Deuxiemer Episode (is that right?)


"Well I think its got to be at least 14 quinpillion volts, I should know I saw the delivery truck." squaked Pheasant, gently sipping vodka from his Evian bottle.

"What do you mean you saw the delivery truck, that battery was already here when we arrived." shouted Peacock from over near the perimeter fence. He was torn between listening to the distinctive hum of the protective barrier and keeping an eye on how much vodka Pheasant was getting through. The canny blue bird wasn't fooled by the Evian label, he could smell Smirnoff Blue a mile away.


In order to prove his point Pheasant took up his favourite position in the yard, between the battery terminals. The farmer had seen the antics caused by the PP3 variety which powered the old fence. He'd spent a whole day chasing round his farm after the darn animals trying to measure them so he could get a battery with enough distance between the deadly contacts so that none of them could harm themselves.

In his perpetual drunken stupor the Pheasant, considered himself to be far supieror in not only looks but also intellect to anyone he'd ever met, including the fox which occasionally prowled around on the far side of the 6 foot deep electrified ditch. When the farmer had been on his measuring mission Pheasant had hunched himself up. This allowed him to mount the battery and achieve a rather pleasing but strange sensation by placing himself across the terminals, just short of his nose and tail feather.


The others watched from afar as the Pheasant twitched violently, and fell down the side of the battery into the moat inches from the thick power cables, proving that the voltage could indeed be 14 quinpillion volts.

They had far more important things to think about. It was their collective cunning which came up with the idea to disguise the cow as a camel so that he could avoid a certain hot and spicy death in the forthcoming toe and lip cullings. They considered the Pheasant's demise well overdue as he was far too pickled for human consumption.

It had escaped them all that the farmer might twig that his prized milker had been turned overnight into a brown, humped, desert dwelling creature. They persevered, nonetheless and were very proud the following dawn when the farmer emerged sleepy eyed, scratching his balding head, muttering to himself "Where did that pesky cow get to?"

It really made him scratch his brow, however, when he spied across the muddy courtyard in front of the medieval farmhouse, a 4 foot tall camel with horns. He thought he'd been dreaming and immediately went back to bed. Cow has escaped a grim and early death, or has he? Someone will get round to telling you sometime next year I speck...