Tag: Willis Twombley

Where’s Violet? (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Oy Rodney – Lee Duigon

I’m already running low on gas this morning, and I don’t need extra agita. Nevertheless, I find I’m short an episode of Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular’s tempestuous Victorian romance set in the jungles of Scurveyshire, in southern England.

We have a recent page of her diary, found abandoned on her coffee table. Here is what I would consider a revealing excerpt.

Feb. 28: I can’t go on!  “So don’t,” says Mr. Pitfall, my neighbor. He has a passion for me that burns like something real hot, but I can’t think of what. He thinks I should have stopped Oy, Rodney at Chapter 531.

What to do, what to do? Mammoths at the gates of Coldsore Hall, warming up to break through the doors. Mr. Pudding has been eaten! And the June Taylor Dancers are on the warpath. Willis Twombley, the American adventurer who thinks he’s Sargon of Akkad, wants to start picking them off with his hunting rifle. I try to dissuade him: “It’s not on, old boy.” “Dagnabbit, Germy, that sure is dissuasive,” he replies. Then he shoots another one.  Oh those Americans.

Meanwhile Mr. Pitfall is nagging me to run away with him. “This here passion of mine,” he said, “will make you think you’ve gone to Heaven early! Let’s start packing–do you want this Mandrake the Magician T-shirt? I once–“

And there it ends, only the one leaf torn from the diary.

I think I’ll go make mud pies.

 

Scurveyshire Goes Dark

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a gripping page-turner headed for the top of the NY Times bestseller list | Romance novels, Funny romance, Book parody

We are now entering a period which historians and peanut vendors call “Scurveyshire’s Dark Age.”

The June Taylor Dancers have emerged from the forest and pretty much conquered the shire. Lord Jeremy Coldsore and his friends and family are holed up in the manor house. Peering down from the lofty tower once used as a location in The Pnath Brothers Meet the Bowery Boys, Lord Jeremy remarks to the American adventurer, Willis Twombley (who thinks he’s Sargon of Akkad), “If only they’d stop the bloomin’ dancing! It’s getting on my nerves.”

Here the author, Violet Crepuscular, breaks in.

“Before Mr. Twombley reveals the long-lost truth about the June Taylor Dancers, I must object to whoever it is out there who’s ruined my plot!” she ululates.

Before she can reveal Twombley revealing the secret, Twombley shoulders his rifle and pots the dancer with the floppy ears.

“I say!” exacerbates Jeremy. “That’s just not done, old chap! It’s murder, you know.”

“Murder schmurder, as they say in Kizzuwatna,” answers Twombley. “It ain’t nothin’ compared to what Violet’s cookin’ up for next week.”

Let us leave it at that, for now. They don’t call Violet The Queen Of Suspense for nothing.

Confessions of Willis Twombley (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Violet Crepuscular, “The Queen of Suspense,” addresses her legions and multitudes of readers: “Legions over there, multitudes, there. Please stand at attention.

“If you have been following my epic romance, Oy, Rodney, as assiduously as you should, you will surely be expecting, any chapter now, the long-delayed wedding of Lord Jeremy Coldsore–either as himself or as Willis Twombley, the American adventurer who thinks he’s Sargon of Akkad–and Lady Margo Cargo.

“Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a little longer. Something’s come up!”

Thus she introduces Chapter DCLXXXI of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney. 

Lady Margo believes Lord Jeremy and Mr. Twombley are the same person. This is why the vicar went mad: he was going to have to officiate at the wedding.

But now, suddenly, Twombley has a change of heart, an awakening: some secrets can only be kept for so long. “Then they blow up!” asserts Ms. Crepuscular. In this case, it was Twombley’s neighbor’s hen house that blew up.

“There’s some things I gotta confess to you and Lady Margo, Germy, old boy! First, I’m not really Sargon of Akkad. That’s just a disguise to scare off the Babylonians. Second, I’ve already wed three wives. Third, if I try to say that last sentence really fast, I get tongue-tied. Fourth, I’ve shot some people that maybe I shouldn’t have. And fifth, I been feedin’ the vicar cat food on the sly, and it’s my fault he now thinks he’s a cat!”

