HB3

Borrid perched on a pancake, slurping a pint of pondwater through a curly straw.

His cousin Torrid bunjee-jumped through the skylight and gathered moss from the nearby stones on the windowledge.

Horrid proffered the pondwater pensively.

"Horrid!" said Torrid, upon which he double-backflipped across the mountain of towels, tipped over the pint of putrid pondwater and declared himself to be the trueborn heir to the throne of Westeros.

"I'm feeling a bit cold," said Horrid.

"Trust none!" said Torrid. "Lest you suffer the unholy wrath of our ancestors!"

"I'm changing the locks," said Horrid.

[ end of HB3 ]