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...for alas, he had no turnips and there was no chance of getting any in the foreseeable future. Every fiber of his being chafed at the confinement. Shaking his fist in the air, he bellowed "You'll never take me freedom!" Suddenly realizing the absurdity of what he had just done, he...
...began to laugh so long and so hard that his sides ached and his nose ran. Well, here in the cell his nose ran for every little...
burst of emotion he could wreak out of his emaciated frame. He could not recall how long he had been there, or for that matter even where he actually was at the present moment. He gripped the window bars so hard that he seemed to see two moons in the sky, not one. Wait, no there were two moons...
because of course the gardener just happened to be trimming a shrub in front of the cell window...and the bane of plumbers is also the bane of gardeners.
"derrierre decolletage" and this was an extreme example of this dreaded occurence. "Can it get any worse?" he said and ...
just at that moment, supper arrived, skidded into the cell on a tin plate via a small opening. A leather water bottle came after it. The man in the cell was famished, but the sight and smell of the stuff they called "food" at this prison would give a starving rat the dry heaves. He wasn't sure how much longer...
he could play tin plate frisbee with that starving rat, but he was going to try his darndest. That rat, skinny as she was, was very good at catching the plate in her teeth. "I should name her...what would be a good name for a lady rat? I know..."
"...Varmette! I shall name you Varmette!"
She didn't seem as impressed with this as he thought she would have been, though. She smiled back, her long, yellow insizors gleaming dully. She replied, "And I shall name YOU..."
. . . . Fred, due to your persitent combover and generally lukewarm demeanor. This appelation, of course, aroused a most distressing . . . .
giggle from the aforementioned "Fred" as he contemplated making Varmette stew.
Suddenly realizing that the rat had actually spoken to him, Fred smoothed back his tousled combover and...
said "Well, it's finally happened, I guess. Lock a man up, starve him, and he looses his marbles and starts to talk to a rat and hear it talk back." He laughed mirthlessly. "Well, Vermette dear, they will still never get any information out of me, and, excuse the pun, but I don't think you'll "rat" on a fellow!" He went off into a slightly insane giggle...
and was soundly chastised for it by the ill tempered jailer. "Shut yer piehole, doofus" the jailer snarled. Fred flew into a rage at the mere mention of pie and then...
he noticed the keys were hanging very close to the barred section of the door. He stooped and picked up the tin plate. "I really must call your attention to the fact that this simply isn't..." The Jailor, who had been listening intently, suddenly got the tin plate behind his left ear and fell into the bars. "...pie!" Unlocking the cell, the man, who could have been named "Fred" since he had no idea who he was whistled for the rat to follow him. ....
as if he was some sort of combover version of the Pied Piper of Hamlin. Varmette the Rat took a bit of offense at his presumptious attitude, but decided to let it slide since she knew Fred (or whatever his name was) was delusional and imagining her anyway. Does this seem odd or confusing to you? Well then...
just imagine the shape poor Fred must be in! He scooped up the rat and turned...
and tripped over an enormous pile of tin plates. Rubbing his posterior, Fred grumbled because he had injured his left foot in the fall. Just then, the turnkey started to walk down the hall. He hadn't spotted Fred yet, so he clutched Varmette to him and sidled to the left...