The problems at Badgertown Rock have caused a bank run. Thousands of anxious savers have besieged the bank trying to withdraw their funds. Much against my better judgement I have had to step in and guarantee that their debts will be met.
Luckily, the blockade at Badfort seems to be having an effect and Beaver and his cronies have started paying back the money they have not spent. Unfortunately they have already spent a considerable sum on Beaver's pet project 'The People's Palace'.
Think Las Vegas meets Soviet Architecture and it will give you some idea of the monstrosity he has built around the back of Badfort. A veritable den of iniquity. Beaver has been fleecing visitors with a fixed roulette wheel and exorbitant prices for Black Tom on tap.
Yesterday, Beaver held a Cart Boot Sale in front of Badfort Castle, in order to raise funds for what he called 'payment of the loan sharks at Badgertown Rock'. Much as I detest the man, at least he was making an effort, so I decided to lend my support by paying a visit.
For those of you who have never been to a Cart Boot Sale - this is the way it works. Anybody can drive their carts there and sell off unwanted items. As the Badfort crowd prefer to go around in bare feet there are usually large numbers of boots for sale. Hence the title. The great artist Waldovenison Smeare came along too, hoping to buy some paint, and the miser Alonzo S. Whitebeard - who cannot resist any bargain. He likes a good haggle.
The Badfort Crowd were certainly had a wide range of objects for sale. Sigismund was selling bags of old nails, and Hootman was offering to haunt your worst enemy for a quid. Whitebeard was very pleased with an old chair leg he found for a halfpenny. Apparently the one on his kitchen table had broken and he had propped it up with books because he was too mean to buy a new one.
Beaver had removed the window frames from some of the disused parts of his castle and was selling them for a pound. Unfortunately as soon as he spotted me he started jeering. "Look at the old tyrant come to gloat at our misfortune ! - it's not enough for him to starve us out he wants to dance on our emaciated bones !" he cried. We quickly moved on.
Hitmouse was sitting outside his nissan hut. He was working his way through a pile of old plates cleaning them. There were piles and piles of them cluttering up his abode - he had obviously not done any washing up for weeks. Next to him were lots of rickety easels displaying paintings of dubious quality. In between scrubbing the plates he would shout 'works of art for the proletariat - knock down prices !'.
Surprisingly, the reclusive millionaire art collector, Charley Scratchy had turned up. Hitmouse gave him a lot of spiel about his paintings - claiming they were unique works of art created by a horny-handed son of toil and bona fide member of the working classes - namely himself. Charley just dismissed them as amateurish work showing very little original or imaginative thinking. I could see a certain look come into Hitmouse's eye and knew that he was about to stick a skewer in Charley. He was distracted by Whitebeard who offered him sixpence for an abstract self portrait. Hitmouse turned puce with anger. I quickly interrupted before events got out of hand. I asked how much he wanted for the painting and without batting an eyelid he demanded a thousand pounds. I reluctantly agreed despite Smeare dismissing it as having very little merit and Whitebeard collapsing into paroxyms at the thought of how many table legs he could buy with that amount of money. After all, how else was I to ensure Badgertown Rock and I would get our money back? Anyway it will make a good addition to the Rogue's section of Homeward Art Gallery.
Flush with his success Hitmouse tried to sell Mister Scratchy one of his old plates. A rapturous look had come into Charley's eyes. Yes, he wanted the plate - he wanted everything. He had to have the hut and all it's content. Apparently, it was the most extraordinary piece of conceptual art he had ever seen - the abject state of Hitmouse's hovel, the use of detritus, and unfunctional, everyday objects, was a true statement on modern society.
Would Hitmouse be willing to except £200,000 for the whole work? wondered Charley.
Hitmouse, Smeare and Whitebeard fainted.
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