Sir Broderick and Biscuit Pisser soon found themselves sharing a psychologically uncomfortable carriage ride with Limpy George. It is important to stipulate it was psychologically uncomfortable because physiologically it was incredible comfortable. The seats they sat in massaged their shoulders and glutes at the same time, as if they were sitting on a bunch of well trained hands instead of cushions. The carriage had a delightful odor of blueberries and honey that even managed to drown out the rankness emanating from Trash Heap. They were served alcohol-infused cherries and a fine scotch to go with which even Sir Broderick found quite palatable.

The main reason it was so psychologically uncomfortable was because while they enjoyed these wonderful flourishes Limpy George was going on and on about his incredible life, something neither Sir Broderick nor Biscuit Pisser nor Trash Heap could empathize with.

It all began when Limpy George got out of halfway magickal boring school and immediately found himself falling into a timeshare scam by the way of a crafty wizard. While Limpy George could not remember exactly why he thought signing in to ownership of the timeshare was a hood idea what he did remember was that the wizard left in a clause of the timeshare contract that, were they ever to die, the timeshare would be liquidated and all its earnings be dispersed in a lump sum to all signed co-owners.

After remembering that fact, Limpy George did indeed remember why he thought the timeshare was a hood idea, and that was because this wizard was, as most wizards were, incredibly old, almost feverishly so. What Limpy George had failed to realize was that this particular wizard had long ago developed a method for functional immortality wherein they would simply, after reaching a near senile age, seal themselves in a large chrysalis-like structure hanging from a tree on their property and then in two weeks emerge out of it at in their early twenties, though they would also grow vestigial butterfly wings that would need to be removed. On learning this, and seeing the wizard hang himself in such a chrysalis-like structure only a week after learning it, Limpy George threw a huge tantrum and ran around the timeshare property, banging pots and pans and screeching at the top of his lungs. When he was well exhausted, Limpy George simply fell asleep while smoking a cigarette.

On awaking, Limpy George found the entire timeshare burnt down, as well as the ashes of the chrysalis. Having conquered the scheme and immortality itself it seemed from his own immaturity and lack of common sense, Limpy George quickly found himself dispersed a nonpaltry sum of over thirty four million chickensfeed. Apparently most of the other co-owners of the timeshare were not only staying there for the night when it burned down, but did not have any heirs with which to claim their earnings. Thus, Limpy George went from lower-poor to lower-rich.

Limpy George had seen the world. He’d been to outer Caldonia where scientists do research on all creatures from birds to bugs to even the odd human or two. He had traveled to the faraway nation of Orwellia, which all Caldonians hated for its ideological differences to their own country, though Limpy George assured Sir Broderick and Biscuit Pisser that truthfully Orwellia was not too much different from Caldonia, and that there were actually some nice perks of being in a surveillance state.

Limpy George wrapped his tale up by showing an absolutely seething Sir Broderick his twenty foot long rap sheet, which included crimes so absurdly heinous that it would raise the bile in anyone’s throat alone before even realizing the fact that they were all, without fail, expunged and dismissed one after the other. This was because any time the Court of Law convened to try Limpy George, he would simply hire a large cluster of skilled barbarians to come into the courtroom and slaughter everyone there. Yes, Limpy George was surely living the life.

All that said, Limpy George relented, offering to allow Sir Broderick and Biscuit Pisser to tell him of their doubtlessly intriguing lives as middle-poor. However, just as soon as he offered this he also made the realization that they had arrived at their destination, which appeared to be a humongous, multistory, co-op style castle.

Many times in attempting to enter this were Sir Broderick and Biscuit Pisser accosted and teased for looking too poor and smelling too awful, but Limpy George waved all these detractors, whether they be wealthy Barons or snobbish doormen away with one flick of his rich person card and a smug eyebrow raise. They rode up a magickal fantasy elevator, which played sultry jazz tunes and offered them complementary cigars, whiskey and velour robes, all of which Sir Broderick and Biscuit Pisser accepted, much to Limpy George’s amusement. Finally, they arrived at the shimmering platinum door of whoever’s penthouse they were arriving at. Limpy George assured them they were some, as he said, ‘cool catth.’

Limpy George kicked the door right open without so much as knocking and screamed,

“Poker night, baybay!!”

