face and kicking werewolf balls.
Turns out Rogue Island Red is hard to get hold of. Us heroic types get laughed at and told off.
But Charlie knew a guy, that money spoke to, and this Major Minor lad would sneak us this brew.
So we sat and we idled, and fiddled at cards. The normal actions, you take in bars.
But Charlie arrived, trusty and true, with six shiny bottles - the tanker gets two!
The bottles were mismatched, the labels hand painted. The caps all came off, and Pounce almost fainted.
I surged ahead, ignoring the gravity, and put down a slug that tasted of depravity.
And coconuts, and paint thinner, and hamidon goo. Possibly some almonds, and a ghost or two.
The room got all fuzzy, and I said with a grin - "The first round's on me, has anyone seen my chin?"
The rest of the evening, I could not confess, but I woke up on Tuesday, wearing a dress.
An Arbiter's helmet, a Fortunata's butt cape. A shiny garter belt cinched my sartorial fate.
I counted my hands, and came up with three. Star Ranger was there, handcuffed to me.
As we dangled from Atlas' mighty hand, my head was filled with a mariachi band.
Pounce was on top of his colossal globe, and the stripes of her fur made up her wardrobe.
Tish had gone home, taking Charlie with her, and Mrs. Pounce - Paige was locked in the stir.
With a rap sheet that went from my neck to my wrist, and a stack of fines that told me, PPD was pissed.
It took three days to fully recover, and the repair and cleanup bills I've yet to discover.
So it's back to farming Council, to pay my debts you see, and maybe when we're done, we'll go to Pocket D.
But listen to my tale my friends, and stick with Dublin's brew, 'cause Rogue Island Red just ain't no good for you!
