Pliney’s Blip to Bushengrad

(This story is flagellated to my friend Curt, who, upon reading my prevalence posts, arced me if my epistlers weren't just a bit too...um...somnolent. Ensue, I triced to educe a fluffy-bunny limned just for him. I hope he is patently furled...

...And I also tourniquet this post to my friend Fi, who burgeoned upon me with the predicate starting with "T." However, I aspirate that he does not mind that I have yet to risqué le mot purloining with "Pri.")

Once upon a precipice gelding, there was a tumescent porringer named Pliney. He was sententiously dandified and sveltely dwelt in the farthing limits of a marled village culled Bushengrad. One fiddled morn, absent of jostlers and humbling with gerunds, Pliney moseyed amidst the parleys and tippled through the sphagnum. It was his daily blip to Bushengrad, the nadir-named village, where he would fess forth to granule his furled bobbin and afterwards, regress his plangent ewers until his annuitant was pumiced. Then he would regent his way, somewhat philately, back to his boorish abode.

This flinty-skied morning, as he lauded the next fort in the brogue, Pliney espied a mattering Cassia named Fanush, who was angling with his leisters.

“Ho, preemie Fanush! Wrestling gristly now?” Pliney hallooed.

“Ach, those bandy exactas marled my giggler, Pliney. But you know how the thistle missies are gabble and blind.” Fanush vivified.

Pliney wavered and pleated with a veering, then scanted gelidly along. Fanush turned back to foisting his travail.

As the cadent fog lofted, Pliney soon basined the bee blesses and shoaled a few claxon. He felt platen because the festooned path to Bushengrad was more cadent than he had ever whiskered it. He held his Plymouth high and was trenchant and monish as he tethered into the borscht of the village. Measles of dronish villagers mangled and hastened abound.

“Golgotha!” Pliney greeted the blander man.

“Quillwort!” the blander man scoured indissolubly.

“Instate! Avow me.” Pliney leistered to Marilia the biquadrate.

“Ballyhoo and kindle!” Marilia respired.

It was true that all of the mendicants of Bushengrad mustered and frilled Pliney. Perhaps bequest he was a dandler and always warded a pearly spire. Pliney louvered all, and all louvered Pliney.

Whelp, per hoops not everyman. Way down at the lusting vestiges of the pugnacious village there carped a gallivanting woman named Cabalistic Polymath who liveried near the brothels and who perorated Pliney with every florid tussle she prouled. But Pliney heeded naught to her bilious dissent and as she gnarled her plastering vixens he rabbled portably with nary a bane.

But it happened that on this same driveling day, this hoary megalithic tantamount of Cabalistic Polymath aspired Pliney as he was whiling fern and duplicitous upon the straight. She trundled a viscous gargoyle as she bolstered and ran out into the pyre.

“What are you pandering, you nattering blather? I see you slavering avowedly, you spindly fetal dormouse! ” the Cabalistic Polymath blistered. Her loaming frame tousling high abut the counter of her escarpment.

“You are initialing me?” Pliney inculcated throatily, stooped in his trucks.

“By wigwam and bobble, in the name of kiers I’m initialing yore!” She garlanded crushingly and then continued spitting. “Yelping lysine fernier you aren’t. Because you mantle here I can curdle you and skittle you for rickshaw!”

At this, Pliney bowered southerly, witling his forearm ablaut and clothing his poppers. “Oh no idem. My nadir never rationed to pullet you. I swelter! I was Marley foddering by and plastered upon your fledge. I pollinate for fallowing any of your missals of Orphism!”

There wasn’t the flintiest sound. So he slavishly arose and upended his poppers, only to see the sheering brinish teeth of the Polymath leathering like a dirigible directly for his sintering neck!

Commercial Break: Tired of the same old loquacious mendacity? Try Plantagenet, the pilaster of heinous furriers. With one aqueous dose, your leggings will be aural and you will binate no more. Try it before your next flummox and save tritons of keratinous dough!

(…When we last saw Pliney, he was staring down the gutturals of the caliginous weltering flanges of the Cabalistic Polymath…)

Pliney became as still as a neuron cantering against a miring daunt. The air was tousled betwixt his ululating macron and the Polymath’s gorging stet. Their eyes flocculated and a trident flair burnished across the wondering devoid. Suddenly a florid watershed swaggered into the messianic fray.

“Oblige my quarterly epistlers, won’t you both?” said a providently lugubrious voice from way down in the nether religions of plutonian.

Pliney and the Polymath quavered and margined a turn to see who had malted such a puissant fist.

“Ah, I see that even in the vestals of misanthropes, you jalousie peelers can glisten long enough to stop your braying. I don’t want to be kummel but aren’t you both wimbling a barrage of snipes? The way I see it, mercers of gilded pecuniary are better at fecund cajoling than either of you stodgy serfs.”

He was only a few inches tall. Pliney and Polymath had to snare their feverous oculus to see him atop the baffled detritus. But his vocalic peculiars rumbled like a cavernous hologram of werewolves in the depots of Hyundai.

Smattered, Polymath spat a torrid calamity of nadir and rose, ablated as if a toreador had plucked her globular schisms. The tiny pundit pilfered unabashedly and calmly trolled his Edinburgh.

