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  • #3188
    EricEric
    Keymaster

      There was a lot of commotion that night.

      It all started a little bit before 6 PM, while the winter sun was very pale and slowly rolling behind the horizon. Jean-Pierre Duroy of the Royal Intendancy had the maids rounded up in matching uniforms to finish the cleaning of the Opera House, and ready to start to light the thousands of beeswax candles with almost military precision. This didn’t go without hiccup of course, but they did mostly well, and the Opera House was ready for the comedians before 5:55, leaving them with 5 spare minutes to catch their breath before the eighteen rings of the bell.

      Even a little bit before that, Nicole du Hausset who had spent the whole dreaded day in anguish about the Queen’s lost ferrets, while attending to Madame’s every whims, realized after scouring through the Palace and hearing through the grapevine of the maids’ ring of deals in stolen goods that she should slide a word to the Royal Intendant through some unofficial channels (she knew well Helper, who was a great influence on Cook, who then could talk discreetly to Annie Duroy, of the Royal Pastries and Cookies) so an investigation could be carried out without any particular mention of the ferrets. As she would realize later the morrow, not only would the ferrets be retrieved at the Opera House and the Royal Chapel, one for each location, except slightly lighter and cut open, an act that would be seen as a hidden message and possible attempt on the Good Queen’s life, and dealt with appropriately by a specially appointed Inquisitor —but also, and notwithstanding any longwindedness, that it would make little difference as the perpetrators would be nowhere to be found the next day, having vanished, it seemed, in the ensuing confusion (of which we will come to in a minute), stealing in the process the Royal Balloon and a few chouquettes from the Royal Cuisines.
      Her duties fulfilled, and being now on the other side of the fateful date of Jan. 5th, 1757, at 17:57 without any significant change to her reality or life, she deducted her mission as the safekeeper of the time-smuggled ferrets was by then accomplished, and she could focus on her more pressing duties.

      It was only 5:57 PM shy of a few more seconds, that Madame Pompadour, powdered like there was no tomorrow, would be helped by her two maids into her gorgeous John Pol Goatier designer dress, and her lambswool petticoats. She was dressed to kill, and that made her all the more suspicious in the minutes to come, but we are getting ahead of ourselves.
      Madame de Pompadour’s schedule for the soirée was very precise. At 6 PM, she would greet her guests, and the King back from his afternoon at the Parliament at the entrance of the Palace, so they could all head to the Royal Opera, passing through the Chapel into the brightly candelight-lit half-built building where the show would take place.
      There was to be a toast first, from fine champagne delivered the morning in zebra carriage (one of the Queens’ daughters idea, which had pleased enough the King that he’d booked them for an evening ride into the Gardens). She was all set, and with great dignity and carefulness, arrived at the spot a mere seconds after her Grace to great the King.

      At the same time, Jean-Pierre Duroy, who had not seen them as he’d passed through the Chapel the first time (ungagged but still under sleeping curse and tucked in the corner of the stained glass windows depicting the martyrdom of Christ), and as he was getting anxious at the lack of punctuality of the comedians whom he’d thought sleeping in their trailer parked nearby, was notified that the trailer had been found empty by the bellboy he had sent to remind the comedians to be ready in 10.
      A man of great resources, always ready with plans B to Z (he wouldn’t boast, but the zebras being one of such past plan Z, second only to an unlikely belching toad plan, the details of which we won’t get into just now), the Royal Intendant was ready to put in motion said plans, but the comedians suddenly emerged from the Chapel slightly groggy but apparently ready to take over their duties —especially the two ladies, who were bickering with the two men about being the Controllers of the Ascension. Little did all of them know at this moment that the hot air balloon was being highjacked by a team of rogue maids in cahoots with the Russian Ballet props technicians who had arrived some days before the bulk of the Russian troupe trainees.
      The Russian ballet dancers were indeed still stuck in the heavy snows somewhere along their trip to Versailles, so the four comedians with their balloon and tricks were technically, already a Plan B.

      By then, it was well into 5:59 PM, and the next minute would seem to stretch forever, but for the sake of a patient audience, we will not make it over 10.

