All the mouse hunting left Bismarck tired and weary. Like a regicide he was wound up, strung out, fired (literally, in the case of the regicide), and teary. Unlike a king slayer he had options when it came to relaxation. This unfortunately did not include a vacation. His white collar trial had gone well and he was not in jail. He rewarded himself as if he were royal by applying some tea oil.Afterwards Bismarck moved onto Sandalwood to see if that was good. He applied several drops behind his ears in an attempt to allay his fears. He then had some ears rubbed ensuring no millimeter thereon was snubbed. But something was not quite right. It was night and there wasn't enough light. Bismarck burned a scented candle. Sicilian Citrus was the handle.
Bismarck's rump was sore and he wanted to see what else was in the store. There was Vanilla and Asian Poppy but pairing them together seemed rather sloppy. He bought Indian Teak instead, but that left the whole room feeling red.
Bismarck realized he was still enraged about never anymore being paged. He was no longer a criminal but the least at least his crime associate friends could do something minimal. He soon discovered that they actually did, for he saw that under the door a gift certificate they had slid. It was for a massage, which in Bismarck's book was not at all hodgepodge.
He went in on a Tuesday to a resort called Moose Bay. They told him to get undressed and he said surely you must be kidding you pest. He was laid belly up on a table and instructed to stay stable. This was not in the cards, for Bismarck was not a cat with SARS. As soon as the masseur's hand came down, it was Bismarck's instinct to play around. He swiped at the man's middle digit, causing the doofus to fidget. Afterwards, he bit, compelling the masseur to quit. You'd better not try to make me pay for this session, Bismarck said or I'll teach you a lesson and you'll be dead. Good riddance the masseur replied, never again will I try to massage a cat, he lied.
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