Last time, we reached the rather constructive conclusion that the bourgeoisie are among the most troublesome guests. This theory holds true both in life and in death. However, it turns out that after death, there's another type of clientele who can cause major problems, perhaps even bigger ones – a bunch of stinking old men who devour herbs, run around naked, and God knows why, pee on the flowers in the lobby. They call themselves druids. For some reason, they attribute every strange thing, everything that breaks any rules, to the Will of Mother Nature, whose humble servants they are. And anyone who spends more than five minutes in their company starts calling Mother Nature an old tramp. This is, of course, the mildest description. However, there was also – as always – a brighter side to the coin. Druids possessed large reserves of cash, which they were able to lavish on their friends. So this small, naked, and stinking problem could be a small, naked, and stinking profitable problem. They just had to play it right. And who could do it better than the owner of the Dead Rat Inn...?
"Divine!" the owner rejoiced, then remembered who was on the other end of the line. "Your Infernal Wickedness, I mean. When can we expect those... five druids?" Excellent. Good. Everything will be ready for Friday.
And so our beloved owner gained the opportunity to earn a truly tidy sum with very little work. All that was left was to get everything ready by Friday... So he had a whole five days. Perfect.
The inn's regular residents, such as Admiral Halfrotten and Countess Vrakula, gladly agreed to help decorate the inn for the arrival of these rather unusual guests, although each decorated in their own charming and unique way.
The admiral offered to nail white canvas to the walls in the hall. Unfortunately, when he climbed the ladder, he accidentally nailed his hand to the wall, causing his legs to fall off and his jaw to fall off. The poor thing hung there for four hours before anyone found him. He stated that he wasn't discouraged from helping, and if not in this way, he would help in another way. He offered to help in the kitchen, as he had served in the kitchen for a while during his time in the army. Unfortunately, he had to abandon this idea when his ear ended up in a nettle-and-fly-agaric cake. Although the cook said it looked beautiful and would certainly add a certain oriental touch to the dish, the admiral demanded the immediate return of his property.
So, as you can see, he couldn't help in the kitchen either.... However, as befits a war veteran, he didn't like feeling useless and had to do something; he was better at something than everyone else. He went from one person to another asking if he could help, but each one replied that he could do it perfectly well on his own. Finally, resigned, he took up making cardboard hats [though even doing so required removing his eye from the hat twice].
And what could Countess Vrakula do? Oh! Such a distinguished lady could only do the most difficult and serious things! She ran around the kitchen sampling dishes, pouting and advising the cook, complaining that the white linens were hung incorrectly, commenting on the colors of the cardboard hats, and doing a thousand other such things, in other words... she did nothing. Finally, someone got angry and sent her to the boiler room to shovel several hundred kilograms of coal. And because the Countess was a true lady, she didn't refuse, but bravely headed to the boiler room to shovel coal.
A couple of drowned men who were leaving the inn the day after tomorrow decided to help too, to interact with the common folk and experience manual labor for once in their lives. These curious men didn't treat it like work, but rather as an additional, free tourist attraction not listed in the inn's brochure. However, for a long time they couldn't choose the right job, complaining about every one they deemed unsuitable. Until finally, they found a task... They busied themselves with laying out bedding on the beds for future guests. Before any of the staff realized what they were doing, all the bedding was already laid out. As we know, drowned men are terribly wet even after death, so all the bedding had to be replaced – it was so damp that it wouldn't dry on its own in a thousand years – and as we know, everything has to be perfect for such a visit.
Everyone bustled around the inn, wanting it to look as "druid-like" and mystical as possible, just to please the guests. By Thursday evening, the entire inn was ready and looked nothing like it had a few days earlier. Unfortunately, it didn't look the slightest bit Druidic either. None of the people preparing the decorations had any previous experience with Druids, and they were crafting their decorations based on what they'd heard from friends and Countess Vrakula—meaning, more or less, nothing looked quite right.
Most of the furniture was covered with white linens, intended to create "a magical and highly mystical atmosphere that Druids need for their reflections on nature." As a result, the hall looked as if a major painting was about to take place, for which everything had been covered in preparation. Because Druids were associated with nature, tons of flowers were brought in and placed haphazardly on the ground. It was so green and crowded that to get anywhere, one had to wind through narrow flower-lined corridors.
