“There I was,” confides Violet Crepuscular to her scads ‘n’ scads of readers, “all set to launch into Chapter DXXXIV of my timeless romance novel, Oy, Rodney, when up to my tastefully parked car strides a tall, gaunt, spidery-looking man who licks my car window until I roll it open.”
“What have you done with Chapter DXXVIII?”he demands, in exactly the kind of voice a big fat spider would have if spiders could talk.
“I didn’t know what he was talking about,” she reports to police. “You should find him easily enough–he has to be eight feet tall!”
“Why don’t you put him in your book?” asks the hard-boiled detective. “He might not be able to find his way out.”
This has never occurred to her before. What if she really could write people into her books? All those politicians and half-baked movie actors, suddenly stranded in Victorian Surveyshire!
“Stay tuned, dear reader!” she garffles.
Are Violet’s readers allowed to send in lists of public figures that we’d like to see disappear into Scurveyshire? (“I’ve got a little list, and they’ll none of them be missed.”)
By all means!
Perhaps the most interesting plot twist yet.