Error 420
One Thousand Club
This was needed for showing to somebody but it's too long for discord so it's posted here
Way back, long ago in the Scottish Highlands, in a little town called Aberdeen, when the silver and gold flowed like sorghum, there was a powerful man known as Carlton Markston, but we all called him Papa Marks. Now Carlton wasn't a Scotsman, no, he was a German. Big and hulking with a mean stare, but folks all loved him the same, they knew he was no more dangerous than his gentle voice like cottonseed on the breeze. He got kicked out of Germany for his 'radical politics', which means he was different then thems that ran everything. But to the people of Aberdeen, he was one of the friendliest friends you could have. He was as tall as an oak tree and more solidly built. His pokerface was rumored to be so great he made Queen Victoria herself fold before he even looked at her hand. She offered him the crown jewels, but he kindly refused. He could have anything he wanted, but it seems all he wanted was his hut, his job in the mines, and his Honey Boo.
Ah, Honey Boo, prettiest girl in the whole kingdom, her suitors containing Indian princes, American businessmen, and all sorts of filthy rich individuals, wanted nothing more than him either. The pair attracted many rumors, 'specially with Carl's coworkers. People said that Carl could dig out a whole mountain (and that one day he would), that he could punch out God Himself (a rumor never uttered in front of the church ladies), and countless others that numerated in the millions, spread far across the sea and the land. He was damn-near a household name in Canada, and the Chinese schoolboys would all send him letters and gifts. He'd tell his coworkers that lyin' was a sin, but they'd laugh off the thought that their hero could ever fail them.
He was a miner, in case I didn't mention it. Mining silver and gold for the cruel Baron McRobber, the biggest company man since James Watt. Now Carl never laid eyes on the man, and only spoke his name in thanks of his salary. But that was due to change. The Baron was a filthy man, who worked men to death, who sold women and children as slaves for the Proletariat, justifying any sick, disturbed act for the good of making money. His latest plot was more dastardly than any before, a devilish Machine. A powerful machine like a locomotive that could mind fifty times as much ore as a man, spitting its vile smoke into the sky. One day Carl came to the mountain and found his coworkers in woe, like he missed his own wake. The source of woe was quickly explained to him, the Machine before him like a tiger leaning over its quarry. The whole work force would be laid off tomorrow when the Machine was working, the Baron said. But the workers yelled at him no, that Papa Marks would stop him, that he could out-dig the Machine, that he could dig the whole mountain in just one day. The Baron laughed at this and offered a wager, that they could keep their jobs if the entire mountain to the East could be carved out in a single day, faster than the Machine could dig the mountain to the West, not only could the miners keep every bit of silver they found, they could get the whole company to themselves. Everyone gasped at this ridiculous deal, but not Carl. He held his menacing hand out only to shake.
That night the town ate and drank and danced in his honour, to thank him for his bravery, but many knew that it would be the last dinner he would eat. His Honey Boo warned him too, told him he better skip town, she'd go with him, but he held fast. She cried and cried, but Carl told her she had a cunning plan.
That next morning when the sun went up over the mountain in the East, the Baron was waiting, his proud Machine next to him. He cackled as Carl approached, his massive hammer dragging behind him. But oh did he stop cackling when behind him he saw the whole town of Aberdeen coming up behind, hammers and picks and axes and everything they could find to hack at the mountain in the East, men, women, and children. But the Machine started up, its powerful engine blowing away the hope in their eyes. That was, until Carl rose his hammer to the sky and brought it down on the mountain with a force so loud it felled a forest in Ireland. They quickly moved into action, beginning their impossible feat while the cold Machine chipped away at the mountain like a woodpecker through butter.
The skirmish continued, through accidentally hammered toes, through replacement tires, through breakfast until dinner until supper until the sun was starting to make its rest. The town chipped away all but a single pillar of stone, 50 foot thick. They nearly celebrated, until a boy reported that the Machine only had ten feet to go, and that it was almost sundown. The town was dejected, all hope lost, their arms weak and tired and their souls in woe. The day was lost, and they began to retire to their homes. But something stopped them. Carl, his hammer held high, pounding on the pillar with all his strength, each throw disintegrating a full ton of stone. They watched, silent, breathless, as his hammer swung harder, faster, it even began to glow. The mountain was nothing before this great man, this hammer quicker than the eye could see. As the sun just started to close over the horizon, there was nothing left, and Carl was in the dust, on his knees, his shoulders rising to breathe with the weight of the globe on them. He rose his hammer one final time to the sky, reflecting one last shine of the nearly faded sunlight to the Baron to the West, a glimmer in the sky to let him know respectfully that he had lost.
The town cheered a cheer that rings through the Scottish hills to this day, sung songs that still echo on the lochs, and did dances still danced by the swaying trees. But among them not dancing was Carl, still kneeled, until he felt Honey Boo's hand on his shoulder. He collapsed in her arms, a hush falling over the crowd as the Reaper came to take his life. He looked to the Reaper, and asked him only time to say goodbye. Being touched by this, the Reaper spread his soul among the Heavens, where he still watches down on his home from the stars.
