AY OOP LAPS

SORRY FOR THE WEEK AND A DAY DELAY, WE WERE ATTEMPTING TO GET IN CONTACT WITH BRUCE LEE'S FAMILY SO WE COULD FIND THE ORIGINAL CUT OF 'CHOCOLATE' WITH THE BRUCE LEE FIGHT SCENE HOMAGE

BUT THAT'S ANOTHER STORY

SO ANYWAY, DID YOU ALL WATCH… PREACHER THIS WEEK?

WOW, IT WAS PRETTY DAMN GOOD

I WOULD HAPPILY MARRY JOE GILGUN

FUCK I'D MARRY ANY OF THE CAST

ESPECIALLY ARSEFACE

OH AND I GUESS GAME OF THRONES WAS ALRIGHT; WE'VE GOT TWO WEEKS WORTH OF EPISODES TO TALK ABOUT HERE, BUT I DON'T WANT TO

I MEAN WE USED UP OUR ALLOTTED SHOUTING TIME TALKING ABOUT PREACHER

THIS CHAPTER IS DEDICATED TO THAT ONE IRISH GEEZER WHO SUBSCRIBED TO US

CANT BE BOTHERED TO GO AND FIND OUT WHAT YOUR NAME IS, BUT NO WORRIES, WE'LL NAME A FROG AFTER YOU AT SOME POINT

ALRIGHLESGO

Chapter 6 - Gratuitous Frog Death (otherwise known as 'Fuck, We Dropped the Whimsy')

So you may remember the cliffhanger that happened last chapter, or at least I'd hope you'd remember. Because what, are you starting this story on the sixth chapter? How very counterintuitive! That's not how you read a book! I mean, imagine if you'd have started Robinson Crusoe on chapter 6? The opening lines of the book would have been, 'A little after this, my ink began to fail me'. A little after what? You wouldn't even know! What a palaver.

Well, as you audiences fully well know, this story is fully chronologically correct, and so obviously a full fortnight has passed since the last chapter. And so obviously the gang got out of the ox-bow lake, because it's like a lake, it's not very threatening. It's not even like a lake with notably turbulent waters or dangerous currents. It's quite a serene lake as lakes go. And I mean yeah, Ser Pounce is a cat and Doran has no legs, but they got out nonetheless, because there were no real obstacles stopping them from doing so. And as they emerged, soaking wet and bristling with poorly concealed rage at this newly arrived bastard, Mr Geography had fucking disappeared! I mean not like POOF disappeared, that would be ridiculous. He's not like a fucking warlock, he just knows a lot about geography and sometimes convinces geography to take place. You must be gentle with geography, like moose meat or Swedish lady.

So anyway they get out of that damn ox-bow lake, which if I remember correctly is right slap-bang in the middle of the Water Gardens in Dorne, so that's hilarious. Too much fucking water here, lads! Watch the fuck out! So now Dorne is like flooded, this desert city of harlots and whatnot is now totally like covered in water. Perhaps as icing on the cake those Spanish bitches what tried and failed to kill everyone's favourite cripple drowned, therefore giving Doran the vengeance he so eagerly sought after. I mean actually I thought he was pretty chill about everything, playing straight man to Ser Pounce's kooky antics, but now that he knows that he has been avenged I guess he may as well accept it. So yeah, if they reappear in Game of Thrones, I guess they didn't actually drown. Or maybe someone just resurrected him. Like Per Sounce, Ser Pounce's evil counterpart. Or maybe Mr Geography used the rejuvenating powers of Buxton water to fix them up nice and proper like. But fuck it, it's not important at the moment. We have better things to talk about. Like the plot.

