Suggested Audio Jukebox
 Incubus “Sick Sad Little World”
 Elton John “Crocodile Rock”
 Diana DeWitt “Hard Act to Follow”
 The Police “Every Breath You Take”
 Will Millar “Lord of the Dance”
 Björk “It’s Oh So Quiet”
 Missy Elliott “Get Ur Freak On (Instrumental)”
 The Foundations “Build Me Up Buttercup (Instrumental)”
 Iron Maiden “Run To The Hills”
 Kenny Loggins “I’m Free (Heaven Helps The Man)”
Jeez I could do with a stiff drink right about now. The first thing I plan to do when I finally banish death to the fiery pits of hell from whence he came is to book a to week’s all-inclusive holiday to the Maldives and take shit easy. Had I known that being the Brutal Word Wrangler would entail quite as much brawling, then I may not have been so quick to accept the gig in the first place. I could have called myself the Brutal Weed Wrangler and spent my days tending to old Mrs. Pettifor’s rose garden while slurping cream soda through a crazy straw. Instead I have been forced into doing battle with all manner of undesirables and I’m not altogether sure how I’ve made it this far if I’m honest. Should you consult Bonus Brain, then he’ll likely take credit for every victory claimed thus far but, while he has bailed me out on occasion, he’s hardly been instrumental in the bigger picture. Charity begins at home and, since it seems highly improbable that he’ll be patting me on the back any time soon, I’ll damn well pat my own. It’s one thing chipping in from time to time with suggestions, but entirely another doing the dirty work. And believe me when I say it’s been downright filthy at times.
My previous opponents went by the name of The Paladins of the Dark Palace and they certainly had no great desire to offer up an easy passage. There were times when it threatened to get all too overwhelming but I remained focused throughout, driven on by my proposed reward for cutting these foul beasts down to size. The bishops are up next, Statler and Waldorf to be precise and, for those of you who spent the whole of the eighties hiding beneath a rock, I’m talking of the two cranky old geezers from The Muppet Show. On paper this meddlesome pair hardly appear the most formidable of foes but, make no mistake, taking them lightly will be an act no less than utterly foolish. You see, what they lack in bulging biceps and baleful brow veins, they make up for with cutting wit and the cruelest of irony. Sticks and stones may break one’s bones but being called a “talentless titty tassle” does precious little for reinforcing the spirit. It just so happens that, for all my wrangler swagger, I’m actually rather a sensitive soul and wish for nothing more than to be accepted by my peers. Insults can smart something chronic when directed without the necessary tact and diplomacy is something I’m convinced they’re not packing. Why else would they be nicknamed The Hecklers?
It will be imperative that I show not a solitary sign of weakness once I step beneath their roving search lights as they will capitalize on that in a picosecond and mount a verbal attack that could well hurt my feelings. Should I take things too much to heart, then these two scathing felt fucks will think nothing of finishing me off with a half-eaten aubergine or wayward cabbage and there won’t be a damn thing I can do about it. Their VIP box is well protected and its frowned upon to beat on the elderly, even in an infernal cess pit like this. My only hope of emerging from this next skirmish unscathed will be to amuse them to a sufficient enough degree that they take pity on my sorry self and grant me the all-important pardon. This bout isn’t about relentless bloodshed or tugging the spleens from sullen sea monsters. If you’re suggesting that my ride will be easy from hereon in then put your money where your mouth is and take my place dagnabbit. Just as I thought, nothing more than a bunch of yellow bastards. Guess that means taking yet another one for the team. I’m like Private Frost from Aliens – when a camouflaged wallflower xenomorph decides to break formation and fist Dietrich, I’m the poor schmuck stuck lugging around the frag satchel. That means I could potentially be first back in the showers and, should that be the case, then I’m using up all the hot water in protest.
Anyhoots, while chewing the fat with you is mildly fun, the elephant in the room just took a dump and more dropped out from beneath his tail than I consume in a calendar year so I say it’s high time we get things started don’t you? My plan was to rehearse my lines thoroughly before my big performance but that kind of fell by the wayside once my mind began to wander as tends to be the case when I’m left to my own devices for too long or three seconds, whatever beacon arrives first. Given that The Muppet Show formed a hefty wedge of my televisual diet as a youngster, it wasn’t long before I was overcome with curiosity over the origins of my own family tree. Am I a man? Or am I, in fact, a Muppet?