Additionally, for some reason, a whole army of vegetarian dishes was prepared. Apparently, no one knew what carnivores the Druids were and how much they hated vegetable dishes. Although, in this case, calling the prepared dishes "vegetable" was a sign of foolish optimism. Most of these dishes contained not a single ounce of vegetable, and what was inside wasn't even a distant cousin of any vegetable. In short, everything green and non-animal was thrown inside. For this reason, some dishes even contained earth and sand. ["Oh, dear cook! I – Countess Vrakula – have hosted druids many times! And I assure you, they value nothing more than a bit of sand in their food! The grinding of their teeth as they strike the grains gives them incredible pleasure! It makes them feel closer to nature!"]
So the inn was truly prepared for the guests' arrival... but not as it should have been, but that didn't matter because the druids were so crazy they didn't even notice...
However, a problem arose... The messengers of Hell lied as a matter of principle, even if the matter was important to them and not to anyone else. They probably had something like kleptomania. Only, instead of stealing, they lied involuntarily, and about everything, even the smallest lie... And so it was this time. The only difference was that the tiny lie was that... Instead of five, twenty-five druids arrived. And it looked like this:
"Attention!" the owner whispered theatrically. "They're coming! Welcome to..."
At that moment, the door opened, and a crowd of bearded old men in white robes burst into the hall.
"Save yourself, whoever can!" someone from the welcoming committee yelled, and everyone panicked. "Save yourself! They're surrounding us!"
The guests began running in every direction, but none managed to escape. Potted flowers placed everywhere made escape difficult, and after a few minutes, everyone was overrun by druids, who jumped on everyone's backs. Countess Vrakula defended herself bravely. It's funny, but in situations like these, you forget you're a lady of good standing. She rushed up to Admiral Halfrotten, tore his arm away, and began pummeling the druid sitting on her back with it. The admiral, however, was still barely able to cope with the one on his back. And without one arm, he was completely defenseless. He lay on his back and began rolling. Apparently, he mistook the method of extinguishing the fire for the method of removing the druid from his back.
Meanwhile, the owner had managed to get upstairs and was surveying the battlefield from the stairs. Each regular guest was attacked by a druid, and the receptionist tried to persuade two druids not to eat the guest book. The bellboy, meanwhile, ran from flower to flower, punching every druid who peed. The situation was undoubtedly getting out of control. However, he had a brilliant idea—or so he thought...
"Roots for everyone in the dining room!" he shouted in the most encouraging tone he could muster.
But that was a mistake... Only then did it begin. It turned out that the druids had no intention of abandoning the poor guests' means of transportation. They began punching everyone to get them to the dining room. The guests capitulated and headed for the dining room. Only the countess threw off the druid, who was clearly unaccustomed to this turn of events, and began to flee from her. However, she persisted and chased him around, repeatedly hitting him in the head with the admiral's hand. And speaking of him... The poor thing lost his other arm and nose on the way to the dining hall. It certainly wasn't his best day.
In the dining hall, the druids focused on eating, forgetting about their slaves, who fled in panic to the owner (the admiral collected his fallen parts along the way), and with him fled to the boiler room, convinced they would be safe there.
The situation wasn't ideal. The inn was taken over by a band of stinking freaks.
"I remember..." the admiral began after reattaching his nose. "Back in my day, we were attacked by surprise...
" "Surprise?" " said the countess, desperately wanting to add something intelligent. "I was there once on vacation... A terrible place...
" "Anyway, we should launch a counterattack and murder everyone..." the admiral concluded with the serious expression of an experienced soldier.
"Murder?" the owner replied, seriously considering this option. "I don't think it would give my inn a good reputation... Can't we somehow... catch them and release them?
" "That will take more time... But it's possible." Then he felt responsible for giving his "Soldiers" a pep talk. "I can't force you to fight... Because we don't know if any of us will get out of this alive... But remember, they've taken over our inn! And the fight will be bloody... You could lose limbs, be disfigured for eternity... And damned forever...
" "Uh... well..." one of the guests interrupted. "I was going to fight, but if this is how it's going to be... I can't! I have a wife and everything!"
As you can see, the motivational speech had a completely different effect than it was intended. Almost all the guests withdrew. The last speaker was José, a murder victim with severe paranoia:
"Well... I'd love to help... But I have a strange feeling I'm going to die today!" he spoke with horror.
"You're already dead..." Vrakula replied.
"Exactly! And I still remember how I died! It's the kind of event I don't want to have more memories of than I already have!"
After this brief meeting, a small group of valiant individuals remained: Countess Vrakula, Admiral Halfrotten, the bellhop and the receptionist (they weren't in the mood to fight, but judging by the owner's expression, they knew they had no other choice), and the owner himself. A veritable dirty five.
