(It’s a kind of flash spectacle, otherwise, perfectly ordinary.)
Melthuse the Hotheaded paced back and forth in his dapper robes, belt tassel swinging ominously (or so he hoped), and sandals squeaking on the marble floor. “Oh my dolorous mushrooms!” he muttered. “Oh my squamush tornadoes! This won’t do, no it won’t do at all!” There were seven thousand three hundred and seventeen turkeys loose in the southernmost courtyard (“The Reclaimed Sump” or “Nackerlee”–no one could quite remember why they were called that). Melthuse had been tasked with somehow transporting all seven thousand plus turkeys into the North Bailey, which had been repurposed as a “turkey holdall” or so Baron Krunscheeplummz had called it. Well, sure, Melthuse was somewhat responsible for the surfeit of turkeys due to an itchy nose during the Calling of Morfrost Veeberfleen, a spell to clean all the windows all at once without any need of ladders. With the nose scratching, instead, Melthuse had inadvertently cast the Palling of Morfroomp Flundersteen, a spell to summon a large number turkeys (Melthuse hadn’t known the exact number until the spell had burned the number into his brain. Not only that, he now knew each turkey by name.) He sighed and then dashed after Yoorp Domildacile, a particularly spry turkey that had only just now hopped down from the astrolabe.
Three weeks later Melthuse was still at it. “Hey, at least it’s a job,” Melthuse thought, as he pounced onto Vicanta Poolflolloper. “Only three thousand six hundred and thirty-three to go!”