The rest of the list, we are warned, doesn’t bear repeating.

I think I’ll go lie down.

The Bitter Tea of Willis Twombley (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Bad news! The publishers keep rejecting Chapter DXL of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney. But it takes more than that to beat the Queen of Suspense!

“Welcome to Chapter DXLI of my epic romance, Oy, Rodney!” writes Ms. Crepuscular, in an unpublished letter to the London Times. What? “You just published it, dude”? Please stop distracting me!

Whatever happened in the past few chapters has been forgotten as the narrative moves on. Lord Jeremy has yet to fight the duel with himself. Johnno the Merry Minstrel has an infestation of deadly tropical spiders. And we find the American adventurer who thinks he’s Sargon of Akkad, Willis Twombley, drinking Lethe Brown Ale at The Lying Tart.

“I’m worried about Germy,” he announces to the assembled patrons of the pub. As one, they flee screaming to the sidewalk. Mr. Twombley does not notice. “I been short on noticin’ things lately,” he confesses to the vaguely mollusc-like bartender, whose complexion changes from a blue flush to a mottled grey.

“Dear reader,” interjects Ms. Crepuscular, “please lay off the catty comments and the smart-aleck questions about what’s a half-octopus doing, tending bar in an English pub circa 1850. I am one of only a very few authors who actually practice diversity! And now you’ve made me lose my place, where was I…?”

Tune in for more suspense next week.

[Editor’s Note: What was with the bitter tea? Search me! Nobody tells me anything.]

A Betrothal on the Rocks (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Introducing Chapter CDLXIX of her epic romance, Oy,Rodney, Violet Crepuscular writes, “Introducing Chapter CDLXIX of my epic romance, Oy, Rodney, we find the American adventurer, Willis Twombley, who thinks he’s Sargon of Akkad, having second thoughts about his betrothal (along with Lord Jeremy Coldsore) to Lady Margo Cargo, the richest widow in Scurveyshire.” And I dare you to try to diagram that sentence.

“She called me ‘Charlie’ when we was lost in the woods,” he coruscates to Lord Jeremy. It must be born in mind that Lady Margo thinks the two fiances are one and the same person. “She’s got a secret passion for some dude named Charlie! How can we marry her with this Charlie character somewhere in the woodwork?”

“Well, old man,” apostatizes  Jeremy, “we have to marry her or I lose Coldsore Hall to creditors! We need her money, don’t you know?”

“I’ll shoot this Charlie varmint if I ever clap eyes on him,” replies Mr. Twombley. He has already shot several of the creditors, but they’re running out of room to hide the bodies.

Meanwhile, Constable Chumley is still trying to arrest the hydra before it eats any more of the villagers. His plan is summed up simply: “Yon brocken roons a furthy way!” Lord Jeremy seems content with that.

“And now,” adds Ms. Crepuscular, “I will heighten the suspense by closing the chapter here! That’ll make you eagerly await the next one.” She is nothing if not an optimist.

More Paranormal Unexplained Romance (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Introducing Chapter CDLXIV (pronounced “cuddle-xiv”) of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular soliloquizes, “There is no romance that does not contain a great big chunk of paranormal! I mean, look at me and Mr. Pitfall! It is the essence of romance to fluctuate, to burnish, to make impossible claims for Duracell batteries–”

Good grief, this goes on for 15 pages. I am the poorer for having read it.

Having discoursed on romance, Ms. Crepuscular transports us to the catuvellaunian depths of Scurvey Forest, where Willis Twombley and Lady Margo Cargo, having fled the nefandous specter of the Wee Plastic Pool Lady, now wander around, hopelessly lost.

“I think we’re hopelessly lost,” laments Lady Margo. She clings to the charred remains of her wig, not wanting to end her life bald.

“Guess there’s only one thing we can do,” says the American adventurer, who thinks he’s Sargon of Akkad. Slowly he draws his pistol.

“Oh, Charlie!” The sudden introduction of this hitherto unmentioned name momentarily stuns Twombley. “We’ll die together, here in this unmapped forest! How romantic!”

