Rata S Thompson #3

>The isle of Taragea is a warm and sun drenched land, the Opal Kingdom was named well. The bright light of the sun is cut into a thousand scattered shards of brilliance by the turquoise waters, even as the viscerally cooking heat of the rays in undiminished.

>Just the sort of thing to lull and distract you long enough to think cramming your face into a Bunyip's soft downy fur and inhaling until you can't remember your mother's name is a wonderful idea.

>And so your trusted correspondent, of uncertain lineage, found herself searching for the Sabbath's whereabouts using a combination of legerdemain and keen journalistic intelligence.

>"Sweet goddess, bring me some acorns. Where the fuck am I? Momma what the fuck is your name?" I screamed to the sky with refined poise and dignity.

>The Bunyip, who I'd been huffing mere moments ago, was still and statuesque. Yes, she was tall, but she was stiff and calm. The slowly raised hand filled with acorns which she extended towards me was accepted with the charm that has let me interview queens, kings, and gods.

>Eventually, still clinging to her stiffly extended arm, I finished licking the remains of sweet addictive acorns which had just cushioned my face first dive into her palm. I licked her palm once more for good measure.

>"Ah excellent. My memory of Mother, Goddess damn her evil black heart, is coming back." I said. And it was true, for in moments the joys, pains and travails of my youth tumbled back into my head like a masturbating chipmunk who lost her grip on a tree branch and chipped a tooth. Damn fine work by that dentist.

>I leapt off of my perch on the Bunyip's strongly muscled and exquisitely furred arm. Not bothering to wipe the chunks of acorn off my face, I stood. Now that I've had a local breakfast, it's time to get down to investigating.