The Tale
(Before I begin the old story, I must warn you that it makes no sense and in some places is immensely boring. If you want to waste the best part of your day then by all means, read on, like so.)
Many years ago and far away, o my bretheren, o my kin, there was not a thing in the Whole of the World that was not looked after and cared for by the Purple Chicken. There could only ever be one Purple Chicken, for when the old one died it would lay one small, speckled egg out of which would hatch the new Purple Chicken. So the World was and so it seemed it always would be.
(here it might be helpful to point out that the World we are speaking of is not the world with a small w that we live on now.)
On this World were cheesecake trees in abundance that offered shade from the glaring Saimese twin suns that in normal curcumstances would have burninated everything on the whole small planet. These trees, the proud race of Llamas and the green rocks that lay on the white sand were always under the Purple Chicken's watchful, caring eye.
But one day Disater struck, as it often does with these stories.
A group of three young winged Llamas were poking the Purple Chicken egg, stupidly thinking that it might help it hatch quicker. They found that it did not, but instead of leavig the egg alone like good sensible winged Llamas, they decided that if a big number of Llamas poked the egg then that might work better than just three. So they rounded up all the Llamas they could find, which was nearly the whole population, and convinced them to poke the egg. Yes, they were stupid. I know.
Then a small crack appeared in the speckled shell. And another... The poking of the egg stopped immediately. A small hiss of steam escaped the break in the egg. And out of the shell exploded-
-A red chicken.
Such a terrifying creature no Llama had seen before. It was flame red with cold, hard, black eyes and a beak of orange cruelty which it opened wide, drawing itself up like a snake about to strike. Burning fire gushed from its beak, fanning over the whole crowd of Llamas assembled. Of course, their fragile wings were burninated insantaneously, right to the core. And so all The Llamas lost their wings forever. Sob sob.
Did I say all? I meant nearly all, for there was one Llama who did not join in with the egg- poking. His name was Bernad, and he had been much more interested in a cow that was standing at the foot of his favourite cheesecake tree, eating the parsnips that occasionally fell out of it with high-pitched squeals. It was in fact the only cow in the World, but how it came to be there is a different story. The point is that because Bernad refrained from poking an egg he still had his sweet little white wings, as you will have seen on the homepage.
As can only be expected Bernard soon heard of the terrible tradgedy that had struck the race of Llama, and, being a Llama and therefore being proud, vowed to avenge the insult to his tribe. So he went up to the Montorous Red Chicken and spat parsnips at it until it dissapitated into a smokey ash that became the first polluted raincloud. To this day a Llama will spit as a sign of contempt.
And so all was well in the World again, but no Llama has ever had wings ever again.
(Bernad is still alive and well and will be noticing his 300697th birthday in two weeks.)
