How The Ernst Stole Christmas
Sir Hillary Bray
College of ArmsPosts: 2,174MI6 Agent
Hi everyone. A very small number of you may recall that, back in December 2003, I posted a thread called A Visit From St. Brocc, a Bondian takeoff on Clement Moore's famous poem "A Visit from St. Nick" (aka "'Twas the Night Before Christmas"). Long ago, it was lost to Sico's revamp of the site, which was entirely appropriate.
Thirteen years later, I finally have a sequel. It's a riff on another famous Christmas story, one that happens to be written in exactly the same poetic rhythm as the previous one. It was originally a book, then later a made-for-TV animation that has become a classic. The TV version combined the talents of two of my favorite artists of all time, Dr. Seuss and Chuck Jones. The TV version also contained a musical element that I have tried to replicate here.
My purpose here is several-fold. First, given how long the internet in general, and this site in particular, have been around, it is hard to create original content related to something as iconic as James Bond -- this is my attempt. Second, it scratches an itch that I rarely scratch -- creative writing. Third, it is my way of thanking SiCo, the mods and everyone here for keeping me connected to Bond, which these days I do primarily through this site.
The story is quite long, but I hope you will find it worth the time. I finished it only this morning, and I had no idea how it would end until the final twist popped into my head.
Without further ado, I present and hope you enjoy...
HOW THE ERNST STOLE CHRISTMAS
The Near Future
Every fan down in Bondville liked Bond girls a lot.
But the Ernst, who lived just east of Bondville, did not.
The Ernst hated Bond girls and all that they stood for.
He thought taking up space was all they were good for.
And why, might you ask, did he hate the girls so?
Well now, that may be something we’ll just never know.
It could be that in school, all the girls thought him wimpy.
It could be that he found their bikinis too skimpy.
But I think that the reason for all of his bile
Was the knowledge he lived with for quite a long while
That a debonair man, a Brit spy, name of James,
Had monopolized all the attention of dames.
His full name was James Bond, and the Ernst knew him well.
They had battled, with Bond winning most, truth to tell.
And these battles were epic – the whole world was rapt.
But the Ernst nursed a grudge, and one day he just snapped.
He snuck in late at night to the Old Bond Girls Home,
A remarkable building, all marble and chrome.
Once inside he crept quietly on, door to door,
Until reaching the room he had been searching for.
He could feel his heart beating, a throb in his bones,
As he read the door’s nameplate; it said “Christmas Jones.”
She was sleeping in bed, a slight smile on her face.
And he drugged her and carried her out of the place.
When she woke, she was lying chained down to a bed,
A white cat purring softly right next to her head.
To one side, a familiar face came into frame.
Even though they were strangers, she called him by name.
“You’re the Ernst!” she exclaimed. “I’ve seen posters of you.
And you’ve kidnapped me here. Now just what will you do?
You look slightly confused, so I need a reply.
Tell me why you have stolen me, Ernst! Tell me why!”
He was taken aback by her confident mien,
And against all his judgment he unlocked her chain.
“Well okay, since you asked, I’ll explain myself, dear.
I’ll do it third-person, and we’ll go year by year…”
1962
First stop was Jamaica. Well, not his, but his guy’s.
His test ground for taking out meddlesome spies.
So he sent Dr. No, committer of wrongs,
To Crab Key in the tropics, well away from the Tongs.
They began toppling rockets, and the US was cursed.
(No wonder the Soviets got theirs up first!)
But then Strangways was murdered, a ham-fisted ploy,
And double-oh-seven soon spoiled their joy.
Dr. No took a bath in a nuclear reactor,
And his henchmen, it has to be said, weren’t a factor.
Honey Ryder was rescued, and the spy got away,
While the Ernst swore revenge: “Mr. Bond, you will pay.”
You’re a novice, Mr. Ernst.
You think of decent plans,
But you outsource execution
To a guy with metal hands, Mr. ErrrrrRNST!
That’s what you get for selecting operatives by
The seat of your pants.
1963
Then the Ernst shook it off, and he headed to Venice,
Where he plotted with Kronsteen and Klebb to make menace.
Kronsteen’s plan was impressive, a true “brilliant coup”
Which would end with the killing of James you-know-who.
Donald Grant was recruited, his past oh-so murky,
And the principal players descended on Turkey.
