Part II -- George the Lonely Sheep

George could smell the stench from a hundred hoof steps away. There was a bend in the trail, and the foliage was blossoming, but that scent was unmistakable. He didn't need to see it to know it was there, and as old George comes swaggering down the beaten trail after a hard and proud day of serving as a Sheep of the Peanut Gallery, he makes no mistake to inform the world that he did.

"Fucking shit stinks," shouts George as he side-steps a heaping pile of fresh, steaming manure. "Creator-damned heathens," he says. "Right in the middle of the path?!"

What a day for old George. The things he saw and heard today would keep the local gossip mill churning for weeks. He was the bearer of new news, and this made George feel significant. His perceived importance flooding his anxiety neurons so, that he tightens up and pinches a loaf himself, right there on the side of the path. Not in the middle of the path like those fucking heathens.

The things old George learned today! A whole group of young'ns that are just lazy, and disobedient. They don't even vote. What's this world coming to? George thought.

Off in the fog covered distance, a good two-hundred yards from his homey abode, can be seen the apocalyptic images of the Cliff Watchers. The Cliff Watchers are the Privileged Sheep who methodically monitor the seeming magnetic cliffs at the edge of the plain. It is there job to keep any foolish, bumbling sheep from falling off the edge... Good plain, thought George. Just too many damned Bumblers... And George is right. If it weren't for all of the Bumblers falling of the cliff, this would be a perfectly habitable plain. Damn Bumblers! If we sheep don't do our job, that young X could be the next to bumble...

Today George's arrival home is strangely met by thick wafts of fresh gruel, and the hushed bleats of his thirteen young'ns. A strange surprise for a sheep who expects a toneless chorus of inarticulate bleats, and the scents of only rot, and sewage. But today is different for old George. Today he is an important part of the system. Today is the first day of the rest of his life... Today as George walks through the threshold of his home, he doesn't have to shout to get his female to feed him. No. Today she was right there at the table with a huge pile of steaming gruel.

"So, how was your day, dear," says George's female. The gossip had run thin in their shrinking plain, and she just couldn't wait for some new topic to discuss with the other females. But who cares about her. This is George's chapter. And this is George's day. He was a proud Sheep of The Peanut Gallery, defending Sheepdom and promoting Democrism. She could go clean the manure that lay strewn about the trial at the edge of their abode for all George cared. He was going to plow down the steaming pile of gruel in front of him and settle in for an hour of relaxation. "So, how was your day, dear," she said again. But George just filled his snout and passed gas. "Did you see any Monkeys? I hear they're even shorter when you see them for real?" Did he SEE any Monkeys? Stupid female, he thought. He was within six hoof steps of about 9 Monkeys. That's right, George was important. Too damned important to answer this foolish females silly questions.

[ Prologue | Part I -- Pre-Trial Accusation | Part II -- George the Lonely Sheep ]

-- Dave