      In the first half of this fatefulest minute, Casanova had arrived with Father Balbi, his travelling companion, followed by none other than St Germain, all dapper and heavily scented. A score of less important nobilities the names of which we won’t go through were also here.
      There were seconds enough in that first half minute, to rub cheeks and say plaisanteries and even utter a few rude witty comments with sweet tongues laced in vinegar, whatever that meant, and also enjoy the sparkling wine served at perfect chilly temperature.
      It was only as we entered the second half of this minute that the King arrived, padded in heavy and warm coats and looking exhausted.
      Seconds were spent in the same proceedings as above mentioned, if only in a slightly accelerated fashion, and slightly and almost unnoticeably higher pitched voices.

      That’s only when the mission bell’s sang Welcome to the Eighteenth’s Hour et ali (for naught), in loud and ringing dongs that the unthinkable happened, living all witnesses traumatized enough that nobody could think of anything to do before the third dong had elapsed.
      The King collapsed, a knife in his ribs. The perpetrator was caught by the guards before the end of the last dong.

      While the King was rushed to the RER (Royal Emergency Room), and attended to by Royal Leechers and Clyster Masters who felt it was wise to call the Royal Priest seeing that there was little blood to leech, back at the Chapel and Opera House, the maids and Jean-Pierre were in a rush to blow out the candles, as it was obvious their attention was required elsewhere, and that the show would be cancelled.
      Everyone would sigh in relief, but not before a few more hours of the drama, when they realized the King’s heavy padding had saved his life, and that the gapping wound everyone was dreading was no more than a pen’s prick. This would encourage Annie to admonish her children when they wouldn’t eat more of her delightful pastries.

      Meanwhile, using one of the last candles, the maids and their Russian lovers had lit the tub of lard of the hot air balloon, which rose slowly in the night sky, out of sight when most of the attention was directed towards the King’s fate hanging on a thread.

      The four actors where vaguely wondering if they were still dreaming when they saw the carriage of thousands of tinsy frogs croaking through a portal, with brightly coloured dressed lady-men inside, and driven by an unkempt man with a wild gaze and an air of sheer insanity.

      Of course, by then, they knew better than to discard it as a mere dream.

      #3164
      EricEric
      Keymaster

        “Well, that was almost too easy…”
        Despite his weight and the various layers of clothes, Reginald who had struggled to get back into Maurana Banana’s tight costume was the first to realize what had just happened, and had rushed to the statue to snatch the prized crocheted ferret, beating Consuela and Terry by a short hand.
        Sadie looked with a slight hint of disapproval at his XVIIIth century apparent undergarments, but was glad that this was resolved so efficiently.

        “The prize is inside the ferret, ladies.”
        “Off with your grabby hands, you tart!” shouted Maurana batting her eyelashes ferociously at Terry Bubble who wanted a closer look at the intriguing tear in the fabric.
        “Oh leave it there, you silly bitch, now you can gloat with your tarty breeches, you haven’t get half your costume ready” Consuela was starting to enjoy the argle-bargle.

        “And what should we do now? Wasn’t there supposed to be another one?” Maurana turned to Sadie.
        “We’re in luck. Obviously there always has been a plan B, dear. The second one was a decoy for the Russian team, I just got it confirmed from the tagging chip of the toy.”

        Everyone was hanged to her words, which was a satisfying moment, not so much for the riveted attentions on her loving person but for the temporary silence. Sadie milked it for a few more seconds before adding.

        “Let’s open it up carefully, there is a key inside we need. Then, you only need to do one thing before we go home. Get on that scene at the Opera, rock the audience, and we’ll get down the Time Sewer off to our time and your prize.”

        She pause before adding, looking down at Maurana’s breeches. “There is obviously some prep’ work left to do.”

        #3141

        But Mirabelle’s sleight of hand had not gone unnoticed by Fanetta, the middle maid. Tsk tsk, she whispered nervously and quickly busied herself with the chamber pot, pretending not to have seen. She knew it was no good speaking out. The bossy Mirabelle would make her life hell.

        #3135
        AvatarJib
        Participant

          Anna’s voice and young face trailed off as the Queen emerged from her dream. Confused for a moment, she tried to get rid off the undefinable guilt she always felt when dreaming about her late sister. You simply didn’t speak about Anna. And you couldn’t take pleasure in childish dreams.

          Her guilt soon transformed into a mild irritation and she frowned as she remembered the cavagnol game of the previous night. She had lost again. The amount didn’t really matter, it was more about the principle. She always lost. But she took a momentary pleasure in thinking that Jeanne-Antoinette also lost most of her bets.

