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Hell on Hallowed Ground
“It was a dark and stormy night…”
“Oh shut up, Harold! You’re creeping me out with that crap!”
“Why Margaret, spouse of my heart, whatever do you mean?”
“You’re always peering over your paper and saying things like ‘It was a dark and stormy night’ or ‘From the pit of despair the creature howled.’ It’s really annoying.”
“Where ere I err such eldritch venom doth spew.”
“What?”
“Yon nymph made martyr hath blasphemous intent.”
“Speak English for god’s sake, Harold!”
“It was a dark and stormy night…”
“How is it that I’ve managed to be married to a lunatic?”
“Oh sweet love doth abound! Such ardour! I share with thee my very soul,” Harold emoted grandiosely.
“That’s not your soul, Harold, that’s flatulence.” Margaret took up her knitting.
“Get thee hence foul odour! Such abomination doth offend! Begone, odious aroma!” said Harold, wafting his evening paper.
“Harold, listen to me. Normal people do not sit about in their underpants farting and saying strange incomprehensible things to their wives.”
“My sweetest Margaret, my spouse, my heart. ‘Tis only my amorous heart which speaks thusly to thee.”
“For the love of god, Harold, just shut up, will you?”
“Oh fairest one, I’d sooner sprout fifty pustules upon my very posterior than stifle my adoration.”
It was just then that Margaret leapt from her armchair, crossed the parlour to where Harold sat behind his newspaper, and stabbed him in the ear with her knitting needle.
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Inspired by the Scribbles 50th Challenge!
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