The Ant Returns - Chapter IV - Bienvenue à Pont Chandon (Longish...) (656 hits)
Category: NoneLabels: The_Ant
Rating: 1.73 on 20 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Jack McCallum (View user info) at 2005-02-02 15:24:09 EST
(Prologue - http://www.ubersite.com/m/57985)
(Chapter I - http://www.ubersite.com/m/58042)
(Chapter II - http://www.ubersite.com/m/58125)
(Chapter III - http://www.ubersite.com/m/58205)
=Le Deuxième Partie - Monsieur Courgette=
A day wasted on others is not wasted on one's self.
-Charles Dickens
=Chapter IV - Bienvenue à Pont Chandon=
Rob felt solid ground underfoot and his head rocked back, something hitting him with a terrific crunching blow and cutting off Schroedecker's tutorial.
The helmet eyepieces began fogging up, so he struggled to remove his headgear as his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness of an early morning.
There was a girl standing in front of him. She looked to be about twelve years old, her face pale with fright.
She was wearing a costume right out of the movies, but it was as real as the grime ground into the fabric of her long skirt, once-white apron and tiny coat, all of which had been mended many times over. Her dark hair was tucked up under a little wool hat. At her feet, which were covered in disintegrating leather wrappings that had to pass for boots, was a basket of eggs.
In one hand she held a gray rock the size of a baseball.
Rob took a step and stumbled over another similar rock at his feet. Christ, he thought, she beaned me!
He could understand every word the girl said. She was shouting the same thing over and over again. He replied, in English. He shook his head, trying to reply in French, but the words wouldn't come.
"Je suis... fuck," he said. He could hear, but he couldn't speak. So much for Schroedecker's tutorial.
The girl continued her cries, and as the words really sank in, he gave himself a good once-over.
"Le diable!" the girl screamed, and this time a distant answering shout was heard. She was frozen with fear, watching the monstrous, red-skinned, horned beast shamble toward her, speaking in a strange tongue. "Mère de Dieu! Au secours! Le diable est arrivé!"
Rob finally wrenched off the helmet and took a deep breath of unfiltered air. Wherever he was, it smelled wonderful!
He could smell a hundred different varieties of flower, and sharp apples, and sweet pears, and mouthwatering blueberries, strawberries, raspberries, blackberries, and a multitude of grapes. He took in the dry, hearty smell of wheat and the slightly plump, somehow fruitier smell of corn, and the warm, earthy smell of potatoes.
As he lowered his hands he heard a rattle, and was astounded to see that one side of the helmet had been caved in by the rock the girl had thrown. Jesus, he thought, she had one hell of an arm!
The girl paused, confused. Was this a trick? "C'est un masque?"
The devil shook his head and said "No. Cey neh pah une mask. Cey mon fass."
"Non," the girl whispered.
The devil looked as common as any man she had ever known, and he was somehow very familiar. His face was rugged, his hair long and unruly. She recognized a few of his words, but his accent was strange, unworldly.
"Non. C'est tout une deception diabolique."
There was another shout, and this voice she knew better than any other. Her brother Etienne was coming. The devil heard the shout as well, and when he turned, looking away from her, she threw her second rock, and struck his cursed head.
Rob heard a sound like Barry Bonds knocking one out of the park, and then the horizon was falling away, and the sky became a... tree? An apple tree?
It took Rob a moment to realize he was flat on his back.
He touched his forehead. Blood.
Faces hovered over him. There was the girl, now safe in the arms of an older boy who looked like her, a haggard old scar-faced woman dressed much like the girl, and a beefy, scowling man with a thick black beard.
"Le diable," the girl said again.
"Non," the old woman said with finality. "C'est seulement un homme."
Rob watched the old lady lean over him and caw with laughter like a diseased crow. He could count her teeth, all four of them, and as the ground opened up beneath him and he fell into darkness, he realized that the left side of her face was a puckered mass of ugly scar tissue. The last thing he heard was her rough voice.
In a whisper that was heard only by Rob, the old lady said, "Je pense que je le connais."
*
When Rob opened his eyes again he was lying on straw and watching the rising sun, still at a low angle, light cobwebs in rafters far above.
The air was rich with the smell of shit. Chickens clucked. A cow mooed and a horse snorted. Animal shit. Lots of it. A barn. He was in barn.
