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...