King Athroid was sitting on a spear dreaming about chairs. His arms folded behind his rugged armour plating, and his back. He needed something to do. As a King he had all the privildges. Many people bowing down before him and his dusky throne. His darkened empire stooped across the world, engulfing continant after contanant like a nevereding oil - slick. He didn�t supervise the running of all this by himself - he was a puppet king. Athroid - king of puppets. He woke with a jolt from his mystical dreamland. Yelling corroded though the thin air. The rough noises screeching throgh the paper walls of the castle. The supreme King was wailing for attention. Athrod sighs before carefully removing himself from the spike. The Supreme King had ruled the empire of darkness for fourty years, most of which was spent shouting. Athroid pressed against the stone passageways that wound through the belly of the castle. Sneaking past the bedroom of Kelly Almond, a flowing bride who snored the tune of the national anthem - written when Mozart had been asleep. The screaming had been written when Bach had been swimming in a sea of spikey flid turtles. This rendition was out of key as he had screamed in E-minor. The mistrel was ordered to the torture chamber and what are sword swallowers shit�s like? |
| 'how odd' ...f campbell 3rd nov 2001 (written two years ago, a scrap) |