The Teal Wombat

To cut a long story short, Mr. Wombat was a carpenter, known as a reflective and dignified marsupial.

Being in his prime, he lived working quietly biding his time in the hope to become a part of counterculture someday. He seemed to be so mediocre — nothing extraordinary, except the teal colour of his skin.

Either way, that night Mr. Wombat was having a breather after feeling jaded working the whole day. He tried to get comfortable on the yoga mat deciding how is better to dispose his tail: crosswise or alongside the mat.

At this very moment a giant Mr. Pterodactyl drove down on Mr. Wombat and took him away.

All Mr. Wombat`s after-work grogginess suddenly slid away, therefore he felt pretty alert. Wombat took a second or two to analyze his position in the pounces of Mr. Pterodactyl and started screaming.

“This is way too loud, gets my back up. Seems like I got off on the wrong foot with this creature”, — Mr. Pterodactyl thought.

— You`re getting me goat, — Mr. Pterodactyl said, — stop yelling.

— Sorry, I`ve lost it.

— Just take it lying down.

— Where are you taking me to? — asked Wombat.

— To erupting Eyjafjalla, of course, gonna let you float freely somewhere above it. Hope you will perish in a watchable colorful way.

— I despise it with a passion. What are you, a triggerman?

— No, just an event manager. The party agenda requires a teal wombat burning in a volcanic vent. Recent fads, you know.

— Can I pass on it?

— No. Just take it easy.

— Let`s clear the air: do I have a chance to cajole you into keeping my life, letting me get away, blow over, and — who knows — become a centenarian?

— I would mull over accommodating your needs if I wasn`t pressed for time. So throw in the towel.

— Fair enough, who`s the customer, by the way?

— The Royal Bank of Knickers Inside Out.

— I might have known. What king of corporate event — is it the team building games?

Talking this way, they arrived to the Eyjafjalla. It was cold and calm, no signs of eruption. The guests were turning back and leaving, disappointed.

Mr. Pterodactyl went ballistic:

— What the hell? Shouldn`t it be erupting festively?

The plate on the volcano stated the following:

“Eruption works 9 a. m. — 4:45 p. m.

The lunch hour is from 12 p. m. to 1 p. m.”

— Oh no! — Mr. Pterodactyl said — It`s already out of service for today!

— Let`s face up to the inevitable. The volcano always goes by the book.

So Wombat went his own way, and so did Pterodactyl.

Pterodactyl didn`t get his revenue and Wombat switched off as he wanted.

That was before Mr. Wombat converted to Rerikhism and Mr. Pterodactyl inherited the helm of the Sex Workers’ Rights Movement.

And they both were found by archaeologists million years hence.

Once in a blue moon anything can happen.

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