And on the fifth day, the Prophet's father (scribe of Cogrill's Mill and accomplished thespian, Lord Keith Jahans) cried out, "Gordon these dishes shall be clean!" Our Lord heard his protestations and responded in kind, "No, father, for I shall not!"
A noble retreat ensued, and Our Lord ruminated on the fate that should befall his father. It was ordained by the stars on high that a timer be set for six score and eighty years (known as the "Fifteen Merciful Minutes). The Prophet waited with patience, meditating on the upcoming events.
Lord Keith sat mocking upon his Throne of Ill Gotten Gains (known as the Sofa) in the Temple of Degeneracy (known as the Living Room) and feasted upon an array of game and tiny sparrows. Our Lord's mercy had worn thin; a battle of many crossed swords was about to commence but Lord Keith simply fled. Our Lord ruminated on that days occurrence's.
And on the seventh day, Our Lord decried: "This shall not continue!" The Prophet declared outbursts from thine father become outlaw and forbidden tongue. For, "It wasn't worth it."
Whence Lord Keith returned to the Keep with a palsied whore in arm, the Prophet consulted the runes. They aligned that yet another Fifteen Merciful Minutes be granted. Our Lord bellowed in his infinite wisdom, "Fifteen minutes to be gone from this Keep!" The sands of time ran empty; the Prophet rallied his troops and laid siege on his disgraced father.
Swords were crossed, an epic battle raged across the Province of Woking. A hug was struck; Lord Keith was left for the crows to finish him. But, thine Prophet's father would not breathe his last. He made trade with the witchcraft that Our Lord had once declared "Tory". A specter was summoned; its name the Lady of the Law.
She ravaged Our Lord's kingdom, forced entry into thy Hallowed Place and forced the Prophet to "make thine bed, tidy thine room, fold thine towels, clean thine dishes". Our Lord was left forsaken, bloodied and bruised. For Lord Keith had seemingly conquered all.
The Prophet's morality is both mighty and strong. The Men of the North say it be as hardeth as iron, as sharpeth as diamond. Our Lord never taketh arms, never cast aside his fellow countrymen, never lifteth furniture from one hall to the another.
The Prophet's oft mad mother (Lady Helen Jahans, the Madonna) once enchewed Our Lord's morality. For she commanded, "Gordon, help me move these chairs!" Our Lord was outraged at this betrayal, for one does not leaneth upon the man who falls.
After four score and six years of protestations, Our Lord conceded to the Madonna's demands - but for a mighty sum. For the Prophet were to be paid in fine silks and rare jewels and submissive blonde-haired wenches.
Our Lord's pendulous chest was dragged to the lower floors of the Keep, where he proceeded to accomplish his grand task. But he knew little of the struggles ahead. For Our Lord experienced much pain, much suffering - only the thought of his silks, his rare jewels, his submissive wenches kept his will from breaking.
But, woe! Woe betide Our Lord! For upon completion of the Grand Task, the Madonna's dishonesty and deceitful nature shone as brightly as the morning star. Her payment was a trick; fine silks, rare jewels present - but no submissive wenches. Our Lord was not merciful in his betrayal.
The Prophet's summoned forth a demon from inside his cavernous body; it bellowed and raged and sought to terrify the Madonna into submission. The wenches were to be given to Our Lord. The Madonna finally consented.
But she sought revenge. She rounded and gathered all of the scholars of the Province of Woking, and they proceeded to scribe upon a colossal scroll (knowneth as "The Email"). The scroll was a work written in forbidden tongue and it ordered Our Lord to vacate The Keep.
The Prophet protested, "But it is four and six score days before the Season of Yule!" In his infinite wisdom, Our Lord made light of the scroll and continued with his worldly pursuits. The Madonna had been outsmarted.
On the ninth day, the Prophet was plagued by worry. For the stars had aligned and granted him his parent's desire; for he were to attend a "job interview".
It was many leagues across water, many miles across land, but Our Lord obliged. He attended the "job interview" with trepidation; a job he did not want, for his mind was occupied with the Weresylphs of Choiceworld.
As he sat in the Hall of Waiting, a fair-haired maiden of short stature caught his keen eye. Oh, my! For she was by far the fairest of all the maidens in the land! Even thine Lord's own sister paled in comparison. Oh, what a fine day this was! Glorious day!
But the Prophet grew ignorant of the pending "job interview". So caught off guard was he that whence his nameth was called, he fumbled and flailed. His hosts, however, were merciful.
After a great discussion, of many wines and cheeses, of many virgin harlot sullied, a conclusion was reached. The Hosts declared, "Gordon, the job is yours!" Our Prophet panicked. For this was not the outcome he desired.
A quick flash struck Our Lords mind and he cried out, "Wait! For I am not good with phones!" This was a masterstroke. The Hosts retorted, "But this is a call centre job!"
The Prophet laughed and rode his chariot back to Woking and the Hallowed Place.