          With a sigh, she looked at the big ornate windows. Someone had opened the heavy velvet curtains while she was still asleep, and it certainly didn’t help keep the air warm in that time of year. Nonetheless, she enjoyed seeing the sky when she woke up, even in winter time when it was still dark or like today, when the colours of dawn preceded the Sun. She couldn’t believe she had slept so long.

          It always was a too brief moment alone. As if summonned by magic, three maids entered the room silently, two of them holding her morning dress, that they carefully deposited on a chair, and the other holding the copper basin of fresh water for the Queen’s quick morning ablution. The maid put it on top of the sauteuse chest made of rose wood and carved beautifully. One of her daughters once told her that she swore the chest in her bedroom was alive and would jump on her bed at night to play with her.

          One thought leading to another, she looked at her collection of stuffed toy, unconsciously counting them and checking if they were all in order. She had two cabinets made of rose wood especially for her “friends” as she used to call them. She had begun to buy them after she almost died giving birth so long ago. At first it was just a simple gift from the King. She first thought it to be a lion, but apparently it was one of those Asian dogs. The finish was crude, it had small beady eyes and the curly tail didn’t hold very long on its bottom, but she developed a liking for it. And after a few weeks, she felt it needed a friend, so she had a lion made as a companion for her asian dog.
          Her ladies-in-waiting, began to bring her new ones, little dogs (she had a liking for them), zebras, fluffy cats and dwarf goats, she even had an owl and two rabbits, one white and one cerulean blue.

          Her eyes almost missed the twin ferrets, offered to her by Saint Germain after a gambling party. He had said they would bring her luck. She didn’t really liked them, they were scrawny and heavy, certainly weighted with lead.

          It was time to get up, she had her weekly Polish concert to organize. One of her small pleasures.

          #3132
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            Although the ride was smoother inside the tunnel, the breakneck speed and jolting of the previous leg of the journey had taken its toll. Cedric’s back was aching, and he was impatient now for the journey to end so that he could relax, stretch out, and get the damn corsets off. His neck was stiff from the weight of the wig, his toes were cramped in the narrow shoes, and his eyes were red and sore from the lavish make up. Fuck this, he muttered, 21st century boys clothes are alot more comfortable.
            “Wait until you see the clothes in the 22nd century, Cedric” whispered Pseu, who had heretofore been keeping a low profile. “Living breathing moving fabrics, that shape themselves to whatever position you’re in, supporting yet flexible and not restricting in any way.”
            “Sounds heavenly, why can’t we go there instead?”
            “Because you wouldn’t want to come back, that’s why. Why do you think it is that you hardly ever see time travellers from the future in the past? The damn clothes, that’s why! It takes a brave gallant soul to subject themselves to the clothes of the past, even briefly.”

            #3129
            EricEric
            Keymaster

              Jean-Pierre Duroy, the Grand Intendant of the Palace of Versailles woke up every morning an hour before dawn, when everything was still calm, the last fêteurs of the guest nobility were, at last, fast asleep and the stars’ lights were beginning to fade on the dark sky. The Palace was never sleeping really, but this was as close a moment of peace as he could get.
              His wife Annie, the Head of the Royal Pastries Chefs, would usually sleep contentedly an hour more, waiting for the chantecler’s sonorous hail to the rising sun.

              When he realized he had overslept for the first time in many years of services, he knew there was something not quite right about this particular day.
              As usual, and especially during winter, there was much to be done. Preparing the routine menus for the noble tables, getting his army of little people bustling around to stock the fires with wood for the cold-fearing ladies, clean up, wash clothes, drapes and the darn mirrors. Receive the fresh foods from the local markets, clean up the latrines, which tended to get clogged with the dreaded cold… When that was done, he had to make sure the servants were doing their job properly, not abusing the generosity of His Majesty, taking good care of the Gardens, which was an horror when the snow started to melt, ensuring the guards reported to their duties, etc. etc.
              And after all that, no matter what, do a meticulous accounting in the Royal Ledger.
              Jean-Pierre was but a cog in that enormous machine, but a cog which could make a vital difference between a day gone right, and a day gone awfully wrong.

              He had to turn that day around quickly lest it would be the latter, he thought while putting his white starched breaches. A last look at his wife who was starting to move her weight around and yawn, and he was out.

