A Message for Lord Scrofulax

“My Lord Scrofulax, the Piper Drones await your inspection.”

A palid, near-skeletal mandible emerged from the billowing screen-clouds and waved the messenger away. It waved curtly, this bony, ring-bedecked appendage. It waved in a manner that implied in no uncertain terms that any further interruption would be met with terminal disapproval. “Leave now, small underling,” the casually wafted claw seemed to suggest, “lest we become inclined to amend the internal nature of your organs.”

The messenger’s day had started poorly, and seemed destined to follow a parabolic downward route from there. Waking to the usual morning tirade of deprecating scorn from its clutch-mate (whom it increasingly suspected of having more than a passing fancy for the new slok-juice delivery grub) it had scalded the rhuncakes, split its best carapace and emerged from its clutch twelve pico-cycles after its allotted rotation. Consequently it had missed the omnipede and had had to scuttle the whole six rhens to Pod-duty.

New boss: Znugbarr (school bully) Pod Custodian

Mentor eaten (Hrondo)

Reassigned to Drone Inspection Protocol with dire threats

Perhaps it was this series of misfortunes that blinded the messenger to the obvious. However utterly unmistakable the signals being sent from within those broiling pink screen-clouds, the messenger contrived to mistake them.

“My Lord, protocol dictates that…”

The screen-clouds parted with a hiss. The messenger took an involuntary step backwards, realising its error far too late. It had dared argue with the Imperiatrus Royal, Doyen of the Skittering Hill, Blessed Arch-Pomp of the Twelve Sacred Polyps, the Grand High Lord Scrofulax of Slithernia.

Describe

Even here, behind three feet of gravitic shielding, it could feel the inexorable tug of the High Lord’s presence. Three feet, the messenger reminded itself, of retractable gravitic shielding.

“Name?”

“Wh-wh-wh-“

“Your name, lackey. What is your name?”

“S-Skrotch, my Lord.

“Boss?”

Shows management training manual.

It says here don’t shoot the messenger. Root out Dictatorial Protocol.

Sends for boss, Pod Custodian Znugbarr. Pleads case, but eaten.

Directive from Slithernian Resources, Drones and Pupates Division

As staff are fed one by one Head of D&P blames the Central Accounts (Let’s see how bloody smug they are in Central Accounting now) who blame an overspend by marketing. Marketing blame poor performance by Sales. They in turn blame inefficiencies in the technical department. IT are digested screaming that the engineers are to blame.

Engineers are working on increasing capacity of feeding tubes. Argument has broken out between the mechanical engineer, electrical engineer and civil engineer. Scrofulax eats them all.

Chief Scientist blames clergy.

“My Lord, the ways of the Divine are manifold and inscrutable…”

“So it’s God’s fault?”

The High Priest turned ashen. “G-G-God’s fault? My Lord surely you don’t mean to…”

“No, no, calm yourself, Cardinal, forgive my little jest. Of course it cannot be God’s fault.”

The High Pap let out a long, relieved breath. “Of course my Lord. Ha ha, most witty…”

“Couldn’t possibly be God’s fault, I ate Him last week. Tasted a bit like chicken, you know. ”

Clergy blame the philosophers.

Reason vs Religion debate: both eaten. Both blame the lawyers as they die.

Lawyers claim that, legally, the Central Governing Cortex hold ultimate decision-making responsibility, and they are summoned. Each head blames one another, and then in turn their subordinates in Health, Education, Internal and External affairs, who in turn blame the idle underclasses, who found it astonishing that no-one had realised that the true and obvious culprits were the wealthy. The rich went to their deaths decrying the uppity middle classes, who were of the opinion that the elderly had not been pulling their weight.

The military efficiently loaded them all into the feeding chutes, and then (after a Colonel with his eye on the big prize suggested that the General was in fact widely known for his love of tradition) one another. The last remaining trooper,

A terrible silence ensued. A smile had spread across the high lord’s face, much in the manner that weeping sores spread across the bodies of plague victims.

“So, was there anything further, Skrotch?”

“N-n-n…”

“Come again?”

“No my Lord.”

“Very well, Skrotch, you’re dismissed.”

“Th-th-thank you, my Lord”

“Oh, and Skrotch?”

“Yes my Lord?”

“I think I’ll inspect those Piper Drones now.”

The Kraken Awakes...

A blog? Of my very own? What technodevilry is this? An opportunity to cram, shovel-load by festering shovel-load, the writhing, squirming contents of my cranium into the internet's gaping wet maw? Rock on.

And yet...

You'd have thought that someone starting up a blog would have something to say, some priceless wisdom gem or knowledge nugget that would, assuming favourable celestial alignments and the appropriate scattering of goat innards, flip the earth on its axis or reverse the flow of time.

Alas not.

Maybe I'll think of something to write tomorrow.