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The
Och
Cult |
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The rain fell heavily
and the wind howled through my raincoat as I settled down on my park bench
for the night.
'You're in an awful
state' said Basil, my trusty parrot. 'Sometimes I am embarrassed to
be seen out with you.'
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'But Basil,'
I said, my speech badly slurred through having drunk too much methylated
spirits, 'Ye be a lovely example of parrot hood and I am right proud of
you.'
'Well, you're in an awful state, awful state,' replied Basil.
I pulled a copy of the Sunday Post over my head, covering my hair which hadn't
seen a drop of shampoo in many a month.
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Basil
tucked his head under his wing, and I could hear him crying himself to sleep.
It was a piteous sound, and I felt a pang of guilt. I took another swig of
meths and fell into a drunken sleep.
I was awoken abruptly by Basil biting my ear. I'd trained him as a guard
parrot, and every time he sensed fear he would waken me.
'Look out, look out,'
he half whispered and half squawked.
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I
sat upright, and reached for my carrier bags, which contained my whole life.
'What be going on?' I asked Basil. He didn't reply, instead he nodded his
head towards a figure standing beside my park bench. The figure
spoke.
Click
here for more of my tragic
tale. |
Click
here for pictures of me being prepared for the sacrifice |
Click here for the Och Cult
Dance |
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