A better place.

Damn, I sure am exhausted. Walrus Mastur and I took the day off to tie up some loose ends that we were too fat and lazy to attend to previously. Admittedly, after what I'd been experiencing at the law firm, it was about time I did some serious tying up of my own. We rose earlier than usual and finally settled the stack of bills and fines (overdue library books, various criminal charges) that had steadily accumulated over the past year.

More importantly, we decided to clear out our our spare room, which involved sweeping up cobwebs, relocating rusty, rarely-used equipment (the Catherine Wheel had to go), and disposing of its only inhabitant.

Benedict the Seal came into our possession, I mean residence, several years ago when we lured him over under the pretext of agreeing to hear him sing in his rich baritone and skilfully play the accordion. He's a good seal, but often makes the mistake of being too friendly. Since then, he lived in our spare room where we locked him up interminably - until Walrus Mastur decided we needed more space for our academic journals and pornography collection. It was strange to see him bathed in daylight. Albeit paler but otherwise unharmed, he seemed to have survived his stay. We stuffed him into the back of our helicopter where he lay huddled in resignation, trussed up like a turkey and his mouth doubly duct-taped. He seemed to be trying to mutter what sounded like "mmf mmf grmmph". It might have been a very futile "let me go". Or it might also have been "what the fuck".

We disposed of him on an isolated desert island by ejecting him out of our aircraft and hovered silently above, watching him regain his composure and accustom himself to his unfamiliar surroundings. Discernible relief washed over his handsomely whiskered face, but it rapidly gave way to severe alarm. After all those years, I could still read him like a book. "Hey!" he shouted, waving his flippers around helplessly. "Hey! Come back! HEY!"

Truth be told, looking down on the forlorn heap he had crumpled into, I was almost sad to see him go. It hit me that I would no longer enjoy hours of threatening to roll him off the brick roof, denying him fish and callously kicking away his handphone. I even shed a tear of regret and contrition for not having treasured him a little more. Until Walrus Mastur smacked me upside the head with the yellowed map of deserted deserts and said I was degenerating into a "a sentimental fucker teeming with fuck-ass tears at every opportunity, much like other individuals we know of" and that "hos are not to be wept over". Then we bumped bellies, chuckled and ouwred in a conciliatory fashion.

When we got home, I washed the pile of dirty dishes left over from Christmas and Walrus Mastur strategically laid ant traps all around the flat. Pesky ants are headed for a better place.