After attempting to create a road-kill situation we accidentally found our way to an abandoned mill. From the outside it smelled of excrement and defeat. At this point we should have thought twice, but having only time to think once before beginning the looting we were stupid enough to enter. The ice and cold had us on the back foot. That is code-speak for 'on the break and shitting ourselves'. Fortunately, we had some logs and kindling that we had “appropriated” from a vendor in the previous village. The vendor, a tall, wide chap some 40 metres high and approximately 60 years old according to his rings, could barely stand up to our hefty ax for half an hour. We started the fire with said kindling and logs with immediate effect and the Bookkeeper opened a book on the first member to run away screaming. There was a hint of ghosts, but only the younger members were unafraid. It would be a long time before this nightmare could end, and there was plenty to be done in the meantime. Not only needed the little ones a bit of tender love and care, they had to be instructed in the ways of the Society.
Mother gin was allowed to flow, as was mother port, mother lager, mother rum and mother teetotaller, on whom the Secretary was releasing his maggot ridden crotch. Unfortunately we the Society had only been able to appropriate 400 units of beer, 10 units of spirits, 31 units of port, and thirteen wheel barrows of a local delight referred to only as “Yorkshire's ruin”. Many feared that this supply of nectar wouldn't suffice, but yet we survived. “The focus on drinking is one that should remain behind locked doors and not let out in the open”, the Belgian spoke solemnly while pointing towards the Secretary, who was failing to clench a bottle of port. It was about time for dinner when a noise was heard; was Moreau out on the moors again? The snow, scattered as if thrown by an invisible hand, was an indication that could not be trusted.
And so it came to be that when the stone-clocks were wet with godly ambrosia – so beautiful and yet so deadly - on that day of extraordinary proportions, as the Lord had prophesied, the dark tea time of our souls fell like the Historian's corduroy trousers as he stood above the virgin brook, imploring his soldier to give him relief from the weaknesses of our human form. The Society's newly appointed Gamekeeper had visions of grandeur that reached beyond his task of keeping badgers at bay. It was not sure if he was delirious because of the prospect of a good shoot-out with those infamous creatures – below even the Havisocks on the ladder of outcasts – or of the cold: he was stuck in a car in the middle of nowhere and the face of the Intern kept appearing in front of the windscreen – frightening by day, let alone in the light of a full moon.
The Chair Incident
After the utter failure to empty all vessels of their content (alcohol and other prescription drugs) on the first night, we all congregated around the fire. After absolutely poning the Secretary in a fisting, I took it upon myself to reorganise the frankly bloody appalling fire-situation. Not only had the Historian, whose task it is to burn books, not to tend to a proper fire, completely destroyed the stack of firewood by relieving himself for no other reason than that he could not locate the loo, but when he had finally found the relevant outbuilding, he started expressing himself as the exhibitionist he truly is (by hiding his own clothes, in order to walk in stark naked, in a vomit-inducing sequence of poses). Other criminal acts viz the fire were perpetrated by the Bookkeeper, a man of inferior wood-chopping skills, who likes to lick his pen with just a little bit too much enthusiasm to be decent in public. Luckily, we were sojourning in a semi-abandoned water mill on the moors, or the police would most certainly have paid a visit (which they eventually did, but more of this inevitable situation later). This character had taken it upon himself to kick the fire into shape. This would normally be a good idea, if the fire (f) and the Historian (H) had been related in the following fashion:
f = H(s+h)
Of other disgusting behaviour - including the infamous seabadger song our ever-sober, trusted Porter pulls out of his sleeve (or his "crimper", as he likes to call it himself) - nothing shall be said now for the simple reason that the dustbin in the Office is now formally full and I don't want to be sick anywhere else around here.
In this situation what could one do but trust the Treasurer with solving this riddle? In the past, his firemaking skills had been so well-honed that when he finally set fire to his own 'mansion' (a filthy tarpaulin), he forgot about it and blamed the locals. With no one to blame but the Secretary (who was conveniently out of action in front of the fire), he proposed to do the most straightforward thing: burn a wooden chair. "No one will miss it" and " I dont't regret it yet" he spoke as if guided by an invisible hand. It was only the Gamekeeper who kept him from pursuing this rational course of action. Shame on you, Sir.