So anyway, on with the actual story. Ser Pounce, Doran and Charlie Joe Connolly had received a mole message from a man who had a spot of trouble. The man had agreed to meet them on the banks of a pond, and when they did, they spotted a familiar face. It was Jorah the Andal! But wait, he was a wee bit different! And by a wee bit, we mean, wee-ly different! Jokes. He sat cross-legged on a large lilypad in the middle of the lake. His trousers were blue and baggy, and he was completely shirtless, save for an abundance of tawdry gimcrack necklaces, all adorned with crystals and feathers and other spiritualist shit. In one hand he held a sword of no importance, and his other hand was a frog hand. Fuck, his entire arm was that of a bloated grey frog! It glistened and bubbled in the rising sun. His face was entirely stoic; he showed no emotion, no fear, but he did look pretty fly because of his cool guy sunglasses. Presumably worn because of the rising sun. Looking cool and spiritual is one thing, but practicality is way more important.

'Hail, friend!' cried Doran, waving energetically. Jorah looked up from his meditating, and with one swift frog bound, leapt from the centre of the lake onto the shore on which the lads were standing on.

'Greetings, friends,' said Jorah, his voice gravelly and worn-down. 'I hear that you are offering your services to those in need.'

'Jorah the Andal, why do you need our help!' asked Ser Pounce. 'Are you not a Westerosi knight, strong and mighty and capable of defeating even the toughest of foes and overcoming the most horrible fucking obstacles?!'

'No,' said Jorah. His tone of voice implied that nothing more needed to be said on the matter.

'But Jorah the Andal! I notice that you appear to have some sort of slightly pulsating amphibian arm! What's up with that?'

Jorah the Andal looked up at the sky. (We're gonna keep on calling him 'Jorah the Andal' because we need to get a handle on the Andal). 'Some time ago, I was afflicted by… a terrible curse. It is known in some circles as… 'frog arm'. I was touched by a fetid abomination, crawled from the innermost mires of hell, known as… a frog. Now I am cursed. My arm will soon transform into… a frog. It will leave me, to do… frog-like things. Like raping and pillaging, etc. There is… no cure.'

'Oh shit,' said Doran, clear of the evident importance of the issue due to the ubiquitous dramatic pauses. 'We ought to do something. But what can we do?'

'There is no cure for me,' grumbled Jorah. 'But, I have found a new calling in the short time I have left. I must return to my Khaleesi, go to her aid, but I cannot rest easy knowing that her claim on the Iron Throne is at risk when there are frogs in her kingdom. And so, I must take up the mantle of a Daycroaker, and with my last remaining days, I must destroy every frog in the kingdom.'

'Mate, that sounds like a hell of an undertaking,' commented Ser Pounce, renowned for his wisdom in times such as these. 'But how can we help you on such a massive and important task? We obviously will help any person in need, but what you are planning on doing concerns the fate of the world! And we are merely a cat and a cripple!'

'You are renowned as the best in your line of work. Your whimsy and endearing qualities… know no bounds. I do not ask for you to follow me all around the country. I ask you to help me know. I have discovered… the mother load. The head honcho of all the frogs. I know where we can find him. I know where I must go. I ask you… to follow me, and help me dispose of a threat most foul upon this earth.'

The lads looked at each other, and nodded. This was a quest in which their expertise could be applied. 'We'll do it. Tell me who we must destroy in the name of good.'

'His name… is Damir Redholt, the Frog King.'

'Is that his real name? It doesn't sound too frog-like.'

'How should I know?' spat Jorah angrily. 'What, you think that just because I share their repulsive arm, I understand and am enamoured by their fetid amphibian babbling and slimy sickening dialect?!' He spat out of sheer disgust at the thought. 'Intel from fellow Daycroakers on the inside tells us that is who we are up against. Here, have my card.' He handed Ser Pounce his business card, which depicted a frowning looking caricature of Jorah the Andal with contact details and the slogan, 'It's not murder if it's frogs; it's justice'. Ser Pounce was impressed with how professional the card looked, and made an internal promise to hire them in future if he ever had any frog-based problems.

'So how do we find this villain?' asked Doran, all too aware of how his wheelchair may be a hinderance in an underwater environment. The hamsters would drown, you see. (Please forget how they were totally fine in space).

Jorah wordlessly handed Doran two tiny breathing masks for his hamsters. 'We must jump straight into the frog's den. Down into the nebulous depths of this tiny pond.' He gestured to the pond in question.