Once there, they pursued a machine called the Lektor,
All unknowing puppets controlled by SPECTRE.
But Grant proved unstable in the play’s final act,
And the Ernst had to once again face the cold fact
That his plans weren’t sufficient to take out James Bond.
He would have to scheme better – above and beyond.
You’re a schemer, Mr. Ernst.
The Russians v. the Brits.
It all seemed so good on paper
‘Til your henchman lost his wits, Mr. ErrrrrRNST!
And all while you and your brain trust sit there watching fighting fish like
A bunch of dumb gits.
1965
While the spy was disarming a man who loved gold,
The Ernst hatched a plan to steal missiles – quite bold.
So he issued directives to Emilio Largo,
Who then hijacked a plane and its nuclear cargo.
But this plot, like the others, soon faced stormy weather:
James Bond and Count Lippe were at Shrublands together!
Though the Ernst was oblivious to his bad luck,
The spy sprung into action, and all came unstuck.
So to Nassau Bond went, and amidst all the palms
He succeeded in finding the nuclear bombs.
For the Ernst, this comeuppance was quite plain to see.
He had failed once again. He was now oh-for-three.
You’re in Paris, Mr. Ernst.
You’re frying Number 9.
But you just can’t count on Number 2
To reach the finish line, Mr. ErrrrrRNST!
I’d say you have a numbers problem because 007
Is doing just fine.
1967
With the spy proving harder to kill than he’d guessed,
The Ernst upped his game. “This new scheme is my best.
Now I’m hijacking spacecraft,” he snarled with a sneer.
“James Bond will come fight me, of that much I’m clear.”
And the Ernst was correct, for on sensing a plan
James Bond faked his murder and went to Japan.
The stakes were enormous, the outcome in doubt.
Or was it? By now, you must know who won out.
The spy soon discovered the Ernst’s awesome lair,
And laid waste to his army with nary a scare.
While the Ernst got away, his defeat felt quite rough.
“This new scheme was my best, but still not good enough.”
You’re a poison, Mr. Ernst.
Your veins are filled with Drano.
You hire sycophantic minions
Too afraid to ever say no, Mr. ErrrrrRNST!
Meanwhile, you’re hiding out like a spoiled, wimpy child
Inside a volcano.
1969
As his resources dwindled, the Ernst had a thought.
“Maybe I should retire before I get caught.
I’ll demand a full pardon and take nothing less,
And I’ll give them a reason to answer me ‘yes’.”
So the Ernst started killing off livestock and grains,
Unaware that James Bond was now taking great pains
To close in on the Ernst, getting nearer each day.
Thus the roles had been switched; now the Ernst was the prey.
Their encounter was brief. Each escaped with his life.
But the Ernst sealed an alternate fate for Bond’s wife.
With that cruel blow delivered, he again had a thought.
“Could it be that Bond lets me retire? I think not.”
You’re a virus, Mr. Ernst.
To Schilthorn you were tracked.
Then you let your plan get foiled
By a man who couldn’t act, Mr. ErrrrrRNST!
If you were working for yourself and fouled up so badly,
You would have been whacked.
1971
All his failures to date were like slaps in the face.
So the Ernst made a vow to control outer space.
He decamped to Las Vegas to hole up and hide,
With a couple of clones brought along for the ride.
Using voice duplication of which he was fond
He sat tight to await the arrival of Bond.
And the spy did oblige him by coming as called,
Although James had become fat, lethargic and bald.
But the Ernst had got sloppy; Bond foiled him with ease
On an oil rig built over the deepest of seas.
So the Ernst saw the wreckage of all he had dreamed,
And he disappeared, this time for good…so it seemed.
You’re no mentor, Mr. Ernst.
You taught your clones to flub.
And you prance around the Whyte House
Like a drag queen in a club, Mr. ErrrrrRNST!
Only a dilettante of the highest order would have as his escape vehicle
A lame bathosub.
1981
A full decade went by. It’s a rather long story
Full of lawsuits, attorneys and Kevin McClory.
So that was the end of the Ernst, we assumed.
Just another dead villain, his evil entombed.
Then all of a sudden, Bond got a surprise
In a whirlybird flying in London’s gray skies.
It was him, with his cat! I could see him right there
With his bald head, his tunic, and a new wheelchair!
But the impact was fleeting; he just wasn’t the same
Even Bond didn’t bother to call him by name.
