Sir Broderick cleared his throat surreptitiously and began yet another diatribe, “Whereupon we are here in this temporal space, the lobe of which simmers with grandiosity and malaise and mayonnaise all at once, what is doing at all? Is doing anything? And if doing is anything, what exactly is anything at all? And what does anything at all do? You must understand, Biscuit Pisser, what is important is not that we ask questions, but that the questions that we do ask be the wrong ones. What do I mean? See, that was the right question, but if I answered that question then what would happen to all of the wrong questions? And of course that in itself was a wrong question, which of course is the right kind of a question to ask.

“Why must malignant floating manatees haunt all our dreams, inspiring terrors and fear that can never be truly over, only lightly doused like a dead bird buried three times over by a dog that keeps digging it up? Hamned dog. Of course that is the right question, so I dare not to have asked it, and I dare you even less to answer it, for it has not an answer, making it exactly the right kind of question and therefore by nature wrong, and so the story goes and go does that story til the roses till the beds of our ancestors, spewing forth such vile jargon as question and answer and cause and effect all the while expecting that we differentiate between different flavors of wine when we all know none of them taste anything like gin.

“So what does gin taste like? The wrong question. I would say, watery. Another would say like juniper. But which is the wrong answer? If you cannot determine whether the answer is right or wrong then how in the hen are you gonna know if the question is the right one, and if that question is the right one then how in the bloody hen are you going to stay as far away from that clucking question as muddy well possible?

“Does my head hurt? Why of course it hurts! I’ve got about three weeks of a hangover lingering over my head like a cloud with a sinus infection, thank you for asking. But see, is that even the right answer? Maybe the right answer is actually because of this saucepan that I’ve strapped rather tightly to it. Some might even say the saucepan is too tight. But I tell you what, when I wore this saucepan loosely it would slide around all nilly willy and nobody could possibly take anybody seriously if they’ve got a saucepan sliding around on their head. But a tight saucepan, why, that inspires fear. Respect. Power. Supreme knowledge. Supreme wisdom. Truth. And that’s really all there is to life, anyway, isn’t it? Shit, what kind of a question is that?”

A thundrous applause greeted Sir Broderick, who noticed for the first moment that a bunch of people from cock knew where had gathered around and hung on his every word. Feeling enormous pressure to continue, he instead burped and emptied two flasks down his throat, only to do a double take as he noticed that the five story building behind him had apparently burned completely to the ground during his diatribe. Blinked in confusion, Sir Broderick turned to Biscuit Pisser, who just kind of shrugged.

“By order of the Royal Gourd of Caldonia, stop right there!” bellowed a deep, feminine voice from afar. The brawnty lady who’d nearly caught Sir Broderick attempting to strangle another guard way back when was charging at him like a fantasy rhinocerous, which was like a normal rhinocerous but bedazzled. She had a big list of charges with her, to Sir Broderick’s chagrin.

“She’s trying to accost our master!” cried a delirious follower.

“You’ll never stop us, oh Royal Gourd, when you don’t even know what a question is!” another chimed in.

Sir Broderick’s apparent cult swarmed on the Gourd member like flies to a pile of dung, and though she tossed some of them aside like cabbages they did not relent in their obstruction.

“Cock hamnit stop obstructing me!” she growled in fury.

“Master, master,” nasaled a particularly pitiful follower as they clambered up to Sir Broderick, “We can’t hold them for much longer. You and noble Biscuit Pisser must go now while we can still protect you, so that others still might learn about questions and manatees and dead birds and answers.”

“Yes, yes, of course of course, come, dear Biss Pissy, let us—um, Biscuit Pisser?”

Biscuit Pisser had leapt at the follower and promptly began beating the absolute shit out of them the second they had finished speaking to Sir Broderick.

“Ehrm, excrete me, Biscuit Pisser, might we, erm,” Sir Broderick swallowed air as he watched the lady of the Gourd tear through more and more of his followers like cotton candy, “Might we, ehrm, might we take flight?”

“Nobody calls me Biscuit Pisser!” he continued to clobber the poor syncophant.

“Um, I call you Biscuit Pisser, Biscuit Pisser. But Biscuit Pisser I think we really ought to get going.”

“You were there! It’s different!!”

“Very well, but I quite think it is time to—oh my cock she just tore that guy in half it looked like—Biscuit Pisser there’s blood everywhere—Biscuit Pisser I swear she just drank that guy’s blood—Now she’s just snapped that poor lady’s neck—She beating somebody with a disembodied foot, Biscuit Pisser, that’s how bad it’s gotten—Biscuit Pisser if we don’t leave together soon I’m going to take Trash Heap and—Oh my cock Biscuit Pisser where’s Trash Heap?—Shit—We didn’t leave Trash Heap inside, did we?—Biscuit Pisser please stop beating my follower! They have more than learned their lesson—Biscuit Pisser I’m not even sure they’re alive any more—Biscuit Pisser please I’m getting really anxious—Biscuit Pisser you know how gassy I get when I get nervous please help your friend out already!”

“Sorry about that,” Biscuit Pisser wiped some blood off his face and smiled, “We ready to go?”

“Um, Biscuit Pisser, did you kill them?”

“What? No!”

“That’s a lot of blood on your face.”

“They had the bloodcoughing disease.”

The bloodcoughing disease was a disease that did absolutely nothing but make you cough up an absurd amount of blood every once and a while, especially when nervous or in pain.

“Ohhhhhhh. Well then, let’s get the cluck out of here.”

And thus they did get the cluck out of there, and not a moment too soon, for right afterwards the Royal Gourd lady incapacitated the last of Sir Broderick’s followers and was chasing after them like a rabid raccoon, albiet a rabid raccoon that was fairly worn out from infecting a bunch of people with rabies.

Memories of this dramatic moment of flagrance would stay with Sir Broderick for not a short time. He would later often fondly harken back to how well brainwashed his followers were, and indeed how he really wasn’t sure if Biscuit Pisser had been telling the truth when he said the follower he had accosted did indeed have the bloodcoughing disease.