Dr. Space Mcquirk
Tom has been a bad bad mud-monkey. I specifically forbade him from ever touching my column. The memories are clear to me, my recall is nearly perfect, I shook my hunting tentacle at him whilst simultaneously grasping his wind-bag with my nine remaining appendages.
He promised, with his wet meaty mouth he swore upon his life, he would not answer any questions. That horrible, lying mouth. How can you humans eat without a sharp cutting beak? The awful sloppiness of your masticating flesh-holes turns my stomach: the second rule of my compound is always, no eating in front of our Lord Architeuthis.
The first rule is: No Answering Questions Addressed to Our Lord Architeuthis.
The third rules is: No Scented Shampoos on Camping Trips, for they will only attract bruins with their ursine might.
But, with this very same orifice—
rubbery and slitheringly motile; you might just as well speak from your anus, the degree to which that band of quivering flesh sickens me. And you honestly believe that you rule the surface, you ambulatory sacks of salt water?
— dearest Tom promised, and he lied. Furthermore, and only serving to dismeliorate his woes, Tom has chosen to hide within his fetid mammal-terrarium, rather than facing his upbraidment with Honor and Poise. Again, you really believe yourselves to rule the surface? Ha Ha Ha. I suggest you take this matter up with my colleagues in the class insecta of phylum Arthropoda, who are greater than you in volume, mass and number, and may have a somewhat different perspective with regards to whom holds dominion over the surface world. And the Insects, these know of Honor. Further, they know Panache. You could learn a great deal from those you trod beneath your great, cow-skin ensconced hooves.
So now Tom will pay the price. If he believes hiding in his steel-and-plaster box holds him outside of my sway, then he is sorely mistaken, and far more foolish than I had at first to believe. Considering what an inordinately dundering lummox I took him to be, this would be a great surprise to me as well.
I shall deploy the brain-crabs at once.
Squid-justice, like all justice, is fickle. As is the tradition in the municipality of Cin-Cinn-Ati, I shall permit Tom to be judged by a jury of his peers. Subsequently, I am going to gather together a menagerie of mammals from the local zoological park, and they shall decide his fate.
Ha, ha, ha. That is a joke, bone-slug readers. I wouldn't dream of impinging on the daily works of the honorable muskrats and weasels by asking them to judge the crimes of such as Tom. You shall decide.
I appreciate your prompt replies. Répondez s'il vous plait, or face the consequences (That is, a failure to participate shall result in the dispatching to your residence of one benthic triop who shall sink his mandibles into the tenderest section of your ventral region somewhere between the calcified rods of your upper thorax and the pathetic fillip of your genitals).
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