Continue the story...

And they danced the night away.

The sound of accordions and tubas filled the air; as did the not-so-sweet bouquet of sweat-soaked lederhosen. Plump würstl and spätzle were served on paper plates, and many strong beers were chug-a-lugged from huge glass mugs. Despite the buxom young Fräulein’s 'wildcat' dance, which was some cause for concern for the rodent-based life forms in the beer hall, the mole and the mouse boogied down. It was as though there was a grand festival going on, a celebration of something... Hmm, what shall we call it?

Later that evening, as the Bierleichen snoozed contentedly beneath the tables and the mole slow danced with the Fräulein, the mouse nibbled the corner of a brezel and continued to wait patiently for his Pilsner.

Okay, so, El Sancho is craving a Knödel now.

The mouse was still nibbling the bretzel when a serving maid approached the table and placed several glass mugs before him , "Verschiedene Leute haben für alles schon bezahlt. Viel Vergnügen!"

http://imageshack.us/a/img253/5774/o226.jpg

"Well - well, me oh my, this must be my lucky day," said the mouse. "Vielen Dank, Mien Liebling"

And so the sons and daughters of Charlemagne lurched and staggered their way back to their abodes, singing Volks tunes as they went, and boozily proclaiming their undying love for each other. The mouse finally quenched his thirst, and the mole held the fräulein tightly, hoping the night would never end. But he knew it must end, just as a sweet dream must end - perhaps with a loud noise or sudden gust of wind, startling him awake and leaving him lying there, staring at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep again, wanting to rejoin the dream he'd lost.

But why does it have to stop? Maybe the night will go on forever. Perhaps it'll never end. It's possible. Right?...No way, man. Never gonna happen. The mole's pidgin German was already breaking down, and Google Translate would only take him so far. Thirty years ago he'd learned a little German by listening to the DLI tapes he'd checked out of the Base Library, but that only got him to the point where he would get what he wanted in a restaurant about 1 out of 3 times. Ah well, que sera sera. He hugged the fräulein tighter and snuggled in on two of the Biggest, most Bodacious Bazongas in the state of Bavaria.

(Story note: I'm not sure why this keeps happening, but whenever El Sancho tries to tell a story, it always seems to wind up centered around boobs and beer. Weird, huh?)

When he awoke, the mole began to feel rather homesick, especially as he originally came from the famous children's tale 'The Will in the Windows', as he drunkenly tried to tell the mouse. I wish I were back home he mused and, as if by magic, suddenly found himself in the book from which he had come. The mouse was also transported to between the pages but he wasn't ready to stay there and began nibbling away through the paper into an adjoining book in the bookcase. The mole followed him out of curiosity, and they realised that they had entered into A Tale of Two Cities, and emerging onto the Place de la Concorde they found a crowd awaiting the guillotining of a French aristocrat.

The mole jerked wide awake, startled by the unholy sound of heavy carbon steel running against wood and then stopping suddenly with a resounding THWOCK.

"Son of a b*tch!" Stated the mole to nobody in particular. He then looked around and found that he was standing amidst a mob of peasants. They appeared to be unhinged, cheering and brandishing shovels, pitchforks, and other homemade implements of destruction. He was heartened to find that the mouse was still beside him, but his little friend was visibly shaking as he watched the drama play out on the platform: a henchman bent over and grabbed the bodyless head by the hair from the basket in front of the guillotine. He raised it and looked at it for a moment, face to face. Then he held the head high outwardly facing, where it continued to blink its eyes and appeared to be trying to mouth a few words. The mob roared its approval.

The mole noticed the mouse's legs were shaking uncontrollably and a small puddle of urine was pooling around the mouse's feet. He grabbed the mouse by the shoulders and said, "Get a hold of yourself, man. These reigns of terror can be a real bonanza for the rodent population of a city." A wistful smile crossed the mole's face and he added, "You know...a well-marbled aristocrat...mighty tasty."

'Say, who's that lady sitting at the front and knitting ?' said the mouse.
'That's Madame Defarge, according to the book she's always here.'
'What do you think's she's knitting,' the mouse enquired.
'I don't know, but it might be a pair of socks for Robespierre,' said the mole, 'they do say that she knitted a waistcost for Saint Just during the last round of executions.'

"Well," said the mouse, "She's giving me the creeps. I think she's a witch."

"Silly mouse, she's no witch; she's a metaphor."

"A what?"

"She's a meta... Oh never mind. Let's just say she ain't no Betsy Ross."

"Betsy who?"

"Uhh, okay, she's a witch."

"Ha! I knew it!" The mouse felt vindicated. "I'll tell you something else, mole, those other two guys you told me about. I heard of 'em, and I'm here to tell ya - they're bad juju. That Just gumbah, he ain't no saint. And as for Robespierre, - fuhgeddaboudit."

"Hey, a minute ago you were pissing on yourself, and now all of a sudden you're a wise guy from The Bronx?"

"Yeah."

"Alright then, Guido. Anyway, if she's starting to knit for Saint Just and Robespierre, the gig's about up here. C'mon, let's split.

"Lead the way, Boss. Hey, you gettin' hungry? Cos I'm gettin' hungry."

"Well, they're bound to be barbecuing Christians at the stake around here somewhere."

"Now yer talkin'. You want I should put dem Christians in a lasagna, Boss?"

"Splendid idea. I've found Christians to be a bit more stringy than aristocrats, but I've been cuttin' back on my saturated fat anyway. Bum ticker, you know."

"I know."

And so Guido and The Boss wandered off to environs unknown, in search of victuals, away from The Place de la Concorde, probably to the south.

The end.

Can we go back to the one sentence rule.

Emily groggily came to her senses, she was lying on her back in the freezing sands of the beach under a dark low sky.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by tonywalt

Can we go back to the one sentence rule.

