It had been dreary morning of endless visitors. The food cupboards were empty, the grog had boiled over and the rain had put out Flopbottom's fireside four times in row. Finally he had thrown up his hands in a fit of marshwiggle frustration and chased away his annoying relative visitors, who only wanted to bemoan his lack hospitality. He hated feeling frustrated. And he was always frustrated.
Running slimy fingers through his tangled, matted, dread locks, Flopbottom grunted in despair as his hand tangled in the mess. Stumbling about in frantic frustration he tried to pull his fingers loose, managed to kick the boiled over pot in the process. That only injured his foot, which sent him howling to ground. The normally gloomy existence of his day was beginning to turn very bleak indeed.
Deciding with forthright determination that he would just leave this place to rot, he pushed himself to his feet, hand finally free and began walking away from his wigwam.
Better to leave the chaos behind, and start a fresh then bring the chaos to rights, he figured, believing this thought to be wise and actually took pride in it for a brief moment. It took to much time, he would probably just make the chaos worse anyway. Running away sounded fun, even if it was only just several hundred yards from his village.
For that was as far as he got, as he realized how foolhardy and even worse it would be to wander out on the Marshwiggle plains alone, without his tinderbox, eel soap and fishing poles. His stomach grumbled at the idea. And just as he thought of these sad realities, thunder rumbled in the clouds above him and drop of rain splattered on his cheek.
With the deep sigh and slumped shoulders he turned around staring glumly back towards the pointed tops of his village.
Than he heard a familiar voice speaking in a low tone somewhere close.
"Whole worm hole...hehe..."
He turned around, searching, as saw a soft pointed hat poking from the reeds of a nearby pond. Recognizing Mumbletongue, his cousin, twice removed on his father's side, fishing pole in hand, brought dry smile to the grumpy marshwiggle's face.
It would be nice to talk to someone.
Feet slapping through the wet reeds, as the rain trickled in a drizzle, Flapbottom joined Mumbletongue, and sat down quietly beside him.
"Dreary afternoon," he greeted, cheerlessly.
