Glory

We happened upon our revenge in a delightfully serendipitous fashion this morning, and as we return to our riverside hovel in the dank hours of the night with a touch of winsome wistfulness in our spry steps, the amaranthine hue of the sky belies a glory to all of God's creations.

As a curiousity, one can be informed quite definitively that the Madonna is neither ours, nor do we ever want to set eyes upon that notoriously infuriating and oddly pigmented virgin. In our haste we set ourselves upon the robbery of artifacts, but in our retrospective opinions we concluded that thievery only grazes the slippery integument of notoriety, relatively to the efficacy of well-timed insults in guaranteeing paramount infamy.

Insults, my dear friends. Such as, "Your flesh resembles the torrid wastelands of the Sahara, where noone ever dares tread for fear of quietus from the harrowing grip of dehydration".

Or, if one were feeling particuarly festive, "Your intelligence is on par with the underside of a malodorous mammal slowly partnering itself with the elite menagerie of the purulent festering inner sodality of the dead".

There's more in my bag of castigation, but for now I must share the hallowed glories of our triumphs (if not quite hallowed at this point, one or two days, five at most).

As we arose from our perturbed slumber this fine morning, we wandered into Rocamadour proper, resembling the reanimated corpses of Pere Lachaise Cemetery; those poor souls who rest underneath the Mur des Federes. Although there were 147 of those communards and 5 of us, our heroism is homologous with those batards tristes, this is more a comparison relating to their generally decrepit appearance after 40 years of burial.

Rumour has it they buried that Irish playwright of questionable persuasions in Pere Lachaise several years ago.

I was in the midst of fighting people whose names I wish I spent the time to learn before I ran them through with bayonets. I'd either have thought better of my activities or at least spent my life riddled with guilt, rather than ambivalent to the rampant anonymity of it all.

Regardless, due to these circumstances I know of the funerals of Irish homosexuals only through hearsay, which is a goddamned shame.

Chopin is also entombed within this macabre bastille.

I digress, quite sincerely, because our vivacity is pure fabrication, we have yet to think of any possible way to rive the hearts of those repugnant nuns of Notre Dame.

This is not the glory we had anticipated for the first forrays into villainy, but our time will come.

Frayne has managed to acquire some of the famed Rocamadour cheese, this is not so much of a meal for five, but right now we are desperate.

And in regard to the insults, this has mostly been Thibault's effort, as he has spent most of the day cursing the sky with the choicest words. Colourful, is not quite justice to the veritable kaleidoscope of his phrasings.

We have yet to return to Rocamadour. All of this is a lie, admittedly, I am liar, but what did you expect from a thief, said the snake to Eve.

It is true about that Irish fellow in Pere Lachaise; sad really, I thought he was fairly amusing.