Z: Even in your bog far, far away?! In such an excellently protected oasis of safety?
M: Yes, the bog is on my side, the only one creature I really trust... But some flies around me look really suspicious... As well as fried eggs...
Z: Do not care about the buzzing little spies. But the red flower winking at me last time I visited one of the meadows held a certain eerie air...
M: "Air"? Did you smell something? Something unusual? Like a smell of poitin? Hm, poitin is usual... I mean sometimes when nothern wind is blowing it brings that scent. Like something in the air... My neighbours distill magic stuff. It makes me feel a bit uncertain... uneasy and gay... Do you remember the wind? Did the wind blow that day when flowers were winking?
Z: How come you did not warn me beforehands? You know that I’m a non-drinker and therefore over-sensitive at poitin-and-whatever-other-magical-stuff fumes! Was it an assasination attempt? No wonder that things got mixed up in my head... Red flowers... Red laser beams pointed at my window... Reds polluting peaceful forums... Red-letter days... Better give me a fair warning next time or else you risk I’ll start to see red and who knows what terrible consequences it may have.
M: Do not lose your head!!! Look, on the one hand I'm used to it, I just don't give a fuck about a strange violet smell or talkative squirells with circular saws... On the other hand, what do you expect from the bog? Fumes are natural, especially for live bog! It breathes and, sorry, farts... Don't be a paranoic! No attempts! I always fulfill my plans. Fruitless attempts are not in my repertory!
Z: Okay, okay. Winking flowers have a certain charm after all. Just like rainworms singing merry tunes and roots of trees playing chess. But next time I come to enjoy the hospitality of your bog, I will better take a gas mask with me. One never knows when it might come handy... At least for fending off circular-saws-armed squirrels who went mad after inhaling too much intoxicating bog breaths. How many reported victims so far, by the way?
M: I have to check my rifle. Usually I make notches. If I'm not absolutely out of it... But actually it does not influence the result much, as being out of it I can't shot properly... and wounded bastards escape to neighbours' lands. And I have an agreement with nieghbours, the bastards are theirs as soon as they cross the border.
Z: Hmm, I remember you saying you lost your rifle... Or was it only a bog-air-induced dream? Or your propaganda aimed at luring me into the precarious, I mean hilarious place? No, better no more questions, or paranoia would settle in again.
M: Yes, you are right, to my big regret. I have looked behind the door, no signs of my good oul weapon. I hope it was found (looks like THAT was my bog-air-induced dream)... Have to think about getting new one. The time has come. Or at least about taking away squirell's saw...
***
Z: The Bog is an outstanding realm. Strange violet smell... Winking red flowers... Circular-saw-armed squirrels... Flies cooking the most delicious fried eggs... Once I met an earthworm who could play a symphony no renowned orchestra would manage, but unfortunately I scared the poor creature off by asking it to strike up a merry gig instead. Since then, I must satisfy my lust for art by discussing old-English poetry with that strikingly wise stone set in the side wall of the wine cellar. To cut a long story short – it's a place you don't see every day.
M: I should test that stone, I'm not sure he's good with Chaucer..
Z: He knows Beowulf by heart. We have not progressed to Chaucer yet.
M: Aha!!!! So it was him who stole my book! OK....
Z: No!!! He is no thief!!! Blame those crazy frogs - I think I heard one of them mumbling something about brave knights and evil beasts.
M: Those sweet sugar frogs? Hmm, I wonder why they have dissolved.
Z: They dissolved?? Oh no!!! They looked so thirsty, you know, opening their tiny mouths, gulping for air, I simply had to water them...
M: I see... so they went underbog too.
Z: Perhaps their ghosts are riding the drowned chariots in the dead of the night...
M: Oops! The source of that strange yellow sound is finally found!!!!!
Z: Violet smell... Yellow sound... And what about that turqouise taste which sometimes attacks when one is taking a pleasant stroll round the bog?
M: Blame turtles!!!!!
Z: Six-foot tall turtles?
M: Six-foot wide turtles!
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