Being a soppy sack of squirrel snouts, I romanticized over thoughts of the latter, and soon found myself dreaming of waking up bright blue and covered head to toe in soft fluff. I’m sure it wouldn’t be such a hardship. I can think of worse things than sitting on the river’s edge in blazing sunlight while Elton John serenades you on his grand piano. As a matter of fact, maybe we can settle this right now. Let’s study the pros and cons shall we?
Become part of the most Muppetational family in existence
Test out my brand new chemistry set with Beaker and Bunsen
Receive tutorial on how to catch, skin and prepare poultry from the Swedish chef
Get to sniff Kermit’s webbed fingers to discover what he gets up to after the curtain drops
Flirt outrageously with Miss Piggy every time his back is turned
Muppet it is then. It’s been a lifelong ambition of mine to elbow my way in and it appears as though I’m about to be presented with the chance I’ve been craving ever since the very first waka. Granted, I could do without the stakes being quite so high, but choice is not a beggar’s friend I hear. Besides, all that stands between me and a potential showdown with Queen Bieber is a date with The Hecklers and I’m primed to take anything they wish to throw my way if it means getting my hands around that half-eaten hemorrhoid’s scrawny little neck and giving it a swift snap, crack, and pop. Rubber chickens, rotten vegetables, soiled tampons, whatever. Bring it you Muppety fucks! Some hardships are just worth it.
Before my performance begins, I think it would be a shrewd move to engage in a spot of reflection to calm the pre-show jitters. Thankfully Fozzie is on before me and, judging by the questionable reception he’s receiving and the dubious shepherd’s crook sliding in all sly from the side curtain, he shouldn’t be such a hard act to follow. That said, if he doesn’t buck his shit up soon, I could be on sooner than I think. Better not get too whimsical with my thoughts then; a swift recap should suffice. In a nutshell, since setting out this morning, I’ve done battle with seven crabby crack whores, had my Showdown at The OK Corral with the ever-eldritch Monsieur Heureux, played a round of spot the difference with a pair of battered rooks that kind of reminded me of someone, beheaded a colossal calamari no less than twelve times, and dislocated eighty knees in unison (eighty-two if you count my own).
All of that before even making it to the auditorium and I’m double damned if I’m letting those two jumped-up puppet ponces piss on my sparkler. If you suspect that’s fighting talk from the wrangler then I recommend listening to your gut as it may well be onto something. I’ve every intention of rising like the proverbial phoenix and after dealing with any imminent threats and dismantling Bieber I shall face death, look deep into his eye socket and slap him upside his emaciated cranium for putting me through the ringer this way. If Bonus Brain feels like pitching in then I’ll welcome that but I know how much he looks forward to Quincy, M.E. so I’ll leave it as an open invite. If you want a job doing, then where’s the satisfaction in not doing it yourself right? Actually I’m just trying to disguise the bitter rejection. Woe is me you see, how could it not be? If woe wasn’t me then I’d be on a beach in Honolulu right now getting my mutton whistle blown by a bronzed Amazonian named Wanita while sipping margarita from a clarinet. Don’t wish to be pernickety Bonus Brain but don’t forget your lease is up in May. Just saying.
Judging by the sound of distant sirens and the fact that Fozzie Bear is currently convulsing wildly center stage after being pelted with reinforced asparagus tips and appears to have swallowed his tongue, I’d say he’s died on his feet. Unless I’m mistaken, that makes me public enemy number one right now and time is a wasting so, without further ado, I shake my little tush to the catwalk and prepare for around 300 or so of my daily five simultaneously. The moment I reach my hard target, the lights dim around me, and a singular spotlight falls on my position from the rafters above. This is it, my fifteen minutes of fame and, no doubt, baptism of both fire and brimstone. I know not what is expected of me but The Hecklers will explain all in due course I’m sure.
From where I am standing I can just about make out the VIP box and two shadowy figures sitting side by side. It has to be Statler and Waldorf, I can tell those waspish wet blankets from a country mile away, as the crow flies no less. At this juncture I have no clue as to exactly what kind of flaming hoops the pair will have me leaping through but I’m now suitably pumped for the challenge. After straightening my crimson bow tie, I take one last glance at my pocket watch, suck in my breath, and break the most uncomfortable silence since the blind chick from Mask inexplicably got her vision back on the all-important third date.
