Silas Rathbone concentrated on the newest karate move. He knew, once he finished, he would feel invigorated, an imperator of his world. Right now, Silas was frustrated. His gyrations were clumsy and he couldn't integrate the elaborate hand, foot maneuver.
Twenty minutes later, without inspiration but a lot of perspiration, Rathbone gratefully stopped for the day. He figuratively exonerated himself for the bad performance and promised himself he'd get it right the next time. Now he had to go to the rathskeller to meet his inamorata, Helene; she with the fulgerate eyes.
Grabbing his brat, Silas hurried into the stormy night. He felt exhilarated in the blowing wind and the thought of seeing his love. And, that's how the desperate confederates intent on mugging, liberated Rathbone from his wallet.
Brattling, Silas walked into the cellar café berating himself for not paying attention.
"Botheration and double drats," he mumbled. "I need to pay attention."
Exploration of the dimly lit bar allowed Rathbone to find Helene sitting on a rattan chair in the back of the room. She seemed to enjoy the prate of her companions and Silas hurried to her side.
"Oh my! What happened to you?" she vociferated.
"It's nothing," was his declaration.
However, everyone heard Helene exclaim and a conglomeration of sober and not so sober, old and young, agglomerated around him.
"Tell us your counterattack!" someone yelled.
"Yes, what was your strategy?" another piped in.
Helene's large green eyes looked at him with such adoration, Rathbone had no choice but to exaggerate his mishap.
He began demonstrating some karate moves which he said he used on the perpetrators. He deliberately elaborated the number and size of his attackers, throwing in some mild execrations until the rathskeller reverberated to the rataplan of his dancing feet.
When Silas finished, choruses of "Ratfinks!", "Pirates!", "We'll help you get 'em!", "Incarcerate the lot!" "No, defenestration from the tallest building!", "Eviscerate 'em!", filled the café.
Catching his breath, Silas rationally realized there had better be a moratorium on this event as the mob was deteriorating, would become a conflagration which, most likely, would fall on innocent people.
Rathbone's wrath and the commiserate fraternity gradually evaporated as free drinks magically appeared at small, separate tables.
Silas did not regret his less than accurate vituperation. Helene's edulcorate eyes ameliorated his very soul. His temporary aberration, though deliberate, insured free drinks for the night plus Helene's admiration.
Newcomers came to Rathbone's table and he happily adumbrated, illustrating some moderate moves. Drinks kept coming for the duration.
All was going well until, "A lucrative night, Innkeeper, a round for the house!" Silas looked up to see the thieving operators.
"Muskrat, that's my wallet!" Against all rationale, Rathbone, rattlebrained from drink, jumped up, wanting reparations from these prats.
His shout generated irate conspirators unwilling to tolerate crooks. Refrigerated crates of beer flew through the air, bottle after bottle scratching, lacerating, and saturating everyone.
The magistrate and the curate were finally called. A good night was had by all!