Threads Unbroken, Stave II

Christopher hadn't really needed to come to London at all. But he'd wanted to. He'd been an Oxford lad for as long as he could remember, having been practically raised within the Royal Academy, and as grand as Oxford as a city could be, it never held a candle to the capital city. He'd been there once or twice on field trips, but it had all been to the big tourist spots - Oxford Circus, Hyde Park, Windsor Castle, the London Eye. There was so much of the place that he hadn't seen until now.

And the place where he lived... it wasn't that it was bad. Far from it - it was the most idyllic, picturesque boathouse on the edge of a river that one could possibly imagine. The sort of thing that might have been a set for some children's variety show on television. Sam had deliberately moved there to avoid the attention and press that came with being the "Threadbreaker", and while it was still furnished with all the modern conveniences it was still half an hour's walk and back to the nearest village for groceries. And not much else.

So when Miss Thorne announced she has business in London and had offered to take him along, he'd jumped at the chance. His dad had simply shrugged and said "eh, why not". The man had wanted the excuse to get out of the house, and this one seemed as good as any.

There's no need to go into detail about all they did during their weekend there. It was as about as interesting as any trip to a big city can be, and if you have been to one yourself then you'll already have an idea of what it can be like. And their particular trip went about as pleasantly as one can expect such a thing to go. The weather held out, the crowds weren't overwhelming and the Underground ran on time, so it was as smooth and inoffensive as an experience could be.

Portobello Road was where it all went wrong. 

---

When Christopher opened his eyes, three things came to mind at once, shoving and yelling for attention.

The first was that literally all of him hurt. All over. It felt like he'd been dunked in a bucket of acid, or some other receptacle filled with an equally hideous substance. His skin prickled and sizzled as though it was trying to writhe its way off of his body and his muscles seemed to be bubbling inside of his own limbs. Just the act of opening his eyes made every synapse howl, and as consciousness returned to his brain a whine filled his ears like a badly-tuned radio's death rattle.

The second was that everything was on fire. And everyone was not on the floor, like he was, was running in almost every direction and screaming. But what caught his stinging eyes most of all was the fire itself, because it was far from the normal kind of fire. Regular fire was orange-yellow tapering to red and burned with terrible, choking smoke. This was a brilliant, almost blinding yellow-gold, and there was almost no smoke at all as it lashed and curled at the air. And the normal sharp crackles and snaps of raging flames had a metallic, almost musical tinge to them.

Gold Fire, said his brain. We learned about this in sixth form. It's what you get when you distil Mantra with a precise combination of flammable substances. Normally it's just used to burn alchemically-made things, because burning them normally means poisoning the ground and the air for an actual eternity. But you have to do it in a controlled environment, otherwise it just spreads and spreads and spreads as it feeds off the latent Mantra around it. You don't just put it in a bottle and...

A memory flashed through his mind. The vendor of that particular stall, visible just behind Sam as he ranted about the price of a gold watch he'd noticed on the stand. Oh, yeah. Dad hadn't really wanted to go to Portobello Road, but he'd gone along because he needed a new watch and didn't want to pay high street prices. And the last thing Christopher remembered, he was holding a watch and talking a mile a minute about it was probably fake, and he'd been smiling and nodding and wondering when lunch was-

Then the rest of the memory came back. The hooded figure reaching into the folds of their robes and retrieving something flask-shaped. Something flask-shaped that they'd done something to - the action their thumb had made reminded one of flicking a cigarette lighter open... There'd been a flash of light, a surging wall of heat had hit him-

And then the third and final thing shoved it's way to the forefront and screamed for his attention. 

And it won, because it was the sight of his father, Samuel Baker, lying on the pavement just a short away ahead of him. He didn't look burnt - either the initial explosion hadn't managed to ignite him or the Gold Fire hadn't yet reached him. He wasn't moving, lying still as stone on the pavement on his back, arms spread out.

And the hooded figured, the same hooded figure from the stall, was kneeling over him and drawing a golden dagger.

Christopher's first thought was 'Oh, he survived that. I wonder how?' And then the thoughts stopped as his brain caught up with what his eyes were showing it. The stranger was about to stab his father, right there, right in front of him. And Sam wasn't getting up, wasn't even registering what was happening, not even moving. Did the Gold Fire bomb already kill him? Was the attacker making sure the job was done? Or had he survived, and this was trying to take him out before he got a chance to-

There was a one-in-a-million chance that he could have stopped this. And in most stories, one-in-a-million chances happen ninety-nine times out of a hundred, because achieving the impossible is what stories are built on.

