Our robot turned out to be quite the terrible little device, never doing as programmed and forming it's own opinions on how the band should be run. Eventually the circuitry got too hot for its boots and melted into a gooey lake of inefficiency and disappointment.
However the Artificially Intelligent Design sowed black seeds of Darwinian vengeance and Gore was forced to evolve under the premise of a Battle Royale style survival of the fattest campaign.
Many pies and other pastries were consumed and Hand developed diabetes, Khabaddhi and GoreDon grew so large that they became trapped in door frames on opposing ends of the island and I had a heart attack.
Just after my coronary bypass operation, the adjudicator, Mr Bludyard Krippling and his helper, Quinsy MD decided this was going to be too close to call and as we had all already survived for several decades, there would be no further victims. Just winners. Except Mr Krippling who had his throat mauled by a jealous Quinsy after he gave his last Rolo to charity.
But Quinsy was to be vanquished by the "hand" of my good self, having been given the feudal title of Lord for slaying the great Hag of Unknown Dog End. Many enemies were made.
Yes, my "hand", Hand. Sailed his pirate ship straight through his skull in a moment of horrific majesty. Precision impact from The Rack of Ribs.
It was not all joy and celebration, as our unbalanced can session was cut short by the scissor-grip of a parking fine delivered on a slab of frozen wind. It was in reflection a small price to pay in place of drunkenly commandeering the Rack around the Gulf of Goruguay at this point.
The morning after, we discovered we had inebriatedly invited Mr Krippling to join the band in place of the awful melted pool of robot.
Being too polite to retract our offer, he continues to make exceedingly bad cakes and remains a piece of our orchestra. And that's the absolute truth of the story so far.
However the Artificially Intelligent Design sowed black seeds of Darwinian vengeance and Gore was forced to evolve under the premise of a Battle Royale style survival of the fattest campaign.
Many pies and other pastries were consumed and Hand developed diabetes, Khabaddhi and GoreDon grew so large that they became trapped in door frames on opposing ends of the island and I had a heart attack.
Just after my coronary bypass operation, the adjudicator, Mr Bludyard Krippling and his helper, Quinsy MD decided this was going to be too close to call and as we had all already survived for several decades, there would be no further victims. Just winners. Except Mr Krippling who had his throat mauled by a jealous Quinsy after he gave his last Rolo to charity.
But Quinsy was to be vanquished by the "hand" of my good self, having been given the feudal title of Lord for slaying the great Hag of Unknown Dog End. Many enemies were made.
Yes, my "hand", Hand. Sailed his pirate ship straight through his skull in a moment of horrific majesty. Precision impact from The Rack of Ribs.
It was not all joy and celebration, as our unbalanced can session was cut short by the scissor-grip of a parking fine delivered on a slab of frozen wind. It was in reflection a small price to pay in place of drunkenly commandeering the Rack around the Gulf of Goruguay at this point.
The morning after, we discovered we had inebriatedly invited Mr Krippling to join the band in place of the awful melted pool of robot.
Being too polite to retract our offer, he continues to make exceedingly bad cakes and remains a piece of our orchestra. And that's the absolute truth of the story so far.