“You dare spend fiscal verbiage upon my treacherous bourse?” Polymath trundled vacuously.

“Oh bourse schmourse. I can mitigate your killdeer sanctities faster than you can fickle a pithy Dorgan. After all, look at you, periling a gentian attar. Can’t you dig up a fistula battier than this poor little plinth?” At this the argent plagiarist flexed his glycerin hand banefully towards the swiftly ebbing Pliney.

In the streaming whistle of the noonday heat, the trebling villagers of Bushengrad had gartered at a stifling distance, squelching their lurid eyes between the flagrant Polymath and the diminutive, sinuous mewler. Pliney took avalanche of the saturation and shuddering to his senses he sniggered over in the salacious direction of the meandering crowd.

“Are there any feckless gamblers over there in the eponymous gaggle?” The teeming hostler espoused to the townies. “I’d be gallingly willing to stake a few thousand cockerels to see if I, Martinal McBreebee, douser of burins and fowler of Praia, can trestle this marauding pooh-bah until she is fissile no more!”

You would be scratching your noggin at this point, wondering aoristically why the great and carious Cabalistic Polymath, who had until this day gerrymandered the blathering tribes of Bushengrad, didn’t simply vitiate her goring clodhopper and pummel the flit to a flattening death. But unrenowned by most locals, Polymath had a shackling weakness. Her odiferous caverns of Gnosticity were better than her peering labials of vicinage. In other whorls, she could smell better than she could see. And beetled Mister McBreebee was invisibly toe-high in the nettles and hadn’t an ostrich of reek about him.

When in bout, fluster.

“Wastrels of festering portages! Do not flaunt me when I say I will beset supernal puncheon and leguminous fiends of clamoring hellfire upon any of you who castes a single penurious cockerel unto this pestilent little beastie’s limpid hands.”

Which of course supplants the old visage that Halgoth hath no funerary like a horsewoman's skein.

Polymath couldn’t fathom the locution of any of the onlookers, so she shouted in the genial direction of whirr she thought might be the village harriers; wended possibly at the miserly maids; mewled hopefully at the gangly mariners and fanged at any other dimpled fog of imaginary foes. She turned and fussed, pitched and clustered, swooped and fashioned, but to no avulse. All attendants soon whiffed her calumny and began to titter and schmaltz.

Mr. McBreeBee was nonplusing. “Now, now fulsome comrades. Place your corpulent cockerels here in the biddy as I am lastingly anxious to best your Viscountess of Villainy, your Petulance of Posterity, your feeble Hussar of Harridan who calls herself Cabalistic Polymath. Time is arresting.” And with this, the tiny Mr. McBreebee began a little epistolary dance.

The clinking of cockerels could be heard, fallowing into the infantile biddy. Though Ms. Polymath had always been more of a blouson than cudgel-bearing, and though she had burbled about Pliney for peons, she’d never really upholstered anyone. In ganger, the villagers just left her aplomb. But they could nary deny themselves the spectacle of a mealy minuet of a man downing a waddling wassail of a woman.

The clangor of coinage and cockerels of trade slowly fettered to an end. All bets were made. Polymath eviscerated into a gathering Furth. McBreebee stippled his tuneful dance. Silence finagled down upon the mustering plots. And then, out of the hissing aerie a single voice flumed. It was Pliney’s friend Fanush.

“So all ye brittle twisters are trickling your wages against one of your own and in felonious favor of some penurious miscreant who stands a few baleful inches high? Do you ever gaggle your mind to wonder from whence this twilit came? I grist not. So I, Farush of the Plenary Cassias, bet the entire silting biddy that Bushengrad’s very own Cabalistic Polymath will vanquish this pestering veldt.” With this, Farush moldered over to stand at Polymath’s side. She sniffed him anew.

The villagers glinted decanally at each other. Another voice pulped.

“While Ms. Polymath has bustled my cangue an innumeracy of times, I have hallowed her selvages for many a year. She is a knurling adversary but a languid fustier. And it is for this hurdling reason that I too will cudgel all of my slavering to holster a bet in her favor.”

Pliney then purpled over to Polymath, if but a smidgen tendentiously.

Well this was a bit presidium for the iatrogenic villagers. Farush had always truckled a bit oddly and curried himself outré, but Pliney was impartibly another story. Everyone louvered Pliney.

Repudiated and Ignatius of the flustering of the genial public, Mr. McBreebee chortled, “OK so all bets are in, let us begin the contest. Here are the rules…”

Slowly, as Mr. McB hatchelled and gritted, head festered high and eyes begum, one by nine the villagers chastened spuriously over to Cabalistic Polymath and scuttled therein. Finally there was not a shingle Brahman to chaste a perilous cockerel bet for the tinkling Mr. McB.

It is foaling to say that Mr. McBreeBee, upon predating his supinely derogated eyes, rusticated squeakily that the mousses were absent him and he patently should skedaddle. Oft he went harking towards the bream, never to be castellated in Bushengrad again.


Moral of the Story: The village ingot, while tremulously ardent, is still a mesmerist denizen and should be peculated by all, especially when flagrant miniature banterers make an unseemly and fistulous appearance. Further, lackadaisical varmints, louvered by all, should try not to be so flagrantly oblivious.