"The plan is as follows," the admiral began in a serious tone, "the Countess and I will head to capture the kitchen, thereby depriving our enemies of food. They won't last long without it. The bellhop and the receptionist will enter the hall as a diversion. With a bit of luck, we'll take the kitchen without any problems. Let's begin!"
The bellhop and the receptionist set off first. However, they stopped at the door to the hall.
"What did he mean by 'sabotage'?" the bellboy asked; he had never been a particularly diligent student in life.
"We're supposed to run around screaming," the receptionist replied with conviction.
So they ran out into the hall, running among the flowers and screaming. Unfortunately, that was exactly what the druids were doing, so no one paid them the slightest attention. However, they were so absorbed in their brilliant sabotage plan that they didn't even notice.
Meanwhile, the admiral and the countess were sitting in the kitchen shaft, which they were supposed to use to enter the kitchen. They slowly ascended, trying not to attract attention with the creaking coming from the shaft. Unfortunately, because the sabotage had failed, twelve druids were already waiting by the door, waiting for the invaders to arrive. As soon as they did, they were dragged outside.
The admiral immediately lost an ear, which only motivated him to fight. He began biting the old men and rolling around, clearly oblivious to the fact that this was a way to extinguish himself.
The countess, on the other hand, became a true beast. She knocked the druids down and jumped on them until they squealed and fled in panic. At one point, she even grabbed a cleaver and beheaded one. She came to her senses, however. While it's proper for a lady to defend herself and her friends, it certainly isn't proper for her to behead someone. Besides, the owner will be displeased; headless guests aren't likely to pay for a room. However, this is a battlefield where such a small and innocent mistake can happen to anyone. After a few minutes of rather fierce fighting, three of the toughest druids remained, but the admiral was no longer fit for combat. Two druids fleeing in panic from the rampaging Vrakula took the admiral's legs and fled.
- A victim of war... In life they happened all the time... please don't worry about me - he told the countess.
She clearly took his advice to heart, as she was already beating another druid over the head. So, although it initially seemed they were at a disadvantage, the countess, employing unusual traits for a member of a noble family—a lack of delicacy and a battle-hardened combat veteran would be proud of—turned the tables on them. The first battle for the kitchen ended in their victory. A moment later, the owner rode down the kitchen shaft and joined them.
"Good heavens! What's that corpse of a guy who's DEFINITELY not going to pay on the floor doing here?!" he said, growing angry.
"His head fell off on its own," the countess replied with conviction.
"What do you mean, it fell off on its own?
" "Well... I've hosted many druids... When they get angry, their heads always fall off... It's a habit of theirs...
" "I understand," the owner replied without conviction, but he decided it would be tactless to argue with a true lady.
So, only two of them remained on the battlefield, as the admiral had no legs (but he assured them he could still fight! He didn't suffer such injuries in war...), while the bellboy and the receptionist had become so absorbed in their roles that they forgot the rest of the world and ran among the flowers, yelling incoherently. Clearly, they had been given a task well within their capabilities.
The only remaining question was how to retake the rest of the inn. It was certain that they wouldn't succeed with just the two of them, and the druids couldn't stay here. If they ran around like this for a few more hours, peeing on every flower and destroying everything around them, the inn wouldn't be left brick by brick.
"I know!" the owner shouted happily. "We have to get to the boiler room! We'll turn off the power! That should terrify them!
" "But how will we get from the kitchen through the hall to the boiler room?!" The countess seemed terrified by the very idea, not to mention how it might be carried out.
"We'll pretend to be druids!" "The owner replied happily, and the countess shuddered at the thought... that was exactly what she had feared.
"I understand that, sir... But I'm a woman! And a lady, too!
" "Nothing will happen to you if you pretend to be someone every now and then... Besides, I always thought you could be a good actress..."
The ruse worked. Such compliments had a powerful effect on the countess, and she began listing the plays she hadn't acted in and how many people hadn't praised her. After five minutes, when she finished listing them, they could begin preparations. Preparing the druid costumes from the kitchen proved extremely difficult. They only had pasta, plenty of vegetables, pots, and other items that couldn't be used to make costumes, but they weren't discouraged.
They fashioned beards from pasta. The owner had a long, straight beard, while Vrakula had a short, spiky one. They also removed the tablecloths and fashioned them into robes. They also rubbed themselves with garlic and other spices to make them smell bad. They looked and smelled like a druid would have envied them.
