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Blobby Log Day 67 (part 2)

As written by Professor Fliggins in Chapter 3: Moustachio Territory > Vol. 1

Timestamp: Evening; Day 67
Weather: Brisk!
Landscape: The Hair grows from the Earth! Is the ground a Face?


PF: All righty, Blobby and Roy.  Whiskerton has brought me to his Beard-Shack.  I must convince this Beard Hair Hill Barber to cease his hair mowing so that I may get my Bean Gas and fly away from all these incessant troubles!

Whiskerton: Come on in, friend.  Have a seat.

PF: Thank you for inviting me into your home, kind sir.  I have much business to discuss with you.

Business?  You’re not gonna try ‘n sell me enchanted teeth or some other such crud?

PF: Enchanted Teeth!  Ho Ho!  What a HI-larious proposition!  Ho ho!  You are HI-LARIOUS FOREVER!

Well, what’re you about then?

PF: Well, my goodly fellow – I would like to give you the chance of a LIFETIME.  Have you ever heard of a little thing called MAGIC?

Whiskerton: ?

PF: Well, sir, I have here a stupendous, non-horrendous, MAGICAL PHOTO-PAITINING SEPTAPUS!

Roy: Say what now?

Whiskerton: I don’t know what the words you’re saying are…

PF: That is right, my cousin – he can photo-paint you a photo-painting instantaneous-like with just a few flicks of his tentacles.

Whiskerton: I don’t think…

PF: Did I mention he is ENCHANTED?

Roy: I should photo-paint his mouth shut…

PF: …AND all you would need to do to own this little be-tentacled wizard is to quit your job forever!  No payment required!

Whiskerton: My job?  Oh no.  No, sir, no, thank you!  I’m a Royal Barber!  I got the best job a Beard like me can get in this here Moustachio Territory!

PF: Not so fast!  Act now, and receive your very own Stenographer Blob!

Blobby: !

Whiskerton: Sorry, pal.  I wouldn’t trade my job for every friend you got in that there log!

PF: Please!  The Mayor of Bean Village is going to give me Bean Gas to power my Kerchief Dirigible if I can just make the periodic Hairstorm that curses his lands cease.

Well, I’d like to help you, but even if I quit, there are a hundred of us Royal Barbers, and we got strict orders to keep these hills shorn short!

PF: A hundred!  Drat sandwich!  I am never going to return to the skies!

Whiskerton: Now buck up, little fella.  You can fly cantcha?  You’re a Moustachio!  All Moustachios can fly!

PF: No, I am not.

Whiskerton: Are you sure?  I mean, you look kinda like one, ‘cept for that pale bulbous growth that’s protrudin’ out your body.

Sir!  I shall have you know that this pale bulbous growth IS my body.  My moustache is subservient to my face, not the other way around!

Whiskerton: A Moustache a servant?  Maybe you DO know magic…  Well, if you’d like to stay for a stretch while you pick up them shattered pieces called your life, by all means, stay with me!

PF: *Sigh* Yes, I believe I will have to.  Thank you, Mr. Whiskerton.

Whiskerton: Not a problem.  I could use a new friend.

PF: I as well.  Though I promise to cease the annoying habit that I have developed to try and exchange my friends for goods and services.


Roy: I’m gonna draw stuff on his face when he goes to sleep.

Blobby: Yeah, I was gonna say.

Current Mood: Defeated and Hopeful.
Discoveries Made: Friendship! Do you HEAR ME! FRIENDS FOREVER!

Hereinto referenced: ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