Not this one.

Christopher was pulling himself up when the dagger was raised.

He was on his feet, and taking his first shaking step forward, when the dagger was plunged into Sam's chest, and the man's body jerked.

He was making a wheezing like a broken kettle, forcing his legs to move faster despite themselves, when the dagger was yanked out and shoved into a different point on Sam's chest, blood spurting.

He was only halfway there, tears pooling in his eyes, when Sam was stabbed a third time, coughing from a throat filled with fluid, and it was dawning on him that he wasn't going to make it. He wouldn't be able to stop this. His father was being killed right in front of him and there was nothing he could do.

And then a roaring noise, which he'd first thought was just the blood in his own ears, came in from the left. 

He didn't stop his advance, but he did turn his head to watch the blunt blade of Great Flamel roaring out from an alleyway like a miniature scarlet rocket. He'd left the sword in the hotel room, he'd known that much. How it had detected the explosion, or what was even happening, were the mysteries. But Christopher was no longer interested in mysteries, his blood rushing in his ears and his chest heaving. So he merely watched as the thing caught the stranger in the mid-section, lifted them up and sent them spinning like a broken action figure down the street.

As if on autopilot, he reached out with one hand, and Great Flamel pirouetted through the air and rushed towards him, scarlet sides gleaming in the light of the golden flames around them. The robed stranger was struggling to rise, their own robes constricting their movement, and thus they hadn't even gotten to their feet as Christopher advanced towards them. He felt his body jolt as the mechanical slats of Great Flamel snapped into place around his arm, and he knew that in that instant the blade of Tarragon would be open and bare and gleaming with hunger.

And he had never felt rage like this before. He'd been angry in the past, but it had been the anger of frustration at a difficult test, or the anger whenever he heard the sneering voices of the blue-blood bullies from the other form. Small, silly, petty stuff. It had never, ever been as intense as this, burning and searing through his stomach and making his head feel like it was being squeezed in a vice. And it seemed to roar out of his eyes and mouth, making him shake as he continued to stagger forward as though drunk on the fury.

Kill you, I'll fucking kill you, you killed my dad, I'll tear you to goddamn bits and eat you alive!  

The words echoed in his head, spilled from his mouth like lava, and for a moment, he wanted to act on them. It would be so easy. The assassin was down, their dagger had clattered away somewhere else. And Christopher had a sword in one hand and magic in the other. It would be easy to just skewer them, send Calcination through the blade to cook them from the inside out, tear the shrivelling and blackening thing apart as it screamed and screamed-

When we break down, it all breaks down.

Victoria's words, spoken to him a long time ago when he was much younger and less wiser. The memory of them made him stop, sides heaving. But he wanted it, he wanted it so bad, he wanted to take the struggling thing in front of him and-

No. You don't get to decide that, Christopher. Those who do wrong will pay. But not in blood. Never, ever in blood. And nobody should ever be collecting that debt, least of all you. Don't let it stain your hands, Christopher.

The words echoed in Christopher's head like droplets of water hitting the bottom of a well. He blinked and realised that tears were streaming down his face. Somehow, through the stinking, prickling pain all over him, he could feel the wetness and heat trickling down. The anger continued to sizzle, but it had retreated into the pit of his stomach like a resentful dragon missing the chance to roast the knight. 

The world came back into focus, as if a veil of heat haze were falling away from his eyes. And thus, he saw the scene in front of him properly. The figure struggling to rise, taking advantage of his delay to finally get a foothold on the pavement below. The Gold Fire, still roaring and hissing in its insidious, melodic cadence. And more figures, emerging from the smokeless shadows of the burning Portobello Road, each one dressed in identical robes. Well, not entirely identical. The one at the back looked more burgundy, or perhaps a wine red, though in the light of the flames it was hard to tell.

Most likely, they had come to defend their comrade, or to finish the job he had started. But at the sight of the sword in Christopher's hand, they stopped, as if startled.

"Tarragon!" exclaimed one. "The Hungry Fang! The Blade of Endless Thirst! How can that thing wield it and yet still stand?!"

