Once Upon A Dork & Rubbery Night - Chapter 7.

7.
The strubbling sound of the brass trumble rumbled trhough all ensembled, namely me, and sent a quiver through my nicotine, quickly, till I made use of the toile in the corner, upsidley.

“Thank you, thank you, that do. Please!” I voiced long audiably over the brasses, he now having one in each orifice and alternating blow holes to some musically gastrionomic effect.

“That’ll do nicely?” he pleaded, pretending no hurt, with an awkward smirk.

“Yes. Pleasant. It.”

“Mead.” he exulted wetly.

“Now,” I said as I wiped, “to our exit.”

Dugong looked around wiftly, non capire, imminent eyebrows confused.

“My key?” I begged, foot out held.

“Ah,” he apologised and fished it from the trumpet.

The keycicle 9.7.Z. was a redundant number, but still very handy in ancient burial chambers of the oil mechanism type which I figured with vitrious humour was ours to be conquering. I wiped it clean, pressed the red button, and soon it went soft and slithered into the lockable. You see, the 9.7.Z was infact animal, from many distant, which, when lubed, would awaken, sea monkey like it’s cugin, and mathematically engineer to fit it’s habitat, it being lock, and then turn so as to sleep, at which point, porta apri, a minimal blow would rehybernate said amici for coat pocketing again. All this we did.

“Excellent, yeah?” I said to Dugong as he stared warily down the hallway.

“Hmm, bing” he said somewhat otherwise unemployed.

So, slowly, stuggibly, and with many an adverb randibled, we strutted on out into the blackbrick wet, bible black hallway. Towut end non-entity but belief in we. Towut end knowledge never?