Ben - Chapter Thirty Four

As willing and brave as he needed to be in a given time, Ben was still tack-sharp and had not let the recklesses and stupidities enter his mind. This rabbit was wise to keep his hypothetical socks dry, even though rabbits don’t know what socks are.

As the river adolescently gushed forth, leaves and clumps of their travelers would entice, looking for the further beyond where the fat grey-slippies did their underwater crackling belches. Only this time, they sounded like they were friendlier and happier. No bile-drops would be seen here. Ben always dreamt of the faraway vast blue. No standing belchbearbeasts to interrupt a post-gorge slumber.

Ben would need to summon a large dog with his magic tin whistle. Carved from the tooth of an indebted cat who had overindulged in hanging-sweeties, Ben had procured from an exchange in which dulcet music was played into the cat’s ears to cure the feeling of skin sadness.

As the ear-colours emanated from this beautiful piece, a sense of surrounding lay interrupted by the thumping on all fours. The smell had changed. The music too. The rapulent fluttock slapping cheeks, flapping and clatting in unison and speed. This was louder than a bearbelch. This was closer. This was pungent. Besshield had arrived. Ben was in his element of delight.