nirajandhakal/Mahabharata-HHGTTG-Text · Datasets at Hugging Face

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be the Sandwich Maker was very heaven.

And so the Sandwich Maker sang as he worked.

He was using the last of the year's salted meat. It was a little
past its best now, but still the rich savour of Perfectly Normal
Beast meat was something unsurpassed in any of the Sandwich
Maker's previous experience. Next week it was anticipated that
the Perfectly Normal Beasts would appear again for their regu-
lar migration, whereupon the whole village would once again be
plunged into frenetic action: hunting the Beasts, killing perhaps
six, maybe even seven dozen of the thousands that thundered
past. Then the Beasts must be rapidly butchered and cleaned,
with most of the meat salted to keep it through the winter months
until the return migration in the spring, which would replenish
their supplies.

The very best of the meat would be roasted straight away
for the feast that marked the Autumn Passage. The celebrations
would last for three days of sheer exuberance, dancing and stories
that Old Thrashbarg would tell of how the hunt had gone, stories
that he would have been busy sitting making up in his hut while
the rest of the village was out doing the actual hunting.

And then the very, very best of the meat would be saved
from the feast and delivered cold to the Sandwich Maker. And
the Sandwich Maker would exercise on it the skills that he
had brought to them from the gods, and make the exquisite
Sandwiches of the Third Season, of which the whole village would
partake before beginning, the next day, to prepare themselves for
the rigours of the coming winter.

Today he was just making ordinary sandwiches, if such deli-
cacies, so lovingly crafted, could ever be called ordinary. Today
his assistant was away so the Sandwich Maker was applying his
own garnish, which he was happy to do. He was happy with just
about everything in fact.

He sliced, he sang. He flipped each slice of meat neatly on to
a slice of bread, trimmed it and assembled all the trimmings into
their jigsaw. A little salad, a little sauce, another slice of bread,
another sandwich, another verse of Yellow Submarine.

'Hello, Arthur.'

The Sandwich Maker almost sliced his thumb off.

The villagers had watched in consternation as the woman had
marched boldly to the hut of the Sandwich Maker. The Sandwich
Maker had been sent to them by Almighty Bob in a burning fiery
chariot. This, at least, was what Thrashbarg said, and Thrashbarg
was the authority on these things. So, at least, Thrashbarg
claimed, and Thrashbarg was ... and so on and so on. It
was hardly worth arguing about.

A few villagers wondered why Almighty Bob would send
his onlie begotten Sandwich Maker in a burning fiery chariot
rather than perhaps in one that might have landed quietly
without destroying half the forest, filling it with ghosts and also
injuring the Sandwich Maker quite badly. Old Thrashbarg said
that it was the ineffable will of Bob, and when they asked him
what ineffable meant he said look it up.

This was a problem because Old Thrashbarg had the only
dictionary and he wouldn't let them borrow it. They asked him
why not and he said that it was not for them to know the will
of Almighty Bob, and when they asked him why not again he
said because he said so. Anyway, somebody sneaked into Old
Thrashbarg's hut one day while he was out having a swim and
looked up 'ineffable'. 'Ineffable' apparently meant 'unknowable,
indescribable, unutterable, not to be known or spoken about'. So
that cleared that up.

At least they had got the sandwiches.

One day Old Thrashbarg said that Almighty Bob had decreed
that he, Thrashbarg, was to have first pick of the sandwiches.
The villagers asked him when this had happened, exactly, and
Thrashbarg said it had happened yesterday, when they weren't
looking. 'Have faith,' Old Thrashbarg said, 'or burn!'

They let him have first pick of the sandwiches. It seemed
easiest.

And now this woman had just arrived out of nowhere, and gone
straight for the Sandwich Maker's hut. His fame had obviously
spread, though it was hard to know where to since, according to
Old Thrashbarg, there wasn't anywhere else. Anyway, wherever
it was she had come from, presumably somewhere ineffable, she
was here now and was in the Sandwich Maker's hut. Who was
she? And who was the strange girl who was hanging around
outside the hut moodily and kicking at stones and showing every
sign of not wanting to be there? It seemed odd that someone
should come all the way from somewhere ineffable in a chariot
that was obviously a vast improvement on the burning fiery one
which had brought them the Sandwich Maker, if she didn't even
want to be here?

