“Kaaaa-BOOM!” writes Violet Crepuscular, introducing chapter DCXLII of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney. “Mount Scurveyshire has erupted! The roads are already choked with refugees fleeing to Czechoslovakia.”
[Excuse me. The regular editor plotzed when he read that last sentence. He had to be locked in a padded cell for his own good. I have been named to replace him because my knowledge of history and geography is no better than it should be.]
The krikitt match goes on, though. “It’s tradition,” explains Lady Margo Cargo, in a candid aside to the reader. “Krikitt has been played here since the time of Piltdown Man. We can’t let a volcano hold us back!”
Despite the tremendous noise, Mt. Scuuveyshire has produced little more than a bump in the ground. A ragged urchin plugged the hole with his poor tattered garment.
“I do not mean a sea urchin!” adds Ms. Crepuscular. “Sea urchins are pachyderms. Or something. I mean a poor little orphan boy named Zaph-enaph-Kraputni. How is that for bringing home the suspense! I’ll bet none of you saw that coming!”
I think I’ll put a thumbtack on her chair. There is a limit to the abuse a substitute editor must take.
