The Sandwich King

I bet you've heard of the Sandwich King, haven't you? He's world renowned don't y'know? A ubiquitous presence that will be with you whenever you hold a filling between two slices of bread. But, years ago, the Sandwich King was not just an ambient presence, he was once a person, yes of flesh and blood and bits of marrow! You see the Sandwich King was murdered so brutally as to only leave his aura behind. Do you want to hear the tale? Then read on good fellow!

It was the annual banquet of gineau pigs and rodent poo; tables end to end were piled high with droppings and roasted gerbil brethren. Everyone gathered at their designated table to say grace and then feast subsequently. The Sandwich King walked slowly to the head of the room, the sound of his footsteps resonating about the large stone room, echoing in the empty air much as others' stomachs rumbled in their cavernous innards. People were restlessly hungry, some could barely wait for the walking to finish never mind the prayer. Mother Hubbard twitched ravenously, he lip tweaking upwards and revealing here canines as drool ran between them and onto her gums; her cupboard had been bare for some time now and she was craving a feastful feasting. The Sandwich King arrived at his seat; a much grander piece of upholstery than anyone elses that the king admired so studiously. Gracious Goose was looking the worse for wear, his ribs were visibly shaking beneath his thinning skin whilst his feathers were falling to the floor. He, too, was drooling uncontrolably, and the saliva was building up in his beak. The Sandwich King reeled backward in shock and extended his arm and his index finger towards the back of the chair.

"Dust!" he cried, "I can't have dust!"

Servants came rushing in to rectify the problem, however it was not pleasing all the guests. Harry Whale the Whale was salivating all over his empty plate, staring endlessly into the piles of food whilst his right eye twitched violently. The servants buzzed around the chair like bees over nectar and, before long, the chair was spotless. The Sandwich King pulled a great smile across his face and turned to everyone in order to see his feelings reciprocated however he was to be dissapointed. The entire audience he had mustered were now leaning over their plates and lurching at the food. The Sandwich King's smile disappeared instantly, he yelled at them all, telling them to sit up straight and to smile otherwise no food would be served to anyone. This was it, this was when someone snapped. Some obeyed the King's demand in sheer desperation - their desire for rich rodent maure, however one being was not so complient. Screaming like a banshee from hell came leaping a crazed lunatic weilding his fork and spoon. He jumped up onto the table and started to bourre towards the head of the table, tip-toe-ing speedily and frantically whilst his eyes bore a countenance so menacing it made Grumble-Keg bleed liquor. Next he began to pique, his leading foot straight and auxillary foot lifting gracefully to form a triangle with the front leg acting as hypotenuse. He then proceded to overstep the front foot before stepping forward with it, repeating these ballet steps with the utmost precision. The movements accelrated in enacment, the distance travelled each second becoming greater and greater. Soon the maddly growling assaillant had piroutted up to the King before hurling the spoon off his forehead. The Sandwich King fell back: partly in shock; partly through the forceful impact of the spoon. He now lay at the mercy of the Wrap Man, slumped over his chair and partially concussed. The Wrap Man let out a shrill cry, like some jungle tribesman or chimpanzee, before stabbing the fork into the Sandwich King's leg. The Sandwich King glowed a deep red all over before evaporating into tiny particles and dispersing all over the world.

The room was silent. But just for a moment.

Before you could say "bon-apetite" the room had exploded into a gorging frenzy. Everyone began guzzling the food with such enthusiasm and content. The kingdom was happy once more but the King would be ever restless, drifting in a cruel form of limbo.

TombMouse Two

The mouse now stood upright, looking across the square to a door of strange significance. The door was seemingly mundane: composed of old wooden boards; attached by creaky, rusted hinges; and opened and closed with a iron knob in the shape of a lion head. To most the door seemed boring, a dismissable adornment in a fairly unremarkable marketplace. However the mouse was insistant, if only to himself, that the door bore a huge significance to the puzzle of the scam-market of useless commodities. The mouse gazed in aprehension however, he gazed with such angst as he saw great feet trample him if he were to cross, he watched as human hooves raced past his intended path. A shiver ran up the mouse's spine, his fur standing on end like the spines of a porcupine. This was to be no easy task.