"One thing remains... Behavior... We must behave as strangely as we can," the owner said seriously, and the countess nodded.
So the rather... eccentric-looking couple emerged into the hall. No one even noticed them, as everyone was either busy running or peeing on the flowers. Suddenly, the owner spotted the receptionist.
"Hey!" he turned to the countess. "He's peeing in a flowerpot! Let me just... Ouch!" the countess nudged him.
"We weren't supposed to attract attention!" You'll take care of it later... Besides, it's not proper to mention revenge in front of a lady...
These words sounded truly comical coming from someone smeared with garlic and dressed in pasta and a tablecloth. However, the countess—as befits a lady—painted no attention to such "minor" details.
A moment later, they set off, swaying from side to side and shouting every now and then. Due to the flower maze, they got lost a few times, and it took them a good five minutes to navigate the hall. They chatted about flowers and herbs... which they had no clue about, but the countess later assured him that the lady could talk about anything.
Nevertheless, they finally reached the boiler room and turned off the power... And then it began! Although the druids were, to put it simply, abnormal, they had quite normal and real fears. They were afraid of the dark... And not just any fear, oh no! As supporters and most ardent believers of Mother Nature—God only knows why—they claimed that a primal evil lurks in the darkness. And as is common knowledge in the world of the dead, this is not true, as the primal evil favored the unusually subdued light provided by candles and simply despised darkness. However, the druids didn't know this because they were too... mentally unstable. In any case, the light went out. And compared to what was happening at this moment, the druids' earlier behavior seemed very calm.
Some of them hid in flowerpots, others pretended to be stones, and the remaining few... began to summon a demon! [It's still unknown what prompted them to do this...] Unfortunately, before the owner realized what was happening, the demon had been summoned...
"Put a few sacrificial altars here, walls... hmm... Just pour a few liters of human blood and it will be perfect..." – clearly, the previous decor didn't suit him.
"I'm sorry..." the owner tried to engage in dialogue once he discovered what was happening. "I apologize to the esteemed demon... May I?" – it's common knowledge that you have to be polite to them. Those who weren't, ended up badly.
"But THIS," he pointed to the receptionist's desk, "is truly demonic! I like it... what's the matter?
" "Well, it's like MY inn... Of course, I'd be happy to rent a room, but...
" "Are you saying you don't like my idea for the interior design?!"
"No, of course not, but..."
"That's perfect. I'll stay here for a while... But not for long, because I'm in a hurry... Maybe two thousand years?
The owner almost fainted... Two thousand years with a capricious demon on his head?! And with a truly hellish interior design? This was too much... Everything has its limits, and at this point they were definitely exceeded. We had to get rid of both the druids and the demon. Immediately... And there was only one way to get rid of the demon..." The owner ran quickly to his office and dialed the number of "Niebo" sp. Zoo. "
Yes? Good morning... with Archangel Gabriel, please... Urgent." The operator on the other end told me to wait. As usual. If something was wrong in heaven, it was definitely the phone calls. "Good morning, Gabriel! I have the honor of inviting the Archangel to a free weekend at my Inn! Yes, it's all on the house!"
There was no need to repeat it twice. Angels, and Archangels in particular, are drawn to anything free... Unfortunately, in "Heaven," they're not paid very much.
Immediately after his arrival, the Archangel began to change everything up... Which meant lots of pink and harps and delicate creamy desserts. After five days, the demon decided he was in a hurry and couldn't stay any longer.
So, the demon's problem was solved... Three things remained: Get rid of the Archangel, the druids, and find the Admiral's legs, who—incidentally—had become very addicted to them, having talked about nothing else for the past three days. So, they had to endure the druids a little longer, because if they were eliminated, the chance of finding the Admiral's legs was very slim. And there's nothing worse than bad publicity for the Inn, which had already been exposed to significant damage to its reputation in recent days.
But where could they find legs? If they felt free, they could already be halfway to some tropical island where they would sunbathe for the rest of eternity. So, quite a long time. However, it should be remembered that these were the Admiral's legs, so—no offense intended—they weren't particularly demanding or clever. Just an ordinary pair of legs. Once he had dealt with the receptionist and the fight, he ordered them to search for the Admiral's legs. They were to be returned to their owner's room before evening.
There was, however, a problem. Body parts that had been free for some time usually didn't think [or in this case, the knee] about returning to their previous state of "captivity" once they had experienced such a measure of freedom.... Jumping independently across meadows, rolling in the grass, or finally stumbling of their own accord. And they could walk wherever they pleased, unencumbered.
