Renowned digital swordsman Aral d'Artagnan strode into the foyer of the hôtel on the Rue du Vieux-Colombier in Paris, his blade flashing beneath his cloak. The hôtel was the court of legendary Adobe Evangelists 'The Musketeers'. Entering in a state of fierce excitement, he rushed headlong into a tall Musketeer who was on his way out.
'Upon my honour' exclaimed the Musketeer. 'But what have we here? A doughty young blade, come to the court of Adobe. Pray, what does this impudent rascal want with us, I wonder?' He smiled broadly. The candlelight of the hôtel's foyer played devilishly off his golden baldric.
'Whom do I address?' enquired d'Artagnan boldly, drawing himself up to his full height.
Bowing theatrically low the Musketeer introduced himself. 'Athos M. Doherty, Musketeer and Adobe Platform Evangelist. At. Your. Service.'
D"Artagnan had not travelled from distant lands to be lightly dismissed. 'Noble Athos' began Aral. 'This is an exciting time for your Flash Platform. The land is alive with talk of mobile experiences and augmented reality. But I do not necessary share Adobe's vision of the future and I have therefore come here to challenge you to a duel.'
A look of mock incredulity appeared on Doherty's face, as he looked around at a sea of amused comrades. 'A duel! The young imp requests a duel!' Laughter rose up all around but stopped suddenly as he drew his sword with lightning speed, levelling it at d'Artagnan's chest.
'You shall have your wish, mon petit garçon' replied the Musketeer. 'But not a sword fight for they are forbidden by royal decree. No, it shall be a battle of wits. 20 minutes each, to respectively present our, as you said, "vision" of the Flash Platform. And afterwards we shall put it to the assembled, to see which of us has won the argument.'
Athos sheathed his sword. Aral nodded.
'Agreed!' he replied. 'When and where shall we meet?'
Athos sauntered out into the Rue du Vieux-Colombier. 'The evening of Tuesday the 26th of January. Meet me at The Werks in Hove at 7pm sharp. Don't be late, or we'll have smoked all the French fags.' Bowing with a preposterous flourish he added 'By your leave, sir!' and swept away into the Parisien night.
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Added by flashbrighton on January 18, 2010