I'll be damned if it wasn't Mr. Claude Frollo, lunatic priest from HUNCHBANK, who started today's blaze in Paris. You may remember him -- his body roasted so much for the gypsy like a dairy cow wanting to give milk, that he nearly had to carve up his own private parts to prevent himself from immorality. Well, the fancy Salt Laker dispatched me across the pond, as I was at home drinking beers and tendin' to my dog Scoop, with nothin' a'tall better to do. In Paris, I took one of them cabs, as they call them, from the airport over to the city square, where the blaze was going strong like some kind of county moonshiners setting their product under before the sheriff could arrive. It seems as though police and firefighters alike were distracted by the fire ... I suppose they needed to tend to it and such. Meanwhile I stood aways off taking in the scene, taking it in all in all, much to my disappointment to see such beauty trickle away for naught, when much to my surprise here comes Claude Frollo a gigglin' and a laughin.' Now he's a tall slender folk, with a silly hat, and a silly way about him. And his eyebrows is mighty high and mighty. He tells me he says that he seen the gypsy and the mutant in there -- in the church -- making love the French way, and he decided to destroy the whole thing under to preserve it by fire for the kingdom. I followed him for a time such as it was, but his slippery methods and his knowledge of the area got the best of me on account of the hobbles I still suffer from horseback ridin'. I'll post again if I see him again.
