Tag: Constable Chumley

That Business with the Mob of Peasants (‘Oy, Rodney’) REPRINT

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From June 2, 2019

 

Introducing Chapter CCXCIV of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular confides in her readers, “Let me confide in you, dear readers! I do wish Mr. Duigon had not said I was ‘in jail’! I was merely helping the police with their inquiries. They are trying to discover who, if anyone, poisoned Mr. Pitfall, and they now suspect everyone in the neighborhood–he is that unpopular. I hope they realize now that my toothpaste rolls couldn’t make anybody that sick!” She is a little miffed that none of the police officers was willing to try one himself.

Moving on to the chapter, she describes the grief and horror that overwhelmed all Scurvyshire when Mr. Percy Puce, F.R.S., the shire’s Resident Genius, disappeared below the vicar’s backyard wading pool as the result of a fall from a clandestine sliding board. Don’t ask me if that’s a suitable adjective for a sliding board. I just work here.

Provoked beyond measure, a mob of peasants armed with torches and pitchforks assembles at The Lying Tart. Why they should want torches in broad daylight is mystifying. Maybe it’s just a thing that mobs of peasants do.

“We’ll destroy the vicar’s wading pool if it’s the last thing we do!” vows the mob’s ringleader, button collecter Oswald Backdraft, Official Ringleader of the Peasants Benevolent Association. The mob rushes off to the vicar’s back yard and that’s the last anybody sees of them.

Hours later, word of the incident reaches Lord Jeremy Coldsore at Coldsore Hall, where they have just put the Marquess of Grone to bed.

“We’re going to run out of peasants at this rate!” ejaculates Lord Jeremy. (“It’s a perfectly permissible use of that verb!” insists Ms. Crepuscular. I just work here.) “Constable Chumley, you ought to have prevented this disaster!”

“Huish, M’lord, I deagle fair maundery this fleethin’,” parries the constable. He rushes off to The Lying Tart to see if he can find any clues at the bottom of a tankard of ale.

This still leaves five chapters, I think, to be written before catching up to Chapter CCC, which Ms. Crepuscular has written out of order. “I pledge myself to accomplish this,” she writes in a chapter-ending footnote, “provided I am left in peace!”

Constable Chumley Testifies in Kavanagh Hearings!

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Democrat Senators have been reduced to calling fictional characters to testify against Judge Brett Kavanagh’s appointment to the Supreme Court. Already heard as witnesses against Kavanagh have been Captain Ahab, Betty and Veronica, and Tristram Shandy. But the star so far has been Constable Chumley of Scurveyshire, from Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney.

Asked by Senator Corey “Spartacus” Booker (D-Parallel Universe) whether Judge Kavanagh had ever harassed or molested any country maids in Scurveyshire during the reign of Queen Victoria, Constable Chumley answered vigorously–well, at least as vigorously as any fictional character can manage.

“Ooh, yeye, thar’ wee no thrickin’ bawn a-tall!” The Constable nods for emphasis. “I delly, footh, ’twas mair yon Kavanagh thoo’ briggle!” He went on in this vein for 90 minutes, no one daring to interrupt him.

The next witness, Ms. Violet Crepuscular herself, testified, “My feelings are the same as Constable Chumley’s.”

TOMORROW: Democrat Senators to call on characters from books and stories that haven’t been written yet.

The Poking Scandal (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Still in a lather over those smart-aleck comments from a reader in Kunjo Korners, Kansas, Violet Crepuscular, “the Queen of Suspense,” introducing Chapter DCXLV of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, loses the thread of the sentence and has to start over.

“I am introducing Chapter DCXLV of my epic romance, Oh, Rodney,” she writes, “but I am sorely tempted to roust my friend and neighbor, Mr. Pitfall, out of the Intensive Care Unit so he can drive me out to Kunjo Korners to settle with that so-called reader! She thinks poking, being poked, is nothing? Wait’ll I poke her one!”

Somewhere in the novel, Constable Chumley has gone undercover to investigate reports of ritual poking in the back room of The Lying Tart. It is necessary to wear a disguise. This week he is disguised as a deep-sea diver. With the helmet. He’ll need it if he ever tries to force his way into that back room.

“Yes, I know, I know!” Ms. Crepuscular writes. “I still have to write that rhino out of hibernation. I’ve also got to trim my hedge and take down my Halloween decorations before it’s time to put them up again. I’ll get to it! Stop bugging me!”

Ms. Crepuscular Gets Lost (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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“A writer must never allow herself to be distracted,” declares Violet Crepuscular, the Queen of Suspense. This is because she has lost track of what chapter she’s writing in her epic romance, Oy, Rodney.

