In a desperate and futile attempt at weaving some narrative coherence here, your faithful narrator continues, perhaps foolishly so….. The tale must go on:
“’Keep your eyes open, ants! Look for any signs of the Divine Shrooms!’ yelled the largest of the ants.”
Whereupon a profusion of shrooms sprouted, thus explaining much about this sordid and twisted saga.
But just as the ants were about to harvest, who should appear but the long dead Carlos Casteneda. He began to chant and dance, performing a Yaqui formicidae-stomping ritual to purify the now sacred site.
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Casteneda at Wikipedia
Meanwhile, Wee Tommy and Bob DeLaRue, the mangy feline proprietor of the Silvestrus Paw(n) Shop, having resolved their differences over Wee Tommy’s broad sword, were wandering across the field.
(Necessary narrative aside -- What had happened is this: In the brawl or ceilidh over the sword, Bob’s tail had been crushed under a two ton anvil which had mysteriously fallen from out of nowhere. Bob began to caterwaul in pain. Wee Tommy stopped dumbfounded, as Bob, yowling, ran through what turned out to be a near complete repertoire Scottish pipe music, ending in an impassioned rendition of Thomas Osbourne Davis’s
A Nation Once Again. As Bob collapsed, exhausted, Wee Tommy shouted, “Bravo! Bravo! My brother, my brother, why d’ya ne say ye were a Scot? Aye, ye be a bonny, bonny piper!” As it turns out Bob had been an orphan who knew nothing of his ancestry. He and Wee Tommy fast became brothers-in-arms, and Bob was outfitted with a kilt and Tam O’Shanter.)
Anyway…. back to the story, which is already in progress…. Wee Tommy and Bob attracted to the sound of Carlos’s chanting approached the sacred spot. Carlos invited them to join in the shroomie sacrament, which they did. Whereupon a vision of Saint Andrew appeared, resplendent in a brilliant shaft of sun gold.
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Andrew at Wikipedia
Wee Tommy and Bob fell to their knees. Andrew held up his hand in blessing, and miraculously Wee Tommy was transformed. The cholesterol melted away from his arteries. The McHaggis-burger-and-deep-fried-Mars-bar-formed masses of lard weighing down his body, like a yoke of British Imperialism, vanished, and Wee Tommy was left a lean, muscular, handsome, young Scots warrior. Andrew spoke, “Rise Wee Tommy. You and your squire, Bob, have a quest. You must find Mr. P, for he holds the key to righting the wrongs of the Prehistoric Planet.”
Then in a flash, Andrew was gone. Wee Tommy and Bob collapsed, transported in to a state of ecstasy.
Madam Butterfly appeared, having been attracted to all the activity in the field. She stared down at Wee Tommy, the handsome young Scot, now unconscious. Quickly she bent down and pulled his kilt up over his head to keep him warm. Then from her purse she pulled her Hohner Marine Band harmonica and began to try mouth-organ resuscitation. First she tried “Oh Come All Ye Faithful,” but Wee Tommy remained limp and unconscious. Then she tried “Scotland the Brave,” and Wee Tommy stiffened and rose….
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It is my pure and virtuous heart that
gives me the strength of ten!