“Shut up, ye durned fool!” That “Charlie” is going to rankle for a while. He points the gun straight up and shoots–six shots, bang-bang-bang (no, I won’t sit here and type it out six times: there is a limit).

Within seconds, a familiar face emerges from a nearby thicket. It belongs to Mr. Bigcheeks, a fat man who lives in Scurveyshire Village, in a cottage made famous by Shakespeare.

“Do you mind!” he snaps at Twombley. “We’re trying to have a picnic here!” He pulls a bush aside to reveal his whole fat family gobbling toothpaste-and-beef pies. This distracts the author into writing up the recipe.

 

A Romantic Interlude (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Crusty's Trombone Lessons ('Oy, Rodney') – Lee Duigon

Introducing Chapter CDXXXV of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular chides her readers for demanding more romance.

“You’d think they’d be satisfied,” she writes, “with a cyclops rampaging about the countryside while the town awaits the delivery of sea monkeys–but no, that’s not good enough! They want this to be a kissing book–ugh! Well, if it’s kissing they want, it’s kissing they’ll get!”

Patching up a lover’s quarrel caused by a difference of opinion between their respective invertebrate pets, Willis Twombley, the American adventurer who thinks he’s Sargon of Akkad, embarks on a hot and heavy smooching session with Lady Margo Cargo, Lord Jeremy Coldsore’s financier. (Shouldn’t that be “fiancee”?) Now that she’s fitted herself with a new upholstered wooden leg, Lady Margo is hot to trot (“You have no idea how distasteful it is to me to have to write such tripe,” Violet interjects.) In the course of this athletic love-making, Lady Margo’s wig falls off, her glass eye pops out, and Twombley’s six-gun slips out of the holster and into Oswin the Crayfish’s aquarium.

“It’s not cheating,” explains Ms. Crepuscular, “because Lady Margo is convinced that Mr. Twombley and Lord Jeremy are the same person. All attempts to demonstrate otherwise have failed so far–but at least her conscience is clear.”

Here she terminates the chapter before things get out of hand.

As for the cyclops, “If nobody cares about him tossing people’s cottages around like basketballs,” Violet concludes, “well, isn’t that a sad commentary upon our time?”

She will spend the rest of the day consoling the neglected cyclops.

 

Will the Queen Elope with Willis Twombley? (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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The terrible tale of the Kentucky Fried romance novel | The Delve

[Editor’s Note: Ms. Violet Crepuscular is mad at me for switching over to this book cover to illustrate the latest installment of Oy, Rodney. Well, confound it, I can’t find the regular cover anymore! This one will have to do. It’s very much in the spirit of the thing.]

Introducing Chapter CDXXII of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular reminds the reader that Queen Victoria is about to elope to Abilene, Kansas, with Willis Twombley, the American adventurer who thinks he’s Sargon of Akkad. Word of this has reached Lady Margo Cargo and threatened her impeding nuptials with Lord Jeremy Coldsore–she thinks he and Twombley are the same person and resents her fiancee cheating on her with the Queen of England.

In desperation–and you have to be really desperate to do this–Lord Jeremy turns to Constable Chumley. “Please see what you can do to salvage this mess!” vocalizes Lord Jeremy. The constable replies, “Aye, thar forthin yon cusster, M’lord!”

Making an appointment to confer privately with Lady Margo, Chumley explains to her: “Favvin’ yoster me kippens, Lady me Lad, ye netter by swelvin’ a quarn?” She gives her enthusiastic consent to this proposal. With this to sustain him, the constable arrests Twombley and forces him to bathe in the ice-cold duck pond in Scurveyshire Common. Passersby are appalled.

But just as the constable hoped, this does the trick! Twombley is practically killed with cold by the time Chumley allows him to come out of the water. Passersby turn away, unable to bear the sight.

“Well, that’s froze the romance right out of me!” truncates the American. “Now I wonder what I ever saw in that there queen of yours! But you’re lucky I didn’t shoot you, ol’ hoss.”

