Mild-mannered Mr. Pudding, and his newts–he’s so mysterious, not even Violet Crepuscular can tell you what he’s doing here. And she’s the author. It’s her fault.
“All we know,” she feldspars to her readers, “is that it’s Mr. Pudding’s newts, trained killers as they are, vs. the June Taylor Dancers! And the very existence of Scurveyshire is at steak!” (Yes, I know I spelled it wrong.)
Lady Margo Cargo is the first to notice the skeletons in the alley between the village pet shop and the Pike-O-Pay Tooth Care Emporium. She loses no time in reporting it to Constable Chumley, whose reaction is predictable: “Yan spivey fole o’ grist’um good,” he recites.
Busy, busy, busy! A few minutes later it’s Johnno the merry minstrel reporting that he has seen a few of the June Taylor Dancers sneaking around in Scurveyshire’s Forest of No Deposit, No Return. “What are you going to do about it, Constable?” he snaps.
“Fivvy for fordy or fyte,” Chumley concedes.
As for Mr. Pudding himself, Ms. Crepuscular knows hardly anything at all. “Any reader who might have any information on that subject, please contact your local police department and ask them to contact me so I can contact you.”
If the Newts and the June Taylor Dancers ever collide, sparks will undoubtedly fly. They are in the same business, and the fiercest of competitors.
Typo alert: Constable Chumley, not Twombley — unless Twombley has taken over the position – and dialect – in Chumley’s (mysterious) absence. 🙂 🙂 🙂
Lee, it’s Monday morning, and I know this is going to be a difficult day for you. I’ll offer my Holy Communion for you at Mass this morning.
Oh, I’ll have to fix that!
But I can’t do anything till after this morning’s doctor appointment…. coming right up.