A Page From My Upcoming Epistolary Novel, The 42nd of March
knew I should have eaten breakfast this morning!”
But it was too late, and as she bled out in his arms, he fixed his gaze on the weeping heavens and unleashed a scream of primal, bestial rage—a howl that made Eggos the world over shrink back into the primordial ooze of their rued origin. Dropping Mathilda’s limp, syrup-soaked corpse into the bubbling magma of Mt. Dracula’s mean-glowing crater, he whispered after her a final, soft goodbye: “You were the best cat a lonely old bounty hunter could ever ask for!”
There was no time to mourn the newly de-zombified re-dead, however. Commander Parsley tugged the rope ladder, and climbed it even as it ascended back into the zeppelin’s belly. Covered in blood, soot, and pancake batter, he stood to face his mutinous crew.
“You’ve grown sof—” began Oregano, before his head exploded under the pressure of Parsley’s glare. A moment later they had laid in a course for Williamsburg. The Dirigible puttered into the sunset, floating above the clouds exactly the way a piano forte wouldn’t. Settling himself into the captain’s love seat and producing from a garter strap underneath his dress a tin of cocaine, the Commander began the healing process on all the right feet.
“Commander Parsley, sir!” cried Ensign Peppercorn from the helm, “incoming message!” Peppercorn regarded the captain cautiously. “It’s Dr. Professor, sir.”
Parsley guffawed the hearty guffaw of a puffin on so much acid, and tottered off the bridge brushing his teeth.
“I’ll take this one in my quarters, Ensign. You have the bridge, Lieutenant!” he said to nobody in particular.
Outside the door to the commander’s quarters, Parsley stopped suddenly. Everything was wrong: the door was ajar, the lights were turned low (Parsley was afraid of the dark), and steam billowed from the bathroom, were the tinkling of a woman’s singing voice could be heard over the shower’s rush.
“Hey, I just met youuuu…”
Parsley crept to the bathroom door and peered through the unclosed doorway at the clouded mirror, where the message “You are not barren” was scrawled in lipstick, just as he had left it that morning. Comforted, he proceeded.
“And this is craaaaaazyy…”
The Commander approached the shower slowly, giving lascivious, intent attention to the silhouette writhing jarringly behind the foggy frosted fortified glass.
“But here’s my number…”
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE!?” shrieked Parsley, diving through the glass. Then the following things happened in slow motion as an operatic melody played:
-Commander Parsley’s eyes widened as he realized that the showering silhouette was, in fact, none other than his devilishly attractive nemesis Dr. Professor.
-The Dirigible arrived at [-], on [-], at 5:00PM.
“What took you so long, Parsley my dear?” cooed the professor.
“Forgive me muffin,” he murmured, tonguing her. “I got caught up in something sexy.”
Hesitating then no longer, he disrobed--and also undressed--violently, revealing heaps and piles of rippling, undulating