'And what happens after that?' asked Ser Pounce.

'You must trust me.' Jorah looked at them coldly with a blank expressionless stare. He would have winked at them, but his eyes had long since forgotten how to express any emotion other than pain. And with that, he fell sideways into the pond. The lads, shrugging amongst themselves, followed suit.

The gang tumbled into the cold oppressive depths of this tiny pond. They held their breath, cheeks puffed out with air, and watched as Jorah began slowly swimming down towards a tiny light at the end of the pond. The gang looked down in horror as they saw that this light was actually shining from the gullet of what appeared to be - gasp! - a humungous, and I mean fucking humungous frog, mouth wide open like a huge doorway into another dimension. The boundaries between the frog and the waters blended seamlessly together; sometimes the frog appeared corporeal and real, other times it seemed like an illusion, a trick of the light, an illusion caused from a shape trapped between the boundaries of two competing dimensions. They see the walls of its mouth shake and shiver in a bellowing scream of endless despair, which fell on deaf ears (because there is no sound underwater) as the gang drifted helplessly into the croaky abyss, towards the grim effulgence emanating from this froggy throat.

One second everything was blinded by light, and the next the gang found themselves falling, falling, but not too far. Before they could say 'astral frog of despair,' the gang had smacked down on some horrible seating with a resounding thud. They looked around, temporarily blinded by the dazzling lights emanating from shaking lamps, and quickly concluded that they had fallen in what appeared to be a tacky and poor quality 50s diner, all sticky tablecloths and weird looking ketchup bottles. But before the gang could figure out what the fuck, or maybe even order a cappuccino, they realised that they had been thrown right into the fray, as all around them were big gushings and explosions of red, and they reckoned that it wasn't ketchup! For you see, Ser Pounce really damn loves ketchup, and he wasn't one to let go an opportunity for a taste test of his second favourite condiment. But he was disgusted to find that this was not ketchup at all! It was frog's blood! (Ser Pounce is a culinary artist, he knows the taste of literally everything). I mean he probably could have figured this out easier by simply looking up and witnessing Jorah going completely apeshit, bringing his sword down in brutal swings into the squishy faces of a shit load of frogs. But oh, these were not ordinary frogs. They were all five foot tall, and coloured purple and pink and other such hideously gaudy colours, and some were even decked out with mohicans and heelies. They ran at Jorah with baseball bats and flip knives and specialised gauntlets decorated with stylised frog-aesthetic filigree, shouting out, 'HEY, LOOK AT THAT! IT'S A HUMAN! IT'S A BLOODY HUMAN! WOZZEE DOIN' ERE?' Their voices were nasally, and kind of like common, I guess. The voice probably wouldn't get on your nerves in ordinary circumstances, but when shouted from about twenty different sources and interjected with the occasional furious croaking, it was enough to drive Jorah into a murderous frenzy. Ser Pounce and Doran watched with amazement as Jorah grabbed a frog by the abdomen with his super disgusting frog arm, and with a powerful tug ripped open its squishy stomach, like a biology experiment. I've never actually dissected a frog to be honest. Because we're English, and so we're not like barbaric arseholes. Like we don't need to cut upon a frog to know how evolution works, we're perfectly fine just being told that. Like to be honest, the questionable shit that happened in science lessons, setting fire to textbooks and pencils and whatnot, was down to teenage rebellion and a complete disrespect for teacher authority; it was not a part of the damn fucking curriculum. But I digress. Onwards with the radical shit.

Jorah began frantically tugging the frog's intestines out, pulling them out loop by loop, and threw a section over a blade of the electric fan like a lasso. He then kicked the damaged frog outwards until it reached the end of the intestine tether, at which point it began to get pulled along the electric fan's path, flying around in a circle like a fucking flail, bludgeoning any frogs who attempted to get within close proximity to Jorah.

