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Sunday, 24 April 2016




It was a proud day for Fred Oink, the proprietor of the Fanny Freegan Restaurant on Constitution Street. The portly Apollo Pig had been invited to prepare supper for the Crown Princess Natasha in the palace kitchens that very evening.

What a turn up for the books! The Apollo Pigs hadn't received a favourable press since their thoroughly revolting revolt in the Archipelago of the Barnstormers five years previously. But now one of their number was to be honoured by the Crown Princess, her very self. Oink briefly recalled the manner in which Admiral McSporran and the battle-fleet had stomped on the heroic 2013 Rising of the Apollo Pigs, but promptly shoved those ideas to the back of his head. That was where he stored most of his empathy.

Oink stuffed a couple of bottles of well-chosen herbs from Wisconsin into his side pockets, and waved good-bye to his two sons, who were busy carving the pork roast on an oval, crimson table in the middle of his jam-packed restaurant.

I'm looking forward to the arrival of several little Oinks, thought Oink, as he set off on his trike. Then I can get out my Bayko set, and build towers into the sky.

A few minutes later, Fred Oink was guided into the upper palace kitchen by two pretty, smiling page-girls with propellers for breasts.
How absolutely propondorously smutting! He enthused.

The Crown Princess was waiting, with two grinning beefeaters, by a huge, stone stove. The coals were already piping, crimson hot.
“Why, good evening Mr. Oink.” Condescended Princess Natasha, at her most charming. “We were in the process of deciding whether to eat a wild boar or an elk for supper tonight, while my husband is away gallivanting. But which animal would you recommend for my palate?”

The master chef pulled a bottle of Highland Mystic herbs out of his left pocket, and grinned obsequiously.“These delicious spices would blend entasticiously with a boar, Your Imperial Highness. If you would kindly permit me to prod it, then a succulent aroma will arise, the meat will fall for from its bones, and it will assuage your appetite in a manner which will most gainfully surprise.”
“Should we kill it before we skewer it?” asked the beefeater with the gap in his teeth.
“Ram hard when you skewer it, old chap, but let it live, squawking is head off, until the charcoal envelopes its mind. That always improves the taste.”
“That sounds rather cruel,” said the princess, with a pout. “Maybe we should call the Q.S.P.C.A.”
“They don't object, Your Highness,” said Oink, “for an extra pittance in their pocket as per necessary.”
The princess produced a four cubit long, spiral skewer from out of thin air.
“That settles it then,” she declared. “Prepare the old bore for skewerage, my dear British friends.”

“Shall I ask the Praetorians to pipe in the wild boar, Ma'am?” asked the beefeater with the purple pimple, looking puzzled.
“That would only serve to provide us with extra ceremony,” replied the princess, with a deft nod. “Our food is already here.”
“What an earth do you mean, Your Highness?” asked the bewildered Apollo pig, with a twitch of his tail.
The Princess Natasha answered ne'er a word until the beefeaters had secured Oink's arms and shoved his head between his knees.
“Prepare for incision!” Yelped Natasha. “Take off!”
“Oink!” responded the princess,


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