The legs, however, were found by evening. They lay peacefully on a tombstone in a nearby cemetery. It turned out that now, with no one giving them orders, they simply fell in love.... And they believed they complemented each other perfectly [after all, how could it be otherwise, since one was right and the other left?], so it wasn't the knees that were supposed to return to their owner. And unfortunately, no one could force them to do so.... The Posthumous Act, paragraph 54, stated: "Any limb that has been away from its owner for more than six hours and shows no desire to return has the right to remain free."
However, the Admiral had no intention of giving up. He brought a lawsuit against his own leg. While in life, trials could drag on for years, in death everything happened instantly. As you can see, when you have eternity ahead of you and no need to rush, everything is easier.... Right after dinner, the judge, the legs' lawyer [the ungrateful legs hired a lawyer], and the lawyer defending Admiral Halfrotten arrived at the inn. And the jury was... Yes, unfortunately, druids!
And as is often the case in life and in death, little is fair. Therefore, the Admiral lost very quickly. He was left without a stifling individual who had tormented the legs for years and refused to give them freedom when they finally had the chance. On top of that, he stood in the way of their love. As if that weren't enough, the jury ordered the division of their estate. From then on, the legs were to live at the inn with the Admiral and have access to all his belongings...
But no one seemed to care. Everyone was too busy with the Archangel, who had decided to paint everything pink, and the druids, who had gone back to peeing on the flowers as soon as the demon had left. The situation was truly dire. The owner was completely at a loss for what to do. He even considered breaking all the rules and summoning a living person for help. He had heard much about the merits of an exorcist with the rather odd name of Stanisław. However, fate has a way of playing tricks on everyone... Especially those long dead.
"The inn under the dead rat, this is reception. How can I help you?" the receptionist said in his usual weary voice.
"Good morning... I'd like to rent a room, my dear," the woman on the other end said. Her voice was so... calm.
"Well... Our inn is quite... crowded at the moment," the receptionist said, eyeing the druid, who was swinging from the chandelier.
"It doesn't matter... I'm sure there'll be at least a small room for the old woman." There was something in her voice that made it impossible to refuse.
"Yes, of course! And what's your name?
" "Nature. Mother Nature."
The message quickly traveled to the owner himself, who began jumping for joy, something he didn't often experience. Not only would a true VIP be visiting, but his problem might be solved sooner than he thought! His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.
The owner quickly composed himself, took a seat behind his enormous badger bone desk, and began scribbling something on his papers to look busy.
"Come in," he grumbled, "I hope it's important, because I have a lot to do."
"Good morning, dear owner!" the owner sighed. Only that damned Archangel could have such a tone of voice.
"What can I do for you..." He controlled himself as much as he could to get the words out of his throat: "Dearest Archangel?"
"Colors in the hall!" – the owner clutched his head. – They're too dark! Bright yellow?! Who saw that? Pink would have been the most appropriate color!
After five minutes of complaining, the Archangel thankfully left. He too would have to be gotten rid of somehow.... The idea came very quickly and was realized the day before Mother Nature arrived. It looked like this:
Well, as we know, angels, and Archangels in particular, have incredibly beautiful wings. Of course, they are also beautiful, though in some people's eyes, too effeminate... After all, who is this guy with blond curls and beautifully trimmed nails? In any case, if one loses his wings, he is automatically expelled from "Heaven" [special zoo]. However, because of this, the wings were very well protected. They had a built-in alarm that made terrible noises whenever the wings were more than fifty meters away from the owner. So something had to be done with them at a shorter distance. But first, they had to get them...
"Will that much sleeping pill be enough?" the owner whispered conspiratorially to the countess.
"It should. It says two pinches for the devil." Vrakula pointed to the label.
"Well, he's an angel. Or rather, an Archangel.
" "Indeed. You only live once." The lady then poured the entire bottle into a cup of arsenic.
A moment later, the cup landed on the table right in front of the Archangel. A moment later—just as the Archangel was lifting the cup—the Admiral wheeled in, saying,
"I'm terribly thirsty! I'd like a cup of arsenic before dinner!
" "Please take mine! I'll order another," said the Archangel, for by nature they feel a perverted need to do good.
"NO!" the terrified owner shouted. "I mean, no... please don't bother.... He's already serving it to the admiral. This one's for the Archangel."
