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[Emil Miller]

The mole said to the mouse: "Hey! Those guys are like something out of a museum."
"What do you mean," said the mouse. "They are good guys, I voted for Muskie too."
"Well you should get with it kiddo. Times have changed, take look at this. I don't care who you voted for." And so saying he handed the mole an automatic photo frame with the words, "Go on I dare you to click on this!"

http://www.reuters.com/news/pictures...USRTR2ZQ3N#a=1

[Sancho]

The mouse, being of a species easily baited, immediately clicked on the slide show.

He said, “Holy Crap! It kinda makes a fella want to fill his pants. Don’t it?”

“That it does, my friend. That it does.” The mole thought a moment and came up with a plan, “Well, old man, what say you and I leave this increasingly scatological place and go tilt a cold one at a little off-license pub I know ‘round the corner?”

And so the two moseyed their way down the street and around the corner to a cozy little pub known as - The Mouse and the Mole. The shingle out front depicted a mouse in Black Watch regalia, smoking a Sherlock pipe, and sitting across a chess board from a mole in Royal Stewart dress. The pub was warmed by a wood fire on the hearth, and pub patrons sat around heavy wooden tables, laughing and talking and imbibing huge tankards of ale brought to them by nubile young lasses, tightly corseted, with bosoms overflowing.

You know, come to think of it, they may have all just been teleported over to Bavaria.

[Emil Miller]

And indeed they had for a large bosomed young blonde came to their table and said: "Willkomen in München, womit kann ich Ihnen dienen?"
"Zwei Helles bitte," said the mole, "und bringen Sie ein Päckchen Schokoladenpuddingpulver."

[Sancho]

The bar maid repeated the order to ensure she’d understood the mole (he had a horrible accent). As she did this she leaned closer to him, dangling two of her finest assets over the table. “Sehr gut, dann, Zwei Helles, und ein Päckchen Schokoladenpuddingpulver, ist das richtig?

The mouse, being not only easily baited but also easily distracted, said, “Mein Gott! was für ein paar!” Then he regained his composure somewhat and said, “Nein, für mich ein Pils und eine Weißwurst. Und machen es bissig. Ich habe Durst.“

The young Fräulein smiled sweetly and said, “Bitteschön,” and then bounced her way back to the Küche.

The mole laughed at his friend’s faux pas and said, “Mouse, never in the history of this country have they poured a Pilsner in under 45 minutes.”

Not to be deterred, the mouse came back with, “Ach. Alles ist gut, meine kleinen pelzigen freund. Alles ist gut.”

[free]

The bar maid repeated the order to ensure she’d understood the mole (he had a horrible accent). As she did this she leaned closer to him, dangling two of her finest assets over the table. “Sehr gut, dann, Zwei Helles, und ein Päckchen Schokoladenpuddingpulver, ist das richtig?

The mouse, being not only easily baited but also easily distracted, said, “Mein Gott! was für ein paar!” Then he regained his composure somewhat and said, “Nein, für mich ein Pils und eine Weißwurst. Und machen es bissig. Ich habe Durst.“

The young Fräulein smiled sweetly and said, “Bitteschön,” and then bounced her way back to the Küche.

The mole laughed at his friend’s faux pas and said, “Mouse, never in the history of this country have they poured a Pilsner in under 45 minutes.”

Not to be deterred, the mouse came back with, “Ach. Alles ist gut, meine kleinen pelzigen freund. Alles ist gut.”

Though the bar resounded the beautiful sound of Eine Kleine NachtmusiK what made the barmaid to jump up on the bar stand and start dancing like a wild cat.

"Was ist das?" Exclaimed all the guests in the bar. "Was wollen Sie schöne Dame?"

"Ich liebe diese Musik. Erinnert mich an meine erste Liebe." She cried with extreeme excitement.

[Sancho]

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.

[Emil Miller]

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!"

[Sancho]

"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?)

[Emil Miller]

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.

[Sancho]

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."

[Emil Miller]

'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.'

[Sancho]

"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.

[tonywalt]

The end.

Can we go back to the one sentence rule.

[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.

[Sancho]

Can we go back to the one sentence rule.

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

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

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.