herein we chronicle the plight of our young hero, Ensign Walleye Crusher, in his struggle to overcome a modest flesh wound, sustained during a attempt on his life during a routine pescetarian mission.
Intro Scene: a fashionable apartment in the now-infamous Dragoon Mews district, before it was infamous. It is spring, with flowers in bloom, when a young Walleye is begins to suffer from excessive bedrest.
I wish I was better already.
I wish I had some more nautical echolinguistic traps to survey with.
I wish the mail-sentient would arrive already!!1
[Knock, Knock, Knock]
Oi! Ensign Crusher? Are you home? I heard you weren’t feeling well.
Its your mate, Rocco.
A little green around the gills even.
Oh, friend Rocco, do come in.
So good of you to stop by.
Hey, can I ask you a favor?
Of course, Whatcha need, boyo.
Rocco can get it for ya.
“Moist? Now I wouldn’t say moist…”
Rocco takes Walleye’s hand in his paw.
“Clammy maybe? Damp? Not Moist though.”
Ok, thanks Rocco.
You’re a good pal.
Ssssso sssorry you are feeling unwell, Enssssign Chewsssseeeen.
Here, I brought you ssssome poloni…ahem…peoniesss.
Hey, um, thanks.
I’m sorry, but with the attack my memory isn’t what it was. So forgive me when I ask, how do we know one another?
C’mon, Walleye, you’ve see Quackers skulking around, surely.
You’re Brummel’s do-boy aren’t, ye?
Indeed, yessss. He took me and my nessst brothersss in after our father died in that terrible acccssssident.
Really, Quiddich? I didn’t realize that. I should be more understanding what with Mum and Da having been killed during the Nutter’s Rebellion.
All of us wards need to stick up for one another less one of these terrible accidents befalls one of us.
Rap-tap-tap
‘Ello! Heard somebody was laid up. Oof, you ain’t looking so good, are ya friend? Ah well, ol’ Tommy’s got just the thing to make the time go by. Master Walleye Crusher, may I introduce you to the esteemed Baby’s Best Bedtime Littlest Laudanum. Mum swore by it, why, don’t right remember half my childhood I think!
Say now, that looks like one o’ them machines the Dr.'s always 'round bout the engines with… Why’s it keep screeching every time Frog-oh there gets close by?
Hello Ensign,
Sorry to hear about your being cupped in the pudding-house.
Quite terrible, really. Whatever your .net was up to, that was no way to treat you. Of course, if it had been lobsters like me instead of the softskins that make up most of this planet’s population, we’d just have eaten you and been done with it.
Anyway, I gathered up the rest of the gear form that .net. Where should I put it?
when we pulled the last of your equipment off the bottom, I also found this interesting fellow
What the hell were you baiting your .nets with?
-Eighth
Oh Tom, what good tide-ings!
whispers: I was going to ask you to score me some whipweed but this looks more interesting
Thanks, Eighth, for all your help in putting the .NETS in and taking them out.
That’s a Gargille. We find these sculptures keep the hungry from eating our .NET devices.
If only there were a totem to protect us from the mobs of Weatherby.
Whipweed, eh? Good thinkin’. Multi-spectrum approach, take care of anything. Never can be too careful when it comes to your health [winks]. You just count on ol’ Tom here to get you the best medicines, whatever you need.
[ a brief knock on the front door frame, then Dick enters, carrying a gift ]
I heard you were ill, Walleye, so I brought you a little something to cheer you up. Looks like I’m late to the party! Hello, fellows!
Anyway, here you go. I hope it brings you some comfort.
Thank you, dear friend.
Nothing like the comfort of a stuffed apex predator.
Speaking of…yawwwn…all this company has me so worn out I feel I could hibernate.
Thanks for stopping by, friends.
dozes off