They all looked to Thrashbarg, but he was on his knees
mumbling and looking very firmly up into the sky and not

be the Sandwich Maker was very heaven.

And so the Sandwich Maker sang as he worked.

He was using the last of the year's salted meat. It was a little

past its best now, but still the rich savour of Perfectly Normal

Beast meat was something unsurpassed in any of the Sandwich

Maker's previous experience. Next week it was anticipated that

the Perfectly Normal Beasts would appear again for their regu-

lar migration, whereupon the whole village would once again be

plunged into frenetic action: hunting the Beasts, killing perhaps

six, maybe even seven dozen of the thousands that thundered

past. Then the Beasts must be rapidly butchered and cleaned,

with most of the meat salted to keep it through the winter months

until the return migration in the spring, which would replenish

their supplies.

The very best of the meat would be roasted straight away

for the feast that marked the Autumn Passage. The celebrations

would last for three days of sheer exuberance, dancing and stories

that Old Thrashbarg would tell of how the hunt had gone, stories

that he would have been busy sitting making up in his hut while

the rest of the village was out doing the actual hunting.

And then the very, very best of the meat would be saved

from the feast and delivered cold to the Sandwich Maker. And

the Sandwich Maker would exercise on it the skills that he

had brought to them from the gods, and make the exquisite

Sandwiches of the Third Season, of which the whole village would

partake before beginning, the next day, to prepare themselves for

the rigours of the coming winter.

Today he was just making ordinary sandwiches, if such deli-

cacies, so lovingly crafted, could ever be called ordinary. Today

his assistant was away so the Sandwich Maker was applying his

own garnish, which he was happy to do. He was happy with just

about everything in fact.

He sliced, he sang. He flipped each slice of meat neatly on to

a slice of bread, trimmed it and assembled all the trimmings into

their jigsaw. A little salad, a little sauce, another slice of bread,

another sandwich, another verse of Yellow Submarine.

'Hello, Arthur.'

The Sandwich Maker almost sliced his thumb off.

The villagers had watched in consternation as the woman had

marched boldly to the hut of the Sandwich Maker. The Sandwich

Maker had been sent to them by Almighty Bob in a burning fiery

chariot. This, at least, was what Thrashbarg said, and Thrashbarg

was the authority on these things. So, at least, Thrashbarg

claimed, and Thrashbarg was ... and so on and so on. It

was hardly worth arguing about.

A few villagers wondered why Almighty Bob would send

his onlie begotten Sandwich Maker in a burning fiery chariot

rather than perhaps in one that might have landed quietly

without destroying half the forest, filling it with ghosts and also

injuring the Sandwich Maker quite badly. Old Thrashbarg said

that it was the ineffable will of Bob, and when they asked him

what ineffable meant he said look it up.

This was a problem because Old Thrashbarg had the only

dictionary and he wouldn't let them borrow it. They asked him

why not and he said that it was not for them to know the will

of Almighty Bob, and when they asked him why not again he

said because he said so. Anyway, somebody sneaked into Old

Thrashbarg's hut one day while he was out having a swim and

looked up 'ineffable'. 'Ineffable' apparently meant 'unknowable,

indescribable, unutterable, not to be known or spoken about'. So

that cleared that up.

At least they had got the sandwiches.

One day Old Thrashbarg said that Almighty Bob had decreed

that he, Thrashbarg, was to have first pick of the sandwiches.

The villagers asked him when this had happened, exactly, and

Thrashbarg said it had happened yesterday, when they weren't

looking. 'Have faith,' Old Thrashbarg said, 'or burn!'

They let him have first pick of the sandwiches. It seemed

easiest.

And now this woman had just arrived out of nowhere, and gone

straight for the Sandwich Maker's hut. His fame had obviously

spread, though it was hard to know where to since, according to

Old Thrashbarg, there wasn't anywhere else. Anyway, wherever

it was she had come from, presumably somewhere ineffable, she

was here now and was in the Sandwich Maker's hut. Who was

she? And who was the strange girl who was hanging around

outside the hut moodily and kicking at stones and showing every

sign of not wanting to be there? It seemed odd that someone

should come all the way from somewhere ineffable in a chariot

that was obviously a vast improvement on the burning fiery one

which had brought them the Sandwich Maker, if she didn't even

want to be here?

They all looked to Thrashbarg, but he was on his knees

mumbling and looking very firmly up into the sky and not