Sal Oberon sat and surveyed the scene: the two drones were perched on the edges of their tight arses in front of him, practically falling off the precarious instruction manuals underneath them, and one intoned, ‘But really, Mr Obiwank, we have to follow The Rules.’
Sal Oberon sighed at length. ‘The Rules’ were ingrained in the air. One of the drones, as tight-lipped as she was tight-arsed, put on her best serious face. Sal Oberon resisted the urge to tell her to shove her rules as far up her tight-arsed crack as she could possibly muster. The other drone could only mindread as poorly as the first, fortunately or unfortunately. The invisible Rulebook floated around in the tight little room like a squeaky bad dog fart . . .
No-one at The Gathering at the fag end of the forest showed that they understood a single thing in the story that wasn’t The Rules. Sal Oberon looked around hopefully, but the array of frowns and officially concerned faces around him suggested he might as well go and slam his own bollocks between a couple of masonry blocks for all the good he was doing here. Nevertheless, stupidity or bloody-mindedness contrived to drive him to give it one more push.
‘You do know The Rules aren’t real life, don’t you, right?’
The assembled of The Gathering mumbled and grimaced at one another. Sal Oberon picked something out of his ear in a manner that he hoped might be nonchalant but was really just a way of stopping himself from punching everyone hard enough in the face to knock a modicum of sense into them.
‘Look, The Rules are just a control thing. They let the controller feel important. What’s the point of this controller if they don’t have anyone to control? Right? Someone controls the controller, and so on and so on. Freedom, fellow Little People, is freedom from other people. That’s all.’
Sal Oberon looked around hopefully again. Some of The Gathering were uncomfortably squeaking on their indoctrination-padded undergarments. Sal Oberon blasted on with an increasingly resigned attitude of ‘well, just fuck ’em then’.
‘So, when your common or garden Shyster Magnet (that’ll be me) gets told in no uncertain terms that he can’t let some pixie piss in his garden by the Forest Overlords, and the pixie promises to shit daily on the doorstep of yours truly because he’s pissed off he can’t piss in the forest without prior permission, Sal Oberon reflects that The Rules can go take a running jump . . .’
Sal Oberon surveyed the scene and no-one got his rampant analogies, it was clear. He waved his hand dismissively.
‘Fuck off, the lot of you. There should be Rules about people like you not understanding about not complying with The Rules and so forth.’
The Gathering of the Little People duly fucked off, not at all getting the intended irony, and Sal Oberon scraped out his Tale Weaving equipment to hammer out a therapeutic stream of largely offensive swear words and bile.