Mr. Ach and Sir Chickenshit

"How's the weather today? Good?"

"Good, good, yes."


Mr. Ach and Sir Chickenshit were on a hill of sand, looking out at the wasteland before them. Sir Chickenshit had been sat there a long, long time - most of the week - and Mr. Ach was getting impatient. It was in their nature for one to ponder and plot while the other urged onward.

"Then we will be going soon?"

Sir Chickenshit curled a whisker around his fingers. "I don't know about that. Tomorrow's looking better."

"You keep saying that!"

"Shut your mouth."

Mr. Ach gritted his teeth. Literally closing his mouth was impossible, due to the wooden bar forced into it - which also ensured his mouth split wide up to the cheeks and was kept in a permanent smile.

Sir Chickenshit rolled his head on his shoulders, then heaved himself up (with a lot of puffing and grunting). His left arm, the one with a hand, pointed to the horizon.