And his rants were weird too, but distilled to their essence
He obsessed over stainless steel delicatessens.
You’re persistent, Mr. Ernst.
You wanted to come back.
So you jerry-rigged a copter
For an aerial attack, Mr. ErrrrrRNST!
But just like all your failed schemes, you ended up going
Down the smokestack.
1983
His demise sure looked permanent. Ah, but instead,
Just a couple years later he rose from the dead.
‘Twas a parallel universe, that’s what it was,
Manufactured to maximize marketing buzz.
Mr. Bond had to deal with dual attacks.
Number One: from the Ernst and his stooge (now named Max).
Number Two: from an exiled Afghani prince.
It had never been done, and it hasn’t been since.
All to say that the Ernst didn’t seem a real threat,
Any more than the cat he still kept as a pet.
And so Bond breezed along with no sign of a rush.
Stopping only to dally with Fatima Blush.
You’re a ringer, Mr. Ernst.
We’ve seen this plot before.
You can change some of the players
But you’ll never change the score, Mr. ErrrrrRNST!
I never thought I’d see the day, but you’ve managed to become
A laughable bore.
2015
Then the Ernst took a furlough – for thirty two years!
It’s a bit hard to follow if you’ve had a few beers.
But the gist is that Bond knew the Ernst as a child,
After Bond lost his folks in the Swiss Alpine wild.
It was “Franz” that the Ernst was called back in the day,
‘Til he faked his own death and thus went on his way.
He created a cadre, a real motley crew,
Like Le Chiffre and Silva, to mention just two.
But of course Bond was better – you know how things are.
And he saddled the Ernst with a nasty eye scar.
Yet again the Ernst failed to do as he’d planned.
Now the Ernst is in custody. That’s where things stand.
You’re a reboot, Mr. Ernst.
You finally returned.
But despite the needle torture
It’s still you who’s getting burned, Mr. ErrrrrRNST!
My sad friend, you have proven beyond a SPECTRE of a doubt that
You’ve just never learned.
You’re a loser, Mr. Ernst.
Oh sure, you’ll cause a flap,
But you’ll never win by sitting
With a cat upon your lap, Mr. ErrrrrRNST!
The three words that describe you are as follows, and I quote:
Piece. Of. Crap.
The Near Future
When his story was done, Christmas Jones sat up straight.
“I like nuclear physics, but wow, that was great!
But you’re missing some info, my bald-headed friend.
You know most of the story, but I know the end.”
“The Old Bond Girls Home – do you know why it’s there?
It’s because Bond has washed us all out of his hair.
During missions, he woos us – his words are so deep.
Then he casts us aside, like we’re scraps on a heap.”
“From Honey to Domino, Kissy to Pam
It’s always the same: ‘Wham bam, thank you ma’am.’
Tatiana, Natalya, Melina and Tiff.
He’s rampaged through all of us – god, what a stiff!”
“In my case, he just left me and went on to Jinx.
Now her room’s next to mine, and we both think Bond stinks.
I could cite more examples if my point seems amiss
But I think that you know where I’m going with this.”
“See, we’re wounded, resentful and aching to strike.
But we just can’t agree on a plan that we like.
We decided to seek outside help just last night.
And now you’ve come along. This just has to be right!”
“Do you realize the power we’d have as a team?
For your part, you could finally realize your dream.
And for us? Oh, my goodness, revenge would be sweet!”
And the Ernst, quite bewildered, sat up in his seat.
“Holy cow” gasped the Ernst, modulating his breath,
“This is such a step up from my angels of death.”
For he knew that what Christmas was saying was true.
And he looked in her eyes. “You need me, I need you.”
They shook hands in agreement. Their partnership blessed,
They went back to the Girls Home and told all the rest.
To a woman, their news was received with approval.
Then they spent the next month plotting James Bond’s removal.
Three weeks in, the Ernst mustered the courage to ask.
“Are there any, um, perks that are part of this task?”
“Keep your focus,” they said, “we’ve a long way to go,”
And the Ernst liked that answer – it wasn’t a “no”!
So they got back to work laying out their grand plan
Until one night they said, “We’ve done all that we can.”
The next day, as the group put their combat gear on,
A young woman appeared. “My name’s Madeleine Swann.”
You’ve surprised me, Mr. Ernst.
