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<blockquote data-quote="BoldItalic" data-source="post: 7308441" data-attributes="member: 6777052"><p>"Uhm........ ", began Od, "have you by any chance got the locale on your till set to European? With a comma for the decimal point? Can you give change for 11GP ?"</p><p></p><p>Char-Ging (for it was, indeed, she, doomed to reside in hell for all eternity because she wasn't a very nice person) looked confused, then relieved. "What a clever boy you are, I never could understand the user manual for this thing. It's three million pages in every known language before you even get to the ON switch, which is the one labelled OFF and marked with a death's head. Do you know who writes these things? They must have evil, twisted minds, mustn't they?"</p><p></p><p>"Whoever it is, there should be a special place reserved for them," agreed Od sympathetically. He felt strangely drawn to this woman, which was quite surprising. Could this really be the infamous Char-Ging of the bardic tales? She hadn't mentioned tax at all. At least, not yet.</p><p></p><p>To Od's surprise, a tear ran down Char-Ging's cheek. "I'm sorry," she sobbed, "You see, there are no taxes here in hell. What would be the point? If souls refused to pay, what could I do to punish them that was worse than already being in eternal torment? I miss it all so terribly!"</p><p></p><p>Od patted her gently on the arm and offered her a copper piece. "Football tax?" he suggested. But she only sobbed even louder at the suggestion, well-meant though it was. "Just take your footballs and tell Snappy that that's the last. I'm out of stock. It will have to be golf clubs next time."</p><p></p><p>On the way back to the river, they passed an abbey where an army of scribes, who had been sent to hell for abusing apostrophes, were busy scribing enormous books. The abbot (who had committed six of the seven deadly sins in his lifetime) proudly (oops, there goes the other one) showed Herewulf and his companions what they were doing. They were up to Vol. MMDXIV of the user manual for a self-assembly flat pack teaspoon.</p><p></p><p>"Those quill pens they are using," asked Od innocently, "do they come with instructions?"</p><p></p><p>The abbot blanched, reddened, and blanched again, horror-struck. "Lads," he shouted across the scritchy-scratchy noise of thousands of quill pens on parchment, "there's a change of plan!"</p><p></p><p>"I think we had better leave quickly," suggested Nord.</p><p></p><p>So they did.</p><p></p><p>When they got back to the river beside the piles of Styx, the crocodiles were nowhere to be seen. They waded across the river which forgot to flow so they didn't get wet, and reached the other bank. "What shall we do with the footballs?" wondered Od. No one had a good solution, so they kicked the problem into the long grass and carried on.</p><p></p><p>As the wooden castle came in sight over a rise, something very odd happened ...</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="BoldItalic, post: 7308441, member: 6777052"] "Uhm........ ", began Od, "have you by any chance got the locale on your till set to European? With a comma for the decimal point? Can you give change for 11GP ?" Char-Ging (for it was, indeed, she, doomed to reside in hell for all eternity because she wasn't a very nice person) looked confused, then relieved. "What a clever boy you are, I never could understand the user manual for this thing. It's three million pages in every known language before you even get to the ON switch, which is the one labelled OFF and marked with a death's head. Do you know who writes these things? They must have evil, twisted minds, mustn't they?" "Whoever it is, there should be a special place reserved for them," agreed Od sympathetically. He felt strangely drawn to this woman, which was quite surprising. Could this really be the infamous Char-Ging of the bardic tales? She hadn't mentioned tax at all. At least, not yet. To Od's surprise, a tear ran down Char-Ging's cheek. "I'm sorry," she sobbed, "You see, there are no taxes here in hell. What would be the point? If souls refused to pay, what could I do to punish them that was worse than already being in eternal torment? I miss it all so terribly!" Od patted her gently on the arm and offered her a copper piece. "Football tax?" he suggested. But she only sobbed even louder at the suggestion, well-meant though it was. "Just take your footballs and tell Snappy that that's the last. I'm out of stock. It will have to be golf clubs next time." On the way back to the river, they passed an abbey where an army of scribes, who had been sent to hell for abusing apostrophes, were busy scribing enormous books. The abbot (who had committed six of the seven deadly sins in his lifetime) proudly (oops, there goes the other one) showed Herewulf and his companions what they were doing. They were up to Vol. MMDXIV of the user manual for a self-assembly flat pack teaspoon. "Those quill pens they are using," asked Od innocently, "do they come with instructions?" The abbot blanched, reddened, and blanched again, horror-struck. "Lads," he shouted across the scritchy-scratchy noise of thousands of quill pens on parchment, "there's a change of plan!" "I think we had better leave quickly," suggested Nord. So they did. When they got back to the river beside the piles of Styx, the crocodiles were nowhere to be seen. They waded across the river which forgot to flow so they didn't get wet, and reached the other bank. "What shall we do with the footballs?" wondered Od. No one had a good solution, so they kicked the problem into the long grass and carried on. As the wooden castle came in sight over a rise, something very odd happened ... [/QUOTE]
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