Harem Scare ‘em

Donnie’s stomach did a somersault.

A terribly scarred and bald Colonel Panix, but it was definitely he.

In all of the pictures, Panix was wearing some variation of a military uniform, with a weird logo on the shoulder that looked like a stylised representation of the letters B, S and D. Donnie, on the other hand, wore very little. A hat here or a pair of boots there.  He wasn’t smiling in any of the images, which made him feel a little better. It meant he wasn’t there out of choice.

And what was this robe made of? He held his arms up to see a light, almost transparent fabric of probably very high quality and accompanying price. It was fringed with what appeared to be … yes; on closer inspection it turned out to be true: pure gold filigree. Somebody loved him, that was for sure.

If only it wasn’t Panix. Anyone but him.

Donnie looked up suddenly, alerted by a pair of crashes from somewhere else in the house; a door had slammed open and then closed.

‘Are you awake, my little scrunch-muffin,’ yelled Panix.

Donnie did a double-take, hoping it wasn’t he that was being referred to as a mutated pastry.

‘Did you have your beauty sleep, my little horn-bag?’

Scrunch-muffin? Horn-bag? What?!