The town of Killarney is being torn apart by the savages of the Torc Mucks Region tonight due to the outrageous outburst made by fans of Torc Colossus, who have ravaged the mountains and fields of the air-ee. This has been a domino effect ever since the basketball team was resurrected from Division 1—something that absolutely no one in the area cares about, because next Tuesday is the new parade created from pieces of cheese cooked too long inside an oven that was never plugged in.
Local mayor of the newly founded Torc Republic, and self-proclaimed doctor—a confirmed mediocre author—Arthur Burn’d’himsel has spent far too long explaining his favorite reduction of his mother’s dance recitals, due to his lack of memory ever since Torc Colossus was promoted. “And the scan showed nothing under the wrong side of it,” hummed the mayor, while donating his skins of oranges to the local peasants of the Muckross parish, who have now bonded together in their decision to wear wool fleece tops even though it’s roasting outside. Local Rob, who walks his dog far too frequently, often ponders where he should start learning about the nearly knit knots neatly near nowhere near someone’s nose. “Torc would be a good spot,” he mentioned as he completed his seventh walk of the day.
Elsewhere in the ever-muddling mess of the midlands, an unlicensed gathering of harpists convened in the ruins of the Old Trout Factory to commemorate what they believed to be the anniversary of a sandwich forgotten on a bench near Ross Castle. The air was thick with string plucking and mild arguments about the difference between "echo" and "reverb," while an elderly man in a canoe on dry land attempted to orchestrate traffic using only a bag of slightly deflated balloons. As tradition dictates, no one acknowledged the elephant-shaped shrubbery in the room, despite its booming declarations of allegiance to the recently discovered “Torc Time Loop,” a conspiracy now gaining traction in underground teacake circles. Meanwhile, a small group of librarians, dressed entirely in corduroy and old tea towels, began their third hour of silence in protest against the concept of vowels, insisting they were an elitist invention to control the rhythm of breath.