The Mysterious Adventures of Fatman's Doggy Pup!

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Script Vidéo

Fatman's Doggy Pup Got Picked Up. Continuing from where we'd left off in the "TWISTED TALES" story. This is part C. And it goes like this: For a very long time, the idea would have crossed somebody's already made-up mind. It had somehow popped through the window and sidestepped the blinds. Wise old guys thought to themselves that the entire Kingsland world could be theirs to help, and theirs alone. His common, her wealth, too, was made very content at home with you, where he could do whatever he felt like. To all those within his family bloodline, bones, and skin tones, he'd promised to pass it with all of the hammering sticks down, alright? Yes, to some close friends on the trail back home ends, and in too, no? "True." He, therefore, set out on the mission to meticulously plan it out and strategize the roundabouts on the road from Porus, on through to poor ole me and you. Adding it all up to become the "poor us" as we're now known. Most of this was done to figure out how to faze out all the rest of the goods for noting the old brutes, of folks' kin, kinds of guys like dust, and dump them on cigarette butts, but in the ashtrays of most of the overworked and burned-out husks. All the waste of space ones, too, such as that one standing by you, as he and his clan were seeing them through by way of their uppity eyes, Sister Grace, yes, that's who. Speaking of ice, they knew right there and then that their own eyes would not gaze upon them. Nor prepare a stare upon their skins to harm them, you know. Like, the eventual first prize winner who wins, and gets to store up the darned prize within the jars below, our dinner. Since they already knew that they would not have been likely to be living within their timelines anymore, by then. But they also knew that their descent, danced down the line thin, like this said Lance Singh sin ting, something else, would. Like, would have made it all the way there and stayed good, to be living down there in their stead, and playing their regular kinds of ball games with their hardwoods, mi bred. So, for several generations down, even further than timelines are now known. They knew that their descendants would be looking back and praising the sheets out of their names in nightgowns and languages that they may not be able to understand the games in sounds. (Give me a sandwich, please). Not enough to be able to go complain, anyway. "This," they said at the time, "is a cause for the ages worth dying for." So, they did, but not before they wrote it down in the pages. Things that some of the others did, like not bother to engage in, such as… well, not even so much as to read any such darn thing, not on your horse (or theirs). Not that those kinds of writings of the right things were intended for them and their unlikely kind of eyes and skin to shine on. But they continued riding throughout the ages while their eyes were still able to see the ladies with an I man. Writing in those books and parchment pages that were meant for the eyes of only them and their kids, to dine on. Those within the bloodline races of their home-born heart men, and their kind of kings. So that they, and they only, would know what to do, and how to do it to get it done. So it was for tens of thousands of years down the thin line home spheres, until just around this time, right here, as it was beginning to be seen happening there in the open square of the KD's world, a place called Kingsland, my girl. In the meantime, though, others were walking slowly (or fast) and admiring the roses as just colorful blades of worthless grass. While these rather beautiful things were growing and blooming the Rastafar-I out from the dark ages. The other man and his clan, though, were studying the hail out of everything and everyone, no? "Yes." Hear this. All that their eyes came dropping a wooden cross upon, those eyes would have been gazing upon them and their kind, too. But they thought that these were just their adoring admirers looking at them as beautiful Hybrids on the lids of men like you. Eye lighting the good nests of them and their friends as they were coming in, to gaze upon you and me again, like… like daisies. In the early days, that is. I mean, there was no lack of energy in the veins of those enemies, those who knew how to gain by misbehaving with me, while enslaving me. Misbehaving was what they did, getting into all manner of mischief. Since the big man wasn't known to be passing up on an opportunity that he was given, that was what he did before evening. He reached out his arm and armed a stout bottle that was accustomed to support the brother's spout, and rattled… it. Then took a supporting role upon each opportunity he was given to study the scrolls sent down from Mount Haven in a bottle, to him. He studied everything that was thrown at him in those days. In part, or in the old cloth that he was (wrapped in), in his effort to learn how they worked and to try and get them to work for him. Even the most feared vices, as was seen through his far-reaching eyes, Sis, yes, mi Sister in… He used them as whatever tool or weapon he could crack a win out of. Something that he could use to get his objectives on our butts, leftovers from the cigarettes, in the ashtrays. The plague virus was one such agent that he must have crawled upon, Dave's Gents, "the duck man." He studied it and then rid himself of the rest of the pygmies' health, only to use them as unpaid help. All and everyone were rid of it when he chased it out of his land, dead grips. Well, not quite, because… Yes, the cure was found and acted upon fast, and all around you're asked. All for the betterment of everyone in the studying type of class, clowns. But then, when that was done, he stored up the knowledge he'd found of it, as well as the samples that were left in the pocket under his handling armpits. After wrapping them up nicely in his fist, he stored them all up securely in the magician's "cup this," he said, "and hide it under the bed. Or better yet, in the deepest degrees of freeze that you and yours can squeeze under the sandy sea of his, and yours." Even in storage rooms that he would have built on his cold land, dead loom, or in the land of those other friends of his, not the buffoons. "Said speed mi goon." Scared the daylights out of many of his buddies' tights, like, those who didn't agree with it "oite?" "Yeah, man, oh please, but…" To be continued. Yes, man, don't ever forget; wordplay is still the order of the day around here.