(no subject)

...Under cover of the darkness, Sir George, my friend and I crept around the side of the ancient stone building, and concealed ourselves in the undergrowth just below one of the half-shattered windows. Slowly we raised our heads to peer through the panes.

A congregation of hooded, robed figures stood before the disused altar. Behind it, a black-robed priest of some kind led them in a mournful chant.

"You're dethspicable."

"We are dethspicable."

"It'ths rabbit thseathson."

"It iths rabbit thseathson."

"Of courths you realithse thiths meanths war."

"Of courths we realithse thiths meanths war."

As the congregation ritually donned large orange plastic beaks, my friend turned away from the window and addressed my client. "I fear, Sir George, this will mean an increase in my fee."

"And why is that, sir?"

"I always charge extra for Daffy-cult cases."