At last! Chapter DXXXIV of Violet Crepuscular’s timeless romance, Oy, Rodney.
But first…
“Before I expose the reader to the bone-chilling events in this chapter,” Ms. Crepuscular writes, “I would like all my readers to sign a waiver absolving Yours Truly of any responsibility for heart attacks or mental breakdowns.
“You think it’s easy, writing scary **** like this? With Mr. Pitfall breathing on my neck, no less? You know someone’s gonna up and sue me because he read that chapter and it gave him a trick knee!”
Going back several months, we had a herd of prehistoric woolly mammoths laying siege to Coldsore Hall, being encouraged by the June Taylor Dancers. But suddenly–
“Look at that, Germy!” exclaims Willis Twombley, the American adventurer who thinks he’s Sargon of Akkad [Editor screams. He’s had enough of this]. “The mammoths have turned, and now it’s the Whosit Dancers who are at bay!”
(“This,” inserts Ms. Crepuscular, ” is what makes me the Queen of Suspense! And all the others cheap imitations. Tune in next week for more!”