“Mizzen yair frocken, sir!” says Chumley. Willis sighs deeply. “One cannot but agree!” he concedes.

A Lovers’ Quarrel (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Introducing Chapter DCII of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular writes, “We are still waiting for the wedding of Lord Jeremy Coldsore to Scurveyshire’s richest widow, Lady Margo Cargo. Because she can’t tell the two of them apart, some of the wooing must be done by Lord Jeremy’s boon companion, Willis Twombley, the American adventurer who think he’s Sargon of Akkad. We join Willis and Lady Margo under a romantic grape arbor full of bees.”

“Once we’re married,” Lady Margo asks, “will I be Queen of Akkad? I mean, I’m still trying to find the place, it’s not on any of my maps.”

“Well, sweetness, there must be somethin’ wrong with them maps,” said Willis. “Heck, it’s right next door to Babylon and then some–it’s kind of an umpire.”

“An umpire? You mean like in a cricket match? Surely you should have said ’empire.'”

This rubs Willis the wrong way. “Umpire, empire, what’s the difference? You ain’t gonna turn into one o’ them know-it-all womenfolks who’s always correctin’ her husband, are you? I won’t stand for that!”

Lady Margo removes her upholstered wooden leg and uses it to knock Willis off his stool. “And I can’t stand an ignorant boor, Jeremy Coldsore!” she expostulates. (“I love that word!” declares Violet.)

“I oughta shoot you right now!” erupts Willis. “Erupts”? We are getting stylish here!

“Oh, go shoot yourself, you swaggering lout!” revolves Lady Margo. (This is getting out of hand.) “And as far as I’m concerned, our marriage is off, off, off! You’ll be smirking out of the other side of your face when you see me marry that nice Mr. Twombley!”

“That’s me, you numbskull! Jeremy’s the other one!” expectorates Mr. Twombley.

And so on. The marriage is now in critical danger. Lord Jeremy is not pleased.

“You had to threaten to shoot her, didn’t you?” growls Jeremy. “You know she hates that!”

“Well, old hoss, she got my dander up!” Mr. Twombley pauses to adjust his monocle (which Ms. Crepuscular has not mentioned up till now).

“And here, dear reader, I will break the chapter to heighten the suspense,” adds Violet. “Besides which, too much passion gives me the vapors. I must have a cup of fish-flavored tea.”

A Terrifying Incident! (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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(The reader is advised to read the following chapter in a very dark room, to cultivate a sense of danger. Or something.)

In Chapter CCCXLIII of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Lord Jeremy Coldsore, the American adventurer Willis Twombley (who thinks he’s Sargon of Akkad), and the vicar are making their way home from an abandoned warehouse in Plaguesby, where Lord Jeremy was to meet and marry Lady Margo Cargo, who, alas, has gone to the wrong warehouse in the wrong town.

“Sure is dark out here tonight!” mutters Twombley.

“You could take the paper bag off your head, old boy,” says Lord Jeremy. Twombley hadn’t thought of that. The reader may now turn on a lamp. “That’s better,” Twombley says.

“Halt!”

The unsuccessful elopement party find themselves surrounded by six sinister young men armed with knives and truncheons.

“We’ve got you now, tyrant!” exclaims the leader, a singularly unprepossessing fellow with bulging eyes.

“That’s what you think, buster!” Twombley draws his six-gun and presses it to the vicar’s head. “You all better mosey on out of here, pronto. One more step toward us, and I shoot the vicar.”

“I say!” ejaculates Lord Jeremy. “I say, that’s not quite fair, don’t you know.” The vicar giggles nervously.

“He has us over a barrel, lads,” admits the leader. The ambushers withdraw into the darkness of the surrounding woodland.

“Who the devil were they?” demands Jeremy.

“Babylonian secret agents,” said Twombley. “They’ve been after me for years. That’s Mesopotamian politics for you. Don’t worry, they won’t be back for a while. They haven’t cottoned on to guns yet.”

“The reader may now turn on all the lights and relax,” adds Ms. Crepuscular. “We will attempt the marriage again in a future chapter.”