Victor Triumphs Again and Mrs Weatherby Learns a Lesson

It were a small village, Squirmly on the Slug, and vile ruperts spread fat and thick amongst the inhabidads what libed there.
One victor of these gossipity tongues had oft been Victor Hardly, a harmless boot, whom never halmed nobody. A typical quimmty old hag who spread these vile ruperts was Mrs Weatherby - a widow by her first husbands.
'They're holding a Black Matt down at Victors pad,' was oft heard about the village - but I never heard it. Things like this were getting Victor down, if not lower.
'Why but why do they say these bad things about me when I have but never halmed or speak bad,' he would say, but I never heard him.
'He's drawing bad Christians on the graves,' Mrs Weatherby would spread. The whole village was alarming.
'We can't have all this,' said the Vicar, who was a Christian.
'We'll have to set a trap and catch this fowl fiend what desicated our church.'
Once and forearm plans were made to prove who it were playing the Darryl with the church. On Thursday or Monday a little group of thirtytwo people, all dictionaries of the Counsil, and the Parcel and the Vicar all hid noticeably amongst all the other dead things lying about.
'This will catch him, God willy,' thought a man with Oxfam on his face.
After eight hours or so they all noticed that nothing had happened - and they began to wonder - why? after all hadn't they had the information from a reliable sore?