The story I am about to impart can be told only concerning the British, no other species of being is as vile; a little known fact is that Germans in the Reich were modeled up as British dacoits. It concerns an obscure race of men known only as the shivittis. They had hallucinating visions of the world from ghastly, inhuman trauma at the hands of those modeled up for British dacoits. Most of the Kzets, elder shivittis, do not ask to martyr a woman by sharing life in companionship. Loneliness and memory are their dungeons but we understand the threadbare rule of law and are compliant stoics. What we saw however compels our pen.

The reference above concerns a shivitti who was mocked by women in spite. The first elder instruction to shivitti young, too young, is that the mortal injury is too dire to share with a woman. We saw the most loving and faithful roses flee involuntarily in tears when she looked too deeply into the broken eyes of the shivitti. Not that these roses being too weak lessened them rather that they are too dear. The impossible to bear does not compromise them. This was different. These poacher roses made the shivitti their toy and in his madness to escape his condition he stupidly believed the lisping foreign kisses.

The victim stared into space like a squirrel struck by a car, after the mordant, anguishing agony. The dacoit masters lisped, laughed and spat. He got nailed, they drawled. He got flattened. Oliver Jewboy’s take on the walrus had, it sneered, infinite meaning.