Sir Broderick and Biscuit Pisser were absolutely shocked at the sight of the penthouse. It was covered head to toe in stacks of books, clothes, textiles, sextiles, and literal piles of jewels to the point of being ridiculous. Walking into the front room was like stepping into a labrynth made out of expensive yet unused junk, half of which looked like it belonged in a museum and the other half which looked like it belonged in a dump.

“Limpy George, you’re late as shit!” shouted a voice from beyond piles and piles of expensive crap.

“That’s just how I like it!”

“Well neither of us do!” shouted another voice.

Limpy George led that way through the dimly lit maze of crap, eventually taking Sir Broderick and Biscuit Pisser to what looked to be the living room, where there sat at a glass card table in well-upholstered armchairs two well-fed rich folk in immaculate t-shirts, one of whom was smoking a cigarette in a bedazzled holder and the other of whom was using a thousand chickensfeed bill to snort some crystalline white powder up his nose.

Limpy George immediately threw off his suit to reveal a similarly immaculate t-shirt underneath and tossed his suit into a pile of similarly expensive looking suits that was near burying one of the velvet chez lounges in the room.

“Boy, look at these two,” chuckled the fellow with the cigarette, “All decked out in robes and shit. Fancy mothercluckers, no doubt.”

Everyone cackled at that. Sir Broderick and Biscuit Pisser found themselves feeling incredibly indignant.

“Okay, I’ve got a question,” rasped Sir Broderick as he downed a flask, “How come none of you are talking with that obnoxious rich person accent?”

They all cackled again.

“It was a serious question!”

Cackling.

“Look, I’m sorry, thith is my fault, I thould introduce you,” started Limpy George, “Thethe guyth here used to be poor too, like me, that’th why we get on so well.”

“That makes sense.”

Limpy George pointed to his cigarette-smoking pal, “This here’th Lying Lenny. He alwayth tellth the truth, but nobody believeth him.”

Sir Broderick immediately felt compelled to spend ten minutes introducing himself to Lying Lenny, which was the custom in Caldonia, but Limpy George simply waved a finger, as it was not how the lower-rich did things. They had no need for pleasantries, and if they did, they paid for someone else to deal with them. So Sir Broderick sat down on an incredibly comfortable armchair at the card table, smoked his complementary cigar, sipped his complementary whiskey though all he actually wanted to do was chug it, and let Limpy George continue. Biscuit Pisser did the same.

Limpy George pointed to his currently sniveling other friend, “And thith is Jerry, who hath evaded a nickname for thome reason. He lieth pretty much every time he openth his mouth, but everbody believeth him anywayth.”

Jerry snickered and took a sip of an undisclosed yellow liquid that seemed to ease the wrinkles in his face and loosen his eyes so that they were, in one word, mellowed.

“And these two guyth are thome very old friends of mine, way back when I was young and poor. You can call thith jerk Thitface, and he might always be thitfaced but that’th not even why we call him that, it’th actually becauthe all the kidth uthed to take him to the outhouthe, pick him up and wipe hith face in thit.”

“Well,” gargled Sir Broderick as he finished off his whiskey in one swig, “Thank you for airing that out for everyone, Limpy George.”

“No problem. And thith guy, whoo you’re gonna love him, thith guy ith Bithcuit Pithther. Wanna know why they call him Bithcuit Pithther?”

“No,” snorted Lying Lenny.

“Well since you thaid tho, Lying Lenny, I’ll be happy to tell you. It’th becauthe there wath thith one day, after wrethling clathth, when he and hood old Thitface got into a bit of a tiff, and that jutht tho happened to be the day that Thitface’s mother had made him a bithcuit for lunch, and old Bithcuit Pithther got tho mad that he took Thitface’th biscuit and, well…you can guethth the retht.”

“It was actually much worse than that, and far more embarassing” Sir Broderick whispered under his breath, before turning to see Biscuit Pisser red as a lobster set on fire and smoking his cigar so fast that in a matter of moments it had gone from almost full to almost fully ash, with only but a stump left to smoke. “Hey, Biscuit Pisser, don’t let it get to you. Seriously Remember, we’ve got to get that four hundred ninety nine chickensfeed. Trust me, I know what I’m doing buddy.”