Smeggin rabbits are chasing the hamsters.
Cool, Cav-- I thought that it was you, but I had a few doubts. 'A corpse in paper mache' is a great line.'
(Wow, that is a lot of parentheses, smog!)
(It's surprisng what interest one can get from the normal, isn't it?)
(Maybe it's because of difference in maturity? You were/are mature enough to talk to them, but not too old as to not be approachable for the kids)
(Thanks!)
(I hope to see you soon; if I don't see you to-night, then have a nice time in Massachussets!)
And I am dumb to tell the crooked shrink
That I am bent by the same self-destroyer.
Born to a rich and well-to-do family, the Baroness lived a happy childhood with her parents Baron and Baroness Landonly and two elder brothers in the county of Devon.
A year ago the Baroness was disgraced by having a brief liaison with a young footman. The footman was sent away and the affair forgotten. But it still lingered in the mind of her father. He decided to send her away to Orczy Manor to live with his good associates, Lord and Lady Pimpernel and their daughter Lady Anna Pimpernel (or Minxlet), who would be a companion for her. He thought it was the right time for her to find a suitor and so he called on the help of Madame Sin, who was well-known for her skill with guiding young ladies into marriage and taming their mischievous ways. Madame Sin became her chaperone. Despite Madame Sin's watchful eye and firm discipline, the Baroness has strayed on a number of occasions due to boredom.
The Baroness can often be seen with her faithful little dog Truffles, a Norfolk terrier who has been with her since she was 14. He was a gift from her very wealthy aunt Helena. Truffles was a comforting companion during her early days at Orczy Manor when she was homesick.
The Baroness likes nothing more than sitting in her Tree house and watching life at Orczy manor flow by, taking Truffles for walks around the grounds, and discussing the other inhabitants and visitors of Orczy Manor with those who have an ear for gossip.
When she finds a suitor, she wishes him to be handsome, well-heeled, just and a good sportsman.
Truffles had some unique capabilities, or so it seemed to the Baroness. One skill was being able to sniff out the mushrooms that gave Truffles his namesake, and of course, contributed to the family fortune. Truffles also had the unfortunate tendency to sniff out crotches and legs to mount.
The Baroness was infuriated.
"Hardly sportsmanlike, Truffles! Stop that and go fetch the croquet balls instead. What is it about you that does not understand the difference between balls and CROQUET balls!"
Madame Sin gave the Baroness this advice.
"Sell him to the footman."
The Baroness fainted from shock....
Brilliant!
Meanwhile... Lord Pimpernel was born to lowly stock, just near the recently industrialised city of Manchester, in the small town of Sowford. His father was the town git, town swine, and town arsehole. At weekends, he occasionally stood in as the town complete-bastard. His mother's name was Emily, and she was a poor judge of men.
His real name was Michael Cuffly Pimpilnol, an old Anglo-Saxon surname deriving from the word, `Village-Arsehole.' Upon registering with the army, he decided to change it, taking instead the name Pimpernel, after the flower, and some bloke that had done some things in France, like rescuing posh people, or something.
Wishing to escape the smoke clouds from gloomy Manchester, he took the King's shilling, as soon as he was old enough, and went off to shoot the French. It was while he was away in India, then Portugal and Spain, that he developed a taste for better things. He also earned his roguish reputation.
Ever short of cash, he made ends meet by cheating, stealing, blackmailing, and taking trinkets from the bodies of rich, dead French officers. He always managed to pay for good billeting, always threw good parties, and always employed the best prostitutes for his guests. Little wonder, then, that all stories of the corpse-searching, poker-cheating cad of a Captain rarely were given any credance by the officer classes. Surely good old Captain Pimpernel would never stoop so low. Or crouch so low, in the case of the corpses. And if the rank and file ever muttered anything of that nature within his earshot, they often found themselves on extra picket duty, or volunteering for the next Forlorn Hope.
During a lull in the fighting, Pimpernel faked an injury, and returned to England, where he mixed in high social circles, attending the finest dinners and balls. It was while at one of these balls that he met Lady Catherine Oily-Carte. There was an immediate spark between the two, and romance soon blossomed. Lord Pimpernel fell madly in love, and his plans to marry some witless rich filly went out of the window. He would make his money through good honest fraud and deception, instead. Because his heart, and the rest of him, belonged to one woman.