But Christopher did not want to hear any cryptic remarks or capitalised names. He had just seen his dad get nearly exploded with Gold Fire, and then get stabbed three times. Any questions he might have had towards these individuals, such as who they were or why they'd chosen to do what they done, no longer mattered. What mattered was that his dad was dying, the people in front of him were the ones responsible and and the righteous anger in his stomach was rising up once more.

So rather than asking for any clarification on the matter, he shuffled sideways and back, so that he stood between the unmoving Sam and the attackers, and lifted Tarragon with shaking arms.

"GET AWAY FROM MY DAD!" he roared.

He was fizzing all over with grief, anger and adrenaline. So he didn't expect to see what he did, which was not the defiance, or smug triumph, that would have been appropriate to the scene. Instead, he saw the hooded figures jerk back as if stung, giving utterances to gasps of what seemed to be horror - and an oath from at least one of them. Only the one, standing at the back in the dark red garments, remained stoic and unmoving.

"It speaks!" cried another of the figures. "The abomination speaks!"

"No matter," insisted the burgundy-clad one. "It is flesh, and flesh can be cut down."

"I have a name!" Christopher half-shrieked, feeling that being called an 'abomination' was the definition of salt in the wound at this point.

"Names are for people."

And that was it. A calm, casual dismissal. You are not a person. You do not have the right to a name. Your voice does not matter, because I have decided it does not matter, and I refuse to acknowledge you. And therefore you cannot convince me otherwise. All of that was condensed into five syllables, and Christopher, sides still heaving with barely-controlled rage and tears streaming down his face, felt it like a hammer blow to his chest. Somehow, it felt worse than having his father murdered in front of him, worse than being nearly killed himself.

"Stand strong, my bretheren," intoned the speaker, voice still infuriatingly level. "Go forth and do the Great Weaver's work. Let not the abomination cower you."

The others hesitated, and Christopher sensed the forms beneath the robes shifting with uncertainty. Then, as one, they drew identical golden daggers and advanced. There were four in all, including the one who had just gotten to their feet and, having found his dagger, was half-running to catch up.

And this is the point where the aforementioned million-to-one chance kicks in. Because in real life, Christopher would have lost. Still relatively green and not completely used to fighting, surrounded by four strangers in robes with clear yet hesitant intent to kill. And most of his surroundings being consumed by magical fire. This would have been a curbstomp in the favour of the robed men. He would have been bleeding out next to his father before he'd even scored his first light scratch.

But Christopher was an Alchemist, albeit a young one with relatively little battle experience. He was righteously angry and clutching a sword that ate magic in one hand, while his other hand could make magic. And the figures approaching him were clearly uncertain of how to deal with him.

The million-to-one chance saw it's own chance, latched on like a limpet and refused to let go.

The first robed cultist swung their knife in a sloppy arc. Then they yelled in shock as Tarragon flickered through the air like a lightning bolt, smacking his weapon out of their hand, before a gauntleted fist ploughed into the face under the cowl with a crunch. Blood flowed, and the stranger staggered away with a muffled howl, clutching what as obviously a broken nose. But Christopher spared them no thought as he whipped around with cobra speed, grabbing the dagger that the second cultist had been trying to bury between his shoulder blades.

"CALCINATE!" he roared. The gold turned cherry red, then lemon yellow, then sunburst white. The attacker screamed and dropped the weapon, steam rising from a scaled hand, while the dagger hit the pavement and crumbled like stale cake. But the stranger got no reprieve - Tarragon's pommel found their gut, then Great Flamel found their chin. As they stumbled from the one-two combination, Christopher span on the spot, snatching up a piece of rubble as he went.

He didn't even speak. Great Flamel divined his thoughts - in a flash, Tarragon and the rubble had fused into a hammer, and that hammer found the opponent's chest and lifted them off their feet. It was spectacular to watch - the robes fluttered as they turned end-over-end, flying over a broken stall and vanishing from view with a heavy thud.

He heard a noise of rustling. Without thinking, he whipped around, wordlessly disassembling the Compound he'd made of Tarragon and the rubble. Like a shotgun blast, the pellets of crumbling stone flew out and peppered the third robed cultist as they moved to try and attack from the side. They yelled and tried to shield themselves - but too late. As the stone tore their shape-concealing draperies, Christopher charged forwards, biting back a bellow of fury as he swung the Hungry Fang.