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Bueno, pues... está bien - good idea. Emil and I were just having a little fun with our adventures through time and space in Europe.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by tonywalt

Emily groggily came to her senses, she was lying on her back in the freezing sands of the beach under a dark low sky.

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I kinda feel like it’s my arse-hole-ish duty to point out that what you’ve got there, Tony, are two sentences, fused with a comma. I’m no grammar Nazi, but a comma splice or a run-on sentence would’ve earned Little Sancho a sharp rap on his noggin by his momma with a wooden ruler. (El Sancho’s mother was an elementary school teacher.)

Back to the story:

Not again, she thought.

"I knew I shouldn't have chosen a beach holiday in England," she said.

Don't worry about being a s s holish, I ran the sentence on because I wanted a long sentence. It is a long multi clause sentence just like you would find in a David Foster Wallace or Thomas Pynchon book.

The steady throbbing in her head faded as she thought of the safe vault stuffed with cash.

I could’ve stuffed that vault with anything, she thought - Dollars, Pounds, Yen, Pesos, Reals, Rupees - why, in God’s name, did I choose Euros?

Another thought came to her, perhaps Frau Merkel and the Bundesbank would be able to prop the Euro up despite its threatened breakup.

"Might work, but I ain't holding my breath, if you know what I mean," said the seemingly telepathic man on the sand next to Emily, a man who oddly enough was wearing a full set of Navy Frogman gear.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by tonywalt

The end.

Can we go back to the one sentence rule.

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Some people... :mad2:

"I'll go by fishing boat until I catch sight of the Jersey coastline and then scuba my way to Point de Vol - he had better be there this time!", as he stabbed the map with his index finger.

At the word Jersey, Emily sat up quickly, recalling that the Euros were stashed in an offshore Jersey bank account to avoid paying UK tax rates.

Emily snapped her fingers, "Move it, neoprene-man, we've gotta get our Euro stash safely to an island account, with our Confederate Dollars."

Neoprene-man looked at Emily and said, " Jersey is already an island account , but I'm not sure about Confederate dollars, maybe I ought to phone a friend who is domiciled in the Cayman Islands where the money would be currently beyond the reach of the UK government.

Emily calmly stated "The Cayman Islands is a UK Overseas Territory and has tax treaties with both the UK and the US, as such all new business had to provide proof of tax compliance prior to establishing any kind of financial structure".

While listening to Emily, Neoprene-man began removing his flippers and wiggling out of his frogman suit; then standing there naked on the beach, he checked the hour on his over-sized wristwatch, popped a Ricola lozenge, and began digging through his kit bag for his heavy wool sweater, leather knee britches, and hobnail boots, "Grab my alphorn, baby, we're going to Switzerland."

(Too much?)

She frowned and turned away from him in displeasure, which caused him to cross his woolly arms and say, "Some days I don't know what's more difficult, being your first lover or your second cousin."

On hearing this, Emily grabbed his alpenhorn, put it to her lips and did this:

http://youtu.be/qVBmWGLzSpM

She finished the tune she was tooting (a real toe-tapper, by the way) and stood back and assessed the length and girth of her cousin's alpenhorn, "you should get a harmonica, cuz'."

Emily awoke as the dull yellow sun rose from the North Sea mist into the tired old sky of England, "Damn you snore alot Pierre, it's actually gotten worse since you left Equitorial Guinea".

"Crotchety woman," he responded as he turned in his seat on the airplane, bound for Switzerland, and eyed the alpehnhorn as it stuck out from overhead storage "you're only here because you blow so good."

Emily gave Pierre a sidelong glance while sliding her bubble wand into the sudsy blue bottle in her lap. Feeling a bit uncomfortable, she hoped drinks would be served shortly.

On landing at Zurich airport, Emily discovered that the alpenhorn was missing.

"Oh crap, not again," said Emily, " ah well, good thing I stored my hurdy-gurdy under the seat in front of me."

The following day, Emily left her hotel and went to open an account at UBS with the intention of transferring and changing her Jersey based Euros into Swiss francs.

She did this in such a way as to suggest perfect functional knowledge of Swiss financial operations as well as the French language before heading into the fiberglass jungle to search for either Döner kebab or tacos-- the real meaning of her journey; she would either kill Pierre with Turkish street food (with the alpenhorn missing she could no longer blow him to death as planned) or enjoy a lovely taco before submitting to marriage and becoming a passive aggressive housewife for the rest of her life.

Emily reconsidered the situation and decided that, once the money was safely ensconced in a Swiss account, she could depart for the South of France and live the life of a pampered exile in a villa overlooking the Mediterranean and drive down the Promenade des Anglais or the Croisette or the Corniche on her way to the casino at Monte Carlo where she would perhaps add to her tax free gains.

Thinking further she thought thought that her best bet would be to go back to Barbados where it all began - one week later she was there living on the ragged East coast of the Island fringed by windswept Sea Grape foliage and rugged cliffs.

Emily had been living there two months when the hurricane struck.

She rushed to the liquor store for hurricane supplies.

Emily returned to her home finding her cat, Louie, being held and caressed by her neighbor. She recognized the young man as her neighbor though they had never formally been introduced. Shutting the door with one foot, laying brown bags upon the kitchen table, Emily looked askew at the uninvited guest molesting her fine feline. "I suppose we will not die during the storm, so may I offer you a drink?"

"No thanks," he said, "just stopped by to help you batten down the hatches," then he looked over to the far corner of the room," hey, is that a hurdy-gurdy over there?"

He picked up the Hurdy Gurdy with a gleeful look in his eye. "This is just the thing to set up a resonance barrier to deflect the might of the oncoming storm." he said. He then rushed out onto the verandah.