Tag: Pictish invasions

Lord Jeremy’s Treason Trial (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Oy Rodney – Lee Duigon

“Now the chicken have come home to roost!” writes Violet Crepuscular, The Queen of Suspense, introducing Chapter DCCI of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney.

As bad luck would have it, she continues, Sir Alfred Pundy, the infamous Hanging Judge, was in the neighborhood, hanging people, when the Picts invaded Scurveyshire and made off with the village’s park bench, complete with Royal Millipede Inspector  sleeping on it; and he quickly seized the opportunity to subject Lord Jeremy Coldsore to a trial for high treason. By what authority he does this, no one knows. Queen Victoria is not amused.

“How do you plead?” demands the judge. “Not that it matters! I know a guilty party when I see one.”

“I plead indigestion,” pleads Lord Jeremy.

The judge is perplexed. He has never before encountered such a defense. He has also been shot at several times by Jeremy’s friend, Willis Twombley, the American adventurer who thinks he’s Sargon of Akkad. The last bullet was too close for comfort. Wisely, the judge postpones the trial and conceals himself in The Trackless Wood, never to be seen again.

“Germy, old hoss, you’ve got to get that park bench back,” Trombley counsels Lord Jeremy. “I had no idea it was so popular.”

But the Picts have already taken it to Portugal.

“Make sure you’re here for the next exciting chapter!” Ms. Crepuscular abominates her readers. We are not sure how she gets away with this.

 

‘The Picts Are Coming! The Picts Are Coming!’ (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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This is the chapter you’ve been waiting for! Or so I’m told.

Introducing Chapter DCLXXXXVIII of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, author Violet Crepuscular, The Queen of Suspense, writes, “Well, we can’t go into Lady Margo Cargo’s romance with the Royal Millipede Inspector, can we? Not with the Picts sweeping down on us, we can’t!”

As described by Ms. Crepuscular, Picts are sort of half-human, half-alligator monsters that crawl out of the bayous and cypress swamps of northern Scotland, where they made a lot of money in real estate. Famous Picts in history include Beau Brummel, Franklin D. Roosevelt, and Alan Sherman. The rest are not famous.

As Justice of the Peace, Lord Jeremy Coldsore must organize the defense of the shire. “Why don’t you jist let me shoot them Picts?” suggests his friend, the American adventurer Willis Twombley, who believes himself to be Sargon of Akkad. “Back in Babylon, we would’t give them yayhoos the time o’day.”

Meanwhile, Constable Chumley is trying to start a rifle brigade. “An sennaught came yon westle,” he philosophizes. Picts can’t stand that kind of philosophy.

“I wanted to write the romance as a romance!” (Ms. Crepuscular gestures hypnotically. Three ushers fall into a trance.) “All I asked was a little help in naming the Royal Millipede Inspector. You’d’ve thought thousands of readers from all over the world would’ve responded! That’s what I thought! Just goes to show ya, don’t it?”

 

To Pict or Not to Pict (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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[Editor’s Note: Yes, I’m running late. Computer wasn’t about to do my bidding. My spirit is tired.]

Violet Crepuscular, The Queen of Suspense, has blamed her readers for unleashing a Pictish invasion of Scurveyshire. Introducing Chapter DCLXXXXVII of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Ms. Crepuscular writes:

“Well, I hope you’re happy! I throw open the Doors of Creativity, inviting my readership to provide a name for the Royal Millipede Inspector, Lady Margo Cargo’s lost love–and hardly anybody applies!! Whatever those Picts do to Scurveyshire, it’s your fault!”

But she is distracted by a reminder that today is The Super Bowl and she needs to whip up a batch of Super Bowl cookies. Suddenly a barbarian invasion seems like pretty small potatoes.

“This year’s Super Bowl cookies,” Violet mumbles, “feature not one but two layers of toothpaste between highly salted Ritz crackers. Double your pleasure!” She has not yet seen the millipede colony burgeoning in the remotest regions of her kitchen. “Julia Child never had millipedes!” she will cry, once she discovers she has something to cry about.

And so romance gives way to Pictish barbarity, which in turn gives way to blanking football… and by and by we will sample Violet’s double-toothpaste cookies.