Cruddleberry part 2. Read the first article here.
Skroom Tattlewink
Oh, salutations and tribulations to you, dear reader.
Today I woke up in a litterbin smelling of piss. I am drunk beyond worldly comprehension, and I can see my own smell and I can drink my own sounds. Some of you will sympathise.
Why do I tell you this? Because I have nothing to hide, and shame is a vice given upon us like thick and unappealing gravy. We should never swallow thick and unappealing gravy. Trust me.
I am part of the city, flowing through it unseen, moulded with the shadows, the sound, and the energy. Oh, the liveliness. The Liquescent Institute needs to step up their game for any hope of throwing me back into the piles; but fear not, dear reader, for I still walk among you – piss stained I might be, but my spine is curved in the optimal fashion.
Today is not only the day I woke up, but it is also Troot Day 17th, the second day of Cruddleberry season.
Yes, the big y‘ole was charitable to sympathisers this day, but not to those of you reading this who betted on more whole than amputated returners. We have plenty of amputees! Oh, jolly slapthigh what a sight to behold! They peddled without arms, the Cruddleberry already merging with their caelestis cerebrum. Where will they go next? Your guess is as good as mine.
Let’s twiddle our machinating thumbs and share a beer or two while we await the final verdict tomorrow on the “blessed” Troot day 18th.