By Jove, Holmes, however did you deduce that?
Alimentary, my dear Watson.
Rob sat up and his head roared like a raging surf.
He had a coarse blanket, as rough as a burlap potato sack, draped over him. He was lying on a makeshift bed, burlap sacks filled with straw.
The old woman with the winning smile was sitting nearby on an overturned wooden basin, a bundle of cloth in her lap.
Rob didn't need to look under the blanket to know that he had been stripped naked. On the plus side though, he thought, somebody has been thoughtful enough to smear drying shit on my hands and feet, my knees and my elbows, going so far as to pack it in under my fingernails.
The old bag was still grinning at him, or gumming, or what-the-hell-ever you'd call the face she was making. "Vite, mon cher," she said, making a rising gesture with one hand. "Vous aviez dormi pendant des jours. L'Abbé arrivè tout de suite."
Rob didn't know who Labay was, and was hard pressed to care at the moment. All he knew was that she was talking in a queer kind of French, and that even though he understood her, he was thinking in English.
The old lady had fed him broth, he recalled suddenly. Broth, and bits of dark bread. She had fed him and cleaned him and propped him over a bucket when he had to move his bowels.
He interrupted the old woman's yammering. "Je suis..." What the hell was French for getting naked? "Dez-hab-eyay."
The old bag's jaw was off to the races again, and as she talked, a funny thing happened. He was no longer really aware of hearing French or English. He was simply understanding.
"On your feet, my sweet! I know who you are, but the Abbé, when he hears how you arrived in Pont Chandon, will surely take you for someone else. Many years ago his grandfather was renowned for persecuting poor old women believed to be witches, and the Abbé's kisses are harsh, my dear, very harsh." She touched the whorl of flesh that encroached on her left eye.
Rob's head was still throbbing as he tried to string together a few words of French, remembering a girl who accused him of being the devil, remembering a David & Goliath scenario that had him playing the big guy. "Tu pense que je suis le diable?"
"Not me, of that you can be sure," she replied, "But the others? Naturally!"
"Naturellement," Rob repeated.
The old woman introduced herself as Bèatrice Laplante.
"Rob-err," Rob replied. "Robert Co... uh..." Co-what? "...Courgette."
Good one! You asshole! Robert fucking Zucchini! Brilliant!
It was the only thing that had popped into his head, so for the time being he was stuck with it.
Bèatrice laughed as if she was in on the joke. "Le courgette est reveillé!" she cried, and just as Rob got to his feet she pulled the blanket out of his grip and tossed it aside.
She shook out the bundle she had been holding. It was a shirt, coat and trousers that had seen better days, wrapped around a pair of makeshift leather shoes with worn-away toes and a pair of woolen tubes that would pass for socks. He dressed quickly, frowning when he heard the dry thud of horses approaching along a dirt road.
"Someone's coming," he said.
Bèatrice turned, listened, and shrugged.
She frowned, and began adjusting Rob's clothes, fussing with the worn ties on the short coat. She pulled a strip of leather from a fold in her apron and tied his hair back with it, making the ponytail rest higher on the back of his head than he would have liked.
When he was presentable, she scooped up a handful of dust and dirt and flicked bits of it at his clothes and hair, as if baptizing him. She paused, cocking an ear toward the barn door again, and this time she heard the horses.
"Good ears," she said, upending the wooden basin for just a moment, letting Rob see that some wadded red cloth and some kind of shiny round helmet had been stuffed into it, held in place with a cross brace of wood. "Not a word," she said.
I hear that, Rob thought. Like I'd tell anyone about—
About what?
Just like that there was a ball of ice in his chest, sending out tendrils that raced like freezing lightening through his limbs.
Who, what, where, when, how, and sometimes why, Rob thought.
Essential questions. The basics. At the moment, he only had a few of the basics covered. He was Robert Courgette. No, dammit, that wasn't right, but his real name was just outside his grasp.
He was a guy who... who what? What was he? A farmer? A policeman? A fugitive? He had no idea.
He was in France, he assumed, sometime in what struck him as 'the past,' even though he had no concrete memory of the future, just random things from the years to come, like TV and Twinkies, stop signs and sirens, hyperlinks and hypodermics.
