A Saviour

This morning, just after The Wright Stuff, Uncle Joe, the father of all wickedness, ceased his cry of "Come out Horton, come out Horton" and began an onslaught. He is somehow able to control the elements, slowly raising the temperature of the Scottie Dog in my thigh until the heat became unbearable and the flesh seemed to scorch.

He taunted me and played tricks with my mind, so that I imagined for a time that I had no fingers, and that I had the head of an ox. He also sent a small plague of locusts, but that was more of a nuisance than anything else to be honest with you.

As the last of my hope faded, and I felt that death was imminent, I saw the spirits of my fallen sparrows, a heavenly choir of angels, drift serenely through the window. I drifted in and out of consciousness but saw those bright and shiny spirits fly together and assume the shape of a glowing elderly gentleman with a beautiful face that radiated benevolence. It was Uncle Ben.





He stooped to stroke my clammy brow, and smiled compassionately, then said "Stay here Horton, stay here Horton". He stretched out his arms and grimaced - at once the demonic form of Uncle Joe was drawn through the wall towards this saintly protector, screeching in terror and frothing at the mouth. With one touch, Uncle Ben turned Uncle Joe into an ice-cube which he popped gently into his pocket.

"That ol' rogue won't bother you no more," said he.

I am now recovering in bed, while Uncle Ben brings me various wholesome rice dishes to revive me.