Credit where due, the acoustics in this place are magnificent. I’m tempted to sit back and enjoy the ricochets for a few moments but know full well that the initiative must be snatched while the going is halfway good as Statler & Waldorf are hardly the most forgiving of critics and, unless that plummeting brussel sprout was accidental, it looks like the games have already begun in earnest. To put things in perspective, they once made Roger Ebert cry. You’re getting my gist now right? As my solitary word cuts through the quietude, their attentions turn to me and I now have a captive audience, albeit merely provisional. While perfectly acceptable to milk a cow by its udders for shits, giggles, and wholesome dripping dairy, I believe it is commonplace to take a mopish bullock by the scruff of its horns or else be prepared for it toe punting you dead centre of your plum tail, so best be airing on caution’s side methinks.
“Do with me as you will Muppets”
Someone wiser than I once informed me that I should be careful what I wish for and right now it is that advice reverberating through my frontal lobe. Ducks may flap their feathers gleefully when paddling through water but they’re miserable mongrels sitting and I’m one quack from aromatic right now. That said, the Brutal Word Wrangler is not here to make up the numbers. Indeed should you carve me open right now, then I’m fairly assured that stuffing would come gushing forth in quantity. If that doesn’t make me Muppet material then I insist you dope test that Janice from Electric Mayhem as I’m not going down solo dagnabbit and I just know she’s hitting the bong.
As for Animal, well he may be a pretty mean kick drummer, but you don’t get that way without crystal meth playing a part. You’re damn right, I’ll blow the whistle on this whole shady operation to save my own precious bacon. The most you’re getting out of the wrangler is a couple of skimpy rashers and perhaps a chipolata if I’m feeling generous. I can now hear Statler & Waldorf flapping their gums above me and it would appear the pair are on fine form this evening. However, there’s another rattling voice filling the auditorium via tannoy and no prizes for guessing who it belongs to.
“I must commend you on a job well done thus far wrangler. Now for a real challenge”
Spindly scoundrel, how dare death be so flippant as to suggest that the last three rounds have been anything less than perplexing.
“It’s time for you to prove your mettle to a rather more…pedantic audience. You will be provided with three shots at impressing wrangler…three strikes and you’re out”
With that, he is gone once more. Great, somehow I have to tickle the funny bones of two grumpy old men who possess absolutely no vertebrae. No pressure then. Ordinarily this would pose little more than a mild headache, but when the critics I have to appease are as cynical as Statler & Waldorf, this challenge he speaks of suddenly takes on a whole different complexion. So how do I manage such a feat? These two insolent felchers are a tough audience to please, sitting up there in their soap boxes all indestructible and shit. Why don’t you come down here and tell me “that was rubbish” to my face? No, you won’t do that and do you know why that is? It’s because you have an ass full of fingers that’s why. Passing judgement like we’re back in ancient Rome, how very dare you. I shall not be rewarding such blatant insolence. You two are going down like Heureux. A puppet is, after all, merely a puppet right?
Three shots. That’s all I have to make an impression. I guess I should just suck it in and give the old coots what they want, after all, I can already hear them conferring between themselves over which vegetable to lob first and it won’t be long before they begin to grow restless. I rack my brain for inspiration, a witty anecdote to break the ice and lube them up some but there is nothing whatsoever doing and my mind has been wiped clean like a soapy schlong. How can this be? The wrangler doesn’t traditionally stutter in such circumstances. I should be thriving on the pressure, not buckling beneath it like Roseanne Barr’s bed springs. Right now I have zip, zilch, nada and those three combine to give me a big fat zero which is what I imagine their scorecards to say once I’ve made a complete meatball of myself for their personal amusement. One thing is certain, if I don’t attempt something quick smart, my king will be in check and I’ve come too damn far to fall at anything less than the final hurdle.
Frittering not a solitary second more, I break out in an ad-hoc tap dance and pray that it acts as a suitable ice-breaker. Perhaps I’m aiming a little low but I need to get a feel for these guys, see what I’m up against. Problem is, while most folk have no more than two left feet in their possession, somehow I count three lefties right now. What’s the use of a ghost limb I ask you if it’s just as inept as the others? Thus, in addition to looking vaguely constipated, my equilibrium is well off-kilter. My moves sufficiently mimic drowning plankton and there is no accompanying sheet music which means I’m exposed like a subway flasher here. It takes all of seven seconds before their opening bulletin and, when it arrives, it is not as acidic as I had feared.