              #2994
              EricEric
              Keymaster

                “You’ve fattened.” She had not yet set foot on land that Vera’s first comment to Lulla set the tone.
                Lulla threw the rest of the skewer in the bin, and managed a genial laughter. She was not one to take umbrage, much less to hold grudges. And although technically Vera was not right (she had managed to lose a stone since Fat Tuesday), she was still weighing a whooping 23 stone. Far from her 57 kg ideal weight. She laughed to herself at the thought that she was weighing more than two of her ideal self. That had to account for something.
                Relocating from the coast of Guyana where she was born to São Paulo had not been easy on her silhouette, as she liked to blame the greasy fast-food here. But at some point she had ceased to care, although such snarky remarks sometimes still managed to push her buttons.

                “Yes, I know, look at those leggings, the stripes have that effect on me.” she simpered with a wink that she was sure would annoy Vera no end. “So what are we doing here small Pohnpei, micro-Micronesia of all places anyway?” She asked, pushing her pocket-size folding Eggsway ahead of the curb, while Vera was strolling at her side, in long strides of her fine endless legs.
                “To do some cleaning, what else?”

                Lulla stopped her Eggsway to look with bewilderment at the stoical Vera.
                “Madam Vera Pappaloosa,” she said slowly, with a hint of concern in her voice. “I hope it’s not one of those messy jobs again that require to dress in funny smelly hot pink outfits that make us look like hot pink plastic bag ladies, and swim in it until you’ve lost two pants sizes by sweating them off?”
                “Oh, stop it Lulla. You guessed right, I suppose. But don’t worry, you can keep your hat on.”

                Lulla was ready to turn her heels, or rather her Eggsway’s wheels around, when she was surprised by Vera’s crystalline laughter. She was all the more surprised that she didn’t even know Vera was capable of laughter, being so expert at concealing her emotions.
                “I was just pulling your leg, we’re on a mission to find the next Pope.”

                #2955
                EricEric
                Keymaster

                  While stroking his mustache fondly, Ed Steam had the clearest realization that although he’d done that quite a few times in the past mostly to his advantage, it was a lot of work to rewrite timelines and figure out the hows and whens of everyone in his team.
                  Maybe it was actually time for him to restore the original timeline while disappearing — by faking his own death to be certain nobody would thwart his carefully thought retirement plan. Then, he could also stop dyeing his mustache he figured… So many things to take care of, retirement would be so sweet.
                  Although the Egyptian timeturner gave him all the time in the world, he actually felt like he’d lost already a great deal too much of it, and started to enact his plan without further ado.

                  Procuring a body double was actually not so hard. The last surge had brought a few of them in Thrifteen’s Alley in their Moreguest Facility. A switch and a twist of the pocket portal and a zap and a blink of the miniaturizer was enough to get there and come back in seconds with a frozen pocket-size life-suspended body from the testing stock, with convincing enough miniaturized slim lips, safely put in a test tube in his waistcoat pocket.
                  A six-shot cudgel from his artefact war trove was all he needed to make sure the amateur assassin in red robes they’d hired would be taken care of easily.
                  Then, an enscombulator bedazzler ray spray would be enough to convince Mari Fe she’d managed to hit him, buying him time enough to then deminiaturize the thawed slim-lipped body double, to slip in his stead.
                  Last, but not least, he would then have a few seconds to discombobulize Mari Fe while disappearing with a backup transportable portal. The plan was perfect. The original timeline restored in pristine conditions.
                  Only for a few minor details of course. He’d almost forgotten to reprogram the mini-man in his pocket with enough memories for him to be a convincing Ed-himself sans la moustache of course. At least, for the short time he would survive (surge victims discovered still alive were placed in life suspension by the team, but this was mostly for medical analysis as they usually wouldn’t survive their conditions).
                  Oh, and the bloody mustache of course… A squeeze of foolicle solventilator would be enough to make it temporarily invisible.

                  Simple enough… Well, sandbagging Mari Fe would have probably conveyed similar results with minimal efforts, although the elegance of his plan, as well as the fact that he was loath to hit ladies did unmistakably weight in favour of it.

                  And with that, he would be back in time for dinner.
                  In fact, he already was.

