klingons in the biscuit tin

i had to battle a rogue band of klingons who had decided to make off with the biscuit tin today. their leader, a savage looking mutant, with terrible scarring to his cheek, proclaimed the choc-chippy goodness as prize, won in fair battle.

of course, blood rituals were involved, so after much spillage, they considered the payment justified the siezing of the treasure. i disagreed.

much to the amusement of the larger klingons, i offered to fight for my biscuit tin. they asked how much blood i was willing to leak onto the tiles.

i glanced at the pale unwashed porcelain and grunted. as little as humanly possible.

the battle commenced at oh-one hundred. in the darkness of the kitchen, we stealthed each other into corners and whacked ourselves senseless with foam batons. i was in the middle of mashing their leader’s head against the fridge, when one interfered, much to the dismay of his comrades, and proceeded to give me what i could only call ‘one hell of a mmf mmf, ouch.”

because of his interference, i was rewarded with my choc-chip biscuit tin, complete with a replacement packet, and grudgingly told i would not be seeing them in the future.

i pity the poor inexperienced one, because he no doubt found himself cleaning the ovens for the next few weeks.

i, in the meantime, have established a healthy respect for klingon women, and hope one day to travel to the klingon homeworld to further encourage my newly discovered tolerance for strange foreheads.