“A hydra has nine heads, and every one of ’em is mean!” writes Violet Crepuscular (“Don’t forget to call me the Queen of Suspense! It’s for the marketing”), introducing Chapter CDLII of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney.
The long-ago machinations of the medieval sorcerer, Black Rodney, have unleashed a jackalope and–and, I say!–a hydra on defenseless Scurveyshire. Even now, the jackalope is loose in the vicar’s garden, noshing on yams, while the hydra, preparing to ravage the town of Scurveyshire itself, roars with all nine heads.
And Lord Jeremy Coldsore says, “I feel a song coming on!”
When you’re menaced by a hydra, shake your fist!
But you might be the last one on their list.
With a do derry-do doddy-do!
He manages a few dance steps to go with it.
[Editor’s Note: I can’t stand musicals.]
In the vicar’s sun parlor, the cowboy lies on the floor in a swoon, Lady Margo Cargo’s wig has flown off again, Lord Jeremy dances back and forth, and the vicar himself has lapsed into new conniptions which take the form of cartwheels–exercises which he is by no means well equipped to carry out.
I see the last page is coming up. Yup, there it is. The Queen of Suspense has simply stopped writing.
P.S.–We are welcoming reader comments today, as long as they consist entirely of fulsome praise. It’s for the marketing.