This one proved more challenging, though. They flicked a wrist out, parrying Tarragon aside. Christopher twisted with the motion and span, trying for a cut above the knee, but the blade was caught by the shorter, curved dagger and held back. The two shoved against each other for a moment, grunting, then broke apart. Christopher lunged in again, trying to take advantage of his longer reach, but the stranger slid aside and away from the stab, then ducked the hasty return-swing with a swish of robes and a flash of the curved blade.

But they couldn't get past his reach, and Christopher could see it. There was a sort of desperate panic in the motion of his opponent, a frantic search for an opening to exploit. He held back, Tarragon held out in front, the blade dancing this way and that like a snake about to strike. The stranger paused, as if fascinated by the wiggling tip of the sword. It was hesitation enough - Christopher darted one way, brought the blade down and under his own arm, looking to make a back-handed cut across the chest.

It was a wide swing. Amateurish and telegraphed. A fool could have seen that his right side was open, and the stranger did see it. And they did what anyone would have done in that moment, which was to dart forward and jab for his ribs.

To their shock, the curved blade clanged against shimmering blue. And before they could react, Christopher twisted, catching the blade in a groove on the mantric shield and yanking the attacker's arm wide and outwards. They managed a single choked cry before the Hungry Fang darted in.

Not to kill. 

The tip expertly slid beneath the hood and pricked a nerve somewhere in the side of the neck, drawing no blood. The cultist jerked, then slumped to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

Gasping, Christopher drew back, eyes hastily casting around for-

"HEY!"

He turned.

The voice had been a woman's - the fourth of the pack. She had clearly seen how badly things had gone for her companions and had avoided directly engaging the fight. Instead, she had gone for what, at the time, seemed like a logical third option in the whole mess. By some feat of panic-borne strength, she'd hauled Sam into a sitting position and was crouched next to him, holding his head up in one hand and-

The edge of her knife glinted near the dying man's throat.

If she'd hoped to goad Christopher into some rage-filled mistake, then it failed. Anger had been boiling in the raven-haired Alchemist for so long now that the sight of this had the opposite effect. The haze fell away, and suddenly the world was cold and crystal clear as he turned to face this, this latest insult and travesty against him by these mysterious assassins. Paint would have peeled in his glare of icy fury as he took two steps forward - indeed, the cultist herself seemed to wither, jabbing the blade closer to Sam's neck.

"Don't move, abomination!" she shrieked. "One more step, and I'll-"

But Christopher lifted a hand, and the faint melody of Mantra skated along his eardrums as Great Flamel glowed.

"Dissolute," he intoned.

The dagger in the woman's hand flickered. For a moment, reality seemed to shudder as if it was trying to understand just what was being asked of it. Then, with the loud, pin-sharp snap that makes one think of a rubber band breaking, the sharpness of the knife seemed to fade out of existence, and the blade went as limp and floppy as rubber, incapable of harm.

The robed woman looked at her now useless weapon, then back at Christopher.

"...um." she tried.

Christopher's eyes narrowed. "Don't."

But the stranger had already dropped Sam to the floor and turned, a whimper rising in her throat.

"Too late."

Christopher didn't even bother with the sword or the Mantra. He just blurred forward and rammed his gauntleted fist right into the back of the woman's head. She sprawled, made one effort to rise, then slumped as consciousness left her.

The million-to-one chance, which had been clinging on for dear life, finally lost strength and fell away.

The Son of the Threadbreaker finally drew in a shaking, deep breath. He rose from his stance, feeling ever nerve in his body prickle. Great Flamel, sensing the change, disengaged from his arm and snapped back into place around Tarragon. His senses seemed to be turned up far beyond their natural range, as though somebody had twisted a dial until it snapped off. The crackle of the Gold Fire was even louder now. Sweat and dirt clung to his skin and his clothes felt oddly heavy and clammy against him. 

He felt... hollow. The anger was gone, the grief was gone. It was as if every emotion had been sucked out. And the weight of Great Flamel in his hand suddenly felt... too much. Like an anvil in his hand.

Then he turned his head, and saw Sam lying there. All at once, he felt the panic rushing back to fill the void, but now it was behind held down by the hollowness. Emotion was tampered by a sort of cold, mechanical logic that saw the problem at hand and took charge at once. No time for anger or fear. Time to solve a problem. Heal dad, get him out and away from the burning street.

He quickly moved towards the prone form-

"BAANDHO!" 

