You, in the soiled wifebeater. I said, I take it we are not dead.
Who the bloody hell are you?
Mmmm. This here's Mrs. Egram. She don't like to be called Ol' Marge.
Marge?!?! Like that bloody monster who's destroying Non-Parallel Allentown?
I was that Marge until 1865 when these, ahem, gentlemen altered the course of time and my life vectored into an alternate reality. ...
... So instead of eating her little brother Ronan while they were trapped, briefly, in a cave after a rock slide, incorporating his evil into hers, and traveling to Allentown to kill Atown Liker, steal his blog and destroy Allentown, she lived quietly in Hungary ...
Turkey.
... Turkey, sorry, only occasionally impaling the local officials and process servers there. Now she's here to help us stop Marge.
Smashing!
All very fascinating I'm sure, but where the hell is Bramwell?
Taking note that you have yet to answer my initial question and you are quite objectionable in both demeanor and appearance, I would sadly like to report to you that dear, brave Mr. Bramwell perished at the hands, or claws and beaks as it were, of the Really Big Crows while saving our lives, provided of course that we are, indeed, alive.
I reckon we's alive cause I gotta make water. Hmmm. Reminds me of a joke.
Jolly good! Step right this way, sir! If you've come for a pee, you've come to the right place. All of our stalls are open at the moment except for No. 4 and all of our state-of-the-art urination devices are at your disposal. Perhaps you'd like a spot of tea, or a sandwich while you relieve yourself?
Mmm. I could do with some french fried potaters.
Splendid! Coming right up. Now do tell me that joke of yours....
He's a cheerful fellow.
... Listen, you say Bramwell was killed by the bloody crows? You must be daft. Bramwell is the Lord of the Crows.
... Listen, you say Bramwell was killed by the bloody crows? You must be daft. Bramwell is the Lord of the Crows.
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