Captain Lion Heart of Fortress Scumtree
Whut duh deal?
10,000 years ago, Bray was not the pan faced landscrape that you now witness in glimpses through inebriated dizzying spells from above your Henry & Rose nose bag. Long before Jah even thought of setting up pointy roofed houses of fantasy around out township, or even leaving that virgin’s box, a different breed of yolk once roamed the Braytrix. It was a time of darkness (darker than dole queue stench) and a world of fear (worser than the eighties), it was indeed the age of Gargoyles. Stoned by day, weekend warriors by night, they were betrayed by the humans they had sworn to vote for. Yes folkers, our watchful friend who now has pride of position outside Miccy Dee’s was once a voter like you or me, watching re-runs of Dog the Bounty Hunter, when unannounced he received a visit from a canvasser promising a tailored quality of living improvement in exchange for a mere X in a box.
After fulfilling his noble duties our winged brother did not notice the promised improvements, but rather a steep decline. Half portions of chips now passes as a bag. Trolleys appeared in the Dargle. Other stuff happened too, its all inscribed in an stone tablet buried under the underground car park under Bray bowl, regardless, the beast soon became disheartened by this system that was thrust upon him, and several bucket bongs of desperation later he found himself perched in his current place of jest.
Upon inspection you can see the greens are yet to ware off, but beware togglers of the pamphlet political, for the fumes of Bray’s new found trendy coffee kips will soon bring this brother back to life. His night is before him, ready to reclaimed, with or without a road cone on his head.
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