Statler: Bravo! Bravo!
He appears to be off his seat. Could this be a standing ovation?
Waldorf: Why are you yelling bravo? Did you like it that much?
I think I may well have cracked it y’know. Perhaps I am the lord of the dance after all. Look out Off Broadway, here I come.
Statler: Nope. Friend of mine, Joe Bravo, he’s sitting in the front row. Bravo!
My heart instantly sinks to the pit of my stomach like a lumpy turd in a wet suit. One attempt down and they have barely even seen fit to register my existence. This is likely to be far more troublesome than it first appeared. I must discount my lost opportunity as nothing more than a getting to know you exercise and dust myself off for round two. Having ascertained straight off the bat that I’m unlikely to be dancing my way into their cold black hearts, a swift rethink is in order. Then it hits me like a Bruce Lee roundhouse, only without the fungal verrucas – perhaps their hearing aids aren’t turned up. That would account for the complete lack of acknowledgement and the fact that they haven’t won at bingo since the late seventies.
The Hecklers may be immune to my intermediate tap prowess but can they resist a mime act like no other? Despite boasting absolutely no prior experience, I quite fancy myself as the strong, silent type. Marlee Matlin picked up an Academy Award so maybe I can win over those four deaf ears with a dash of street performance. There doesn’t appear to be a dressing room available so I perch myself on the stage while applying the necessary war paint. Every now and then I feel a little uneasy as I can hear them shuffling around on their seats impatiently but I put this down to them shifting cheeks to give the hemorrhoids a rest and carry on about my business until…ta-da!
Not bad for a rush job, if I do say so myself. Granted, my eye-liner may be a little skew-whiff but, while my three older sisters delighted in dressing me in their frocks as an infant every time my father’s back was turned, I’d traditionally wriggled free by the time the blusher brush was introduced. For a first timer, I’d say I did rather well. Now if only I could remember what it is that mimes actually do, I’d be three blocks from easy street. Pulling the obligatory white gloves from my rucksack, I slide them on, and then…stand there akin to dazed roadkill. Nothing. I’m utterly bamboozled. Indeed, the auditorium is so deathly silent that I can discern crickets grinding their knees together on the front porch and I swear I just overheard one of them remark “this chump’s a goner”. Thanks for the vote of confidence guys, I hope locusts make a comeback and you’re forced into annual guest appearances at charity fundraisers. I’ve got to do something fast as I can almost hear the disapproving frowns assembling in the VIP box above and I’m going down faster than shares in McDonald’s since the 2008 Breeders’ Cup winner wound up in one of their Big Macs. Where’s one’s freak when you need it?
Cheers Missy. All of a brilliant sudden, the spotlights are on me once more and this time they ignite me à la Flashdance. I commence pulling all manner of shapes, from oblongs to a lone dodecahedron and pretty much everything in between. White gloves waving frantically, I attempt to navigate an invisible wall with the biggest, dumbest, most quizzical look on my gormless face you ever did see. Actually, for all my fearless endeavor, I’m no Irene Cara and I guess she just wears sweat better than I. You see, there’s much to be said for camel toe after all. That said, while I resemble Stevie Wonder playing Quasar, all may not yet be lost. If I ain’t too proud to beg, then I’m not above milking the sympathy votes either. Failing that, I’ll offer their puppet masters hand jobs and hope that news filters through their vessels before the votes are cast. Never mind that, the silence is about to be broken. Nice length of slack fellas, mind cutting me off a piece?
Statler: Well, that was different.
Aha! Could it be that I have won Statler over with my impromptu performance? They have to award bonus marks for originality right?
Waldorf: Yup. Lousy…but different!
With that, any hopes of avoiding a tie-breaker are cruelly dashed and this once proud champion is left dangerously close to a withered shadow of his former self. I’m out of ideas now, got nothing left in reserves. Guess that’s just the rub of the green. Hold on, am I the Brutal Word Wrangler? You’re darn tooting I am. A last bite of the cherry is still just that, another bite. Glass half full and all that good stuff. Hell I even cried a little when Apollo Creed snuffed it. I know how to rouse myself and don’t need to travel to communist Russia to get myself fighting fit. Then it comes to me. The answer has been right under my nose the whole time, or at least, tucked away just north of my hippocampus. It’s Bonus Brain, that petulant scamp and wascally wabbit. I’m sick to the spine of him mincing about all self-important and there’s still a good twenty minutes until Melrose Place starts so it’s high time he earns his gravy in my opinion. Of course, he knows I’m sweating this and I have a vague suspicion that he is gathering sick pleasure from my faltering performance. There’s no way around this, I shall have to go hard line.
