From: Snowcat To: TLK-L Subject: Evening Falls (a short interlude) Date: Friday, May 23, 1997 1:14 AM Also available in EBCDIC for your convenience. @ **!! Attention: this message has been rated with !!** **!! TLK-L Message Content Master V 1.01 !!** ### Statistics for this message MCM RATING: F+ A+ R-- C E+ ### End statistics Ledgend: (scale ranges from -- to ++) R = Relevant/Spam ratio E = Entertainment value C = Content/Noise ratio A = Attaboy level F = Fanfic content (includes poetry) Evening Falls - A Snapshot -------------------------- Evening falls at the First Church Winnipeg Head Office. The setting sun pours a warm ruby glow through the Gothic arch of the southern rectory window. A statuette of St. Timon stands on the sill, casting a long, ghoulish shadow across the floor. Though the pewter likeness is only a diminutive seven inches in height, the inky caricature on the floor just touches the eastward wall of this cozy chamber. St. Timon wears a benign expression that belies the ominous spectre he projects on the floor. The little statue bends very slightly forward at the waist, subserviently proffering a platter of sumptuous grubs in one hand to the unseen, sacred presence of The Simba. The figurine is a very friendly little icon; one of my favourites. I am told that it was hand crafted by one of our early temple artisans. His detailing is exquisite, lending one the feeling that this piece was a labour of love, likely taking years to craft. The Grand Pumbaa is snuggled down in his comfy chair below the window, making little contented sounds as he cuddles his favourite Nala plushie to his chest and clutches a glass of the sacred Glenlivet in the other hand. But for his outstretched legs and feet resting on the cool radiator, The Grand Pumbaa is all but invisible behind the wings of the large chair. As his assistant, it's my job now to make sure that he doesn't see the bottom of his glass for the rest of the evening. I am ostensibly transcribing his latest sermon into intelligible english, but while he's occupied with his own thoughts, I feel justified in taking a short break of my own. The evening is comparatively quiet after the usual frantic bustle of the day. The room is silent save for the occasional buzz and pop from the bug zapper outside the window, the little mewlings and slurpings coming from his Pumbaaness, the staccato tick of Our Lady Nala's tail-pendulum as it swings back and forth on the quartz wall clock, and the rhythmic chanting and self-flagellation of the faithful down the hall. The day hinted early that it would be cool, but the afternoon sun beating through the window turned the room quite damp and sultry for the evening. His Pumbaness had the air conditioner on earlier, but it was sucking in noxious fumes from the animal rendering plant down the road so he shut it off. Ah, excuse me while I refill my sacramental wine chalice. I hope you'll think no less of me to learn that I am secretly drinking water out of the sacred cup this evening. Certainly historical precedence proves that I am not adverse to partaking of the temple's fruit of the vine, but I confess that my head still troubles me from to yesterday's religious celebration. I believe I am not alone in my discomfort - I suspect that yesterday's fete plays a considerable role in the subdued atmosphere around the temple at this moment. Also, I admit that in this mugginess, water is more refreshing. Besides, the current batch of sacramental wine is almost a week past its vintage freshness date, and The Grand Pumbaa - thrifty leader that he is - has ordained that he won't authorize a fresh keg until the present one is empty. I fear that my conscience will not allow me to entirely ignore the sermon notes before me. They are surprisingly coherent, though I can see at first scan that I will have to paraphrase some portions for The Grand One. His sermon centres around Mufasa presenting the Pride Lands to young Simba, and telling the cub that someday he will inherit all that the light touches. As usual, it is a good sermon - or it WILL be after I am done with it. I hope that you don't think me egotistical in attitude, or feel that I am a lowly assistant overstepping my rank by such remarks. I simply believe that I, as the personal assistant and scribe to The Grand Pumbaa, have the clearest insight into the workings of his well-meaning, if slightly addled mind. Even at my comparatively advanced age, I can still remember being one of the bright-eyed little cubs standing at the edge of the promontory of life, where the world was promised to us. We were shown a beautiful, magical place and told that some day it would all be ours to do with as we chose. I remember feeling tiny, and awed, and excited. I couldn't *imagine* what I would do with such an extraordinary world. Ah yes - it's a good sermon because it brings back some very pleasant memories to this scribe. It reminds me of those days when the future was a marvelous puzzle to solve, and the world was colourful present, wrapped in the paper of delight. Well, sorry to burst your bubble, but the world we inherited turned out the be the f***ing elephant graveyard under all that wrapping - and God alone knows what we're going to leave behind for the rest of you! I think I *will* have some of that wine now. Then if you'll pardon me, I had better get to work on transcribing these sermon notes. Snowcat (http://www.icenter.net/~simba) TLK++++ A+>+++ C-/+++>++++ L+>+++ M-- Pna++++ W++$>++++ S++ !T RLTI>HM a+ cfan++>++++$ e+>++ h--/+ iwt+++>++++ pc++ sm# Beer - it's not just for breakfast anymore