Cooth, uncooth, cooth, uncooth. Hello, whats this? It’s been a while since I’ve witnessed such brazen fuckwittery at the ministry of chum!
’Jenkins’, I yell, levering the machine to a screechy halt. Out he trots from some unionised cubby, round maw loose and crabbed with gammy din.
’Jenkins, you pillock’, I bellow, checking him short. Up and down the line, the minions wait, craning under the great presses and shivering blades, to catch the fuss.
’What’s the meaning of this?’, I ask quietly.
Thugging a digit to his pudge. He looks obediently down at the belt, where a fresh poo lies, imperfect.
’Looks awrite ta me sir’, he stammers, picking at the brill creamed quiff under his flat cap.
’Count the rings’, I tell him, with inhuman patience.
’I’m sorry Mr. Thrustlewhait?’
’Count’, I repeat, pinching his scruff and smuging him to the churl; rubbing his nose in it.
’The rings!’ Released, he springs back into place, sways a little, and bends over, broken Jack in the box. ’There are seven rings, are there not Jenkins?’
’Aye sir’, he pants, scrunching cap in hand like wash rag. His snout is red at nib from where it tipped the melty.
’And how many rings should there be?’, I ask, cuffing him pointedly about the hear lobe.
’Seven sir’, he blugs, huffing back the wa wa’s.
’I don’t have to tell you, Jenkins’, I tell him, bellying up to the wee smurf, whose noodles gone all red and
puffed with yikes.
’..that I will not have inferior artificial poos, leaving my factory’.
He shakes a no, the chubbed mug, and I flick his bloody snot plug for good measure. You just can’t get the help.