                  #2866

                  In reply to: Tales of Tw’Elves

                  EricEric
                  Keymaster

                    “Solar flares alert at noon, take shelter” the electronic sign was saying when she left the building. Rubber masks coated with lead-like substance were designed to alleviate the exposure to what authorities qualified as dangerous radiations, but she was wondering what good it had brought her, listening to those darned authorities. Of course now, there was a variety to contend with every possible taste: one could find designer masks on the market, even ones that made you look like Jeanne Roberts, the famed actress from the naugthies québecquoise telly series “Sept ETs à la maison” (inaptly translated as “Sethies at home”).
                    However, dissident reports had transpired that the flares were not the health hazard they talked about, and maybe could actually be good for you. Theories were that they helped trigger beneficial mutations of your body, that would then go through a slightly disturbing period of adaptation and heightened hypersensitivity, but that later… your potentials would start to get limitless, well, whatever that meant.
                    She wondered what good becoming a limitless housekeeper would bring her… more bloody work, that one was certain.

                    #2168

                    In reply to: Tales of Tw’Elves

                    EricEric
                    Keymaster

                      “Make way, I’m a doctor!” a strange overweight man wearing a pink tutu kept shouting, as he was trying to part the suddenly silent crowd in order to get to the man with the oou de nil scooter.

                      #2088

                      In reply to: Scrying the Word Cloud

                      TracyTracy
                      Participant

                        shouted interesting thank sort great magic far despite eighth fine whistling sudden front

                        :yahoo_dontwannasee:

                        #2488
                        EricEric
                        Keymaster

                          While in the other Eightic Dimension, Lilac —catching a new weebit of inspiration— suddenly went off for a good old clue-hunt and some air-fishing of these whoohoo sparkling flying goldfishes (her morning cup of herbal coffree smelt like concrete today) — meanwhile, in the Peasland Dimension, the aliens had indeed departed. Not without leaving behind a sweet smell of peer compote that nobody knew for sure whether or not it should be considered slightly ominous.
                          As it should, the Saucerers who had been consulted on that matter had nothing better to do but further enhance the confusion. They all started to dread the arrival of a new species… Strawberries aliens.

                          #2802

                          In reply to: Snowflakes of Tens

                          EricEric
                          Keymaster

                            After having had a wheel ride in the garden, Grandpa Wrick came back a little less in-tense.

                            “Mmm, I suppose this game isn’t as much fun as I expected. I want to give it another try, adding a little something more.” he said to the kids when their cartoon had finished. India Louise, Cuthbert, and their friends Flynn and of course Lisbelle (who had been quiet in the background, playing with her pet rabbit Ginger) started listening with a mild interest —the whimsical Lord Wrick having proved countless times he had no qualms at making a fool of himself, and thus at entertaining children.

                            “What I want to achieve, by playing this game of snowflakes,” he said after a pause “is paying more attention at your stream of consciousness.”

                            “You see, I’ve been reading the classical Circle of Eights countless times in my young age, and dear old Yurara didn’t have much interest in creating links between her narratives. This is what I want to do with this game: pay attention to the links.

                            In this game of snowflakes, the stories (flakes) matter less than the links you build between them, and thus the pattern that is created.
                            We have the choice to continue and detail the previous story, in which case, the link is obvious, or we may want to start another one. But we need to know what, from the previous entry, prompted you to create that special new story you are about to write or tell.

                            Just like in a dream, when you explore a scene, some object will jump at your attention, and propel you to another dream story. Just like that, I want to spend more time exploring the transitions between each scenes and story blurbs that we tell. The links don’t necessarily have to be an object, of course not.
                            It can be an idea, a theme, a music, virtually anything, provided that it can make some sense as to why it is used as a transition…”

                            Seeing the children waiting for more, he pursued: “a good introduction to this game would be for you to try to follow your train of thoughts during the day. Try to do mentally that small exercise before you go to sleep, and remember the transitions of your whole day, and you’ll see how complex it can become, how often you pass and zap from one thing to another.

                            Take even one event that lasts a few minutes like eating a honey sandwich at breakfast, can make you think of dozens of things like the texture of the bread, the fields of wheat, or the butter, the glass jar filled with honey and the bees that made it, the swarm of bees can carry you even further into another time, or towards a bear or into a movie maybe.

                            I want that you pause to take time to break this down, so that your audience can follow the transition from one story to another, and that it makes perfect sense for them.”

                            #2081

                            In reply to: Scrying the Word Cloud

                            EricEric
                            Keymaster

                              continuity dimension met answer
                              lavender yikesy clear meant
                              far strange light help speak magic
                              notwithstanding suddenly less
                              under eight full cave

                              #2468
                              TracyTracy
                              Participant

                                Dear OW’s and Favourite Daughter,

                                I had a dream last night. It went like this . . . . I was in the garden when I noticed an alien space ship coming down from a great height above me. It was humming, humm, hummm, humming. Like that. There was a smell of old cabbages and kitty litter.

