Chums Thrice (continued intro)

Griffgroff continued to follow the higher ups. Why had he asked such a dumb question? He knew how the system worked. Maybe his nervousness got the best of him, or maybe the system changed within the time he left and returned to work, which was like, 12 or so hours I guess. Despite his developing judgement, he decided to ask another question as they passed people digging and polmering hidges. "So you're Mervin, and you're-" The fat man cut him off, "You better not be asking what my name is,  boy! That's a personal question. I've been working in the South Admatten Yewsih hidge minefields for more than 30 years. That's longer than Mervin's been alive, and that's all you need to know about me." "I'm 34" said Mervin. The fat man face looked up at him. The fat man's face also looked kind of like it was about to sneeze. "You count the first four years of your life as 'living?' You can't even remember those times for jumpumpfrump sake!" Mervin shrugged his shoulders, "I don't even remember what I had for breakfast this morning!" The fat man looked away stared blankly toward the trail they were walking upon. "You didn't eat breakfast this morning, Mervin," said the fat man, "breakfast is an idea you've yet to grasp." "Breakfast is hard," said Mervin, looking down, suboptimistically. The fat man grumbled, "You gotta let the milk soak into the zeros to synthesize the nutrients." Mervin's head popped up, "Oh, NOW I remember! I had corn-oats in a sogbowl with brabsberries." The fat man closed his eyes and sighed, "That's not breakfast, Mervin. That's a track bum's expedition. And I know you can't afford brabsberries." Griffgroff was pretending to understand what they were talking about, but it was evident in his eyes that they were looking for something in his mind to make sense of it all. Mervin turned around and half whispered, "You'll have to excuse my friend here. He's gets a bit fishfrothy." The fat man immediately stopped and grabbed Mervin by the collar. "What did I say about using 'fishfroth!?'" Mervin's blood started pumping slightly faster, as was Griffgroff's. "Please, Hurmpitcz! I didn't mean it! I forgot! I'm so sorry!" The fat man released him and mumbled something inaudible as they continued on their way in silence. "Wait," thought Griffgroff, "Is his name Helmpitx? Or was it Khrumpitch? Anyway, no wonder he didn't want him to know what his name was."  

The Chums Thrice (intro)

This was Griffgroff's 2nd day of hidge-polmering, so he basically knew pretty much all there was to know about it. Hidge-polmering was the kind of thing that didn't require a great load of background knowledge or even a V scrap ingot class education. Sure, some people were naturally better than others at ancient art of hidge-polmery, but the skill curve leveled out speedily. Still, those who had worked in this field for long lengths of time had to show their superiority somehow. This was usually evident with how "experienced" hidge-polmerers would argue with each other about the hidge-polmering history, the best place to find hidges, where to buy the best polmering tools, etc. Any never-before-employed (NBE) bum could polmer any type of hidge without any instruction at all. Sure, it might take them a bit longer to figure it out and get the hang of it, but sooner than not as sooner could they get three or four hidges polmered to a point where the passing floorman could be proud of the work ethic of his new employee. Well, as proud as anyone could get in this low-skill-field (LSF). The process was so easy that some people would haphazardly polmer a hidge on their way to work, without realizing it. There was one case where the Kiwi-lord's nephew-in-law was waiting for his driver, and decided to converse with a local enrodemph to pass the time. Eight minutes into this insightful exchange of words, he realized two things: One: That his driver had not yet arrived. Two: That he had spoken to this same exact enrodemph the day before. Three: (Oh, I guess he realized three things) There was quarter-polmered hinge three feet in front of him that definitely was not polmered whatsoever when he got there. This anecdote was well known around the village. It reflects the culture and stereotype of easy hidge-polmering, as well as the citizens' popular assumption of the Kiwi-lord's nephew-in-law's apparently low intellect. What were we discussing, again? Oh, yes, right. Our good friend Griffgroff.

Griffgroff was following two higher ups into the hidge pits. The higher-ups were mumbling back and forth to each other without paying their follower any notice. Griffgroff didn't have a shovel, and wasn't sure if he needed one. He was worried that by the time he got to the work site, he'd be useless, so he piped up and said, "Excuse me gentlemen, do I need shovel? I'm worried that by the time I get to the work site, I'll be useless." The higher ups stopped in their tracks and turned to face Griffgroff. The shorter, fatter, meaner looking one looked at the other higher up and said, "Did this kid just call us 'gentlemen?'" After three seconds of silence and awkward eye contact shared to all, the short, fat, mean looking man burst into uncontrollable laughter. Suddenly the mean man didn't look so mean. He was more like Santa with 5 o clock shadow, if Santa was an alcoholic. Smiling, the fat man responded, "2nd day on the job and you're still asking questions? If there are no shovels at the site, we'll just take one from another, my dear boy." The taller, lankier, stupider-looking higher up bent down and said, "Did you just call that kid a dear boy?" The fat man's smirk went away as he said, "Don't steal my jokes, Mervin, I paid a lot for 'em.")

South Andmatten, USA

Jerrrthromz, though wonmst a haught mistro, has hithertwo comst donth the rain. It triveled and thrymed, yet somebody's getting grounded for eating my back handbasket's left of cheerios.

It all made perfect sense now.

Whoever made it all through, it was gonna break eventually. But the twist? Yes, a very of them. Saw it coming as a blur from a short distance away from peripheral senses. The dialog was thus:

"But how the heavens did it occur and what's the motive (as usual) G?"

"Probably some sewer device, it can read all the thumbs"

"Get this analyzed by electro-mayor, ASAPS-prompto."

"We figured it out"

"Yeah, we also figured it out. It was really easy, but it took some time."

Meanwhile: Grape-sauce was his usually mood, looking at and de-siphoning symbols for his briefcase lunch bucket.

Mondolauu, a bearded structure, waving a tree branch to make things look cool. Senile-ish, umsth he knows his lodgings. The grim-grime, in danger hole, and the wize-erd chimes a chee, safeleth hum frum the graspsps benethe. Tway twimes hee too, a brain indeed.

Chree thears, Made a pumbbwich. Rando- handmandmandmand. Careth and-bundents. Break a saw, trains trans trands.

Fizzle was not into that kind of pish madness. He considered himself to be the similar to the ones dabble-dabble, and made metal things from metal. It was cool, man. The iron core would gloweth bright like, when it got hot and stuff. As the smokey steam-smoke (smokesteam) ascended потому што я вобще не знаю почему ты был в американский континент севодня. Swords, trinkets, shields, small trinkets, arrows, daggers, medium-large trinkets, things that looked like grapes, canthrops, yo-yos, and an array of other array-type substances.

So apparently the color orange is named after the fruit, and not the other way around. Nothing rhymes with it because orange is the worst color for clothes. Also, it's acidic, which is bad for people with re-flux, Lake Muslelf. Though recently, I should blame that lemon drink more, is what it probably was it did to me. Yeah.

Making this was like popping bubble wrap. It gets kinda stressfull when you're not sure if you missed some of them.