Crime & Punishment

Giggity

the irony of that is delicious holy .

im fairly certain i could run a successful csm campaign based solely on not being you.

Something like, "Vote King-Griffin : I'm neither HolySheet1 nor Xenoria"

You're not honestly calling that thing a beard.

Honestly? Yes. Yes I am. Mainly because it's not a moustache. It used to be a moustache, and a carnivorous moustache at that. We had a beautifully simple, symbiotic relationship for many years. I'd trough like a hog and 'Melvin' would clean up when I was done.

One fateful evening, after arriving back at station following a horrendously heavy drinking session, I happened upon a Fedo doing unmentionable things on the mat outside the door to my quarters. To say I was unimpressed would be an understatement, and due to the amount of alcohol I'd consumed I wasn't exactly in a position to exercise much self control.

A few swift kicks to the nose rendered the disgusting, flatulent blob unconscious, and without thinking (as I often don't) I dragged the helpless little chap inside. I guess that in my drunken stupor I must have thought it a would be a good idea to throw him into the wardrobe and lock the door, because around 4am I was awoken by the most terrible screams emanating from the bedroom. I unpeeled myself off the floor where I'd passed out, and with my hands over my ears I approached the wardrobe, which by now was practically shaking itself apart.

Unsure whether to open the door or not, I sat at the foot of the bed and considered my predicament. Firstly I had a splitting headache and the screaming wasn't helping. Secondly, I liked my wardrobe, and the fat sack of pod snot inside was very likely to destroy it from the inside out. Thirdly, I wanted another drink, and there was no way I was going out and leaving Mr Mucous to slide around in my quarters, especially as I'd only just finished wallpapering and my ear collection was out for it's yearly airing.

Stroking my moustache thoughtfully, I began pacing around the room, trying to think of a way to get out of this ridiculous situatiom when suddenly I felt a sharp pain in my right index finger. Melvin had bitten me, and that could only mean one thing. He was hungry.

Only once before had this ever happened, and for the life of me at the time I couldn't work out why he'd done it. Now I knew. He wanted Fedo meat; he wanted it bad!

Several years ago, I'd gone on vacation to Ashab II (a huge undertaking for me as I never leave Romi) and happened to find myself in a rather posh Gallentean establishment serving Fedo in garlic butter. As I lifted the first spoonful to my mouth, Melvin practically ripped himself from his moorings and dived headlong into the bowl, rolling around in Fedo medallions with gay abandon. It was all rather embarrassing.

Naturally as I was inebriated, I'd forgotten about how Melvin felt about Fedos. Melvin hadn't though, and as I tried desperately to soothe him he suddenly sprang forward, pushing between my fingers and throwing his full weight against the wardrobe, scratching it slightly; then slowly but surely, he inched his way across the face of the door and in through the vent at the top.

There followed a few seconds of deathly silence, then the most blood curdling screams you could possibly imagine which seemed to last for hours upon hours, or perhaps I dreamt it. I'd passed out, again.

I'm not entirely sure how long I slept, but by the time I awoke, the bedroom was silent. Rising from the bed I surveyed the scene. The wardrobe door lay wide open and inside was the shrivelled husk of a Fedo, simply skin and slime and nothing more, hanging pathetically from a coat hook. All my beautiful clothes were ruined, dripping with thick, pink goo. Instinctively my hand went up to my face, but Melvin wasn't there. I sat back down on the bed, put my head in my hands and began to cry. Melvin had gone.

I'd probably been been sobbing for a few minutes when I noticed an itch developing on my ankle. Reaching down to scratch, I felt something small and fluffy and upon opening my eyes I saw it was Melvin, crawling up my leg, fat and bloated with Fedo meat and growling all the while. Not wanting to anger him further, I retracted my hand and watched with happy tears as he struggled past my knee, up my thigh and on to my stomach, pausing to take a breath every few inches. I could see he was exhausted but was hesitant to help as I couldn't be sure how he'd react.

After several hours, the poor little guy had made it as far as my chin. With his breathing by now very laboured, he nestled into the crook of my chin and gave a barely audible sigh, then began purring contentedly.

Melvin had found his new home. Melvin had evolved. Melvin was a beard.

I think, if I can remember it, as my cognitive capabilities aren't what they were only a couple years ago, that I will contract a Fedo for Melvin.
It is obvious that Mortlake badly ignored Melvin's needs for a long time, or the mustache wouldn't have acted in such a way, nor in such a malevolently violent manner if the issue had been adressed earlier.

Shame on you Mortlake, shame.

Witness all, Mortlake's smugness and contentment at Melvin's new chin location, as if it was a good thing. The poor thing almost died getting up there, and what was it's master doing? Eh what? Nothing. He. Did. NOTHING. To help. What is a finger or two when witnessing such a plight? The sluggish, agonizing crawl was so absolutely heartbreaking that I almost rendered my luncheon all over my keyboard.

Poor, poor Melvin, to have such a master. Put it back in it's rightful place I say, you pet torturer Morty.

Shame, that is all I have to say.

P.S Better you feed it the Fedo I'll send, or else...

So say you. I will be watching.


You're welcome.

Bitty ?

It's not you, it's everyone else...

Respect to PIRAT for giving us a free kill last night.

Morts beard was getting rather hungry and I didn't want melvin to nibble on my fingers.....

Again!