affame_le_geant_chickenscratch fyn gula puppertwinkle's burning skin shot fiery blasts of heat that shocked the little dog down to his very bones. he opened the envelope in bitter haste, as if in the process of tearing, there was a source of comfort, like euthanasia. he removed a piece of homemade paper and tried to read it but a wordchicken had obviouslty scratched out a dictation and would have to be found to translate. this was unexpected. wordchickens were hardly ever used like they used to for taking down a message, but in the same breath, it was a good omen. it means the person who took the greetings from saumboo was native kemulyan and was an ally with the revolution that will not be televised. besides, any time a chicken becomes useful other than through producing food, we are enlightened. the chickens of robin hill are holding evening vespers daily. and then a light bulb lit up in the cartoon balloon above his head. "i wonder if tripod could translate chicken scratch?" puppertwinkle said. his idea was ingenuous. he scurried back into the hedgerow amongst neglected oak leaves. he grabbed the three-legged, white, animatronic, cat by the neck and dragged her out into the open. nearly out of breath with exhaustion, he turned the key to tripod's crank, over and over, straining his muscles until he could feel the recoil beginning. he was lonely, frusrated, and anxiously miserable, made mad by the burning of his skin. but, like a broken cuckoo bird emerging from its crooked window to shout forth its blame and accusation, tripod came to life and immediately began to verbally amuse puppertwinkle with stern judgements and unfair prejudices. however, when she saw puppertwinkle's malaise was conceived by the epidermal irritations, she took pity upon him and read the chicken scratch without hesitation. here is saumboo's letter translated: dear puppertwinkle... many days have passed since the blessing of the great motherdog was placed upon you. i fear for your life because i know how scared you get. i know you are worried about me, but don't. i am being read to daily by a rep from the "crows in black glasses" a reading club that meets on every third thursday. she keeps me entertained. plus, i was given a wordchicken by boffden in case i wanted to start a new journal which i did and write letters. i hope you can get the scratch translated. it's an indeciperable mess. an editor's nightmare. i guess you did if you are reading it so thank the great motherdog. anyway, i am feeling better about my destiny. i don't mind playing the martyr if it means the good of all mankind, like van gogh's purple iris shall continue to be maintained and will propogate during the summer of its youth. i love your comitment to the cause, you shall succeed because you already have experienced death, there was the great fall of birds, (here he crossed himself) the deaths of the spegnere, two-lip the tulip, and the dear, old dandelion. we shall wait until the end of time. i love you little beggar boy. listen to tripod. she is the voice of the bird inside your soul, disguised as a soul. she flutters. she will die trying to fly again. i hope to see you soon. i miss you saumboo the blind, made of stone. 021221 what's it to you? who go blather from