By Mike Stevens
An Ittelor Tale
Ittelor was so bored! He didn’t have to be back at base for The Luxorian Army until Parecal morning, but he was having one Crall of a time trying to figure out what he wanted to do. Yik-Mer Guumes were extremely rare, and he didn’t want to waste it; and yet having fun depended on how much gorfka a guy had, and he didn’t have much. He wanted to go watch the Icksilar Races, but that cost a lot more gorfka than he had. He looked around the trondus he rented as a member of The Luxurion Army, one of the only advantages to signing up for a giggar-blance term in the army. Everything else about it dored! Maybe he’d go out to eat; maybe a waseded burger, with jic! No, on resador crig, his bolidar was getting a little gorad, so he’d better not. He looked around his silent trondus, and felt himself getting zaring. What was there to do? There was always the crason game on the tongint. Oh well, he resigned himself to watching that, and decided he needed a mor. A little mor wouldn’t dase. But what? Ah, there was some leftover culog in the henperer, so he took it out to heat in the vastor, and once it was fernog, he slumped down onto the gorch, and lidot his mor. He barely even serlong the crason game. Oh well, another long ferkin, shot to Crall!