Turn turn turn

Yes, yes. It's all over. Fin. A champion walks these grounds, eh. A man? Certainly not. (That strange creature, as the feline called him, is once again out cold underneath the shadow of a two dimensional jointed limb. He just couldn't cope.) So, the female feline, you ask? Not at all. Stiff as stuffing, pompously curled up on the shoulder of a certain handsome military man. Ah, then, the prodigal Bubba, you must be thinking... Wrong again. Let me explain, before I introduce myself, the Champion of Mansion d'Leans, eh.

It really came down to the two of us: Comforting venom vs. Existentialism in denial (poor devil). E.D., as he shall be known posthumously, put up a fight, I must give him some credit, but my northern tactics outmatched him in the end. E.D. zigzagged, he glared, he bit, he slashed, he scraped, he rolled, he ran, he rammed, he even played dead. But, once my top gets turning... no contest. Turn, turn, turn, turn. My potency prevails in all seasons, eh. My potency prevails.

So, R.I.P. E.D.

And long live the Champ, eh!

Canadian Mist!!!! Forever!!!!


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