Desert Island

 The tow-headed Danbo searches out the recovering Stormcrow to offer assistance in capturing, spitting, seasoning and slow roasting the weak Canadian's pitiful body, before offering it for the population's consumption. The fatty, stringy meat sizzling like bacon. Yumm!! bleeeech. 

Storm is painfully weak after having his flesh stripped from his body by Rideout and his pack of skin ripping weasels. Danbo provides Storm with healing wheat bread and weasel meat (the pack thins, eh, Canuck?). Plenty of fresh brewed beer is available as Garten refills the Governor's casks with his own (Pee-sner) brand.  

Storms voice whispers, "Peter's power is waning, even viagra won't save him now."

Bloody, largely skinless, and wrapped in a discarded caftan; Stormcrow slowly staggers in the tropical sun, clutching a CD of Mariah Carey singing the greatest hits of Michael Bolton and displaying that he's picked up a curious limp.

"Thinks I died, does he?"

"Flay me, will he?"

"Thinks he's discarded me on the midden heap of history, does he?"

"I must hie me hence and have Zildjian tend my sundry wounds!  Then it's time to plot my vengence!"

It's a long, long hot way to the Fortress Of Solipsism™.

It's great if you use before anyone else "quotes" you.

I edited my post, now yours will leave 'em scratching their heads.

Peter Rideout wrote:  ^ Thanks Danbo -- a most worthy addition! You even managed to use the correct "it's." But recall: unable to live with only 12 selections, the fragile Stormcrow had died by his own palsied hand. (He listened to M.C. until he died of poor taste -- took all of 2 hours -- an agonizing death!)

My mistake, I meant Velvetclown.  No offense intended.

 ^ Thanks Danbo -- a most worthy addition! You even managed to use the correct "it's."

But recall: unable to live with only 12 selections, the fragile Stormcrow (the proghole formerly known as "Velvet") had died by his own palsied hand. (He listened to M.C. until he died of poor taste -- took all of 2 hours -- an agonizing death!)

The topic started with Velvetclown,

My preferred disc is Velvet Underground & Nico!!!

I know, it is not prog, but in another topic somebody said that Rhapsody are prog....

Velvetclown wrote: Well Peter you´re doing a fantastic job a the Mayor Of Simpleton

"Never been near a university...."

Thanks, but I don't require your approval, Velvet, just your unquestioning obedience.

 As Governor-for-Life Rideout emeres from his luxuriously-appointed three-storey hut around mid-day, monocled and resplendent in "field grey" uniform, and tapping his high leather boots (Storm's skin had proved more resilient than its original owner had been) with his riding crop, he is smugly pleased to see that Danbo, Dude, Velvet and others have been up for hours, and are dutifully toiling away at their appointed tasks in the wheat and barley fields. Not seeing Garten, he is at first wrathful, until he recalls that the wispy and pasty-skinned Brit, unable to tolerate the sun, had been transferred to brewery duty (where he is, even now, surreptitiously, and in direct contravention of Rideout's orders, and the centuries-old Bavarian Purity Law -- a flogging will surely ensue -- adding twigs and coconut husks to a certain golden elixir). Discipline remains a problem -- but perhaps the upcoming gala execution of the rebellious Dutch youth (caught trying to build a signal fire) will put the irksome issue forever to rest....

Pausing to ascertain that all is well with a certain crop (reserved for the Governor's private use, and fertilized with the remains of the departed Stormcrow), and satisfied that the peasants have not been at it again, Rideout hears the opening lines of one of his favourite selections booming from the monster stereo that he has ingeniously constructed from the various players he had justly confiscated from the other, less-cultured and deserving castaways.

As The Who's Roger Daltry sings: "Out here in the fields, I fight for my meals," Rideout muses that it is indeed hard work ordering these menials about, but reflects that someone had had to take charge of the riff-raff, and who better than he?

Strolling back into his hut (more of a plantation house, or fortess, really), Governor Rideout wonders if he should order the planting of cotton, before retiring again to his four-poster king-sized bed, and the welcoming (if immobile) arms of his Mariah doll.

It's a GOOD life....  

Not after I have visited Visby