Gaargh, twas just me and me beloved Roberta Clementine takin’ a gentle stroll in ye woods. The smell o’ woodsmoke drifted through the trees, en-wreathing us romantically.
The light scent o’ toasting flesh and sofas only slightly marred ye atmosphere. I’d been buildin’ up to asking a question of me wench and I were about to put her to it when the peace were disrupted by an exclamation o’ such profound foulness that Roberta cast me off with a slap.
I reeled into ye bushes, for me love wore her Conquerin’ Gloves and the spikes lead to soreness. When I could re-ope me eye I found meself face to face with a warty featured creature. No, twas not Monty McBuboe lurking midst the leprous leafery, for it belched at me a vile stream o’ blasphemous imprecations, and Monty’s vocabulary’d not stretch that far.
As the beast burped out another obscenity I recalled me earlier zoological training from when I were a novice in brute-spotting. As twere, once i’d scraped the blood from me eye I realised it were the atrociously rare Slut- Mouthed Toad whose filthy tongue coincided neatly with Arnold Slutteridge, it’s discoverer and victim. The poor man had been so weak hearted that the explosive cursing had gifted him an early grave.
Its capture were surely the only way to win back me distastered love. I extracted ye slimy swearing thing and returned to me vessel (whence me wench’d most likely gone). The next I knew was I were wakening once more with a general increase in ye hurtsome portions.
I pulled meself together and sought out the slander spouting spawn breeder again. Ye cycle repeated severally till it dawned on me that perhaps I ought not approach me love bellowing “tis the Slut Mouthed Toad” with quite such vigour.
Gaargh, me own spawning sack be a thing o’ woe and manly tears.