Half of those words made no sense, conjuring strange images.
He touched his left earlobe, adorned with a rough iron ring, which somehow seemed of great importance, and then his hand traveled up to his forehead, and the painful swelling.
Amnesia. Perfect. Wonderful.
I can't be an Englishman because Englishmen are supposed to have accents. And everything here seems old to me, and different. The air smells different. I came from a place... near the sea. Fuck knows what sea, though.
Got to remember the stuff in the basin though. There's something important in there. A watch, or something to do with time.
The horses were getting closer, but the girl who had nearly taken his head off with a rock and a boy of about sixteen who had to be her brother, beat them to the barn. They were breathless, and they looked scared.
"Justine and Jean-Etienne Bas, the children of my only daughter," the old woman said, crossing herself and looking heavenward.
"Hello," Rob said, without thinking. They frowned. The word made no sense to them, as its creation was a hundred years away. He tried again. "Good day."
The girl impulsively reached out and poked Rob's chest with one skinny finger. Her brother, still wary, grabbed her hand and said, "No, Petine."
"I'm growing up fast," the girl said. "I'm not your petite Justine anymore."
"You'll always be my Petine," he said. Then he glanced at Rob and said, "I don't like him."
"Friends now, are you? Friends with the devil?"
Rob looked beyond the kids and saw the beefy guy with the black beard standing in the doorway, holding some kind of hayfork with two tines. The guy looked like he'd caught them all playing with themselves.
"Does he look like a devil?" Bèatrice asked. "You are a fool, Charles Vachon."
"A stranger arrives in demonic garb, appearing on the Summer Solstice, a day of ungodly worship, speaking in tongues and making threatening gestures, and you welcome him here?"
The old woman shook her head. "Yes, he is a stranger, and like good Christians we have taken him in and nursed him through this troubled time."
Vachon peered at Rob. "Are you a demon?"
"Idiot," Rob muttered, a word that needed no translation.
The big man gestured with the hayfork. "Tell me the truth, or I will run you through!"
Rob scratched an itch. Bèatrice looked unimpressed.
Vachon looked at the young girl. "And what secrets are you hiding, hmmm?"
The moment Vachon simply looked at Justine, Etienne leaped forward. Vachon brought up a fist as meaty as his face and hit the boy in the chest, knocking him to the ground. He leered at the little girl, reaching out with his free hand and pinching her hip.
Rob stepped forward. "Hey," he said. "Shit-mouth." He had intended to call the guy shit-head, but shit-mouth, which must have been a colloquial term, is what he actually said, and he figured it would get the point across just as well. And it did. Only the point, or points, were getting to him, as Vachon suddenly spun on one heel and jabbed the hayfork at Rob's chest.
Rob pulled the hayfork out of Vachon's grasp with zero effort. He intended to toss it out of harm's reach, and was as astounded as everyone else when it left his hand as a blur.
There was a sound from above, th-Tmmmmm, and they all looked up to see the length of ash quivering high overhead, the tines imbedded in a wooden beam.
Rob noticed for the first time that there were stalls and pens in the gloom of the barn, holding tired cows and disinterested pigs. The single sway-backed horse snorted again. It too was looking up at the roof.
Etienne got to his feet and favored Rob with a little nod.
Vachon gave the barn a once over, and then shook a fist in Bèatrice's face. "You may have hidden the devil's skin, old hag, but the imp is still inside him, and the Abbé will draw it out and destroy it!"
He turned and ran to the horses, which sounded quite close now, asking in a humble yet loud voice that the newcomers move quickly.
"He is a fool," Bèatrice said. "An intolerant, religious fanatic who thinks evil is everywhere. He thinks he owns us. He manages this nearly barren parcel of land for the Monsieur, which we three work to keep a roof over our heads, a hovel for which Vachon charges rent. He is a man without friends, or trust, or a heart. When you were sleeping and feverish from your blow to the head, you were no threat to Vachon. Now you have awakened. And now he has called for the Abbé de Sainte-Madeleine, a very powerful man who believes the church should be sustained by fear, not love. He too sees the devil's imps everywhere, and feels that it is his goal in life to expose and destroy them, as did his father, and his grandfather."
"I can't stay here," Rob said. "Not if it will get you three in some kind of trouble."
