Meade's Ball
Well-known member
I took an idea from One Foot in the Grave in opening my naturally deceased beast slipper and glove range. My mole mittens went down a storm, and their mole-snout thimble spin-off did well in local businesses. My problem soon lay in the difficulty in finding certain animals that had died of natural causes, and the graveyards they hobbled to to become part of the earth again shortly after. There was only one solution, and that was to hire recently released from prison animal therapists who would be happy to earn a few bucks - leave it - in persuading creatures from the wild to finish themselves off, with the right, and gently caring, twitches and yaps and squeals that would tell them it was for the greater good for them to choke on their own tails or eat a Wotsit - the death-cornsnack of the pine marten. I ended up inside - not the sweetly-scented beak of the Canadian goose which waddled so suggestively toward the mini-electric chair I'd had constructed - for 3 sorry years. But there I met Stan, a human with a wonderful will to both live and swindle, who I visit every other month, for violent lovemaking and one of his sculpted marble snooker cues.
