Fighting talk…

My weak lemon drink is missing.

I don’t understand.

I left my last glass beside ol’ withery the withered, and now… it’s nowhere to be seen.

*sobs*

And now I’m parched.  It’s been 14 minutes and if I don’t get some more soon, I’ll likely have a finger fall off, or worse, an eyelash.  A brief interrogation of ol’ withery was pretty fruitless – I suspect that’s because ol’ withery is just a fairly pathetic clump of celery and as such, hasn’t yet evolved a mouth, let alone opposable digits or a love for daytime TV.

So my attention turned to Muggins McGinty who works as a purveyor of fine weak liquids and old Jenson Interceptors in the orangery.  A suspect of unquestionable certainty.  Yup.  I found Muggins in his usual state, up to his eyeballs in weak pineapple drink – a liquid of such bitter and intense sourness, I can barely stomach seven pints or so.  Muggins began bubbling me a greeting, but I had no time for such pleasantries.  I was swift and precise with my accusations and my verbal onslaught was surely a terrifying ordeal for my victim.  McGinty just bubbled a bit more and then surfaced with a slight phlooump sound.  So much for that.  Exhausted, and sure that I couldn’t repeat my accusational attack, I vaguely remember uttering  a couple of incomprehensible syllables and running for my life.

I guess I’ll have to leave that mystery unsolved for now and simply return to ol’ withery the lush and sated, as apparently Matron now calls him.

 

*sobs*

 

There goes an eyelash.

 

My life is all but over.

He had to die…

Mr. Snuggles had to die. 

 

To the outsider, Mr. Snuggles might look like an innocent cuddly stuffed toy of almost unbearable cuteness, but he had a dark secret.  Now that he appears to have finally stopped twitching I shall unleash the aforementioned dark secret upon the world. 

…well, if not the world, then at least the first 14 cells of ward B19.

As harsh as the punishment might seem, Mr. Snuggles had it comin’.  Hell yeah.  Whoah.

Crushy neck.

Swingy wingy.

Deathy weathy

Ha ha.

 

Ha.

 

I should explain.

 

I was eating my daily allowance of marzipan when there was a knock against the Kevlar-reinforced security glass window of my cell.  It was Mr. Snuggles.  He was grinning like a maniacal fool.  I saw blood on his delicately woven paws.

It looked like my blood. 

Really.

It was red.  It was a bit gloopy.  Surely that’s no coincidence?

So how did he get my blood on him?

I did a quick search for cuts or critical wounds.

None.

That had to be my blood though.

 

He must have wounded me at some point and then delicately tended me back to full health with my blood kept fresh upon his paws with an ice pack.

Nothing else for it.  I moved like a badger on steroids and he was noosed within 34 minutes of polite debate.

Death to bunny blood spillers!

 

ra.

Miserable…

Teething problems.  There’s only so many times you can be reconstructed before you’re inherently broken.

This time around Matron skimped on the immune system.

So I’m not well.

Not well.

Bereft of wellness.

Torn.

Tissue please.

Thanks.

So what’s to do? 

I need weak lemon drink.  Copious quantities.  Enough to engulf a small terrace flat.

Maybe more.

 

And so started my quest to create an eternal supply of the magical liquid.

It must be weak.  It must be lemon coloured.  It must be ever plentiful.

I care little for the taste, for it shall surely be lightly golden yellow and weak.

The last batch I had was orange and it smelt of curry.  I didn’t enjoy that one bit.  And then there was the batch that Matron provided.  It was robust and warm – not in the least bit weak.  I politely spat it into a nearby geranium.

So I’m still on my quest to find the best solution to my solution predicament.

 

Oh… and the geranium died.

Disposed of…

So it wasn’t long before I had to devise a cunning plan to avoid a perpetitude of eating chocolate.  It was clear that this wasn’t going to be easy, for Matron is indeed a matron of almost godly powers and revered above most matrons that I know of.  And I know two matrons.  There’s Matron and then there’s Matron.  I think there’s a bit of rivalry between the two, since Matron dresses exactly the same as Matron – not wishing to be outdone, I would imagine.  And then there’s the way they style their hair the same and the way their noses are the same too.  Matron even sounds exactly like Matron.  It must be hard to have someone spend so much effort and intent on trying to attain the standards that Matron sets.  But somehow Matron always seems to be able to raise the bar and show Matron how much of a pale imitation she really is.

So if I was to stand a chance of escaping my predicament, I’d have to maybe catch the imitation matron out whilst Matron is doing something else.  This could prove tricky as they always seem to be around at roughly the same time.

My plan was as simple as it was devious.  I would pretend to eat seven chocolate bars of various types and sizes, and then, behind my back, I’d construct them into a life-size model of Michael Jackson.  With a little ventriloquist magic, and knowing that Matron truly adores every pore of Michael, I’d lure Matron into the promise of a lusty night with my chocolaty effigy.  Whilst distracted I would whisk myself away from this chocolaty hell and begin a new a life of freedom in cell 29f.