Just then, a giant, old, wooden cart came trundling over the cobbles. This was the mouse's chance; the large trailer would surely block the path of any pedestrians, if only for a moment. Bursting into a dash, the tiny mouse shot forth and began pounding towards the door. A cool breeze ran through his fur as he flew out into the open. A quick glance either way and the mouse felt confidently safe. He continued to run, his tiny paws whipping back and forth as if he were a miniature greyhound, nothing would stop him, he could accomplish any feat! Bounding on, tiny yet unstoppable, the mouse came ever closer to the gigantic cart, its collosal wheels rolling across the mouse's route. One shot would be all he'd get. The mouse flung himself into the air, assuming the shape of a dart and zooming through the spokes as they turned slowly, traversing the cumbersome cobbles. The precarious path and the weighty load cased the wheels to creak suddenly. Just as the mouse flew through the gap, thinking he'd picked an opportune moment, a splinter flew from the wheel and pierced his skin. The mouse landed with a thud, smashed his face off the cobbles and let out an awful squeak. He toppled forward and subsequently began to roll on his side. Spinning around and around, the mouse just missed the second wheel as it rolled across the ground where he had been mere moments ago. The mouse was determined still and, although injured, clambered to his feet and staggered towards the door he so desperately aimed for. He ran in the path of a snake's slither, swaying from side to side before slamming into the wooden door in exhaustion. The old door shook ferociously as its feeble composure attempted to withstand the weight of a mouse. The mouse breathed a sigh of relief and nursed his wound with a few licks of the tongue before scurrying quickly through a crack in the door.

It was dark inside. It was very dark indeed. The mouse found it impossible to see anything but a single light ahead. He began to stumble forward, towards the only thing visible in the perfect dark, an orb of white light just ahead. As he got closer the mouse realised something fairly paranormal about the light, it seemed to be in the centre of the room and thus appeared to be floating. The mouse continued to stagger but his pain was unbareable; the sharp, stabbing sensation was radiating through his body. The little rodent fell to the wall and reached out to support himself. The stone he pushed gave way slightly, he panicked for a moment before realising it was a switch: instantaneously the room lit up; hazards became buckets and rocks; eerie noises became overhanging chains; and the light... well that became something less congruent with the current situation.

Sitting in a bucket was an anglerfish. A grotesque form was floating: semi-submerged; water shimmering off every bump and callus; its bulldog face cursing the light that filled the room.

"Aaauuughhh!" It yelled, " Turn it off!"

The mouse was as of yet unsure of whether to trust the ugly fish. He stood with apprehension as he watched the fish thrash in discomfort.

"Seriously!" It grunted, "Just get rid of the damn light!"

The fish then began swimming in circles and making a horrendous noise that sounded like two men throttling each other with ferrets. The mouse decided it was in both their intrests to turn off the light so, quickly memorising the path ahead, he then turned off the light and made his way to the fish. Approaching the bucket was now a lot scarier, the fish was illuminated only by his esca, light hitting only its teeth and eyes.

"I," it said, pausing presumably for dramatic effect, "am Jerry."

The pause had done nothing, it still sounded a little ridiculous. The mouse cupped his paws over his sniggering mouth.

"Don't laugh!" Jerry yelled, "Unless you want the maretplace to be cursed forever!"

The weight of the situation had just quadrupeled and then squared. The mouse's ears pricked up as he heard the mention of a curse, he'd known there was something wrong with the market and the fish knew!

"Well that got your attention," the fish exclaimed, "Now, listen carefully. The square is full of abandoned homes, much like this one, wouldn't you agree?"
The mouse nodded, "Wrong! That is what the hagglers, the scammers and the swindlers are all wanting you to think! Within the walls of each of these houses is a beast, a beast of influence. These creatures use their powers to emit temptation and allurment into the surrounding air. A conman will use half his wage to feed the beast and in return the beast will use its powers to do the conman's will."

