Chancroid v. Chancellor
Pasted and made agent, once again, I earned the title of Chancroid of Elfador.
I understood public relations and quickly assembled a fleet to sail to Festicularis. Never had so many sumptuous furs been made execrable by hovering over them and evacuating our bowels upon them.
The Chancellor of Quas made an appearance by summons of habeas crapus. In our midst he exhibited a prowess for combat with crabs and lice, in a manner so expert, that we allowed him to search and clean our bodies.
This was a satisfied accomplishment — maybe even an occasion for pity. We were all destined for history in the outcast country. We would certainly overtake the heathen and Papist alike.
We had the flinders of the saints.
We had them by the short hairs.
What I’m Reading:
“There passed a weary time. Each throat
Was parched, and glazed each eye.
A weary time! a weary time!”
— Samuel Taylor Coleridge / “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”