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
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