You finally thought it through.
Joining forces with those women
Has you feeling fresh and new, Mr. ErrrrrRNST!
Stealing Christmas may have changed the equation, and I’ll be watching
To see what you do.
THE END
Thirteen years later, I finally have a sequel. It's a riff on another famous Christmas story, one that happens to be written in exactly the same poetic rhythm as the previous one. It was originally a book, then later a made-for-TV animation that has become a classic. The TV version combined the talents of two of my favorite artists of all time, Dr. Seuss and Chuck Jones. The TV version also contained a musical element that I have tried to replicate here.
My purpose here is several-fold. First, given how long the internet in general, and this site in particular, have been around, it is hard to create original content related to something as iconic as James Bond -- this is my attempt. Second, it scratches an itch that I rarely scratch -- creative writing. Third, it is my way of thanking SiCo, the mods and everyone here for keeping me connected to Bond, which these days I do primarily through this site.
The story is quite long, but I hope you will find it worth the time. I finished it only this morning, and I had no idea how it would end until the final twist popped into my head.
Without further ado, I present and hope you enjoy...
HOW THE ERNST STOLE CHRISTMAS
The Near Future
Every fan down in Bondville liked Bond girls a lot.
But the Ernst, who lived just east of Bondville, did not.
The Ernst hated Bond girls and all that they stood for.
He thought taking up space was all they were good for.
And why, might you ask, did he hate the girls so?
Well now, that may be something we’ll just never know.
It could be that in school, all the girls thought him wimpy.
It could be that he found their bikinis too skimpy.
But I think that the reason for all of his bile
Was the knowledge he lived with for quite a long while
That a debonair man, a Brit spy, name of James,
Had monopolized all the attention of dames.
His full name was James Bond, and the Ernst knew him well.
They had battled, with Bond winning most, truth to tell.
And these battles were epic – the whole world was rapt.
But the Ernst nursed a grudge, and one day he just snapped.
He snuck in late at night to the Old Bond Girls Home,
A remarkable building, all marble and chrome.
Once inside he crept quietly on, door to door,
Until reaching the room he had been searching for.
He could feel his heart beating, a throb in his bones,
As he read the door’s nameplate; it said “Christmas Jones.”
She was sleeping in bed, a slight smile on her face.
And he drugged her and carried her out of the place.
When she woke, she was lying chained down to a bed,
A white cat purring softly right next to her head.
To one side, a familiar face came into frame.
Even though they were strangers, she called him by name.
“You’re the Ernst!” she exclaimed. “I’ve seen posters of you.
And you’ve kidnapped me here. Now just what will you do?
You look slightly confused, so I need a reply.
Tell me why you have stolen me, Ernst! Tell me why!”
He was taken aback by her confident mien,
And against all his judgment he unlocked her chain.
“Well okay, since you asked, I’ll explain myself, dear.
I’ll do it third-person, and we’ll go year by year…”
1962
First stop was Jamaica. Well, not his, but his guy’s.
His test ground for taking out meddlesome spies.
So he sent Dr. No, committer of wrongs,
To Crab Key in the tropics, well away from the Tongs.
They began toppling rockets, and the US was cursed.
(No wonder the Soviets got theirs up first!)
But then Strangways was murdered, a ham-fisted ploy,
And double-oh-seven soon spoiled their joy.
Dr. No took a bath in a nuclear reactor,
And his henchmen, it has to be said, weren’t a factor.
Honey Ryder was rescued, and the spy got away,
While the Ernst swore revenge: “Mr. Bond, you will pay.”
You’re a novice, Mr. Ernst.
You think of decent plans,
But you outsource execution
To a guy with metal hands, Mr. ErrrrrRNST!
That’s what you get for selecting operatives by
The seat of your pants.
1963
Then the Ernst shook it off, and he headed to Venice,
Where he plotted with Kronsteen and Klebb to make menace.
Kronsteen’s plan was impressive, a true “brilliant coup”
Which would end with the killing of James you-know-who.
Donald Grant was recruited, his past oh-so murky,
And the principal players descended on Turkey.
Once there, they pursued a machine called the Lektor,
All unknowing puppets controlled by SPECTRE.
But Grant proved unstable in the play’s final act,
And the Ernst had to once again face the cold fact
That his plans weren’t sufficient to take out James Bond.
