Introducing Chapter CDXIII of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular confides in her readers, “Dear readers, I must confide in you! I approach this chapter with something closely akin to dread, fearful of what I might set loose upon the world.” We do not know what she’s talking about.
Here in Scurveyshire, the roller derby rink is just about ready for the Ulan Bator Lake Smelts to take on the Plaguesby Whatevers. This is part of the diabolical plot hatched by Tom the Pict. We join him as he confides in his pet snail, Rupert.
“Hah, my slimy little friend! Nyah-ha-ha! If our diabolical plot succeeds, we will drive all the English out of England, and the Scots out of Scotland, and the whole isle of Britain shall belong to the Picts!”
Rupert makes a gesture with his antennae that translates to, “But there aren’t enough Picts left to fill up a good-sized phone booth. You don’t even know any other Picts.” This observation moves Tom to a fit of sobbing.
Meanwhile, Johnno the Merry Minstrel has heard some disturbing things about Ulan Bator’s premier women’s roller derby team–
Time out! Urgent interjection by the author!
“Oh, my stars! Some addled ass from Iowa has written to ‘inform’ me–inform me!–that there was no such place as Ulan Bator in the Victorian Era. And you know the stupid letter had to fall under the gaze of Mr. Pitfall!” Ms. Crepuscular sighs. “What a tantrum ensued! The poor man just can’t stand to be reminded that Ulan Bator used to be called something else. He goes to pieces if you tell him that! And this time he did it right in the middle of my living room. Oh, fap!”
We leave her to pick up the pieces. The chapter will have to be finished some other time. Mr. Pitfall can regenerate himself if all the pieces can be found.