This was surely the bestest plan I’d ever concocted, so when I found myself minutes later unceremoniously stuffed into a waste paper bin, I have to admit to being a little surprised that things could unravel quite so quickly. 

It was all a bit of a blur really.  The chocolate effigy making went well I thought.  OK so, maybe it was a little smaller than I was hoping, and yes, I think trying to pose mid-moonwalk was a little optimistic, but my rendition of “It doesn’t matter if you’re black or white” was faultless.  But… somehow Matron clearly saw through it.

And then it hit me.

Dark chocolate.  Why did I use dark chocolate?

*sobs*

Not without its problems…

With 1,337,000 tins of Spork failing to sell, I was left with a predicament.  I could feed them to the snails, eat them myself, or use them as weaponry in my ongoing battle with the guy that smells of Marzipan in room 9.1b. 

As tempting as it is to put one over on the little guy with a surprise Spork related attack, he’s too easy to maim with far less valuable artillery.  Now the snails… they’re tempting.  You might think snails wouldn’t go for a meaty product like Spork, but the snails here are feisty and have been known to take down a cow if they get looked at a bit funny.  This one time, when Matron was hosting cow camp, 13 cows were slimed to death when the annual “Do your best Zoolander impression” contest turned ugly.  So anyway, whilst the snails could be fine recipients for my Spork, I didn’t really fancy encouraging their meat lust.  So that left me with just one option… I’d just have to eat them all myself.

Tin one went well.  I marvelled at the exquisite flavour.  My last minute decision to omit the Marmite was possibly my finest, though I did begin to question my sanity over the inclusion instead of the maggots.  No wait.  I definitely didn’t put any maggots in.  I remember now.  That is after all why I sing my maggot song everyday, reminding me not to put maggots in my food.  Hmmm.  Most odd.  Oh well.  Just more meat I guess. 

Tin two was less pleasing.  I was getting a real wriggly sensation in my stomach.

Tin three and my head was getting all spinny.

Tin four, someone was at the door.

It was Matron.

She didn’t look happy.  She took one look at my pile of tins and the maggot encrusted Spork around my mouth and she ordered me to head straight for room 102. 

I was to stop my stupid ways.  I was to embrace the way of the chocolate.  I was to lick it, lather it and digest it.  I was to consume vast quantities for her pleasure.

And so it began again.

I may never get to deplete my Spork mountain.

One day… one day.  So help me Gosh, one day.

Spamtastic…

I decided I needed to rebuild my strength after my death.  I needed top quality sustenance.  Tip top loveliness.  Something super splendid…

Nope… actually super splendid isn’t enough… 

Something meaty.  Initially I was thinking pork, then I had a moment of deliberation where I thought… no wait… ham…

But then, miraculously, I thought, what if somehow I could mix the joyous splendour of ham… with pork? 

This could work… I could be onto something…

I needed to apply my marketing skillz.

Need a catchy name.

Hork?

Pham?

Hark?

Amrk… that one needs some work…

Hamork… maybe.

Porkam… but was slightly worried about the connotations of that one.

Then Matron said What about Sperm?

 

No, I said.

 

No.

 

Silly Matron.

 

No.

 

But the seed of ‘S’ lodged in my 30% of brain and I had an ephifony…

Spork!

I rallied the minions and we produced 1,337,00 tins of Spork.  We were euphoric in our plans.  With a profit margin of -7p per tin we were well on our way to global domination. 

I bought a gold plated Sedgway in anticipation of the riches to come.

 

But they didn’t come.

 

Some other foo had had the same idea.  But he’d called it “Spam”. 

How stupid is that?

I feel weak.

How will I regain my life eccence after my death…

*sobs*

Recharging…

You know when you have one of those near death experiences and you see a big floating parsnip strangling a poodle?  …well, last month I went one better and actually died.

I was playing around with my lawnmower, trying to turn it into a powered toothbrush when one of the brushes I’d attached to the blades fell off heading directly towards my foot at the speed of gravity.  In fear of lightly bruising my foot I recoiled in abject terror and hit my head hard on a piece of Imperial Leather soap.  Death was inevitable and mercifully quick.  Maybe not the best way to go, but at least it wasn’t one of those namby pamby “scented with the organic blossom of baby elderberries” bars.

So anyway.

My soapy injuries were naturally horrific and not helped by Matron not discovering me for five and three quarter weeks.  Apparently it was only after she’d got through 17 cans of Febreeze that she thought it might be prudent to investigate the source of the rancid odour. 

I digress.

Not wishing to lose her license to Matron the institution, she set about reconstructing my failed body with some domestic strength wood glue.  Apparently it took her quite a while, and she tells me she only had a few bits left over. 

I think she did a pretty good job, although I’ve yet to try out all bodily functions.

Anyway.  After a quick jump-start I was left with the arduous task of recharging my brain back up to 30 percent.  Any more than that and things can go horribly wrong.  You wouldn’t like to see me when I’m 31 percent, let alone 32.

Splendid.