                                It landed a few feet away from me. It was like a saucer and coloured olive green. A door opened on the underside and a ladder lowered. The ladder was made of wood, which surprised me. The aliens started down the ladder. They had no arms or legs. Just heads. They came down the ladder using their lips.

                                There were eight of them. The leader (at least I took it to be their leader as he had the biggest head) approached me. He said “Where can we get some hats ?”

                                Next thing I remember I was in the back of a pickup truck eating a prawn cocktail. Next to me sitting on some old sacks was the head alien slurping down uncooked carrots direct from the tin.

                                He said to me “We would like you to make a tv commercial for us”.

                                Then I woke up.

                                I’m afraid to report this encounter with the third kind to the authorities in case they just laugh at me.

                                I need your advice on this one. What should I do ?

                                Uncle Garnet

                                #2461

                                Peackle dragged his father by the sleeve and showed him the delirious aunt speaking in tongues.

                                See, dad, I think she got that special direct line with the Eight’s Dimension now…
                                Oh, I see… a broken Pee said

                                Their victory over Mother Blubbit seemed utterly and bitterly Pyrrhic at the moment, considering all the nonsense (damned be the Eighth Dimension) their trip has brought to otherwisely very non-nonsensical Peasland. Would they ever get back to normal again?

                                He preferred to believe she’d just again overindulged on Peaskol, the famoul (famously foul) alcohol brewed from overripe peas known though all Peasland to clean old clogged pipes. That and smoking tea leaves of course…

                                #2443

                                Suprised by the unexpected visit, Mother Blubbit released a smothering plume of gases and ashes that started to fill in the tunnels of the Furcano.

                                The effects were not unnoticed, as miles around, Peaslanders stopped in their daily activities (most of them being either sending blubbits ad madres or regulating the size of the peas) to stand in awe of the reactivated Furcano’s tip.
                                If they had any such flying machines as they had in the Eighth dimension, they surely would have interrupted their activities too for a while… This was an event of grand importance, and maybe consequences.
                                Mother Blubbit had been challenged.

                                #2436

                                “I think they’re lost beyond hope” Muckus went back reporting to the evil Majorburgmester
                                “Oh good!”
                                “Probably more hopelessly lost than being in the Eighth if you ask me, last time I checked on them, there was a woman running for her head to the Furnace of the Furcano, and all the others following her…”
                                “Sounds hairy.” the Major couldn’t help but add with a smirk on his face (framed and hanged to the wall) and a twitch in his left nostril.

                                #2426

                                “Finally the answer we need! Let’s release the damn bird and get back home now! Besides its cage needs cleaning and it’s starting to smell, and I can’t stand this place any longer…” Doily couldn’t be stopped.

                                Foolishly getting by that that Doily had understood most and perhaps all of the Cloud’s mysterious riddle, and that she even had managed to remember it, by a chance even slimmer than that of crossing the Eight’s Portal alive, Pee agreed with a nod of his neck.

                                Once the birds’ released (with a good manly slapping as the feathery creature was a bit reluctant and groggy from being rocked in its cage), they were instantaneously and quite unsurprisingly back again near the Saucerer’s house, all safe in their beloved Peasland, ravaged by blubbits holes.

                                #2424

                                Doily said matter-of-factly to her little troop of headless travellers “Fancy a cup of tea?”

                                As none of them really cared to answer to the obvious fact that they didn’t have any teapot or sugar not to mention milk, lemon, and of course tea (other than a few random leaves that could have been used as an ersatz) she pursued her inspired tirade “Did you know that the Reunited Landers invented tea-bags by the way?”

                                Silence again.

                                “I just suddenly remembered, and it’s the funniest thing believe me… Those bloody Yorkies were sent some tea samples in silk pouches and they thought it the next best thing since the invention of boiled water and asked for more!…”
                                “Perhaps we should catch the blubbits in silk pouches…” she added after a moment.
                                “Frankly, anyone wanting to get home?” she then said with a bit of alarm in her voice “This Eighth Dimension doesn’t really got the promises of fun they sold us.”

                                “I was starting to think the same,” Pee answered raucously, startling everyone off their self induced Kuzhedoor trance state.

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