"Nonsense!" Bèatrice said. "Unlike the Abbé, I understand the meaning of the word of God. If I cannot extend charity and sanctuary to a poor wandering stranger, then I do not deserve to enter the Kingdom of Heaven." She crossed herself, as did the kids.
In a tone that was clearly an order and not a request, the old woman told Rob, "You are the destitute idiot cousin of my dead brother. Speak little, and perhaps we can bring this inquisition to a quick end."
"Okay. But I stink. I think I rolled in shit or something."
The old lady gave a single cawing laugh. "No, I rolled you in it. Now you look, and smell, like a working man!"
Rob followed Bèatrice and her grandchildren onto the dry, bare earth of the courtyard.
A dozen chickens scattered as six horses left the main road and began coming down the trail to the farm, a scruffy rooster looking Rob in the eye from its roost atop a handpump below which he assumed there must be a natural spring.
Vachon had been standing on the steps of a small house nearby, trembling with excitement, like a dog on the verge of piddling when seeing its cherished master. Now he threw himself into the yard, falling into the dust and mumbling about God and Jesus.
Between the house and the barn was a small cottage that was falling to ruin. The shutters were open on a single glassless window, in which pretty patchwork curtains rustled silently. Rob could see that the cottage was made of a hundred kinds of wood, and figured it was in a constant state of repair. On either side of the wide and uneven flagstones leading to the warped door, was a colorful and carefully arranged display of wildflowers.
"Our humble home," Bèatrice whispered out of the side of her mouth, as if imparting information of a conspiratorial nature.
"It looks comfortable." Rob realized that the more he spoke without thinking, the easier the words came.
Four men got off their horses. Two wore fancy uniforms and hats with small blue and white plumes in them. They were also wearing swords, and flintlock pistols that were the size and shape of bananas. Rob figured they were the law, as was a third like them, who urged his horse to trot back down to the end of the road as if standing guard.
"Mercenaries," Bèatrice said softly. "Swiss and Prussian thugs who protect Lucien du Mallion, the Abbé, and do his bidding. The Abbé has prospered under the guidance of an Austrian Comte who recently settled near the village."
The two others in the party, who were dressed in dusty black robes, looked strangely tough, and yet obsequious, like hoodlum priests.
"The robed ones are Noiret and Rancon," Bèatrice continued in hushed tones. "Dominican Brothers, who were thought too extreme for the order and now they serve Lucien. And our Lord God, of course."
The sixth man remained on his horse, a massive beast that chewed at the bit and rolled its eyes. This had to be the Abbé. He was a tall and imposing man, his hawk-like face fixed with resolution. Over his black robe he wore a cape lined and trimmed with white fur. Jeweled rings glittered on his long thin fingers.
No mercy in those eyes, Rob thought, as the Abbé urged his horse forward, the four men on foot spreading out and flanking him. They were the eyes of a bird of prey moments from plucking a plump mouse out of a field, moments from tearing that mouse to bloody gobbets and eating the twitching strands while they still lived.
"Abbé Lucien," Bèatrice said, executing a purposefully crude curtsy.
The Abbé glared at the old woman, his upper lip curling with distaste.
One of the hoody priests rushed forward and shouted, "Abbé de Sainte-Madeleine!" He raised a fist to strike her and Rob stepped between them.
The Abbé sat up in the saddle, his face lighting with sudden amusement. He was waiting to see what Rob was capable of.
It's a test, Rob thought. He turned around and planted a big slobbering kiss on the old woman's cheek. Bèatrice was so surprised she shrieked with laughter.
"Ma puh-teet Bee-ah-treece!" Rob gushed, "Mon monde! Mon amour!"
The hoody priest's mouth puckered with distaste.
"Vachon?" the Abbé said calmly. "Where is the evidence you spoke of, where are the signs of this one's unclean nature?"
Vachon thundered forward -if not for his bulkiness he would have been scampering— and planted himself before the Abbé. Both of the armed men shifted hands to the pommels of their swords.
"He was garbed in strange vestments!" Vachon cried quickly, tension and fear causing his voice to rise and fall as if someone were rectally assaulting him with a long shaft of ice. "But they have disappeared!"
Rob turned and tried to play it dumb. He gawked at Vachon, looked at his ragged clothes, and gave a shrug.
