"Achtung, Elch!" mused the great grey-haired Mancunian in his usual droll way. The room was small, not intimately small, but just close enough that from any part of it you couldn't help but noticing the deep purple veins interwoven in his large, protuberant nose. We were his most devoted followers, undying in loyalty, unstable in sanity. "Achtung, die Elche!" He practically bellowed, almost chuckling in that distinctive deep guttural voice of his. We chuckled too. He was our leader, our saviour. He was our life. We owed everything to that six-feet tall, eloquent, nut-job.
Bartholomew de Sudlege sat in a chair of mahogany, which was carved in the typical Georgian style and upholstered in the finest red velvet. Despite his name being of a rather mixed origin Bartholomew, or Barty to friends, was a Mancunian born and raised. Many years ago, he could tell you many stories about his adventures in Germany. But alas, that was many years ago and now his mind was melted with age. "Es gibt eine Elche!" he roared, to the fascination of the crowd, pointing fiercely into the vacant corner of the room, a mildly amused look in those tired blue eyes.
To those unfamiliar with the German language, Elch (Elche being plural) means Moose. The reason for this rather peculiar fellow's fascination for all things Capreolinaeus is unkown. It was just his thing. He's old. Mad. You know; whatever floats your boat. The strange thing was however, was that a crowd, yes a crowd, listened to what he said. Normally, people get old, they loose their mental capacity. It's sad, but it's just a fact of life.
YOU ARE READING
Achtung, Elch!
RandomUhm... I have no plan for this. But let me start by introducing myself. Well hello there, I'm [REDACTED] from [REDACTED], England, United Kingdom. I am [REDACTED] years old and I'm currently a student. I've been described as many things, strange, qu...
