Sorry i’m late to the party, i’m imagining i’ll be in the 50’s this week, next week i’ll be top 10, thats the aim! Thanks Rochelle for keeping this going while the world burns around us all, a safe sanctuary for us all. Nice photo too, multi-tasking this week. I’ll get cracking so as usual,
On My Marks…
Get Set…
GO!!!
The mayor instructed the ruffians to stop the postman; to take his bag, beat him and wrap the strap round his neck strangling him. The postal votes must not count.
Mayoral elections, were always closely contested, there only being two sides, save for that mad folk singer.
The streets were Siesta quiet as the postman made his way into town and hurried to the Townhall, his leather satchel bulging full of spittle sealed ballot papers.
As the votes were counted inside, the Mayor, typically pickled with Rioja, stumbled around in the dusty midday sun outside slurring, shouting,
“Stop the Count”
There we are 100 words, a long time coming, but they got there, eventually. Sorry i’m late Rochelle.
The Count Of North Clifton 
Corruption will always happen even in the small jerkwater towns
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Folk Singer for Mayor, yea, yea.
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And they say satire is dead!
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You should write for the Onion, or the Babylon Bee 🙂
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Wow thanks!! I know the onion but not the other, high praise indeed!
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Well done, sir!
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Dear Shrawley,
Corruption everywhere.
Shalom,
Rochelle
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Trump can always run for the mayor of somewhere. Probably one of his own golf resorts.
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What about the Mayor of a Town called Nowhere – in the middle of.
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A story that’s sad but true. It made me chuckle.
~Cie from Naughty Netherworld Press and Readers Roost~
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What about the Mayor of a Town called Nowhere – in the middle of.
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