This is a section from ‘Trans-Uranic Elements: The Dark Side of Uranus’. It is the second in my trilogy of the Tales of Fairy Hanny and should be on Amazon by the end of January 2022.
Enjoy – the laughter may help you sleep!
“OK! OK! Let’s start again. Tell me about Grumbleflick!”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t know what dead means?”
“Yes I do – but how can he be dead?”
“He’s a Witch!”
“Lots of them are dead. They seem to like it that way – it’s a great tax saving tip!”
“So, King Grumbleflick is a stiff?”
“Not all of him, some bits are quite floppy.”
“How does he look?”
“He uses his eyes, like most folks; but apparently he has a deathly stare. And an awful twitch in his left eye…”
“So, he is a winking Witch King!”
“Yes the Witch with a twitch.”
“And what of his countenance?”
“Yes, he’s mean alright! Wouldn’t give you the time of day – not that that would bother you!”
“I mean what does his gob look like!!!!”
“Ugly fecker by all accounts. Face like a bucket of smashed crabs. And pale!”
“A pail of smashed crabs?”
“Not pail! Pale!”
“Did you ever go to school? I mean his face is very white!”
“So, he is wan?”
“Yes, just him; the only one.”
“I’m a little lost here,” said Magdalene. “I can’t quite work out one and wan!”
“It’s two,” explained Wayne.
“Yes, one and one is two!”
“I know that, but what about ‘one’ and ‘wan’?”
“So, you’re not sure about the ‘one’ one and the ‘wan’ one?”
“That is what I said!” screamed Magdalene.
“She’s a bit of a one,” said Wayne to Ken.
Irritated Tom decided to take over.
“When he mentioned the paleness of the wan one he meant the King of the Witches.”
“So Grumbleflick is wan?”
“That’s the one!”
“Yes – deathly white!”
“I see! He is a wan King!”
Tom looked to Magdalene – who looked to all purposes like a totally muddled Basset Hound on the streets of Benidorm when the coffin dodgers are in full swing.
“So; we are looking for Grumbleflick, the winking wan King of the Witches! Where can I find him?”
“I haven’t got the foggiest!” declared Ken. “I’m happy for the Witches to be a legend of some renown but you can kiss my sweet patooty if you think I’d want to know where they live!”
“What about you?” asked Magdalene, homing in suddenly on Wayne like a Labrador on a high-pitched fart.
“He lives in Witchland!” spurted Wayne.
Ken Tucky went red with anger, rage and constipation.
“I told you to forget that!” screamed Ken at his trembling chum.
“I forgot to remember to forget!” bleated Wayne.
“Which land is Witchland?” asked Tom.
“Yes,” said Ken. “Though they do say this land is my land, this land is your land, and his land is Witchland!”
“Consult a bloody Geography teacher if you really want to know! I am a humble supervisor of a small-scale Magic Mushroom Farm, not a cartographer! And I don’t have elbow patches on my corduroy jacket!” declared Ken with more than a hint of annoyance and a deliciously over the top pucker of his brow.
“And where would I find such a person?” asked Magdalene trying to relieve the tension; she certainly had the looks to inspire executive relief.
“Probably in one of the bars in Setebos, or having a recce round ravaged rubber trees,” said Wayne. “I think it would do us all the world of good if we were travel up the River Thyme and settle for a few glasses of delicious beer at the Phat Cat Hotel!”
All four nodded a sagacious agreement.
“The drinks are on you!” shouted Ken.
“Only if you spill them!” chortled Wayne. “Hey Ho, let’s go!” accepted Fatalistic Tom.