He would have to scheme better – above and beyond.
You’re a schemer, Mr. Ernst.
The Russians v. the Brits.
It all seemed so good on paper
‘Til your henchman lost his wits, Mr. ErrrrrRNST!
And all while you and your brain trust sit there watching fighting fish like
A bunch of dumb gits.
1965
While the spy was disarming a man who loved gold,
The Ernst hatched a plan to steal missiles – quite bold.
So he issued directives to Emilio Largo,
Who then hijacked a plane and its nuclear cargo.
But this plot, like the others, soon faced stormy weather:
James Bond and Count Lippe were at Shrublands together!
Though the Ernst was oblivious to his bad luck,
The spy sprung into action, and all came unstuck.
So to Nassau Bond went, and amidst all the palms
He succeeded in finding the nuclear bombs.
For the Ernst, this comeuppance was quite plain to see.
He had failed once again. He was now oh-for-three.
You’re in Paris, Mr. Ernst.
You’re frying Number 9.
But you just can’t count on Number 2
To reach the finish line, Mr. ErrrrrRNST!
I’d say you have a numbers problem because 007
Is doing just fine.
1967
With the spy proving harder to kill than he’d guessed,
The Ernst upped his game. “This new scheme is my best.
Now I’m hijacking spacecraft,” he snarled with a sneer.
“James Bond will come fight me, of that much I’m clear.”
And the Ernst was correct, for on sensing a plan
James Bond faked his murder and went to Japan.
The stakes were enormous, the outcome in doubt.
Or was it? By now, you must know who won out.
The spy soon discovered the Ernst’s awesome lair,
And laid waste to his army with nary a scare.
While the Ernst got away, his defeat felt quite rough.
“This new scheme was my best, but still not good enough.”
You’re a poison, Mr. Ernst.
Your veins are filled with Drano.
You hire sycophantic minions
Too afraid to ever say no, Mr. ErrrrrRNST!
Meanwhile, you’re hiding out like a spoiled, wimpy child
Inside a volcano.
1969
As his resources dwindled, the Ernst had a thought.
“Maybe I should retire before I get caught.
I’ll demand a full pardon and take nothing less,
And I’ll give them a reason to answer me ‘yes’.”
So the Ernst started killing off livestock and grains,
Unaware that James Bond was now taking great pains
To close in on the Ernst, getting nearer each day.
Thus the roles had been switched; now the Ernst was the prey.
Their encounter was brief. Each escaped with his life.
But the Ernst sealed an alternate fate for Bond’s wife.
With that cruel blow delivered, he again had a thought.
“Could it be that Bond lets me retire? I think not.”
You’re a virus, Mr. Ernst.
To Schilthorn you were tracked.
Then you let your plan get foiled
By a man who couldn’t act, Mr. ErrrrrRNST!
If you were working for yourself and fouled up so badly,
You would have been whacked.
1971
All his failures to date were like slaps in the face.
So the Ernst made a vow to control outer space.
He decamped to Las Vegas to hole up and hide,
With a couple of clones brought along for the ride.
Using voice duplication of which he was fond
He sat tight to await the arrival of Bond.
And the spy did oblige him by coming as called,
Although James had become fat, lethargic and bald.
But the Ernst had got sloppy; Bond foiled him with ease
On an oil rig built over the deepest of seas.
So the Ernst saw the wreckage of all he had dreamed,
And he disappeared, this time for good…so it seemed.
You’re no mentor, Mr. Ernst.
You taught your clones to flub.
And you prance around the Whyte House
Like a drag queen in a club, Mr. ErrrrrRNST!
Only a dilettante of the highest order would have as his escape vehicle
A lame bathosub.
1981
A full decade went by. It’s a rather long story
Full of lawsuits, attorneys and Kevin McClory.
So that was the end of the Ernst, we assumed.
Just another dead villain, his evil entombed.
Then all of a sudden, Bond got a surprise
In a whirlybird flying in London’s gray skies.
It was him, with his cat! I could see him right there
With his bald head, his tunic, and a new wheelchair!
But the impact was fleeting; he just wasn’t the same
Even Bond didn’t bother to call him by name.
And his rants were weird too, but distilled to their essence
He obsessed over stainless steel delicatessens.
You’re persistent, Mr. Ernst.
You wanted to come back.
