On June 16, 2112, the following advertisement ran on the lower-right corner of The Enquirer, page twenty-four.
THE YOUNG LEADERS OF SQUAT HOLE SOCIETY is pleased to announce our graduating class of the brightest minds Squat Hole has produced so far. They are available for any employment, starting immediately. Contact Virginia Toadswallop, c/o Kebab's 'n' Shite, for the available roster.
Three days later, the following letter arrived at the door of Kebab's 'n' Shite. It was, with the speed and efficiency that is exemplar of the Midget race, torn open, dropped in the mud, used as a coaster, and finally, by sheer happenstance, brought to the addressee six days later by one curious Midget who wanted to know what it said.
Dear Ms. Toadswallop,
I read of your program within the Enquirer, past the advertisement for drapes constructed of tripe, and would be interested in sponsoring one of your Young Leaders of Squat Hole. I would be willing to offer them an officer position, however would be unable to pay them in requisition. I do have two aging bottles of whiskey that are (mostly) full and some vodka that I usually use for sterilizing.
Would that be permissible in exchange for a stipend? Do you have any members who would be a good fit for a roving band? Note: We do get into some hairy/potentially messy situations. We'd need someone who can keep their head in the middle of sticky situation.
Poor Mrs. Toadswallop had no students, no school, nothing to give to Boudicca. She quickly decided that she would just have to train a student as fast as she possibly could. But who? This question caused great consternation among the ranks of Midgetdom. Who would be an acceptable candidate? How much half-arsed training could they cram down the poor fellow's throat in a week or so? Who was dumb enough to actually believe the ad? And, most importantly, how much vodka was left in the bottle, exactly?
Around this time, an entrepreneuring young man named Ronald Nigel Pussback1) was growing bored with the nightly fighting in Booz. Sure, a fight's a fight, but he wanted more, no brawl in Booz is gonna get a statue of him erected. He struck out from Squat Hole, ready to take on the world, and was promptly returned within the walls. After a rather long, embarrassing skid through the mud, Nigel tried once more, this time with a Crossbow. Before he could get out of the gate, however, he was spotted looking "luk uh wunnur" and dragged to a back room of Kebab's 'n' Shite, where he was tied to a chair and "lurn'd up" with wisdom various Midgets had heard, forgotten, and half-assedly tried to remember from various contestants. For the next two weeks, he was fed nothing but rat packs and mudwisearse.
Boodick buhdic DJIN ledie:
We gots the purfict mach fer ur clan, we do. Hiz nam is Ronnald Nygil Puzbuck, an he iz one uv are bess stoodints. He iz flooint in mehby moor dan un langage, an iz a leder an all dat shite.
Diz iz him. Cheerz.
Nigel was found handcuffed to a tentpost in The Nomad Camp one morning with the letter pinned to his lapel, and DJIN's alcohol stores had been raided, taking the promised payment, and anything else the "couriers" could get their hands on.