“Really, it was Mr. Pitfall’s fault,” she writes, blaming the whole thing on her neighbor. “You know the man is hopelessly in love with me. He used one of my recipes to bake me a batch of what were supposed to be toothpaste-filled cupcakes. I ate one–and the next three days are now a total blank to me!”

So she has settled on No. DXXIII for the chapter she is currently writing. Let’s see… The rhinoceros has spun a cocoon behind Dr. Weezle’s tool shed, the royal handwriting inspector has come and gone… and Constable Chumley has auditioned for the title role in the Scurveyshire Players’ production of Hamlet.

That’s how “To be or not to be” turns into “Ay wee yearnted far thither.”

Potrick the Jovial Shepherd (there are two jovial shepherds in Scurveyshire) thinks the constable should write his memoirs. He is also working on his imitation of Alan Hale, the American movie actor who has yet to be born. Potrick is good at things like that.

What? No Oxyartes? (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Introducing Chapter DIX of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, author Violet Crepuscular (“the Queen of Suspense”) apologizes for having failed to introduce Chief Oxyartes.

“I am contrifusiated!” she confesses. “Chief Oxyartes would have tied the whole plot together! He would have resolved everything. Another half a dozen chapters, and I’d’ve been done! Free to go on to the next book!” (Oy, Rodney 2: The Interminable.) “Alas and alack and woe! The notes I jotted down for Oxyartes somehow wound up as the paper in my home-made fortune cookies.”

Meanwhile in Chapter DIX, Constable Chumley meets Jerrold Coelocanth, the Man with the Unpronounceable Word.

“Dith yon borda maken silphlessness?” the constable inquires.

To which Mr. Coelocanth replies, “Ygglth pkaa.” Chumley arrests him for public lewdness, even though they’re not in public. “Hir miggle mine gulph,” he would explain to Lord Jeremy Coldsore, justice of the peace. He says it anyway, not noticing that Lord Jeremy isn’t there.

Jeremy is still being held by Constable Chumley’s mother as a prisoner of love. He has scrawled pleas for help on his dinner plates and hurled them out the window to many of Europe’s most famous rivers. One washes up in Johnno the Merry Minstrel’s back yard, up against the bird feeder.

[We don’t have the rest of this chapter. She’s turning the place upside-down, looking for notes on Chief Oxyartes. I’m the editor and I have no idea who that dude is. I am reasonably sure we can get along without him.]

How They Almost Lost Chumley (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Chapter CDLXXXXIII of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney, finds Constable Chumley clinging by his rapidly-weakening fingertips to the brink of a cliff with a hundred-foot drop while Lord Jeremy and the constable’s mother–you will remember she was disguised as Thir Lanthelot the lisping knight–discussing how they might save the poor chap from falling onto the jagged rocks below.

What a sentence! I dare anyone to diagram it.

The constable pleads, “Mum! M’lord! Ith woogen ye minndle!” Meanwhile the constable’s mother asks, “What tipped ya off I was a dame, big boy?”

(Oh, now, just a cotton-pickin’ minute! I refuse to sit here and edit and publish such twollop. If the characters are going to start talking like a 1930s gangster movie, I’m out of here.)

“Some of you have complained about the constable’s mother’s choice of words,” writes Ms. Crepuscular. “In fact, I have received death threats–as if those could scare me! Obviously the readers are ignorant of the art of stymphalianism, which allows fictional characters in any genre to talk like a 1930s gangster movie. Edward G. Robinson isn’t the only one allowed to talk like Edward G. Robinson! But in deference to my readers’ philistine tastes in literature, I’ll give this a twenty-three skiddoo from now on.”

How much longer can she keep poor Chumley hanging?

The Useless Sheriff of Scurveyshire (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Introducing Chapter CDLXXXII of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular (“the Queen of Suspense”) writes, “I find it necessary to introduce a character whom I had hoped to do without. I give you, dear reader, fair warning: this here is a very scary person!”

This would be none other than The Useless Sheriff of Scurveyshire, appointed to his position by the queen herself, in a bout of uncontrolled giddiness. Descended from Saxon nobles who never amounted to anything, the Sheriff is Useless because of his habit of colliding with stationary objects in plain sight. He walks face-first into trees, trips over horse-troughs, stumbles into ponds, and abuses his authority.

And he has learned that Constable Chumley, whom he hates maniacally for no reason, has had a life-altering experience that has rendered him inarticulate.

