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Legal Smeagol
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Ways to Gain Bad Karma, Other than by stealing tarot cards

“Hello, Psychic Palmistry Incorporated. What would you like? Press 1 for Tarot Readings…”
Gloump punched the number one quickly, growing slightly out of breath as he did so. The recording switched to a rendition of the Four Seasons played solely by accordions. Gloump found himself starting to like the music when an operator came on.
“We’re sorry, your cards cannot be read, the balance of your call will be refunded to you in its entirety, and we hope that you will never attempt to give us your patronage again. If this is your second warning, please note that your personal aura has already accumulated enough negativity from our protective devices that you will be violently ill. We thank you for calling, and hope that you try our competitors.” With that, the phone went dead.
Gloump scratched his head in the cramped cubicle that served as his work-site office. The telephone seemed to be a little loose, and when Gloump gave a slight tug it came up into his hand easily enough, but sans the cord. Looking down, he noticed that the wire had corroded into some sort of gooey mess, steaming even now in the early morning air. The surprise was that Gloump never used the workstation after he did his job, so the fumes from his workplace couldn’t have gotten here, right? As he pondered, he noticed that the sun had risen. It was time for work.
Gloump was a slouched optical metaphor for a decayed walrus. He seemed simply to ooze from one place to the next, in ratty clothing that seemed simultaneously too large and too small. With his hair color visible only through mud and …other things, he might have passed for an ogre, had there been such things. Even so, he would have been different, a pasty, white, near albino under the filth. That is, however, a secret no matter what, since he never bathed in anything.
From his ‘office’ he entered the cavern. Even with his mask on, the fumes seemed to hit him right in the eyes. Inwardly he sighed a sigh of relief, for the bats were all asleep for once. He had already been involved in several fights with the flying rodents, boasting a record of 0-95-3. The three ties had simply been because he stumbled through the cavern into the grotto beneath, whereupon the bats had left screeching with silent laughter.
You see, Persinidan Igneolous Gloump worked for ‘Ammonia Second Away From Sterility,’ the number one cleanser on the market. He had the ever so sought after job of guano collection. Yes, Mr. P. I. Gloump got the pleasure of collecting the droppings of the several thousand or so bats that inhabited Graves’ Cavern. Whistling in a manner that would serve perfectly if one were to wish to discourage whistling totally, he shoveled the ammonia-laced poop into the waiting carts. After 5 hours he was done, and able to return to hovel sweet home.
The abode was one that would escape your eyes at first glance, and make you wish you had missed it again with your second. Aside from the fact that it was a mud hole masquerading as a chateau, the ammonia fumes from drying/damp/--- clothes was enough to make an experienced manual organic waste compactor grimace in pain and suffering. Prealisbee Hiram Eftron Walinger was the exception to the previous rule. Make no doubt about it, his occupation as a MOWC was important to his immunity, but his limited sense of smell was in all likelihood the bigger help. Still, this did not quite explain why Walinger thought of the house as smelling better than his job. (For those who may be wondering, Manual Organic Waste Compactor is the job description for one who stomps on human refuse all day. No more graphic rendering needed here, let’s continue with our story.)
Gloump greeted his old, and only, friend with a nod and led him into the home. Inside, both men had room to sit on filthy, smelly mounds of earth. (?) Unlike Persinidan, Prealisbee was of average height and hair color, rather on the doughy side, but with thin legs. Along with the diseased walrus image, simply add a walking toadstool to the picture and you’ll get the idea.
The first thing Gloump did was to take off his reeking boots, by throwing them out one of the many ‘windows’ that dotted the walls of his hut. Contrary to the normal state of things, the odor level in the room remained constant, some seventeen degrees below bearable. Reaching into an alcove, he pulled out a battered deck of Tarot cards, and offered to deal Walinger a read.
“Hey Persin,” said Walinger, “when’d you ever get them cards?” In similarly mutilated English, Gloump, or Persin, answered.
“Well Prealy, I just kinda took ‘em from a store or somethin’ when I’s younger.”
The toadstool-ish one began to giggle, which began to annoy the walrus-like Persin. “What d’you think’s so funny, huh Prealy?” This said in a form of trumpet from Gloump.
“You, you, you heeheehee stole ‘em heehee Persin?” after saying this, Prealy collapsed into a shaking mound of high-pitched sounds roughly like drunken tittering.
“Um, I dunno, kinda, I guess,” answered the rather dull Gloump. “Izzat supposed to make a diff’rence?” When no answer seemed forthcoming from his now hyperventilating friend, he kicked Walinger in the rear. At last, Prealy said, “why’s I laughin’ like that?”
Now we must leave these two imbeciles to their (painfully stupid) games, and examine the situation from an objective stance. The story behind this little fable gone dumb, is that, as a lad, Gloump stole a deck of Tarot cards from the local fast food grocery store. Compounding his lack of sense, he continued to use the stolen items to predict his future. Needless to say, the negative energy released by his theft, and augmented by subsequent use of the cards, was more than enough to insure that he live a life suited for, well, him.
Now that Gloump’s condition is accounted for, we shall now turn to that of his friend and companion, “Prealy” Walinger, MOWC. The question that must be asked is how on earth did he manage to accumulate so much bad joss? Well, the answer here is somewhat more involved, so let’s just say that it involved several skunks, a stolen ouija board, and many irritated aardvarks.
And so we reach the end of our little demented fable. There is a lesson to be learned here of course, but it is not a totally useless one, unlike the two characters in the fable. That moral is that rotten fortune telling from a stolen object can land you in deep excrement. Now, isn’t that something everyone should know?
 
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