There's No End to This Madness

There was a fiendish gleam in his eye.

Unfortunately, His Greatness, the Lord Aka Kaka had left his eye on the greying worm-eaten worktop of his kitchenette/diner so he didn't look entirely convincing as the evil overlord of the Plains of Snrrt constituency. In essence, he appeared no more threatening than a fluffy hamster child at his coming-out lunch. He knew he wouldn't be able to pull this off without a little cunning. Convincing the war-weary Plains-dwellers to purchase a metric tonne per household of tinned asparagus when most did not have two pennies to rub together. And that would be the easy part. How on earth (or runk, as it was known, locally) could he coerce them into taking trumpet lessons.

It had started with a simple clerical error. The temporary temp at Halfway House, headquarters of Golden Fraction Inc, Germaine Cabbidge, had not been told about the janitor's habit of recycling files that were still open. Or eating them. Under normal circumstances, Scud Missyle, that rocking rocker sort of really rocky bloke who does the filing in a really rocky sort of way, with smegabytes of what children nowadays tend to think of as music blasting from his iSod into that inert mass of stiff porridge between his ears.

I didn't finish that sentence, did I?

never mind