“Although I never editorialize about the characters in my book,” Ms. Crepuscular says, with a reckless disregard for truth, “I have to say that the Sheriff is a real stinker. The fact that he has an extra nose on the side of his head does not make him any more appealing! Yech! He looks like some kind of Cubist portrait!”

Meanwhile, the constable tries to tell Lord Jeremy about his life-altering experience as an undercover investigator. But the only bit that Jeremy understands is “Miphlum hite yon braithy callapop, m’Lord.” It is not very illuminating.

Stay tuned for more suspense! If we can find some.

Chumley Undercover (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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“Chumley Undercover!” “It sounds like a mega-hit, a TV crime series!” ululates Violet Crepuscular, introducing Chapter CDLXXVI of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney–“like one of those BBC things!”

Yes, Constable Chumley has gone undercover. This is to be distinguished, Ms. Crepuscular points out, from going under the covers, which he has also done upon occasion. He has never quite forgotten the stories his mother told him about Old Breechie when he was a “wee foondy.” It is those stories that sometimes drives him under the covers. “Mav, ye horthern a drate ribble,” he admits.

As we drift into Chapter CDLXXVII, we still don’t know why the constable has gone undercover. Ms. Crepuscular believes that not telling us will heighten the suspense. “That’s why I’m the Queen of Suspense!” she vulcanizes. We thought it might have something to do with Mr. Bigcheeks turning out to be a lineal descendant of the medieval sorcerer, Black Rodney, but it seems the constable has never met or even heard of Mr. Bigcheeks, despite the fact that both men have lived in Scurveyshire Village all their lives and it’s really quite a small village. (Free toothpaste-filled cupcake to anyone who can diagram that last sentence. I tried and my hair fell out.)

And, as if by magic, we arrive at the threshold of the next chapter not a whit the wiser for having read this one.

Constable Chumley’s Quest (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Violet Crepuscular introduces the pivotal Chapter CDLXXV of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, with another letter from a reader.

“I would like to introduce the pivotal Chapter CDLXXV of my epic romance, Oy, Rodney, with this here letter from a reader, a Mrs. Helen Popeye of Erythromycin, Ancient Greece,” she writes. Oh, Violet. “This here?” “Here is what she says.

“‘My Dear Ms. Crepuscular’–that’s me–‘I have been wondering what has become of my favorite character, Constable Chumley. Don’t tell me you’ve replaced him with that windbag, Donald Duck! Or whatever his name is. Holy cow, we don’t even know the constable’s first name!'”

Violet answers, “I can now reveal to you that Constable Chumley has gone under cover to pursue a dangerous and critical investigation of something-or-other. Let him explain it to the readers in his own words.

“‘Mon Geckle-esh me hearties voy calabash–alas, yin gubrick!'” And so on. The constable’s explanation is not a hit with most readers.

“As for his first name,” funambulates Ms. Crepuscular, “he has always been excruciatingly embarrassed by it–so much so, that he actually introduces himself as ‘Rocky’ when a social situation demands it. If he ever thought my 4 million readers were reading his first name, he would round up 12 Welsh bards to put a curse on me!”

Here the chapter ends abruptly–something to do with baking meat-and-toothpaste pies. The management takes no responsibility for the apparent collapse of Oy, Rodney‘s plot. We’re sure Ms. Crepuscular will be back to form in the next installment.

 

An Astonishing Discovery (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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What is it that Constable Chumley has discovered in the unmapped depths of Scurvey Forest?

Introducing Chapter CDLXII of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular chides her readers, “If you think you can do this, you’re welcome to try! All of a sudden everyone’s a writer!”

The constable’s feverish report has extyrolated all Scurveyshire. Left untended in his bed, the vicar sleepwalks perilously close to the ominvorous backyard wading pool. The hydra turns right onto Bottleby Court and gulps down a 6-year-old boy playing with a hoop snake. And as the slowly (or not so slowly) panicking crowd gathers around the constable and Lord Jeremy Coldsore, the jackalope polishes off the last of the vicar’s durian fruit.

Willis Twombley, the American adventurer who thinks he’s Sargon of Akkad, resolutely straps on his six-guns. “If Chumley says he’s seen a wee forthing, then he’s seen a wee forthing–and somebody’s gotta go out there and shoot the whole gang of ’em.”

“I’ll go with you,” says Lady Margo Cargo, hopping about on one foot because her upholstered wooden leg was damaged in the fire. “My father always suspected there was something like this in the forest. Our old housemaid Peggy saw it once, and spent the next 40 years in hysterics.”

Here the chapter wanders into a recipe for toothpaste sandwich cookies.