And so it goes - they came together in Cardigan town, there was Del da Foster, Harold Hobart Hellybutt and Jimmy Bodean. It seemed like a good place, with a big river running out to the sea, but no otters in it to be seen. Had the local people been lying to the three of them?
“No time for goddamn otters!” muttered Bodean.
He was right they supposed, they had meetings to attend. Not before da Foster and Hellybutt purchased Swedish hunting knifes, which in minutes had nearly sliced some fingers off.
Bodean led the way, as the others swished and cut the grey air close behind, and soon enough they were in a velvet adorned room being greeted by Sir howies Dukem. It was understood that howies Dukem had made his fortune in textiles and was now interested in expanding into the caravanning business. Tea and biscuits clinked and slurped away and it appeared that they had mutual objectives, that sure a deal was to be made - all the while a guy called Dick Dasterdly (maybe an acquaintance of howies Dukem) sat in the corner crying over his lazy dog.
Time was overdue and da Foster went off to a ferry terminal in Pembroke - he wanted to go drinking in Ireland for a few days and thumb through old libraries - and so he went, and Bodean and Hellybutt charged towards Devon to pack up the infernal caravan and left Dukem and Dasterdly to turn the cogs and chastise that woeful dog.
