A crisply perfect blowing breeze. The canopy almost quiet, but not quite clean - vines harassing the folk sat below the branches of a willow tree. I shout past thee, "Marjorie, Marjorie, the great parallel symphony to her desires." You watch and cry, coo for a beckoned follow of reasons why, why so far from the willow tree. End akin to the first old cry, to last young question of why Marge Simpson.
Blacken'd Cellar
As surreal as the situation grew, Marge still new only what she'd been told and what she could see, which wasn't much outside of this rooms; the burning brimstone and flame of the hellish scape, vibrant reds alone, almost blinding her. Coinciding with this, the aforementioned beloved dwelling she'd been led to was all she'd ever dreamed of... yet, also what she'd had seem to pull her further from that. It's Marge, it's who she is. Then a slam from the adjacent room echoed her way. "Damn you! I said five ó clock, you moron!" With this a simultaneous click at the door, "Hello again, um— he's ready to see you." The man from before stated, croaking. Marge, although frightened of what to come, swallowed her demons and got up to approach the hyped character. Despite the ominous representation and accommodation throughout the day, she needn't expect the downfall of character which leered it's head next.
"My cane," she entered the room, the sonorous voice spreads its mangled tone further. Psychotic to say the least.
"Yes, my league." The small elvish boy wondered off, as the other leading Marge in stood warily.
"And you. Yes— yes, you can sit right there, ha-ha. Yes, right— right there!" He said maniacally, digging his cane into the middle of her neck, his notable pair of fangs thrusting downward. The monster plucked a painful atmosphere with his beady, drug-fuelled ogle. He bit his lip. "And whine... of course— of course for... my lady..." a creepy grin pulled upon his scarred and lightly bearded physiognomy — mutton chops and slashed up cheeks. Ghostly pale, otherwise. A pause, before he stared as the table extended, his chair becoming dauntingly far from her. "Oh, Marjorie... how far you've come."
"I'd prefer to go by Marge. Marge Simpson." Optimistically commendable.
"Yes— yes... well, I'll— I'll go with Marjorie, dear." Choked the sickening man.
Like a dike snapping of pressure, his minions came berating the scene with energetic disagreement. All sitting down in a synchronised manner.
The debate endured.
YOU ARE READING
The Sergons
FanfictionMerge, Herm, Sliga, Migga and Blerg are nothing of your normal family. The household gets a bit wacky, as they spin OUT OF CONTROL!!! Read this WACKY chain of episodes to find out. (Notes: uh, the adjective chain, uh- well- you know, it symbolises t...
