once a ponce a time...
the riders crested the hill. the scene in the little valley below confirmed what their noses had been hinting at for a while now. 'tis a bloody day's work, havalad', said the leader. 'indeed it is, ponce-a-lot.' 'ain't seed nuffin like this in years, sire.' a bundle of rags on two legs spoke. the two mounted men looked down at it - or rather, him, because the unfortunate creature was (more or less) human - with expressions of sheer disgust. 'shut up, baldrick. be quiet while your betters speak.' 'yes do put a plug in it you oaf, some of us are trying to think out here!' more tryin' than thinkin', thought the figure. but he didn't say anything out loud. baldrick nobbsson had spent 11 years as squire and occasional salami (a kind of large sausage, best enjoyed in thin slivers between two slices of white bread) for sirs ponce-a-lot and havalad and he knew when to keep his mouth shut. and when, indeed, to keep it open. his mast