I woke up this morning, the lingering dream of an adventure with
Friedrich and the retinal pattern of his enormous mustache fading
slowly from my immediate consciousness. It was a particularly harrowing
dream, that one, filled with vicious Quolls, ominous portents and
legions of dark-suited accountants on roller-skates.
Nietzsche and I,
you see, were charged by the Kaiser with ridding the alps of alien
onions. We spent weeks hiking in the mountains, pulling up the dreaded
root-vegetables wherever we found them... burning and stamping and
grimacing our way along the snow lines.
Aha, I hear you think....
but Nietzsche was a mad-man! Yes indeed! And much to my horror (and the
Kaiser's chagrin) we discovered that not only was he a madman, but that
his mustache was also an alien, a fifth column if you like, controlling
the philosopher and leading us completely astray. I only found out
because, while resting in the town of Füssen, the composure of the noted
thinker dissolved into ground-lying fits of sobbing at the sight of a
horse being whipped.
Recognising something amiss, I shook the
whole plan out of the man, or should I say his mustache.... You see
they had manifested not as onions as we had been led to believe, but as
small long patches amongst the manes of horses. Their fiendish plan was
to bray and huff about the place, filling our streets with horse poo and
rolling their host's eyes a lot. Unfortunately for them... fortunately
for us... I was there to put the Germans onto this plan and so they
invented the motor-car to save us from this fate.
Thus the aliens
were thwarted, and instead switched to plan B... which involves eating a
lot of grass in paddocks, participating in racing events, rolling about
on their backs and demanding feed and a rub-down. When the dream ended
we had yet to come up with a counter-offensive.
Ranted by Doomboy
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