affame_le_geant_hopendopen fyn gula what it was that had been swishing eastward along the bianca strada and was now calling the name of the trembling chihuahua as he sat hidden in the shrubs, was, in proper kemulyan terms, a hopendopen. or, as we commonly know them... a mailman. however, this particular postal delivery person was, to say politely, um, a little different. sure, he had the circumspect blue uniform with notable pinstripe running down the leg, but that's where the similarity ends. for you see, this man calling out, "puppertwinkle! dog of the revolution that will not be televised. i know you're here! i can smell your bad breath! when are you going to clean those teeth? i have a letter for you from saumboo!" well, he had the body of a man, yes that's true, but his arms were wings and his head, well, um, his head you see, was .... a pelican's. and that's what the swishing was all about, for he could fly. and inside his pouch, well, that's where he kept his packages and letters and shit. upon hearing his name, puppertwinkle felt a little relaxed. it was a comfort somehow to be known in this place of lonely desolation. and better yet to hear that he had a letter from saumboo awaiting him. so, of course, he crept out of hiding, like a colt taking its first wobbly steps. he sniffed the air and besides smelling his own offensive breath, which was unfortunately unavoidable, there was the scent of a hopendopen, which always carried the essence of the sea. "there you are," scoopy said, for that was the name embroidered on his blue shirt. he opened his pouch and through some kind of athletic wizardry the letter shot forth and fluttered elegantly down to the ground, right in front of the little dog. "special delivery, little beggar boy." scoopy said. 021219 what's it to you? who go blather from