Nicholas the Pomegranate

One day, in the garden, in the great city, in the fields, in space, and time, in a place, a golden light emerged from out the seedier neighbourhoods, where a flash and a bang started the most violent reactionary forced and light cavalry charge that was pre-empted by the man, the King of the Phoenicians, the river that flowed, the flower of death, etc., etc. Thusly, it was accorded, to the merchants of Siam, and the outposts of the Silk Road, and the dancing men along the way, and that Nicholas the Pomegranate was duly born. Elsewhere, the men who had conspired to kill him earlier had fallen suddenly ill to a draught of Spanish flu, and lay in their cots, but did not have the staves necessary to balance their humours.

In accordance with the great Laws of the Land, Nicholas was perfectly formed, with a lust'ry coat, and smooth, slippery red peel, and exactly 888 seeds within his hull, the paragon of a pomegranate. And so it began, the most jolly and excruciating journey of their lives, to pluck the pomegranate from the great Tree, and to use the magic power to reawaken the great Nosferatu, the Lord Protectorate of the Realm, Defender of the Faith, and the men, who undertook this great yearning, did latch their knapsacks, and their burlap sacks, and marched out of the peanut fields, and tore their boots.

And in the end, they found Nicholas, the great One, who was dangling from the Tree, wings almost sprouted, and could not find it in themselves to dispatch of him, and instead retired to a public house, and baked tea and cookies for the gentry, and established many laboratories, and discovered many chemicals, and did live a happy life, with Lavoisier, and others, and it was good.