"He has the strength, of one possessed!" Vachon blurted. "I can show you! In the barn! Follow me!"
The Abbé gave a nod to one of the hoody priests, who followed Vachon just inside the barn. Rob could see them in the gloom, Vachon gesturing, the priest rubbing his chin.
The priest returned, with Vachon at his heels. "There is a hayfork, Abbé. Stuck in a beam in the ceiling. It is unsettling."
"Oh?" the Abbé said, "This I shall have to see for myself."
He urged his horse forward, Rob pulling Bèatrice out of the way, as he rode into the barn, with a wary swordsman on each side.
The Abbé sat back in the saddle and stared at the hayfork a long time. With athletic grace he suddenly stood up on the saddle, the horse beneath him as steady as a statue.
He was just able to reach the hayfork. He grabbed it with one hand and pulled. Nothing. He leaped a little, to get a better grip, and suddenly the horse under him shifted and the Abbé was dangling from the end of the hayfork. One booted foot swung wildly and cuffed the horse across one ear. The horse snorted and trotted away.
"Merde! Guertain! Fassel!" the Abbé cried, as the mercenaries rushed forward and supported his flailing legs. "Foutre!"
Rob was impressed. He somehow understood that the word he knew as 'fuck' had ancient origins, but hearing the French version of it from a man of the church made it sound even more impressive.
Yessir, Rob thought. I may not know my own name, but at least I know the word 'fuck.'
Etienne looked like he was sucking a slice of lemon as he bit the insides of both cheeks to freeze his face into a mask of respect and humility.
The Abbé snarled with rage. "I'll have you in my stewpot, you soulless, mangy, brainless beast!"
Rob turned to Bèatrice and whispered, "Is he talking to his horse, or Vachon?"
The old woman's eyes bulged and she slapped a hand over her mouth to stop from laughing out loud.
There was a squeak, metal on wood. The hayfork suddenly came free of the wood and the Abbé dropped onto the ground, taking the mercenaries with him.
Etienne ran forward and fell to his knees in the barn. "A thousand apologies, Abbé! I beg your forgiveness! I put the hayfork up there! I wanted to play a trick on my sister so I used a ladder and—"
The Abbe was still holding the hayfork, and he suddenly turned it around, slamming the end of the wooden handle into the boy's stomach.
At the same moment, Bèatrice put one hand on Rob's arm, telling him to be still.
Etienne fell to his knees, and his sister ran to his side.
Bèatrice watched the three men leave the barn and brush at the manure and dust clinging too them. As they passed by her and Rob, Bèatrice said, "Now then, here we have a rare occasion, in which all men are appear equal in the eyes of God."
Vachon had fallen to his knees and cried for out for God's own help when the Abbé had hit the dirt. He cringed and looked like he was going to cry when the Abbé said, "You've wasted my time, Vachon. I won't forget this."
The Abbé was about to throw the hayfork aside when he paused. In the shadows of the barn he had not seen this, but here, in the light of day, he could see what looked like a handprint, individual fingers and part of the palm, pressed into the wood.
He whirled on Rob and gestured to the guards. "Fassel, bring him. Bring this thing for interrogation."
Fassel rushed forward with a length of rawhide. He quickly began binding Rob's hands behind his back.
"Abbé, please," Béatrice said, "This is a mistake. He—"
One of the hoodlum priests stepped forward and drove a fist into the old woman's stomach.
As she collapsed, Rob turned and reached for the mercenary behind him, seeing the man's eye widen in disbelief as the leather bindings snapped like blades of grass.
Fassel drew a battered épée on Rob, and without thinking Rob grabbed the blade and folded it back on itself once, and then twice.
Very weird shit, Rob thought, wondering if he had always been this strong. He made a fist, thinking that one good hit could drive Fassel through the back wall of the barn, when a shout stopped him.
"Wait!" The Abbé approached Rob. "You cannot stay here and watch over this family every minute of every day. Come with us and we will leave them unharmed."
"He lies!" Béatrice gasped, standing with Justine's help.
Rob didn't see how he had any choice. "Give me your word as a man of God," he said, "that this family will remain unharmed."
The Abbé nodded. "I give you my word, before the Lord."