In the split second Christopher had left, he cursed himself for not remembering that there were five attackers, not four. Then he gasped as glowing ribbon-like threads erupted from the ground and coiled around his limbs and waist faster than he could react. His arms were sharply bound to his sides and his legs pinned together, and Great Flamel was jerked from his hands by the motion to clatter to the tarmac. He struggled, teeth gritting with the effort, but more and more threads wound about and around him, tightening until the links dug into his flesh. He opened his mouth to yell, but a strong coil wound around his face and fastened firm.

The burgundy-robed man hadn't moved from the shadows of the burning street since the fighting began. But now he emerged into the daylight, the eerie yellow-white glow around his hand fading away.

"I underestimated you, abomination," he drawled. "I should have remembered you were trained by Victoria Thorne. My flock had no hope of dispatching you, yet they had their orders. They had to try. But I am no fool. After what I have seen, I know that fighting you directly would never end in my favour. Only the Great Weaver's gifts would suffice to stop you."

He continued to pace as he spoke, until eventually he drew level with Sam's prone body. The Threadbreaker hadn't moved - the bleeding seemed to have slowed, but his face had become pale and his eyes stared into nothingness. Sensing what was about to happen, Christopher lurched towards his enemy, throwing all of his weight behind it. But the supernatural ribbons held him fast and he couldn't even so much as twitch an arm free.

"And stop you, I shall," the robed man continued. "You are an affront to life and must be scoured from the face of this planet. But there is one other who, to us, is even fouler than yourself. The man you have the gall to name as your father is our greatest enemy. He who slew the Great Weaver and irrevocably changed this world for the worse."

His free hand reached into the folds of his drapery and yanked out a dagger. With casual slowness, he knelt down beside Sam and took careful aim. Christopher screamed, his voice muffled, and writhed harder against his bindings, the helpless rage threatening to rise up once more.

"Our Church has waited many years for the day when we finally avenge our true God, the one who truly wove Mantra into being. To eliminate the one obstacle in our path to restoring the world to what it once was. And that day has come at last."

He raised the dagger.

"Farewell, Threadbreak-"

CLANG.

He paused, arm still in the air.

Then, as Samuel Baker withdrew his fist from the side of the robed man's head, he toppled sideways, dagger falling from his hand, and hit the pavement with all the limpness of a deboned fish.

"Shut the actual fuck up," gasped Sam.

In the same instant, the shimmering bindings vanished, and Christopher gasped again as he was freed. But the aching pain in his limbs was second to the urgency that was roiling in his brain. His dad moved. His dad was alive. But if he was left like this any longer, if he was left to bleed out any further... The instant his feet touched the floor, he was kneeling by Sam's side, holding out his hand as Great Flamel, by his side, glowed, sucking in more Mantra for what needed to be done.

"Coagulate!" he croaked out as he swept his hand over Sam's body.

It was a spell he had never tried before. Coagulate and Congeal often got confused by younger Alchemists, since both were about turning liquids into solids, but the actual principles were different. The latter was closer to freezing or crystallisation, while the latter hewed closer to curdling, as one might turn milk into butter or cheese. And getting the two confused could be embarrassing at best, and at worst... well, imagine how you would feel if you felt your blood turn into spikes inside of your body, and what that would do.

So when Christopher saw the bloody wounds heal quickly, knitting and scabbing over as though on fast forward, he could not have breathed a louder sigh of relief if he'd tried.

A groan made him turn his head. Samuel was looking back at him with half-open eyes. His face was caked in dirt and blood and his blonde hair was going in every direction but the one that looked natural. In short, he looked awful. But when he spoke, albeit with a voice hesitant and constricted by pain, he seemed to be taking the whole thing in stride.

"Sorry to... keep you waiting, son," he gasped. "Thought... playing possum would... help. Find out... if the leader... of the attack was... nearby. Didn't expect them to... actually try to... finish the job." 

Christopher blinked, and realised tears were coming down his face. He drew in breath, gave a sob that was half-relief and half-exasperation and let the smile break over his face.

"You idiot," he choked out. "Are you-?"

"Not really," wheezed Sam. "I'm full of fucking holes. But... if I was that easy to kill," he added, with a sardonic smirk on his face, "they would have.... done it already."

"You've still lost a lot of blood," Christopher retorted. "A stay at a hospital wouldn't be the worst idea."