So you jerry-rigged a copter
For an aerial attack, Mr. ErrrrrRNST!
But just like all your failed schemes, you ended up going
Down the smokestack.
1983
His demise sure looked permanent. Ah, but instead,
Just a couple years later he rose from the dead.
‘Twas a parallel universe, that’s what it was,
Manufactured to maximize marketing buzz.
Mr. Bond had to deal with dual attacks.
Number One: from the Ernst and his stooge (now named Max).
Number Two: from an exiled Afghani prince.
It had never been done, and it hasn’t been since.
All to say that the Ernst didn’t seem a real threat,
Any more than the cat he still kept as a pet.
And so Bond breezed along with no sign of a rush.
Stopping only to dally with Fatima Blush.
You’re a ringer, Mr. Ernst.
We’ve seen this plot before.
You can change some of the players
But you’ll never change the score, Mr. ErrrrrRNST!
I never thought I’d see the day, but you’ve managed to become
A laughable bore.
2015
Then the Ernst took a furlough – for thirty two years!
It’s a bit hard to follow if you’ve had a few beers.
But the gist is that Bond knew the Ernst as a child,
After Bond lost his folks in the Swiss Alpine wild.
It was “Franz” that the Ernst was called back in the day,
‘Til he faked his own death and thus went on his way.
He created a cadre, a real motley crew,
Like Le Chiffre and Silva, to mention just two.
But of course Bond was better – you know how things are.
And he saddled the Ernst with a nasty eye scar.
Yet again the Ernst failed to do as he’d planned.
Now the Ernst is in custody. That’s where things stand.
You’re a reboot, Mr. Ernst.
You finally returned.
But despite the needle torture
It’s still you who’s getting burned, Mr. ErrrrrRNST!
My sad friend, you have proven beyond a SPECTRE of a doubt that
You’ve just never learned.
You’re a loser, Mr. Ernst.
Oh sure, you’ll cause a flap,
But you’ll never win by sitting
With a cat upon your lap, Mr. ErrrrrRNST!
The three words that describe you are as follows, and I quote:
Piece. Of. Crap.
The Near Future
When his story was done, Christmas Jones sat up straight.
“I like nuclear physics, but wow, that was great!
But you’re missing some info, my bald-headed friend.
You know most of the story, but I know the end.”
“The Old Bond Girls Home – do you know why it’s there?
It’s because Bond has washed us all out of his hair.
During missions, he woos us – his words are so deep.
Then he casts us aside, like we’re scraps on a heap.”
“From Honey to Domino, Kissy to Pam
It’s always the same: ‘Wham bam, thank you ma’am.’
Tatiana, Natalya, Melina and Tiff.
He’s rampaged through all of us – god, what a stiff!”
“In my case, he just left me and went on to Jinx.
Now her room’s next to mine, and we both think Bond stinks.
I could cite more examples if my point seems amiss
But I think that you know where I’m going with this.”
“See, we’re wounded, resentful and aching to strike.
But we just can’t agree on a plan that we like.
We decided to seek outside help just last night.
And now you’ve come along. This just has to be right!”
“Do you realize the power we’d have as a team?
For your part, you could finally realize your dream.
And for us? Oh, my goodness, revenge would be sweet!”
And the Ernst, quite bewildered, sat up in his seat.
“Holy cow” gasped the Ernst, modulating his breath,
“This is such a step up from my angels of death.”
For he knew that what Christmas was saying was true.
And he looked in her eyes. “You need me, I need you.”
They shook hands in agreement. Their partnership blessed,
They went back to the Girls Home and told all the rest.
To a woman, their news was received with approval.
Then they spent the next month plotting James Bond’s removal.
Three weeks in, the Ernst mustered the courage to ask.
“Are there any, um, perks that are part of this task?”
“Keep your focus,” they said, “we’ve a long way to go,”
And the Ernst liked that answer – it wasn’t a “no”!
So they got back to work laying out their grand plan
Until one night they said, “We’ve done all that we can.”
The next day, as the group put their combat gear on,
A young woman appeared. “My name’s Madeleine Swann.”
You’ve surprised me, Mr. Ernst.
You finally thought it through.
Joining forces with those women
Has you feeling fresh and new, Mr. ErrrrrRNST!
Stealing Christmas may have changed the equation, and I’ll be watching
To see what you do.
THE END
Hilly...you old devil!