After breaking up the latest cockfight which the Treasurer held in societal HQ (this is not _not_ NOT an attempt at an innuendo: he really does this with unspeakable frequency) I was covered with worrisome scratches. I went to the kitchen to borrow the Belgian's iodine and found him already extracting the gibbets from the dead birds. Having learned the basics of fishing from the President the Belgian had miscalculated the potential effectiveness of transferring the trick to land animals. He had been raving for some time about the chance of catching a pig with a chicken and then catching a cow with the pig. Cows obviously retain significant value in his Wallonian homeland, where, as anyone with half a wit knows, the cock is utterly ineffective; as useless as measuring viscosity in Hz. As he was licking the blood off his hands I had already elected not to follow him on his pointless mission. I have been arrested before, and know that following a ‘grass’ on a dangerous mission, then one can quickly mount up adverse charges on the rap-sheet.

Instead I elected to pay the President back for his gratuitous decision to put me on sentry duty in front of the societal bee hives for the last few weeks. Little beknownst to him, I had been in contact with his father, E. B. Wainwright, planting rumours that the Treasurer was plotting a coup against their familial dynasty and its position of pre-eminence in the Presidential succession. Knowing that Wainwright would be furious at his son’s failure to engage thoroughly with the intrigue I expected a swift reprimand would issue forth. How wrong can one man be? Wainwright obviously had feared the power-mad lunatic known by the proper noun ‘Treasurer’ was plotting ill for quite some time, and before I knew it the Belgian was back, wielding a pistol and yammering in foreignisms. At this point, yet again, I was forced to leave his presence in fear of what he might be foolish enough to attempt.

I went looking for the Treasurer and found him standing in the middle of the river. He was rigging up a fine muslin net against the current, possibly dreaming about trapping stray aggregates which had meandered down from higher, more rugged, mountainific areas. I told him that the Belge had blown a gasket again and was deep in a meltdown but he looked unconcerned. "Sod it" I thought, while I’m here I’ll skim a few stones. I did. I’m pretty shit hot at it in fact, and I got the best skim ever and now hold all of the world records. Konichiwa, bitches.