Baron Bread was best buddy to that cod butcher Sir Circus,
and they would wander around together.
Now. Serpentine Scrooge, an idol in three aspects — Breakfast,
Lunch, and Dinner — was every day fed as three squares to the townsfolk. Circus,
full certain about the trans substantiality of Our Manmade Miser, scoffed at
the Lama of Lana, Baron Bread’s reticence at admit it.
“You dulce Duke,” said Orange. “If Scrooge isn’t Haunted by
yesterday today, and by tomorrow the same, then where does all the food go huh?”
“I’m not a Duke, I am a Baron,” said Bread, “And I think you
maybe should ask his ‘nephews,’ Hue, Drew, and Loo. Every time I see them their
bellies are bigger.”
“Who?” said Circus, and Baron Bread said, “Precisely,” and so
the minders of Midas Ebenezer (who everything he touches is Gold by
association) were seized and confessed and swore they wouldn’t do it
again.
And even though they cynically switched their ministrations
from Scrooge to the patriotic memory of our dearly departed and rail thin Kong
atop the 2M, and got Baron Bread for a time tossed to the Kiva of Cats for
being oh so New Flesh, brute ancestral wealth in the end won out and Ooh,
Weird, and Will (they had reversed their names to show just how sorry) were put
to death by dolphins.
Who were then they themselves consumed by the citizenry, this being a Fish Fry.