The frogs, wary of this hazard of their fallen comrade smashing into them, and began to run away. Jorah shish-kebabed the ceiling fan frog on the end of his sword, and began to start smacking its face in fury. 'Quickly, comrades! You must follow the escapees! They will lead us to the Frog King!'

Doran looked at Ser Pounce. 'Do you think this is ethical? I mean, that was rather barbaric, wasn't it?'

Ser Pounce and Charlie thought for a minute. 'Nah. It was gratuitous, but that means it's pretty damn cool. I mean we can get to doing some whimsy later on, no worries. Maybe we'll kill this main frog antagonist using whimsical means, that'd fit our whole modus operandi. Besides, these geezers are bad guys, so it's totally justified if we give them a quick slap on the knuckles and send them on their way.'

'It's just, we're not just slapping them on the knuckles, are we? This is brutal massacre of frogs. I mean shit, Jorah didn't even give us any evidence that frogs are evil, did he?'

'Hey now, I'll have you know that frogs are pretty damn dastardly. Now shut up, you're killing the vibe. Let's go beat up an evil frog tyrant.'

And so the lads ran, leaving Jorah to pummel at the frog he had ensnared. As they left the cafe, they saw the street around him was alive with angry frog activity. They didn't seem too fond of this unwanted arrival, that was certain! Approaching them was a bouncing group of aggravated frog greasers, their black frog hair slicked back. These frogs were a remnant of a bygone era, and for that they must be stopped.

Ser Pounce pulled out his Desert Eagle, unloading an entire cartridge into the crowd, killing at least five frogs with brutal head exploding death and probably injuring two. Doran began throwing his hamsters at the onslaught, but forgot that he only had two hamsters. After he had thrown his ammunition, he sat in his wheelchair quietly, waiting for Ser Pounce to make a path onwards.

'Quick, over there! The frogs are escaping to that large elaborate cathouse!' shouted Ser Pounce, pointing a claw at a towering brick building, pink lighting and pumping jams emanating from within. 'They must be returning to their leader, our target in this endeavour! Quick, friends!' And off he went. Doran had to stop to collect his hamsters, but he followed soon afterwards, if only to ensure that the events that unfolded within the cathouse weren't too ethically questionable.

As they entered the cathouse, the pumping tunes were continuing, but they saw all around them that the people who would have previously been totally chill, on account of them having the company of some frog harlots to keep them company, are now totally angry! And boy oh boy are they getting riled up! Ser Pounce was also getting riled up, but for a different reason.

The frogs were all preparing for a dramatic final showdown, and began their frog battle croaks. The walls shook, and Doran quaked in his boots. Ser Pounce would have done too (if he actually wore boots - a cat wearing boots?! Cor, imagine that!), but he had to make some time to have a rant about something. With this in mind, he brought a stop to this incoming dramatic battle by shooting a huge gilded chandelier that was hanging from the ceiling, and watched at it fell down and crushed all the frogs suddenly and anticlimactically, their battle cries cut short and replaced with the cacophonous crash and clatter of a big fuck-off chandelier.

Ser Pounce turned to his comrades, and pointed up at what he presumed was the source of the music. 'Do you fucking hear that!?' he shouted, angry as a cat can be.

Doran nodded. 'Yeah, it's Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. Love these guys.'

Quick as a flash, Ser Pounce smacked Doran across the face with the power and wrath of a thousand suns. 'Don't you EVER speak of this abhorrent band in my presence again, you hear me?! They are SCUM!'

Doran quietly pondered to himself the capricious nature of Ser Pounce, and how he could quickly change from being a happy-go-lucky whimsical creature to an angry confrontational drunken twat. He put it down to bad writing. 'We should probably…'

'Oh, yeah. Right. The big bad guy,' said Ser Pounce, obviously having composed himself once more, though his eye twitched slightly as he looked up at the speakers. 'Come on, he'll be in a private suite.'

