The Sunday Story

This isn't a Bolivian Tree Frog. BECAUSE THEY DON'T EXIST.

It’s Sunday again and that means I’ve got to do whatever was suggested last week. I’m sighing right now, because no one but Steve suggested something, and in his usual obtuse manner, he suggested something highly ridiculous. And so I shall have to write something highly ridiculous, about Bolivian Tree Frogs, a species that a quick Wikipedia search reveals is something utterly devoid of corporeal existence, because, yaknow, it doesn’t exist. Anyway, here it is, I hope you’re happy.


The soft snap of his fingers leaving the wooden table, the naturally sticky appendages reluctant to depart from the warm surface. His other hand trailed it’s way down his chin, or lack thereof, as his eyes surveyed opposite sides of the room. They narrowed a little bit.

“So you’re trying to say to me, Frank, that you lost the eggs? Again? Toad above, boy, what’s wrong with you? It’s not like they’re sentient objects.. at least not yet anyway. How do you lose three hundred spawn? I mean, bloody hell, what would happen if I gave you something important to look after?” The figure he was addressing hung it’s head, a long, reptillian tongue slipping out of a lipless mouth to gather the surrounding moisture. There was a gulp.

“I…I’m sorry boss, they… there were two… I’m not really sure…. I think I got mugged.” A few deep breaths and he was able to speak again. “I’m really sorry boss, I’ll do better.” The Boss slammed his fist on the table, somewhat losing the effect as all that echoed around the room was a dull slap.

“Shut up! I don’t want to hear it Frank. This is the third time in as many weeks. You’re a shame to the pond, we both know it. If you hadn’t been fertilised by my predecessor you’d have been put out in the sun months ago. Now get out of my sight, before I have you taken over to the others.” Frank gulped and bobbed his head, waddling out with an ungainly gait, legs bending obscenely as he ducked under the doorway.

The Boss sighed, one hand draped across his face as he turned to the decanter to his left, pouring himself a glass of murky fliud, the layer of algae floating on the surface giving it a certain upper class charm. Sucking the botanical lid from the glass he closed his eyes, a long, wet sigh escaping his mouth. Shifting in his bucket, he reached for the mop to his right, knowing he would’ve got some water on the carpet. High society was such a bore.

Stain dealt with, he reached across his desk, pressing the bell. Immediately his doorway was darkened by the lumbering figure of a scaly backed toad, a large shotgun carried loosely in two large hands. The bowtie at the shape’s neck seemed to offput the whole aestethic, but somehow it worked.

“Yes Boss?” Two syllables, and the man was already doing his job right. Why wouldn’t all his minions be like this?

“Get me a plate of horseflies, Brian, and make sure they’ve recently been fed, I’m hungry.” Nodding, Brian made his exit and headed out. The Boss finished his drink and laid the glass down before sinking into his bath. The water bubbled up, overflowing a little as he savoured the coolness of it. He took a few more moments just lying there before he grabbed the mop.

About Phill Cameron

I've graduated, had a look at the world, and spat. Now I'm devoting my time to moving from 3/4 of a games journalist to 9/10ths. I figure I can get away with 9/10ths.
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1 Response to The Sunday Story

  1. stevetheblack says:

    Hurrah! Very good ๐Ÿ˜€

    Sumatran Rat-Monkey next week please ๐Ÿ˜‰

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