By Jack Pedder
In the long-since-real province of Lal-al-ahbal in the Bab-al-dalalih hgheliφanѼshât under the monstrous reign of Shal-bahlalahl-dabuhr of the Blahl-dabuhr fahlahat there lived a rich, incredibly corrupt and perverted bear merchant called Bib Lumberlarge.
Bib Lumberlarge was a strong man. He wheeled around his humongamass of sellable bears without no support or assistance save his muscles. Behind him, on a giant wheelbarrow attached to his waist by a bristly rope, one saw a bear-stuffed house, standing a house high, a house wide, and throbbing with bear. Bib Lumberlarge wheeled his bear-house-holding barrow through streams, through forests and warzones, over the murderous peaks of mountains, under falling stalagmites, into relentlessly exploding volcanic valleys without breaking into a sweat – and what was more impressive, without constantly dying. He wore a purple cagoule, a purple mackintosh, and a purple smock, big shoes, a big pair of fat glasses, a big button and a fat feather.
One day Bib Lumberlarge saw a man oozing with blood by the wayside. Seeing a chance to sell bear, Bib Lumberlarge said ‘Man oozing blood! Purchase bears.’
‘Ah!’ he replied.
‘You have a once in a lifetime opportunity to exchange mammon for one or more bears – do not dare squander it.’
‘I am oozing blood, and in misery.’ he said, dying.
Bib Lumberlarge walked on.
It was not long before he saw another man oozing blood by the wayside. Thinking in a similar fashion to that which he had on seeing the first man he said ‘Ooze-stained gent, I am wholesaling bears. Buy them and it will be to the great envy of all your friends who are wont to envy bear ownership.’
‘The cloak of death envelops me.’ he replied.
‘You are primly placed to obtain bears, sir. For currency, the prospect of owning bears will be a prospect no longer.’
‘The veil is torn. I suck your cold kisses, black angel. Come sweet night, let us embrace forever.’ he said. He died.
Bib Lumberlarge walked on.
He had only gone a few hundred yards when he saw a third man oozing blood by the wayside. Having a thought that he said even as he thought it, Bib Lumberlarge said ‘You look like a man geared up to splash out wildly on bears.’
‘Glug.’ the man replied, his throat clogged with blood.
‘The procurement of big bear-amount is now at your finger’s tips, sir. With the bestowal of golden coins, gems, or any other kind of tender, a big lot of bears will become your bearbeasts.’
‘Glug.’ he said, his throat spewing blood and killing him.
Bib Lumberlarge walked on and came to the gate of a city. A voice noised from the gate saying ‘Are those bears you’re selling?’
‘They are!’ cried Bib Lumberlarge, overjoyed.
‘May I buy many of them?’
‘You may! You may!’
Bib Lumberlarge got ready to sell bears. Then he remembered something very important he forgot to ask. ‘Is your voice attached to a body?’ he asked.
‘No’ the voice replied.
Bib Lumberlarge moaned in agony.