Sunday, May 4, 2008

On the topic of local shamans

I was returning to camp via rick-shaw from the aero-drome, (my shipment of restorative tonics arrive'd today!) when the following sight struck me as soundly as a dastardly Turk might strike a defenseless child;

Needless to say, my humors were thrown at once out of alignment, and it was only a hearty swig of Doc McGillicuddy's Nerve and Moustache Elixir which rouse'd me from my stupefie'd state. (While my nerves did in-deed become quite regular as advertised, I had no need of it's facial hair thickening properties. Damn and blast your eyes, Doc Macgillicuddy! I've already got as robust a moustache as a man can rightly ask for, and now thanks to your tonic, I shan't be able to go so far as the local haberdashery without lower-classmen stopping to compliment my moustache's lustrous, full-bodied sheen!)

No sooner than I had stood up, than helpful native children surround'd me, and brush'd the dust from my overcoat in ex-change for the candy and small trinkets they have come to expect. I did not disappoint, producing a slide whistle and some peanut brittle from within my vest.

"What manner of inscriptions are these?" I querie'd the most likely candidate for ownership of the autocarriage which had so dis-quiet'd me. "They are quite frightensome to even a gentleman of my fortuitous constitution." The savage struggled for some time to understand Queen's english, finally offering a string of phonetic gurgles, that I was able to decipher as an attempt to entice me into worship of the favored local deity. "Nay good sir," I spake proudly, "I was born a follower of the noble Zoroaster and so I shall die." What follow'd was an incantation un-intelligible to man or beast alike, and surmising that some manner of hex was being cast upon my person, I fled in terror. I am loathe to admit such a thing, but caution is the friend of the wise, where dark magickry is at play!