The Unnamed adventures of Roger Weaver

The Unnamed adventures of Roger Weaver

Chapter 4

     The Story The Authors
The metal tho twisted was still attached to an amazing vehicle that could power thru the limestone debris. So Roger and Boar clambered up thru the limestone to see if they could get into the cockpit of the vehicle and drive out of the cavern. They were met with great difficulty trying to dig thru the limestone with bare fingers that were quickly torn and bleeding. Haggard and feeling defeated, they finally found a hatch and were able to release the pressurized door. none
Sparks flew from the impossible-looking innnards of control panels rent in pieces as if by an earthquake. Red Alert lights blinked in monotonous tandem with the miter's piercing, interminable warning signal "Danger! Danger! Will Robinson!" which made it impossible to ascertain whether or not the Giant Pope-Head's cras had left any survivors until they rounded what had formerly been a corner, entered the splintered remains of the bridge, and heard the first groans emitted, seemingly, from somewhere behind the heaped debris of the Navigator's station. Still woozy and stumbling with bourbon, Roger and the Boar crept forward.
"Whadya shink itsh ish?" mused Roger.
"I shweah, not in awl mah yeahsh ash a shentlemen an' a Shouverner hash ah evah..."
but the sight that greeted them otherside of the Navigator's station cut him off mid-shentenshe. For there, wound about and bruised by a jumble of wires and framing, bleeding from a plethora of minor flesh wounds, lay the broken form of The Cat in the Hat...
Philip
Don't just stand there
like a bunch of goons
Help me Up!
Bind my Wounds!
I've had a crash
(It was a doozy)
I'm losing blood
I'm feeling woozy
I need aid!
I need succor
so quick about
you motherfucker!
Lanark
"Wah, bless the grey Confed'ret blood in mah soul, if it ain't the Cat in th' Hat! Mehcy me, son, bihnd his wounds, ah say, an' be quick abaht it, while ah see to the health o' his soul!" And so saying, while Roger tore strips of cloth from his shirt and staunched the bloodflow coming from the Cat's sundry wounds, Boar withdrew from his pocket a pint of the finest, 97 proof, aged 18 years in barrels of charred oak, private stock special reserve Kentucky bourbon whiskey and held it to the Cat's bruised and bloodied lips. Of this the Cat made short work, emitting a resounding belch after swallowing the last dregs of the bottle, standing from the wreckage around him, dusting himself off, and exclaiming:

But for your aid
I might have died, you
Saved my life;
I cannot chide you
For drinking of
The demon whiskey
(Which ain't so demon
Gee, I feel frisky!
But now, my friends,
We'll from here scat!
You know my secret:
The Pope's the Cat!

Philip
"Gee thats nice," said Roger. "Now coould you help me get out of this cave and destroy the evil remote control?" "Sure," said the cat in the hat,
"YOu saved my life
So now I'll help
you; with no strife
I will now yelp:
Just climb that cliff
And fight the lion
And someone's fingers
Will be prying
To break the 'mote
Set Janice free
And save the world
and you and me.
Just be careful
Where you step.
A few grey stones
Spray lots of pep-
Per, make you sneeze,
And lose control.
Then down the cliff
Your head will roll!"
Carolyn


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