TEST DRAFT 3 With LLaregub footnotes The Boy Who Shot Flimzy Bubbletrumpett- macbook 2

And so we entered the dark woods.
Chapter 3.
TRUDI.
For more than a century Earth had been flattened by the roller of wars, wars, wars
16. Then
something extraordinary happened. A shoemaker called Inknavar Marz in the village of
Vorogani, in the Askeran Rayon of the Autonomous Oblast of Nagorno-Karabakh
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(It was
actually the ex-Askeran Rayon of the Autonomous Oblast of Nagorno-Karabakh but many
people still had a fondness for the grandiosity of the old name) came back from a visit to an
elderly aunt only to find his shoe shop completely destroyed by a rocket that had been meant
for the militia headquarters in the next village.
He was not shocked. He was not stunned. He was not amazed, astounded, or even surprised.
This had happened to him three times before. He felt slightly sick, very tired and very sad. He
sat down amid the rubble and wreckage that had once been his shop and wept. He wept not
just for his beautiful shoe shop but for everyone who has had something destroyed by war,
homes, farms, schools, hospitals and lives. He wept for widows and orphans, for husbands
who had lost wives, for lovers who had lost their beloved, for those who had lost friends or
relatives, for children who had lost their pets and farmers their herds and flocks. For everyone
who suddenly found a huge dark hole had been torn out of the fabric of their lives. The
villagers watched while Inknavar Marz wept and awkwardly tried to help by gathering up the
scattered remnants of shoes and putting them into a sack; a single black stiletto heel, one pink
slipper with a singed white pompom, a pair of scorched and melted trainers with laces tied
together, a single riding boot in polished brown leather that had survived in perfect condition,
one blue leather court shoe that had been part of a pair lovingly made by Inknavar Marz
himself for a young woman who had wanted them to wear at her brother’s wedding. All these
went into the sack; all useless, not a single wearable pair of shoes could be found, but the
villagers went on filling the sack because they could not think of anything else to do. And
Inknavar Marz sat and wept because he could not think of anything else to do. But somewhere
deep inside him a spark of anger glowed, and as his tears gradually subsided, and he had wept
until he could weep no more, the spark glowed ever more bright and burst into a flame. Then
as Inknavar Marz sniffed and wiped his damp eyes with a dirty handkerchief the flame
became a fire, and the fire became a volcano or anger and rage against those who had caused
this thing to happen. He leapt to his feet and shook his fist at the sky, from where this
destruction had come, and shouted, ‘I Inknavar Marz have had enough! The village of
Voragani has had enough! Nagorno-Karabakh has had enough! The whole world has had
enough!
The villagers dropped the sack of burned shoes and stared at Inknavar Marz who looked back
at them and said, ‘I am going to do something to stop this!’
And that is where it started. It began with a message on internet from a tiny village in
Nagorno-Karabakh and it spread throughout the world. What Inknavar Marz wanted was
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