A cordial invitation to banter at the Estate of Evil Doctor Thrax.

Well, from now on whoever starts blowing up this chapter, has to clean up the mess!

 

Fair enough
I'll just use vapourising grenades

That way there's nothing to clean up


vapourises Yoshee

 

Always the smart arse, Richie!

 

But of course

 

See! An answer for everything!

 

---------No Comment-----------------

 

**Helps self to some Brandy**

 

I wonder what has become of our host?

randomly searches house to find Thrax

 

I believe he has business with his Lordship, Lord Bungle, over a land dispute. Apparently, Thrax has built a gazeebo on Bungles front lawn.

 

Classic!

What a way to piss off your fellow neighbouring Lords

 

Yes, quite so!

 

*The vast double-doors of the main hallway smash open at speed, killing twelve unidentified servants and rupturing the fabric of the space-time continuum in such a manner as to unhinge the sanity of all onlookers and transform Utoxeter into a giant wasp called Norman. Insensitive to this carnage, dear readers, the lunatic Lord Thrax enters the mansion, looking distinguished as ever in a long black hooded cloak, full plate mail and pink bunny slippers, and mounted in most belligerent fashion upon the back of an enormous, fire-breathing pig.

He wears a face like thunder, if you could but see it beneath his catholic suit of armour, but you can't - that's why it's explained in this here text.

The whither, whence, wherefore and whyhow, but perhaps not the watchamacallit, of his recent absence remain at present enshrouded in mystery, quite exactly belike the way a face flannel cannot hope to enshroud an entire continent. Then again, few are the face flannels that hope for very much at all; bathroom textiles are not so well reknowned for their lofty sense of ambition. Be that as it may - don't argue, it is - one can only assume that the proprietor's dispute with Lord Bungle was not brought to a happy conclusion, and that Lords George and Zippy may very well be the jostling contents of a large sack which the dubious Lord Thrax carries slung over his shoulder; a sack marked "Hostages, please do not bend."

If Adz intends to acquiesce upon the matters at hand, my dear reading several, he shows no sign of it, and instead appears resolute in his charge. Handing the sack to Jenkins, and giving him instructions which any sane individual would consider both immoral and impossible - not Jenkins though, Jenkins cannot be described as sane nor anything close to it - he then produces from his trouser pocket a small black notebook. As Jenkins marches off with the bustling sack, his Master opens the book and flicks to a page filled with names which include, "Roland Rat, Kermit the Frog, Big Bird, Mr Blobby, Otis the Arrdvark, Tinky-winky, Po, that bastardly annoying purple dinosaur thingy, Mayor McCheese, Pat Buchanan," and "the French," among others. He methodically draws a line through the names "Zippy" and "George", crossing them out with a grim air of molevolent satisfaction.

Next, having popped the notebook away, Thrax lifts out a large wooden pepper grinder, and angrily orders a commoner to stand motionless directly in front of his steed. Fearful of the consequences that await him if he disobeys, the hapless individual does as he is commanded. Thrax then proceeds to twist the handle of the grinder above the pig's nose, and the beast's gargantuan nostrils are sprinkled liberally with the seller's perfumed grains.

There is a collosal explosion as the pig sneezes violently. A terse yet volcanic jet of flame erupts forth from the animal's twitching snout, incinerating in a split-second the petrified commoner and obliterating in the process also a quite sizeable proportion of the West Wing.

Enter Jeeves, carrying a tray upon which are situated a bottle of wine, an appropriate glass and a small, silver pocket cigarette case. As usual he is expressionless and demure - a picture of stoic professionalism - not so the Maid who dashes in with a look of terror upon her face, and in a turbulent palpitation. As Jeeves places the tray upon a nearby table and begins to pour a glass of wine, Thrax dismounts the giant pig, and hands the reins of its harness to the Maid, instructing her to lead the animal away to the stables.*

Be sure to give Bessie double her portion of swill, won't you? She's earnt it.

*Exuent both Maid and pig. The former looking terrified, the latter quite jaded.

Thrax takes the glass of wine from Jeeves and drains it swiftly, then accepts from his manservant one of the cigarettes he is proffered, and steps away. With an air of quiet

 

Information overload!!


faints

 

Somebody please revive him.

Not you, Yoshee!

 

*sighs and flaps her cloak in Richie's face*

Oh, you're back are you sir Adz? And what about this mess?

*gestures at aforementioned west wing, remmenants of her magical battle with Richie and assorted debris caused by more duels, a feast or two and the close proximity of Yoshee*

I hope, sir, that you will not leave us so unwarned next time. I could have held the fort while you pursued your quests of revenge, for I have armies enough. Next time give us due notice or this soiree will be fearfully short. You have my warning, my good doctor.