And so it was that the gang entered a private suite in a cathouse in the Frog Kingdom, and encountered Damir Redholt, the Frog King. Now this frog here was pretty damn bloated. Not like Jabba the Hutt bloated, but still pretty fat. Such is the shape you would expect from a gluttonous epicurean hedonistic amphibian. He wore a tiny black bowler hat, that perfectly complimented his warty cream skin, and his wide mouth was curled up into a thin smile as he took puffs from his long winding pipe. He looked at the new arrivals with interest.

'Ohoho,' he laughed, his voice like the burbling of a shower drain. 'And who might you be?'

'We're the guys who are going to tear you a new arsehole! But in like an unorthodox place, like in your armpit or something!' cried Ser Pounce, somehow managing to retain the same tones of anger despite the long sentence.

'Or, maybe we won't, depending on whether or not you're an antagonist,' added Doran, still cautious that he may be making a mistake with this brutal frog murder.

'Ohoho! Well then, arsehole rippers, it looks as though you are too late! The time has come for me to flee, with the help of my… associate!' And with that, the puffy squish head of this bulbous frog began to bubble and reshape, become more like a viscous liquid than actual skin. And from his squishy head sludge rose a man… a man with A RECOGNISABLE FACE, AND A LOVE OF GEOGRAPHY!

'HOLY SHIT, IT' S YOU!' screamed everyone simultaneously.

'You may have quietened my inferior underlings, but you will never be able to destroy me, Mr Geography!' burbled the fat man. 'And my dastardly plan, to spread geography everywhere, will come to fruition soon enough! You just wait and see! But until then… toodle-oo!' And with a mighty ground-shaking frog leap, the Frog King and Mr Geography flew away into the stratosphere, out of the reach of even the most tenacious of cats… for now.

'WHAT A DICKHEAD!' screamed Ser Pounce.

'Wait, why would the underlings of a man who promotes geography want to get rid of geography? Those seem like contradictory ideals…' thought Doran.

'ABSOLUTE PRICKSWITCH!' cried Ser Pounce.

'And what's more, why would a geography personification side with a big frog? Are frogs like related to geography? Is there more to this than meets the eye?' he mused to himself.

'CORPULENT GUNDIGUTS GALLIMAUFRY OF ALL THAT IS TERRIBLE!'

They left the desecrated cathouse, frog corpses all around, and walked out the doors, Ser Pounce still cursing wildly. He quelled his outburst when they saw Jorah the Andal standing atop a pile of frog corpses, stacked almost as high as the buildings surrounding it. He was frantically pouring a container of gasoline atop the bodies, grumbling to himself and kicking the corpses in disgust.

'Err, Jorah? Are you alright over there?' asked Ser Pounce.

'I shall be! Once I have had… my vengeance!' he replied, not looking up from his task. He leaped down onto the ground, to look upon his handiwork.

'Say, Jorah, I still have a, err, couple of thoughts about the ethical issues surrounding this. Tell me, do frogs feel pain?' asked Doran.

Jorah looked at Doran with a stony gaze. 'I hope they do.' He lit a single match, and flicked it onto the bodies, laughed wildly to himself as the bodies ignited and the flames danced into the night. Semi-awkwardly, the gang left Jorah and his creepy vendetta against frogs, and sought to find Mr Geography, and possibly, rediscover the whimsy with a slightly less maniacal employer.

HOLY FUCK THIS TOOK WAY LONGER THAN USUAL

LIKE I'M TALKING TWO AND A HALF HOURS

I NEED TO GO GET A GINSTER'S SAUSAGE ROLL NOW, BUT IT MIGHT BE TOO LATE

DO YOU UNDERSTAND MY PAIN

OH YEAH Y'KNOW HOW THE HOUND IS BACK AGAIN?

MAYBE WE'LL GET TO DO WHAT WE DID IN HANDOVER PART 2 AGAIN

I.E. ARYA AND THE HOUND MONSTER TRUCK TEAM-UP/DEUS EX MACHINA

LIKE I'M NOT SAYING THAT THE MAIN ANTAGONISTS WILL BE SUDDENLY MURDERED VIA MONSTER TRUCKS

BUT THAT MIGHT HAPPEN

ANYWAY, STAY FROSTY