Humble Crumble

It takes a big mantis to admit being wrong and because I weigh in at 25ft I know I am not going to get out of what proved to be a clowns' fondue evening with me dignity unscathed. Incidentally I have not been crying, just subject to a touch of conjunctivitis and rhythmic convulsions. Plus melancholia.

As you have probably deduced by now, we've lost Mr Prendergast again. The silence so far must have spoken volumes. Not so much a case of "the elephant in the room" as "that ginormous mechanical menace on the loose".

Please note the culpable "we"; this has been a collective fiasco. Okay, I'll put up all the bits I can wiggle in admitting I got the voltage wrong, but considering the great lump's lethargy I could hardly have anticipated such a rapid transformation into a metallic Dervish. Am I right or what?  And the rest of Team Ambrose showed no desire to leap on the bugger, thus stopping it in its tracks. That's dedication for you.

Perhaps if we had been armed the outcome would have been different, but (a) I wouldn't trust Groida with a pea-shooter after his infamous twocking of the harmonium, (b) the last time Mordecai held a weapon - a catapult he got as a freebie with Hot Mantis magazine - he managed to wound himself in the hampton and (c) Uncle Lucas and Auntie Pamela are pyschopaths.

Anyway, I don't give a can of specially selected Victoria plums in light syrup for the whereabouts of Mr Prendergast. The scrapyard sod will surface sooner or later. With a stroke of luck he'll emerge from a Paris sewer and put the wind up all those snail and frog eating rotters.

Must get a bend on. Auntie P is frazzling up a concoction of minced roadkill before shoving it in the oven with a bombay potato and Rice Krispie topping. That'll put hairs on me thorax!

King Dud

In case you were wondering, dear reader, Mr Prendergast has not done much tunnelling over the last few days. Indeed, its actions have been restricted to a feeble Zulu stomp on the spot and as we do not desire it to descend vertically to the Earth's core, that really is no good to mantis or beast.

I am so ashamed. Team Ambrose has let down the waiting world (well, not me personally, of course). This is what happens when one believes all the pseudo-technical piffle expounded by a scrofulous, babbling charlatan like Groida. He probably gleans all his loopy notions from those dreadful comics I am constantly struggling to confiscate for his own good.

Enough is enough. If Mr P is to march at all, it shall do so under my command. I have diverted the electrical current from the mine's railway system and will shortly be giving its so-called brain a several thousand volt nudge.

Admittedly, its mental faculties seem to be dwindling, but I have managed to elicit responses from simple stimuli. It can identify basic shapes, like fuzzy felt and it got quite excited over Cuisenaire rods.

So, I am preparing to throw the switch, not so much in hope as in fuming desperation. If you want a job done properly...