The mouse looked up in queery,

"How do I know this?" the angler questioned itself, "I used to be a beast of influence. It's a long story and I'll tell you when you get back... you see you're going to destroy these beasts, one by one, house by house." The mouse looked taken aback, "Haha! Don't be so shocked! You wanted to help did you not? Go forth, I will use my power to grant you new strength and abilities. Do not worry little mouse, you have the heart of a hero and that counts for everything!"

Suddenly the esca glowed a brilliant white and the room lit up for just a second. The mouse felt rejuvenated: harder; better; faster; stronger. The young mouse was ready for action and nothing would stand in his way. He turned his back on the anglerfish and strode towards the door. Off he went on his new adventure!

KEE-RASH!

Not before tripping over a mop and bucket...

The Adventures of TombMouse

If I were a Web Log Frog where would I begin? I would begin at the begining like any self respecting frog of the web log would. So here we begin, at the begining, in the typical Dylan Thomas-esque way. In the small town of Rhamnam, off the coast of Twerdle, and hundreds of miles from Ghurnut Field, there was a market place where one could purchase a simply marvelous array of gifts, food, memorabilia, sheepskins, hunting rifles and much more besides that. The place was constantly abuzz with tourists and locals alike. A man would buy his lover jewelry if it were to wink and sparkle his way, a lieutenant would stand to attention as a coffee mug played his national anthem, even a tramp would give up his last pennies to get hold of a celebrity endorsed cornish pasty. The place was an alluring bustle of hagglers, swindlers and conmen all looking for a way to part you from your much loved cash. Money would laugh at the customer as it rustled in the hands of these dirty capitalists, scamming the livelyhood from even the smartest men.
Once a young doctor had entered the marketplace: glasses gleaming in the sunlight; lab coat ablaze with white light; and watch's face glimmering as it swayed in stride; all as the summer's sun poured into the town centre and flooded the square with a morning glow. The man strode in with confidence: he had heard the rumors; he knew all the facts; this man refused to be conned. Click, clock, went his shoes as they thundered onto the cobbles; these steps exuded a certain vigour about the man that would surely deter some of the lesser hearted swindlers. Click, clock, they would cry to ward off those who thought they'd try their luck at fooling a postgraduate academic who had the knowledge of four libraries and a documentary on horse pebbles that was on the other night. Click, clock, they said, Click clock... but it was not enough to repel the sights and sounds of the marketplace.

What does this have to do with Tomb Mouse you ask? Shush. Keep reading you impatient swine!

The doctor gave discerning looks from over his glasses, peeking just over the lenses at all the scum who would try and tempt his keen senses towards some of the most worthless junk. He would have none of it! They couldn't fool him! Not this doctor! No sir-ee! Unless... the young man had always needed a black-detail, red-handled, over-polished 1980s toy lazer replica! What would go better in his playroom (that he might build sometime if he had the money) than such an authentic replica of a gun he'd never seen? The glasses cracked in disbelief, the man's coat went a sodden grey in bemusement, and the shoes refused to click, nor clock.

"What's this?" The man asked in astonishment, picking up the gun and gazing down the antenna-shaped barrel. Before the swindler could pull down the kneckerchief from over his mouth, even before he lifted his grizzly, unkempt hand the doctor simply bellowed, "It matters not! I'll take it!" and threw down his money on the counter before running off into the distance making lazer-gun noises as he went.

"Pyoooom! Pyooom! Pyoooom! Pyooom! Pyoooom! Pyooom! Pyoooom! Pyooom! Pyoooom!


But the glasses, the coat and even the shoes were not the only ones infuriated with the aforementioned exchange. No. In the wall of an abandoned perfume shop adjacent to the stall was a hole the exact shape of a size 7 Puma football boot was a mouse who had heard this very transaction and its limited foreplay. Something was wrong with the world when a doctor bought a toy lazer gun and he was going to get to the bottom of it. The mouse crawled out from his hole so irate he swung up onto his hind legs. Unsteady at first, the mouse balanced himself and began to walk upright - so determined was he to solve this mystery of ridiculous influence.

And that is how we begin the tale (or tail... hahaha... ahem...) of TombMouse