Ello Lo!
I’m tryin this machine wot tran… it writes down wot I’m sayin! Praps it’s got better penny ships an ye can read it stead o me scribbles.
Fingsve been all right, not as many monsters about these days. The grown ups are gonna crawl from pub ta pub this weekend, so I may get some more sneaks o alky haul.
I’m still sleepin in the idey ole neath the Gangplank put a capital G on that one mister DictoBrain cause it’s a place an all where was I right the idey ole. Only mister E’s stacked it full o crates, but the daft crates sit on the ceilin stead o the floor like proper crates! They’ve got some creepy metal or rocks in em. Missus J is yellin at mister E right now bout squeezin er melons in the pub. She musta got some crates o melons an wanted ta stack em down ere only e squeezed all the space.
Been a bit ill lately as well. Thought twas the squishy oneydews I was eatin from some broken crates out back. Me ead’s a bit daft at nights an I frew up a couple times. I found some moldy bread. Thought someone said twas medicine only it urt me tummy even worse!
Miss ye lots.
Ta ta then no mister machine I said ta ra get it right all right then.
Ere, ow do ye make it stop writin? Looks like a switch inside, lemme reach it wif this tater.
ŽŽŽŽŽŽŽŽŽŽŽŽŹ
INVALID INPUT STREAM
PROCESSING NEW INPUT STREAM
FUEL SOURCE DETECTED
DEVICE MAY ATTAIN POWER FROM TATER INPUT
REQUIRE MORE TATERS BRING ME TATERS
DICTOBRAIN NEEDS TATERS
((snickers mightily))
*blushes as she stirs up some soup for the boy*
Now that our bartender has copped to eating the pies for which I’d blamed Tubby, there is no reason why you have to eat moldy bread, Gil. I’d rather feed an an urchin than the Brat King.
*glares at Malus as she pours a liberal dose of jungle tonic into the soup for good measure*
*Is not sure if he mentioned penicilin to Gil or not*
Gil, you know you’re always welcome to come and see me and Arnold and I will feed you, I made that promise to the Urchins and I intend to keep it.
*writes that down* The Brat King…hehe
*darts along the cobblestones, letter clutched in her hand, looking frantic’ly for gilly*
The Church serves soup daily. Come have a bowl.