Arry Otter is now six and a half months old and has learnt some lessons - I doubt he'll remember them though. He is still being 'home eddicated' and is still being called a dimwit. Arry isn't the only one who has learnt a lesson though, Mrs Otter has learnt a very important lesson as well: don't say how special you think someone with a only single braincell is. Our story begins with Arry waking up. He is lying on a bed of reed paper and is swaddled in a blanket of some cottony plant's flower. Eyelids drooping open, the young otter is greeted by the sight of his little brother, Ary Otter, tugging at his feet. More fully waking up, Arry mumbles, "Oi, Ary, wot do ya thinks ya's doin'?" "Nothin' Arry! Me does no dodgy business!" squeaks Ary, in a three-month-old's high-pitched squeal. "Scram! Ya dodgy piece a work," snaps Arry. WAAAAAH! Arry's mother rapidly waddles into the room and picks up Ary. Shooting a furious glance at her eldest son, she whips around and totters out of the bedchamber with Ary embraced in her stubby arms. Ary's muffled wailing stops as Arry hears a thumping noise coming from the kitchen; like a broom-handle whacking something soft and furry. Back in the bedchamber, the single brain-celled otter lies in his bed, to be accurate, 'mat' would be a more fitting word, and blankly stares at the slightly domed ceiling. A crackle comes from under the covers. Lifting his right arm out, Arry sees a purple crackle run down it and project out of his chubby fingertips. The bolt of purple energy slams into the wall opposite Arry, and scoops out a handful of sod. It then returns to Arry and gently deposits the sod in his open palm. At this point, someone, no, anyone, (except for Arry), would've said something like "Mum, mum! I has found out that me goddamned soul can do a dodgy piece a sorcery!" - or at least something similar; we don't all talk like Arry. Instead this is what he did: he shoved back his blanket, got up, and announced, "Mum, gimmie me breakfast! I's goin' out now and me godforsaken soul is damn starvin'!" "I'll give it to ya li'l body when ya's crawlin' outa that godforsaken hole, so hold yer dodgy horses, will ya?
Jollily trotting along with his breakfast clutched tight, the pudgy young otter scanned the boggy Ottermore Marshes for a suitable place to eat his butter-stuffed, lard-packed and fat-crammed breakfast - you'd be surprised at how much you can jam into a pair of sandwiches. "Ah, there ya be me li'l tuffet," exclaimed Arry as he spotted the tuffet he usually had his merry breakfast on. Several minutes later, as 'our deer li'l Arry' (as his mother used to call him), noticed that his right arm was twitching. "Well, by golly, me arm is dodgy!" "Hmm, I see …" An elderly beaver wearing a purple cloak looked down on Arry. "Wot's the matter with ya? Me arm is dodgy, so leave me alone." was Arry's snappy retort. The cloaked beaver continued in a calm monotone, "Well, my dear young otter, do you know why your arm is doing that?" "No, 'course not. Waddya think, Imma one of them posh know-it-alls!?" Arry bit back. The wizard - for that's what he was - seemed a bit taken aback by this yappy response. "Well, dear otter, it is magic! You are blessed with the talent of magic. Do you wish to be my apprentice?" sighed the beaver in an exasperated tone. This was the first young animal that he had to convince to become his apprentice. "Hah! Now that's were ya got me wrong!" spat Arry, "I'm not gonna do no sorcery, last time I tried, I ended up drunk with Yaput alcohol. Don't pull me scabby leg, ya ol' dodgy dodger! And anyways, sorcery ain't reel," he nastily snarled. Poor Arry Otter, his single braincell didn't let him process that magic was real! Soon after this petty argument with the wizard, the beaver revoked Arry's magic and sent him home to his mother. "Arry! Where has ya been? I has been lookin' all over the place for ya, ya li'l bugger!" In reality, Mrs Otter hadn't moved a speck of dust to look for Arry; she wasn't the type. "Well, see, I met this dodgy ol' beaver wearing some purple cloak. E' wos spoutin' nonsense about me godforsaken soul doing magic! I told the ol' pelican that first o' all, sorcery ain't reel, and then I told 'im that there wos no way I'd let meeself become 'is scabby apprentice. I also told the wretch that e' wos an ol' dodgy dodger! I guess that's what put 'im off." "Well then, Arry, why did e' say that ya had some goddamned magic in ya?" enquired Arry's mother. "Well, I guess e' musta known that I took a chunk outa the ol' sod wall in me bedchamber, and maybe the ol' pelican saw a couple a purple stuff go down me godforsaken arm," ventured Arry. "After that, e' said a bunch a funny words," "Then wot be them funny words, Arry?" Asked Mrs Otter, "The bloke said 'I revoke all magic from ye unworthy soul' , or summat," he recalled. "So ya just -ya just -ya just turned down the chance of doin' magic like that? Be ya insane?" She was utterly astounded. "Well heck yeah, last time I tried sorcery, I got drunk on Yaput alcohol." Oh, well, I guess we can excuse the kid - after all, he only had one braincell. Right?
