This article is part of the District Bulletin series.
Stop! The compulsion to read here Bulletin is most total.
You are urged-- and it is mandatory that you heed our urging-- not to ridicule your Superiors for what stuff you may read heredown. Most especially we compel you: make no laughs of Claude Fantsy, still your Head Better Superior despite it all, though he makes, in writing, Very Big Acknowledgement of being made a gull of once again by Dorroile, the implacable man-scandal, and he feels most very bad about it already.
Pain we do ourselves even when his name is wrote, but District public order compel that we do: Dorroile, the worst of our guys, has really done a big one this time, and most gingerly must we all avoid stepping in it.
The intent of Claude Fantsy was so noble in doing a thing that none can contempt it. Merely he wished to negotiate an end to the unstopping lawless cavorts of Dorroile, being as how Dorroile is smarter than all of us and squirms so cute and easy from the claw of justice all the time. And Dorroile, the worst man ever, has tricked Your Superiors, including quite primarily Claude Fantsy, so many times, that Claude Fantsy admits with much sheepness that he should definitely not have agreed to an unusual proposal brought forth by Dorroile himself.
For years Your Superiors have tried to capture Dorroile into justice, so when so agreeably skipped Dorroile himself into the Weep of Desperation, offering to face all justice owed him and more, we compel you to excuse it that Claude Fantsy was a little jollydoggie pee-peed at the notion. Mostly so because how the offer seemed quite good indeed: Dorroile would agree to be declared dead, so that logically he would be totally without ability to break laws, as the dead cannot. In exchange for his death in paper law, he asked only that his actual life itself be spared.
Hastily-- and we admit perhaps too hastily-- Claude Fantsy agreed to these terms, and Dorroile was made killed by the stroke of Claude Fantsy's pen. The two men shook hands, and we find it quite relevant in the matter to note that Dorroile's handshake was reported as limp, squishy and leaving a lasting physical unease, like in the touching of raw meats. And it was made a pact in law that Dorroile was dead now.
BUT HERE IS THE THING...
Dorroile, and our suspicions are engorged that perhaps it was his plan all along, leapt about a-dancing-and-whooping, declared him that now he was dead and Claude had done it, so if he died again-- a man cannot die again-- Claude still would have done it. And, in all laws how we figure them, technically he was a terrible sort of right.
And now, you may have seen how he does it: he courts death merrily on the street, hoping to die; and if he does do his death in some awful way, Claude Fantsy will be tethered as a murderer, hitched to life to the killer's pole, shamed in history, stripped of land and titles and even of his beloved fat idiot son.
So Dorroile frolics most gay into the traffic, crouching on avenues and popping up giggling before speeding District Transit Buses, for to make their drivers his murderer, who would by law be Claude Fantsy. Hop how he do over the fences of the Weep Zoo Child's Garden, straightforth into the lair of Hogue X, our bear, and he slaps and spits on it and taunts it with his dance, for if the bear were to maul him dead, the claws that done it would be on Claude Fantsy's paws by law. (We are lucky that Hogue X is exceedingly languid and gentlestupid even by the measure of bears).
Yet can he be arrested? No, because it would not do any good (he is dead).
When Your Superiors begged him to retract his death-- for only a dead man himself can come back alive-- he imposed horrible conditions upon it: that he would be immune for life from all justice; that his awful dance would be made compulsory; that Claude Fantsy's dinners would be carried to Claude Fantsy each night in the mouth of a dog; and more even worse. We are forced, with bile sucked barely back, to entertain all these negotiations, or his tantrums of suicide will resume in a blink and he'll be off at the Dome of Learning, giggling and slapping and tweaking the penis tip of Hairbank, the invincible barbarian child-eater who is our Superior for Education.
And so maybe we will have to give him what he asks, sorry as we might be to do that. But now, before it, until we find what we should do, please do not let Dorroile make you kill him; please try to save him at all times from being killed. We implore you to prevent his death however you may do.
This libtard terminator keeps asking for guns that don't exist and I may have to close early out of frustration.
Editor's Note: Due to a freak power outage, this obituary of Barbara Bush was written without the benefit of research. In order to pay our respects to this great woman in a timely fashion, we have decided to post this piece as-is. We hope you forgive any errors on our part.
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