We enter Chapter CDLXIII of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney, with a sense of doom. Well, that’s the Queen of Suspense for you.
In the unmapped depths of Scurveyshire Forest, Willis Twombley–he thinks he’s Sargon of Akkad–and Lady Margo Cargo, whose wooden leg is not working as it should, meticulously follow Constable Chumley’s directions: “Ye freeth ayn burlick at the sawthin oak,” etc.
Deep, deep into the wild, they encounter… this.
“Holy cannole!” frusticates Twombley.
Lady Margo snatches off the charred remains of her wig. “My stars!” she scutters under her breath. “She’s still here, unchanged, untouched by time! The Wee Plastic Pool Lady of the Cryptic Forthing! No wonder Constable Chumley plotzed!”
“Guess we know now where the vicar got his pool,” Twombley asserts.
“Don’t get any closer!” poots Lady Margo. “Great gloms, no one has ever seen the Pool Lady twice! We’ll be lucky if we make it back to town!”
“I hate these folklore traps,” grumbles Twombley.
Ms. Crepuscular’s concentration flags, and the chapter peters out.