My lord,
On this dark and sunless day, I have endeavoured to win the infidel’s trust. I have ventured deep into his dark habitat, and I have tasted of the wretched refuse he draws his sustenance from. Take heed, kind sir! Lest you wish your childlike innocence wrested from you, read no further! This way lies an examination into the darkest, deepest recesses of human debauchery and depravity. Let the meek go no further.
The dread was such that even now, sitting safely in the comfort of my island sanctuary, the ordeal long past, I still shudder at the thought of it. Six horrific inches of white bread, into which was stuffed the charbroiled breast of a chicken, coated in an assortment of hideously coloured viscous substances which emanated the distinct, sickly sweet odour of moral decay. Slivered corpses of cabbage and onion, lying there flat and soaking in the stinking, oozing mess of Mammon’s meat and flavor-fluids. Just the smell of it would have been enough to overpower me under normal circumstances, but my all-important role in this, the Holiest of Wars, steeled my resolve beyond that of my mortal ken, and with Herculean courage I sank my teeth into the thick, yielding bread.
Wearing a spurious mask of contentment upon my visage so as to not alert the mindless drones furiously masticating in my presence, I inwardly winced as my taste buds came into contact with this diabolic sandwich, this abomination from Below. Tentatively tearing strips from the thing, as an animal of the Wyld might gorge upon the innards of its prey, I felt the heavy lust of sin and corruption take hold of me. My resolve was slipping; my mask was, little by little, becoming real. And that, dear reader, was when it happened.
The bread, this Mephistophilean aberration, took on a life of its own, deciding, for whatever reason its loathsome intelligence would allow it, to attach itself to the upper portion of my mouth. There it sat, suctioned to my palate, gloating and quivering, rapidly devolving back into the mutant rubber paste it had doubtless congealed from originally. In a desperate bid to save my sanity I was forced to peel it with my finger from the roof of my mouth, from whence it flopped lifelessly onto my tongue, skidded an inch down, then made a dive for freedom, ending its existence on the tabletop with a thick, resounding plop that brought my gallant struggle to the attention of the drones populating the nearby tables. Had I not made that heroic dash for the door in the next instant, I have absolutely no doubt that I would not be sitting here by the fireplace at this moment, putting ink to paper, relating this story to you. I have no desire to ever venture into the belly of the Beast again. My failure in this is implicit, and for that I beg your forgiveness. I can only implore you: let it never be said that Don Fnoonfo did not attempt to do his part. It is my sincere hope, at least, that I have failed with honour.
Humbly, I remain
Don Fnoonfo de Alcabab