Pengor: Penguin of Doom

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Pengor
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Monday, December 08, 2003

 

Fiction Factory

I see my arch-nemesis has been writing crappy stories again. Stolen from his hard-drive:

The Penguin Who Loved Me

Fletcher was an angry penguin. He was so angry his beak quivered and his tiny tail feathers stood on end. Somebody had stolen his pickled onions, and he was hopping up and down with fury. These weren’t just any old pickled onions you can buy at the supermarket, either. These were special, top quaility pickled onions made by his friend Mr Li that were so strong they had to be handled very carefully with oven gloves in case they exploded and wrecked the entire kitchen. They were Fletcher’s favourite food, apart from fish and chips, and it appeared that somebody had made off with them as well.

It had all happened so quickly. There he was, pottering about the kitchen of his little flat above Mr Li’s chip shop, rustling up a light mid-afternoon snack of pickled onions, fish, chips and a few more pickled onions as a pickly oniony garnish when it had happened. As he worked, he sang a little song:

“Fishy fishy fishy fish fish fish
Stick it on your dishy dish dish dish
With a pickled onion or three
You can have it for your tea... SQUAWWWWNK!”

He only turned his back for a second to get the salt and vinegar when there was the sound of rapidly approaching feet, a loud BOI-OI-OI-OING!!! and the screech of tyres of a car driving away at speed. When he turn round again to see what was happening, they were gone. Fish, chips, pickled onions, the lot. He was fuming. He would have phoned the police station right away, except somebody had stolen the phone too. And three hours later, he was still scratching his head trying to find a rhyme for SQUAWWWWNK.

But what made Fletcher even more angry was that he was sure his friends were laughing about a girlfriend he didn’t have.

Fletcher waddled as fast as he could into the living room to report the theft to his friends, all huddled round a games console playing Fish Wars II: Attack of the Halibut.

“Lads! Lads! It’s an emergency!” was all he could manage before he was stopped short by a sea of grinning penguin faces.

“So Fletch,” asked Ives, the newest member of the gang, “Are you going out Gloria Fishfinger or not?” If he had eyebrows, he would have wiggled them.

“Ooooooohhhhhh!!!!!”

Fletcher was close to exploding with anger as his friends enjoyed at good laugh at his expense.

Gloria Fishfinger was one of the penguins that worked for the chip shop on the other side of the harbour, who had caught Fletcher’s eye with her rather cut, pointed beak. Not to mention the fact that she and Fletcher were the only two Emperor Penguins in town, with Weymouth rapidly filling up with Adelies, Humboldts and the tufted heads of the Rockhoppers. He first met her at Club Fish, Weymouth’s most exclusive night club with held a “Penguins Only” night on Thursdays, and the town had been abuzz with rumours ever since.

“Look!” he declared, “I am NOT going out with Gloria Fishfinger! I don’t even like her.”

“Then how come we all saw you dancing with her at Club Fish the other night?” asked Lenny.

He sighed the sigh of someone who had explained himself one hundred times before and was about to do it all again: “I wasn’t dancing with Gloria Fishfinger”, he said, demonstrating his best Penguin dance that made him look like a balloon being jerked on the end of a string, “I was dancing PAST her.”

“Heard it!” chorused the other penguins. Fletcher continued with his defence.

“It was when I tripped over Flossie here,” he said , pointing to his eight inch tall Adelie penguin friend, “that things got a bit messy. Good thing she was there to give me mouth-to-mouth resusitation. That could have been a nasty accident.”

The friends could barely suppress their laughter.

“So you’re not going out with her then?” asked Mossie.

“We just run into each other every now and then.”

“So you won’t be meeting her at the Pavillion Theatre Thursday night at 7pm, wear your best penguin suit and don’t be late, and make sure your breath doesn’t smell of pickled onions?”

“Ah. But we’re not going out. It’s a charity fundraiser for homeless puffins. We’re going to see the priceless and world-famous Golden Carrot.”

“Whatever you say, Fletchy-Wetchy.”

“Ooooooohhhhhh!!!!! That’s it! And I only came in to tell you we’ve been robbed.”

“Robbed?”

“All my pickled onions. And the chips. Gone.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“That’s the thing, just a blur with long ears and a fluffy tail. I couldn’t help noticing a plentiful supply of raisins on the kitchen floor. Get a dustpan and brush and they’re all yours.”

“Fletch,” said Lenny, who was watching the news on television, “those raisins! They’re probably not raisins. “Look!”

He turned the sound up.

“...and police in London are still baffled by the theft of the famous Purple Golden Cabbage from the Tower of London’s Crown Jewels today. The thieves managed to switch off nine alarm systems and break through six inches of bullet-proof glass, only to leave the state crowns and jewels behind in favour of the priceless Purple Golden Cabbage. Chief Inspector Copper Cat is confident of catching the criminals who left a small pile of raisins behind, which are to be taken to a laboratory for testing.”

“Crikey,” said Fletcher.

“Blimey,” said Ives.

“Wow,” said Flossie.

“I like raisins,” said Mossie, “did you say we had some in the kitchen?”

“All yours mate,” said Fletcher, “they remind me of rabbit’s poop.”

“Uh-oh,” they all said at once. It could mean only one thing.

“We’ve been robbed!” wailed Fletcher, “Robbed by Robber Rabbit!”

posted by Pengor at Monday, December 08, 2003
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