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.
