The traitor bastard.
Some minute and frankly scrotal faced young Japanese looking boy, with a rather contentious irksome face tried to chop me in sectons, and there, above me, Jez Winklepicker, trusted friend and one of the founding members of Anarchist Ramblers of Scotland and England, stood above me, ready to hammer the final blow home.
The grotesque little fuckarse - Willing to sacrifice the glorious and guilded name of A.R.S.E for his own personal oneupmanship.
The Judas little rimmer.
I found some inner strength. I thought of Jasper and Argos. I must survive for their sakes - for them and rambling, and you, dear reader.
I raised myself from my back and thrust the hilt of the bollock ninja's sword right through the centre of his ball-dome. I then leapt to my nimble ramble feet and, turning to Jez, who now cowered back in frightened whimperment, I thoroughly and precisely proceeded to cunt him in the bastard.
Soon he was but a distant, guilty smudge on the cave floor.
But the greatest enemy keeping me from my beloved pets and the smell of wild spunk flowers lay ahead.
The craggy rocks of the mountains of Precumia.
I had won the battle, but the war still lay precariously on the rim of the great teacup of fate. Would I escape into the saucer of glory?
Or fall back into the tealeaves of failure?
Time, as every rambler knows, would soon tell.
Rambling Bob Esq