Lord Pimpernel discovered a dirty secret just before he got married. He realized he never starred in Blackadder, and that the real origin of his name was 'Pumpernickel'. German....
"Damn that Windsor witch!" he cried.
He contemplated.
"My heart in love may belong to one woman, but my heart in politics belongs to the Nazis! Ooh, my head is ferklempt, perhaps I am wrong here, but I believe it's right."
'Right' indeed. The royal family did not take this lightly. The newly christened sub-fuhrer Pumpernickel was under fire.
I love the glow of a cigarette just before sunrise. During the night, the fire is too bright; during the day, it is hardly visible. But in the minutes before dawn, against the grey surroundings, it takes on the appearance of charcoal briquettes ready to be cooked upon. Lovely. I assume that it is the same just after sunset, but I never really noticed this characteristic until now.
(Anyway, I must be heading out. Hopefully I'll be able to post a bit, but if not, have a good week everyone! And dròm, perhaps I'll have the chance to write a bit that I can share when I get back. I'll miss our daily writing exchanges.)
I loved that, Smog.
(Have a good trip, Smog! I look forward to your writing (and to your coming back.) I'll miss them too.
Herr Folter had the strange fetish of courting milkmaids in the village, telling them "Arrgh, I don't care if ya speak Classical languages, as long as you speak in tongues."
The farmers with fine daughters were incensed, not just because of Folter's follies, but because of the 'farmer's daughter' jokes that arose from so many scandals. They sharpened their pitchforks and lit a fire.
Strange things were happening, all right. But what was Herr. Folter doing in that village? And why was Hunter preparing to kill the Seigneur?
MUCH STRANGENESS
It is the talk of Little Prodingham. Has a curse befallen the area? Has darkness infected our beautiful and peaceful home? Are we being invaded by forces of evil?
Several children in the village have fallen sick, of late. The illness does not appear infectious, but each child is afflicted in the same way. Their features are pallid, their strength gone, as if drained of life. Doctor Davey, the village physician, has sent word to London, to ask for the advice of a more experienced doctor, such is the mystery of this strange illness.
Harpies are being seen more frequently. One farmer was even attacked by one, while attending his sheep. The farmer does not wish to be named, because of, in our reporter's opinion, the definition of 'attending'. Their number has increased, too, so it seems, as one eye witness spotted a swarm of almost a dozen of the foul beasts, hovering some way off, above Fondle Wood.
A number of villagers, all of previously good character, have witnessed the sickly spectre of Strange Kurt, loitering in the shadows, holding out his hands to them. One witness, shopkeeper, George O'Dogg, recognized Kurt from when he was alive. 'It was 'im, alright. I'd recognize those piggy eyes anywhere. 'e was pleading with me. Asking to be forgiven. I was on the bog for the rest of the night, I was that scared.'
Our reporters, through careful investigation, and many hours in The Bird and Two Bushes, have what we believe to be a possible explanation. A number of strangers have recently arrived in Little Prodingham, and rumours are circulating that they are satanists, or practitioners of the dark arts. It would be unprofessional of this publication to rely on such rumours, but on the other hand, we'd bet good money they are up to no good. Mark our words.
After mentally and physically poisoning many villagers, Kurt went into a swoon and had a vision from an angel. The angel spoke to him "Kurt...Kurt....are you awake yet?"
"Crap, where's the Schnapps and virgins? Oh....you're an angel. Pardon my French."
"Kurt, I am here to pass on a message. Your name is not Kurt. Your inner demon made up this name to hide his true identity. You have been posessed for many years."
Kurt was shocked. "Do you mean that if I have to go to court, I won't be responsible for my actions?"
The angel said, "Sorry, only in Texas. Sadly, you live in Little Prodingham, and don't think your travelling around the shire will clear you of these crimes. I suppose I should tell you...you are posessed by a German, the divine evil one who goes by the name of Gustav.....GUSTAVRATSENHOFER!"
you both MUSTHAVERATSINHOPPER!
Thine --> thane --> sahnet
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