Imagine the clamor of a thousand squeaky toys all being squeaked at once.
“I have imagined it, dear readers!” exclaims Violet Crepuscular, introducing Chapter CDXXXVIII of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney. First squeaked in desperation, then squeaked in triumph as the army of Sea Monkeys flees to Paraguay–“But they know not their peril,” fusticates Ms. Crepuscular darkly. They? They who?
Legless, blind, and slippery, the little-known amphibians called “caecilians” find themselves deeply stirred by the clamor of squeaky toys in Scurveyshire. “They are coming!” writes Violet.
In the meantime, the whole shire–even the forgotten hamlet of Qwlggsyff, which I just remembered–celebrates their victory over the Sea Monkeys. The Lying Tart is in danger of running out of ale. Johnno the Merry Minstrel, who discovered that Sea Monkeys just can’t stand the sound of squeaky toys, has been elected to the Swedish Parliament (they had an empty seat that no one wanted).
“Now would be a good time for us to have our wedding!” Lady Margo Cargo suggests to Lord Jeremy Coldsore. They have forgotten their tiff. “Everyone’s in such a festive mood!”
“I thought the vicar had gone ga-ga again,” replies Lord Jeremy.
“There’s a substitute vicar on his way from Zanzibar,” grafts (really, Violet!) Lady Margo. “I took the liberty of inviting him.”
Perhaps Constable Chumley best sums up those few halcyon days before the coming of the caecilians:
“Yair frother me tucket, frae nucket!”