The Archangel didn't sense anything suspicious. You could even say he was pleasantly flattered. Someone had prepared arsenic especially for him... And in such a wonderfully pink cup! Life was truly pleasant... Life after death, of course!
However, this arsenic tasted a little strange... so... herbal. The Archangel, however, didn't care, because after a moment the entire room began to turn such a pleasant pink. So very pleasant... And then there were those adorable pink flamingos sitting at the next table... They seemed to be waving at him with their crooked legs. He'd wave back, but only a moment later. He was too tired now. He'd rest his head on the table for a moment. Just for a second... No one would even notice...
" "Okay, he's been lying there for ten minutes, so he must have fallen asleep," the owner finally said.
The Countess, the Admiral, and the innkeeper were leaning over him in a conspiratorial manner, or... simply leaning over. Any bending over is charmingly conspiratorial, isn't it?
They grabbed the Archangel by the arms and legs [the Admiral merely watched, due to his disability] and began carrying him upstairs to his "apartment" [I'll mention the Inn's apartments another time]. They had to act quickly and efficiently. This way, they wouldn't be accused of what was about to happen. If everything went well, they'd blame the druids. They managed to get him to his room without attracting any attention. Since a gang of old men were prowling around the inn, the permanent guests had stopped venturing into the hallway.
In any case, they carried him in and put him to bed. The innkeeper ran out and returned a moment later with a saw. They had to clip the angel's wings. That would be how he would be thrown out of "Heaven." This way, he'll cease to be a VIP and can be kicked out of the Inn. He'll be charged for his stay, of course. And what happens to him next? Who cares?! The owner was never one for feelings. He considered post-mortem feelings a figment of those New Age lunatics.
"Okay," he said. "Ladies shouldn't bother with such things
." Then he cut off the wings. It went quite smoothly, and since they were attached to every angel accepted into "Heaven," the poor guy felt no pain, neither during the procedure (though he was sedated) nor afterwards—if any of you are interested, of course.
"A true Fallen Angel," he commented.
A moment later, they packed the wings into a large bag to keep them out of sight and carried them down to the boiler room. It must be admitted that they burned really well. If they were easier to find and cheaper, they might have made really good kindling. You're probably wondering how they didn't chase the old zombie out of the boiler room while they were burning the wings. Well, he was so stupid he didn't even notice anything unusual about the feathered thing they were burning. That's another thing.
Now let's jump forward in time three hours. Archangel is just waking up, and something is missing. He feels a truly subtle, yet profound, loss. He felt like an American whose television had been taken away. Everything seemed fine, but something...
"My wingsaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" he screamed, running to the owner.
"Well... I share your pain, sir, etc. But you don't have wings, you're not an Archangel, and you certainly can't pay the bill. Get out of my inn." I'm confiscating all your material possessions to pay off the bill. Get out.
And so the problem with the Archangel was solved. The remaining druids and Mother Nature. And she arrived at the Inn at high noon. She entered the lobby and looked around. She looked beautiful. A wreath of spring flowers, a floral dress, and beautiful skin. She moved toward the receptionist with a slow and exceptionally distinguished gait. She walked... or rather, flowed, capturing everyone's attention. She radiated an extraordinary calm... She was undoubtedly one of those people who wouldn't hurt a fly.
Suddenly, a druid ran up to her, kicked her in the ankle, and ran away.
"You little, stinking, damned bastard!" she screamed, and began chasing him.
"Oh my God... This will ruin me!" the owner sighed, then began chasing Mother Nature.
And so everyone began running around again, chasing the druids. This time, however, Mother Nature helped them, having just ripped off the hem of her beautiful dress... because it was getting in the way of her running. After twenty minutes, they had caught half the druids. After half an hour, some of them were dead. As you can see, Mother Nature didn't care... Although, of course, she might consider sticking sharp implements into various odd places on their bodies a concern. After forty-five minutes, they were all caught, and an hour later, they were burning in the furnace. They burned really well, you have to give them credit for that.
"Mother Nature... I have an indiscreet question. Why did you burn your followers?" asked the owner, watching the last one burn.
"My dear... In this profession, you have to be sharp. You can't afford everything. Followers have to know that fine line. Of course, I love them, but I also care about my image.
" "Nonsense. We both know it's not true."
"Ha, ha, ha, ha. True. Only those in hell still fall for this nonsense. Understand, I'm just a menstruating woman..."
And the owner didn't add anything else. It's funny, but both in life and in death, women use the same old, tried-and-true excuse for everything, one that seems to explain everything.
Brak komentarzy:
Prześlij komentarz