It is a beautiful sunny day in Scurveyshire. A hydra glides down Tottenham High Street, looking for fresh victims. But at least we are no longer groping around 800,000 years in the future, dodging giant crabs. That plot line, the publisher assures us, has been shut down.
Introducing Chapter CDLXI of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular announces a plan to sue every reader who signed a petition demanding that the book make some sort of sense. “They have violated my artistic freedom,” she pasteurizes. “Who ever heard of readers telling a novelist what to write? You 26 doofuses who went behind my back to the publisher–prepare to get your pants sued off!”
Meanwhile, Lady Margo Cargo must replace her wig, which caught fire a couple of chapters ago, and someone has to put the vicar back to bed: these latest conniptions really took it out of him. Aside from the jackalope eating up the garden, life in Scurveyshire is getting back to normal.
But then Constable Chumley, in the depths of Scurvey Forest, discovers what he can only describe as “forthin’ yair vibbles, ainy shy yer broykin.”
The suspense is downright grovitting.
Grovitting is THE word. 🙂
Frankly, I must side with Violet on this, she should sue the readers that contacted the publishers. With the logic coming out of the courts these days, it will dovetail nicely with the plot. Gotta go. There’s another durned hydra in my yard. :j
My money is on the jackalope to countersue.
I knew Violet Crepuscular possessed hidden talents, but I didn’t know one of them was she can pasteurize when she talks – amazing talent. Her writing reminds me of the Will Ferrell movie “Stranger Than Fiction” where his character’s life is being typed out by a novelist in real time.