He murmured a few words to the hoodlum priests, both of whom nodded sternly.
"How can one make a binding covenant," the Abbé said in Latin, "to one who serves the prince of lies and deception?" Then he barked a few orders in French. "Brother Rancon and Captain Guertain will stay here and watch over the farm. Our... guest will use Brother Rancon's horse and return with us. Brother Noiret?"
Rob watched one of the hoodlum priests bring over two horses. The priest climbed into the saddle of one, and gestured for Rob to do the same.
"Crap," Rob mumbled. It took him five attempts to get into the saddle. Twice he fell on his ass. The soldiers and priests were openly amused. The Abbé was watching him carefully.
"Not from around here, are you?" the Abbé asked.
Rob said nothing.
The Abbé brought his horse about and began heading down the road, one of the mercenaries in front of him. Looking over his shoulder Rob saw the hoodlum priest named Noiret, and Fassel, the fellow with the bent sword, following behind him. The priest named Rancon was staying behind, with Captain Guertain.
"Be careful," Justine called. Etienne gave him a little wave. Béatrice hung her head, as if convinced she would never see Rob again.
The horses began trotting faster, moving down the dusty road to the little village of Pont Chandon, and the tall spire of the church at its heart.
User Reviews
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-08-03 11:53:09 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Supreme Overlord damage control...
Submitted by Supreme_Overlord (user info) at 2005-07-21 22:24:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
shite
Submitted by BLITZKREIG_BOB (user info) at 2005-02-16 14:33:51 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Mitchapalooza (user info) at 2005-02-16 04:12:25 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
yawn.
Submitted by munkeypants (user info) at 2005-02-08 15:12:13 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by tlozoot (user info) at 2005-02-04 23:51:46 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Almost forgot!
Submitted by Benny (user info) at 2005-02-04 08:26:14 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I had to muddle through a little bit of the french but it didn't stop me from enjoying the story. By the way I thought your replies to CBF were hilarious.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-02-02 22:58:27 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by FuckTheArmy (user info) at 2005-02-02 22:24:52 (#)
Ranking: 2
Time travel is, by our current understanding of physics at least, impossible.
Nonetheless, you write a good story.
--
Hey, don't blame me if Schroedecker and Pfaltzer are tight-lipped old bastards.
Submitted by FuckTheArmy (user info) at 2005-02-02 22:24:52 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Time travel is, by our current understanding of physics at least, impossible.
Nonetheless, you write a good story.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-02-02 21:35:29 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Shlongy (user info) at 2005-02-02 19:39:55 (#)
Ranking: 2
Pssssssttt... CBF...
--
Crazy Fucking Bastard?
Cock-Beating Festival?
Caulaincourt Ball-gag Fund?
Czech Babes Frolicking?
Coffee-Bean Fudge?
Callous, Brutal Fucking?
Censor Bart's Forum?
Chevrolet? Blah... Ford!
What the hell, Shlong?
Submitted by Shlongy (user info) at 2005-02-02 19:39:55 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Pssssssttt... CBF...
Submitted by horse87 (user info) at 2005-02-02 18:40:42 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Funny, 'aint it?
By the end of Ubermadness, everone else is out of gas, and you just keep on going and going.
Unfortunately, it seems that, with a few notable exceptions, you're on an almost universal 'ignore' list of some kind.
How horrible to think that if you put up a post with some boobs in it, or perhaps a Goatse image, (..or worse, Carol Richards..) you'd probably have about 20X the hits.
Pearls before swine, I guess......
Submitted by AshK (user info) at 2005-02-02 18:01:03 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Excellent, again.
Submitted by Adjomak (user info) at 2005-02-02 17:37:11 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Time Travel has always confused the hell out of me, but, whatever. Keep up the good work
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2005-02-02 16:56:52 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
!Muey Bueno!
Submitted by Remission (user info) at 2005-02-02 16:48:15 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Wonderful as usual
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2005-02-02 16:25:12 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Le maître le plus excellent et le plus jeune du grammatics!
Submitted by ess-arr (user info) at 2005-02-02 15:48:15 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
love the french... c-court may have a field day...
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2005-02-02 15:28:03 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
xcellent, as always...
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-02-02 15:25:20 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
I did the best I could with the French language, so I hope you'll cut me some slack.