I shall reproduce in its entirety the pathetic, scrawled note I discovered stuffed into one of my favourite socks:
"Dear Mishter Ambrose. I seen the thing your after it made a big hole in a place called the midlands but excaped to germany in a sudmarine. Please send me lots of crates of fruit salad in light syrup, loganberry pie filling, sago pudding, banana custard, babies chocolate desert, mackrel fillets in curry sauce, garlic spam and prunes in natural juice (for a needy friend in scotland). And how about those boxes of sweetys you keep hidden away in shaft numbah 4. Give to groida for safe keeping."
Why does he do it? To annoy me or is he really so deranged that he honestly believes he can pull off a scam like this? I suppose it is the mark of a fool that he considers all others his intellectual inferiors.
One thing is for certain, I am not going to let this insolent bane of my life (I have always considered his eyes too close together for him to be trusted) subvert the efforts of the rest of the posse as we strive to resolve a crisis.
If this isn't bad enough, someone has been fiddling with the harmonium's keyboard. The arming sequences for the two doomsday weapons (the Boiling Pedal and Gramercy Bomb) are known only to me, but I have found chopstick splinters, suggesting the inquisitive and unauthorised tinkering of some reckless bugger.
This is serious stuff. I warn you, if I get even a twitch of somebody out there sniggering I will descend upon you in a jet black strop.
Will no one rid me of this troublesome mega-scorpion? Perhaps a bounty (okay, contract) is the answer. Sod Mr Prendergast for the moment, let's deal with Big G first. Plenty of canned comestibles still available for the right candidate!
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