“Remember who you are Bonus Brain. Moreover, remember who your master is. That aside, can I please ask for your help on the pronto old bean? You see, these two elderly geezers just aren’t digging on the wrangler. I’ve tried to dazzle them with fanciful footwork and it drew a blank. The mime routine? Flatlined also. I’m all out of ideas here, my cock’s on the block, and one of the Swedish Chef’s cleavers has reportedly gone missing so things are way beyond desperate”
“They’re Muppets aren’t they?”
“So unless I’m mistaken which I haven’t been since 1997, all Muppets love a good sing-song. They live for that shit, you want to get them you have to tug at their strings. It’s a no-brainer which should suit you down to the ground. Sing ’em a song dumb ass and come and find me afterwards as we need to talk about a raise”
Part of me wants to plant a big sloppy smooch dead center of his grey matter while the other wishes to flick this insubordinate louse into a kiln and crank it to the danger setting. Needless to say, Bonus Brain is onto something here and I ponder momentarily whether there’s any conundrum my little friend cannot decipher. Go easy and love him or all in and loathe him, he’s a resourceful blighter for sure. Moreover, he may well have thrown me a life raft. Should I use the acoustics to my advantage and bank on a ricochet, then I could still titillate their stubborn eardrums with my siren-like tones and come out smelling all rosy. I’m no Stevie Wayne but neither am I Howard Stern and my beloved grandmother once commented on my adorable rose-bud lips so I’ll even chuck in a pout on dismount.
“Pretty good going Bonus Brain. I’ll take it from here”
“And it was all going so well”
Couldn’t resist one last dig could he?
Save Me Song
I’m a Muppet like you from Jim’s workshop it’s true
and I do all the things that a Muppet might do
run your hands down my pelt and you’ll discover it’s felt
top-to-toe cased in fluff Muppet man through and through
Please don’t discount me yet as we’ve only just met
I’ll enhance given chance and will earn your respect
though no public speaker come now nor is Beaker
and he was still Muppet the last time I checked
If I am who I say would you please let me stay
as I can’t bear the Grueheads to see me this way
I come to you meek your approval I seek
if you just let me pass I’ll remember this day
I’ll not take for granted the seeds that we’ve planted
I just ask that you don’t let me leave disenchanted
Monsieurs Waldorf and Statler you must see I’m a battler
and what good’s a blessing if never imparted
Plus Miss Piggy’s watching so I can’t deal with botching
your approval this night isn’t all I plan on notching
bacon ain’t just for saving if you like misbehaving
that plump vulva’s ideal to misplace my wristwatch in
As for Kermit The Frog keep your hands off that hog
this dame needs a man not some off green lap-dog
I may just fit the bill for a dip in her swill
If you two kindly fellows grant a kind epilogue
So what do you say please endorse that bouquet
all I ask of you now is a dash of leeway
Cut the wrangler some slack I will never look back
and I promise I’ll give my regards to Broadway
I’ve done all I can now and my fate is in their hands. In the words of Jaws as Quint suffered thigh cramps at the most inopportune moment imaginable, “it’s crunch time baby”. I’m already aware of the devious crook creeping in from the left-hand curtain so it all hangs on Statler & Waldorf now. Have I done enough to appease these cynical wretches? After a few seconds that feel like at least a few more, results are in and the silence is finally broken.
Waldorf: That was wonderful!
Waldorf: I loved it!
Statler: That was great!
Waldorf: Well, it was pretty good.
Statler: Well, It wasn’t bad.
Waldorf: There were parts that weren’t pretty good, though.
Statler: It could’ve been a lot better.
Waldorf: I didn’t really like it.
Statler: It was pretty terrible.
Waldorf: It was bad.
Statler: It was awful!
In unison: Terrible! Eh, boo!
Talk about pedantic. Little do these cranky crustaceans know that I took them on their first retort and have already slinked off towards the nearest fire exit. That’s what you get for blathering on guys, you let me slip through your fingers. Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit morons. While I was looking forward to milking the adulation of the capacity crowd and relishing my moment under the spotlight, I’m not sticking around for the grim reaper to call foul play, Piggy or no Piggy.