Way back, long ago in the Scottish Highlands, in a little town called Aberdeen, when the silver and gold flowed like sorghum, there was a powerful man known as Carlton Markston, but we all called him Papa Marks. Now Carlton wasn't a Scotsman, no, he was a German. Big and hulking with a mean stare, but folks all loved him the same, they knew he was no more dangerous than his gentle voice like cottonseed on the breeze. He got kicked out of Germany for his 'radical politics', which means he was different then thems that ran everything. But to the people of Aberdeen, he was one of the friendliest friends you could have. He was as tall as an oak tree and more solidly built. His pokerface was rumored to be so great he made Queen Victoria herself fold before he even looked at her hand. She offered him the crown jewels, but he kindly refused. He could have anything he wanted, but it seems all he wanted was his hut, his job in the mines, and his Honey Boo.
Ah, Honey Boo, prettiest girl in the whole kingdom, her suitors containing Indian princes, American businessmen, and all sorts of filthy rich individuals, wanted nothing more than him either. The pair attracted many rumors, 'specially with Carl's coworkers. People said that Carl could dig out a whole mountain (and that one day he would), that he could punch out God Himself (a rumor never uttered in front of the church ladies), and countless others that numerated in the millions, spread far across the sea and the land. He was damn-near a household name in Canada, and the Chinese schoolboys would all send him letters and gifts. He'd tell his coworkers that lyin' was a sin, but they'd laugh off the thought that their hero could ever fail them.
He was a miner, in case I didn't mention it. Mining silver and gold for the cruel Baron McRobber, the biggest company man since James Watt. Now Carl never laid eyes on the man, and only spoke his name in thanks of his salary. But that was due to change. The Baron was a filthy man, who worked men to death, who sold women and children as slaves for the Proletariat, justifying any sick, disturbed act for the good of making money. His latest plot was more dastardly than any before, a devilish Machine. A powerful machine like a locomotive that could mind fifty times as much ore as a man, spitting its vile smoke into the sky. One day Carl came to the mountain and found his coworkers in woe, like he missed his own wake. The source of woe was quickly explained to him, the Machine before him like a tiger leaning over its quarry. The whole work force would be laid off tomorrow when the Machine was working, the Baron said. But the workers yelled at him no, that Papa Marks would stop him, that he could out-dig the Machine, that he could dig the whole mountain in just one day. The Baron laughed at this and offered a wager, that they could keep their jobs if the entire mountain to the East could be carved out in a single day, faster than the Machine could dig the mountain to the West, not only could the miners keep every bit of silver they found, they could get the whole company to themselves. Everyone gasped at this ridiculous deal, but not Carl. He held his menacing hand out only to shake.
That night the town ate and drank and danced in his honour, to thank him for his bravery, but many knew that it would be the last dinner he would eat. His Honey Boo warned him too, told him he better skip town, she'd go with him, but he held fast. She cried and cried, but Carl told her she had a cunning plan.
That next morning when the sun went up over the mountain in the East, the Baron was waiting, his proud Machine next to him. He cackled as Carl approached, his massive hammer dragging behind him. But oh did he stop cackling when behind him he saw the whole town of Aberdeen coming up behind, hammers and picks and axes and everything they could find to hack at the mountain in the East, men, women, and children. But the Machine started up, its powerful engine blowing away the hope in their eyes. That was, until Carl rose his hammer to the sky and brought it down on the mountain with a force so loud it felled a forest in Ireland. They quickly moved into action, beginning their impossible feat while the cold Machine chipped away at the mountain like a woodpecker through butter.
The skirmish continued, through accidentally hammered toes, through replacement tires, through breakfast until dinner until supper until the sun was starting to make its rest. The town chipped away all but a single pillar of stone, 50 foot thick. They nearly celebrated, until a boy reported that the Machine only had ten feet to go, and that it was almost sundown. The town was dejected, all hope lost, their arms weak and tired and their souls in woe. The day was lost, and they began to retire to their homes. But something stopped them. Carl, his hammer held high, pounding on the pillar with all his strength, each throw disintegrating a full ton of stone. They watched, silent, breathless, as his hammer swung harder, faster, it even began to glow. The mountain was nothing before this great man, this hammer quicker than the eye could see. As the sun just started to close over the horizon, there was nothing left, and Carl was in the dust, on his knees, his shoulders rising to breathe with the weight of the globe on them. He rose his hammer one final time to the sky, reflecting one last shine of the nearly faded sunlight to the Baron to the West, a glimmer in the sky to let him know respectfully that he had lost.
The town cheered a cheer that rings through the Scottish hills to this day, sung songs that still echo on the lochs, and did dances still danced by the swaying trees. But among them not dancing was Carl, still kneeled, until he felt Honey Boo's hand on his shoulder. He collapsed in her arms, a hush falling over the crowd as the Reaper came to take his life. He looked to the Reaper, and asked him only time to say goodbye. Being touched by this, the Reaper spread his soul among the Heavens, where he still watches down on his home from the stars.
