Skroom Tattlewink
Cruddleberry Part 1
Oh, salutations and tribulations to you, dear reader.
Cruddleberry season is upon us yet again.
Every year the bravest of Ardnardians set sail off lake Heinous toward Cruddle island to collect the voluptuous growths. Red, delightful, and most likely deadly – few of us can understand the ones willing to put themselves at such risk. Terrible, utterly terrible. Which is why we make the most of it, betting on how many return in one piece. We accept total percentages, ratios of age, sex and marital status. Note that the limbless count as half.
How many do we expect to return? We have recorded the numbers, and will continue recording as the three-day long Maphoglian holiday powers on.
Troot Day, 16th.
I report, 1402 crazed Ardnardians departed. Some by boat, some by submersibles, and the most desperate of them, by flailing appendages. Children laugh, watching their families disappear into the horizon, perhaps never to return. They sing the anthem of Cruddle, to grant mercy on their souls from the big Beaver himself.
Cruddle, o’big y’ole, friend or foe? In went the ferry, and out went the berry. Oh, we hope that tonight our lips are red. In Cruddle we trust, to relieve us from the crust. Help me, big Beaver of the eroded dam.
Believe me when I say, fellow reader, that even I fell a tear on this year’s Cruddle Day. Let us all, Cruddle sympathiser or not, take a moment of silence (which you already did if you read this with your gab shut).
In the meantime, I’m on the run from the state-controlled Liquescent Institution. I will continue my dedication to the Underline, as always, writing from the shadows of Ardnard.