Mister Spoons

Is a story about

I never seen one before nor do I hope to ever again,

Wednesday last, Old George’s.

Wedged in the catflap,

All leathery and whining

“‘T’choo doin’, George?” Says I all cheerful,

George ent smiling back,

He says, “I’m summonin’. What’s it look like?”

“I thought you was,” I said, “What you ordered?”

“Warn’t thisun,” he said.

Thisun was eating the plastic flap and started screaming.

“Overdid the summons, George. By the look of him.”

“‘E was for rats,” says George.

Thisun ripped the toe offGeorge’s boot at that point,

And for a moment we both lost the tale,

him smashing with his walking stick at Thisun’s face,

And Thisun smashing back with claws

That mask of snarl and razor teeth

and me in tears of laughter, giggling with fear,

All gingered up lest George should miss

and knock the little bastard loose.

“Rats? says I, “I bet there’s not a rat for half a mile with him about.”

Then it went quiet. George and Thisun took a break,

George gasped for breath

And the leathery lad growling, deep and nasty.

“So I should count my blessings?”

“You should count your toes.”

Vardy the Mage? I wouldn’t go to him.