I'm cautiously optimistic about starting a new miniseries. Without further ado...
You are tired, my children. Your eyelids are heavy. Your pillow looks quite inviting. Go on now, pull those blankets closer. It is a cold night out there. And dark. But you are safe in here. Or at least... that's what they say. All settled? Good.
But what was that?
A bump... in the night...
I have a story to tell you.
Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lay a snug little town upon the coast. The population of said town, in those days of course, was just over one hundred. However, unlike most towns, this town had a population of persons that were not like your average man or woman. No. They were vastly different. They were called Dwindlejubs. Tall, stately creatures. Looking entirely like a human, and yet... so entirely phumpishly strange. They had long, thin feet and hands, although their toes and fingers were drubbily clumsy. Their eyes were about an sixteen'th the size of a normal man's. Surprisingly enough, you could not see the whites of their eyes, much less the iris. Just the pupil. But moving on. These Dwindlejubs had very large noses. Very British noses. They had next to no hair, although quite a few of them were known to sport very clean, tidy, grilliblishly trimmed and bumbledillily styled moustaches. Especially our main character. But that shall come later. The Dwindlejubs had legs about the length of a tall man's, but the length of their torsos and arms were stradumphlingly longer, which made them perfectly built for swimming (which, by the by, they called "Gimbling" so that is what we shall call it). Dwindlejubs could never, absolutely never, and I mean really never, be caught not wearing a wetsuit with a skullcap.
The town they inhabited in that olde age was known (to the few fingerlubs that actually knew of it) by the name of Morgueton (pronounced "Morg-dun"), and it was a Fishyaird. A Fishyaird, in case you have never heard of one, is a town that exists solely for the purpose of fishing, processing the fish, shipping the fish and making moneys off of the fish. The only one of these Fishyairds, brufflingly dumphel, was Morgueton. The only Dwindlejubs in the world were the sole inhabitants of Morgueton, which was thusly the only Fishyaird in the world. Therefore, we can swindulfubbingly assume that this was a one-of-a-kind sort of place. The reason for the only bibble happening in that small town being gimbling was the fact that Dwindlejubs were absolutely fantastic swimmers and gimblingdwindlejubs. Their eyes were so small, they could see perfectly underwater without having to close them. Their feet and hands were so long, they were perfect for swimming. Their vocal cords were extremely strong, and capable of creating very low-frequency noise so they could communicate just the same underwater as they could above water (the only setback of this was the fact that they were also very flexible, my main point being that if any one Dwindlejub gained very much weight in their cheeks and chin, they would get so horribly constricted it made speaking very difficult).
The fact that they were good at swimming and gimbling was amazing enough as it was, but it was how they went about doing it that was truly incredible. I shall tell you. Morgueton was actually built on top of a 300 foot cliffside that shot up directly out of the water. You see, when the time of day came when the fish would come out, the Dwindlejubs would sneak up to the side of the cliff, then dive directly off the top, straight into the water, and grab the fishes with their bare hands, stuffing them into their mouths for storage (you see, their cheeks posessed a brubbdilling elasticity). They would then swim to the cliffside, still underwater, and swim into an elaborately dug underground cave system, and send the fish up a fubbish hand-operated elevator shaft that led all the way up to the surface and ended in the main processing factory where the fish were iced and packed, then shipped out to countries around the world.
It is this process that is exactly what I shall be telling you about over these next few nights I am here with you, my children. But alas, I am not as young as I used to be. So good-night, my children, I shall return again tomorrow night, and we shall discuss the events pertaining to The Fopness Dredds and Faerfell Murdaers of Morgueton Fishyaird and the escapades that were thusly connected. But that is for tomorrow. Good-night, my children. Rest your heads while you may. Keep an eye peeled in the most literal sense for the monsters in your closet, and beware the creatures under your bed with a deep sense of dread and apprehension, for you never know when a slimy tentacle might--well, I am getting quite ahead of myself. But remember this: The bump in the night is only the beginning. Good-night, my children..... good-night.
JOIN OR DIE!
Last edited by Oreo on Tue Jun 14, 2011 2:52 pm, edited 1 time in total.