It is with a smidgen of regret that I offer her one final smile before slipping away otherwise undetected and, if her stiffened teats are any kind of indicator, I was definitely in with a shot of thumping her flower should I not be in such a hurry to depart.
But what’s this? I spot Beaker loitering in the shadows! Not now dingbat, your timing couldn’t be more wretched. Shoo! I just pray that Bunsen’s had those ears fitted by now so he can stop his half-witted sidekick from compromising the whole deception at the critical moment. Perhaps I should appeal to his better nature. Wonder what Bonus Brain thinks of all this.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you”
That’s alright for him to say but I’m the one carrying the can for both our sorry asses right now. I believe it is customary to trust one’s gut when push and shove begin fraternizing. Besides, for thirty-five years I’ve been harping on about Beaker being my number one Muppet. He wouldn’t play me like that surely.
“There, there. Nice Beaker”
Think again wrangler. You see I forgot one key factor in all of this – his memory banks can hold around 3.5 nanoseconds of data. Why else would his hooter be the exact same color as a domestic goldfish?
“MEEP! MEEP! MEEP!”
Whistle-blowing bastard has only gone and assumed the role of last-ditch villain of the piece. Suddenly the mood changes dramatically and I can hear a distant rumble growing ever-nearer as it would appear that Beaker’s shrill reveal has rattled Animal’s cage.
Worse still, Kermit has caught his cherished Piggy’s tail in mid-wiggle and has grabbed a tire iron to batter me senseless with. Meanwhile, Janice from Electric Bonanza is none too pleased about being dope-tested, Fozzie got his paws on some pliers and a rusted box cutter and is looking to claim a replacement tongue, Rowlf just heard the words “sick balls” hollered from the balcony, Gonzo just found a backstage mirror and is smarting for a fight, Sam The Eagle’s antidepressants evidently don’t mix well with Bell’s Whiskey, Scooter is incensed that he didn’t even get a mention and to top it all off, those cursed free-range chickies just laid a trail of eggs leading directly to my position. All we need now is Guy Smiley and I’ll be sprawled out on the Swedish Chef’s chopping board before you could say ““bork bork bork”. Thank God he double-crossed The Muppets and transferred to Sesame Street. Never trust an anchor. Speaking of which…
“Hi I’m Guy Smiley”
“Triple fuck with marzipan sprinkles”
Time to do like a flock of seagulls and high-tail it out of here before things get uglier than Gonzo’s yearbook photo. Without further ado, I replace my child-bearing hips with a fast-fading vapor cloud as I set off on my eleven-thirty bid to out-skedaddle OJ. With all manner of gnarled Muppets in hot pursuit, Animal’s chompers positioned to chow down on my swollen ankles, and that damn shady crook finally figuring out how to turn corners, I head for the hills and don’t plan on catching my breath there either. The last time I attempted such a dash was the Daddy 100 at my six-year old boy’s very first sports day and, for those not in the know, let’s see how my track return after a twenty-five year absence turned out shall we?
In case you’re wondering, I made it all of three yards from starter’s pistol. The thing is, I was just Richard Charles Stevens then, lowly public servant with the balance of a newborn fawn and surrounded by clearly only the finest of athletes. Since Stumble-Gate I have been baptized Brutal Word Wrangler and it will take a lot more than a Muppetational fisting to see me become just another Workshop casualty. Eat my dust mites motherfuckers!
Well pluck my poultry and dice those carrots, I’ve done it. I’ve finally done it. Granted, tonight may not have helped my chances of gaining my resident Muppet grant, but I have got away by the very seat of my underpants and I’ll take that to “Herp Gurpity der Derp” ringing in my ears as I come to the simmer. I may only have prevailed on a tenuous technicality but all paths now lead directly to Bieber and, in my mind, that makes me a winner. Statler and Waldorf can both suck a bag of cement-caked marbles, I’ve arrived at the very cusp of nirvana and it’s time to burst a primed pimple. That scrawny little punk has been in the back of my mind this whole sordid safari, and I make it high-time to wipe that stupid smug grin off his stupid smug face. I’m not blinkered, he’s sure to have read my playful ode Bring Me The Head of Justin Bieber and I would imagine he’s been working those abs with purpose ever since. Not that it’s going to help him in the long run a solitary iota, no mercy should be expected from the wrangler when we finally square up mano to boyo. The gloves are off and this is about to get mighty grubby.
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014