On a high hill it stands, dark, mysterious, moody, brooding, frowning down on the tiny village like some loathsome spider squatting in the darkness, eager for prey. Legend says that no man who goes in to that dread structure comes out again. Except on Tuesday night for takeaway; rumour has it the cook is an ex-employee of MacDonalds.
Batlord Castle. The very name inspires fear and dread.
The halls of the mighty edifice shake to his thunderous voice as he stamps along the passageways, rats scurrying to clear his path lest they be stepped on, for verily tis said he is in the mightiest of snits.
"Who's been borrowing my
Super Spiderman comics?" he roars, face purple with rage. "They haven't been putting them back in order! I have a ****ing system you bastards!"
Loath to approach the mighty Batlord in one of his rages, a servant nevertheless gasps when she sees the famed Valerian sword from
Game of Thrones.
"My Lord!" shrieks she. "You hath removed yon mighty sword from its original packaging! Tis no longer in the condition which they call mint!"
Batlord's eyes narrow for a second, then his face pales, the anger draining from it, to be replaced by dismay.
"My Ebay listings!" he cries, and vanishes down the corridor.