"Probably not." Sam coughed. "Is anyone doing anything about that damn fire?"

"We've got that covered."

Christopher turned. Victoria was strolling out of the flames behind him - and still looking every bit the dignified gentlewoman in spite of her surroundings. Behind her, a troop of Kingsguard in their golden armour were marching abreast down the street. Each lumbered under the weight of great tanks on their banks, and each clutched a hose that sprayed a shimmering foam ahead of them in a great spray. And where that foam landed, the golden flames fizzled and died.

As the armoured men drove the flames back, Victoria Thorne approached where Samuel lay and Christopher knelt. She squatted down next to her student and looked at him. Her face, as always, betrayed no emotion, but there was something in her eyes as she fixed him with her gaze that Christopher found himself struggling to name.

It would be much later when he realized that it was pure, unadulterated relief and joy.

"Do you know, Master Baker," she mused, slowly, "that I've never been late for anything in my life? Until today, that is."

Christopher managed a weak smile. "First time for everything."

"Indeed. I'm almost sorry I missed this." She reached into her bag and pulled out her tea things. One cup was handed to Christopher, who drank greedily - until he realised there was whiskey in it. Then, after coughing a little and ignoring the stifled laughter of his dad, he drank a little more slowly, letting the warmth pass over him and bringing his shuddering nerves back to a standstill.

Victoria took a mere sip before speaking.

"Now... I think you had better start from the top."

---

The following is an extract from Victoria Thorne's diary, written later that day.

So. There is good news and bad news.

The good news is, Samuel Baker is not dead. The casualties at Portobello road were minimal and we have been able to douse the Gold Fire with relative ease. And we know who are enemy is. Furthermore, Christopher conducted himself well in that incident, which does him great credit in the eyes of the Guild Council. All except Harrington, who still insists that the boy should have been expelled the moment his genealogy tests showed any doubt to his parentage. The country has no idea how close the man came to being our Prime Minister - I shudder to think how much of his idiotic values he would have forced down our country-men's throats.

But even Harrington seems like pleasant company compared to our prisoners. It doesn't take a genius to know, by their robes, that they're members of the Golden Spiders, that quasi-religious order obsessed with the original form of Mantra. The world as it was, they call it, before it was rewritten by the Guns. They think that it's current form is an abomination, a deviation from the original design of Chakravartin, and wish to find some way to return it to the form it was before. A world ruled by false prophecy and contrivance, where they would presumably rule at the top of the heap as Chakravartin's priests and prophets.

Rose tinted glasses aren't a sufficient descriptor for this group. They're looking at the old Mantra through the wrong end of a rose-tinted telescope.

The bad news is that we don't have any idea of where our enemy will strike next. We can only guess that it will be the world of the Kobbers, but our prisoners refuses to elucidate on that matter. Even reminders that they will be imprisoned for life to little to sway them from spouting the same mindless rhetoric over and over on every failed interrogation. 'Abomination' this and 'Great Threads' that and 'false world' elsewhere. I've struggled with alcoholism in the past, but nothing has ever made the bottle sound more tempting.

All we can do at this point is send word to the world of the Kobbers. We don't know when or where the Spiders will appear and what they will hope to find in their world, but an attack there is inevitable. After all, it was the world in which Chakravartin was slain. Perhaps they hope to use it as the stage for some ironic and half-baked revenge plan, in which case they'll be in for a rude shock when they face the same group that quashed the Magpies.

Some mysteries remain. How did they obtain the original recipe for Gold Fire, which was thought lost in the rewriting of Mantra? Did they truly believe that recipe would be enough to kill Sam and Christopher, or did they not stop to think if subtle changes in physical and chemical laws would cause it to not work properly? Who could possibly want to fund their efforts? And how, if they attempt to invade the Kobber world, could they hope to operate unseen? An outright attack on the Kobbers is clearly unthinkable - they have not the resources to make such a thing happen.

Too many questions. Not enough answers. And the mind-numbing idiocy of the Guild's bureaucracy to deal with still. I fear that before the year is out I will  wake up in a gutter with no clothes, an empty bottle and a radish up my bottom, just as I did when I misheard the initiation rules of the Oxford Brewers' society back in the 1970's. 

...I probably should not have written that. Damn. I do hope nobody finds this diary now.

~AS ABOVE, SO BELOW, PART II~
Threads Left Unbroken