🚀 go-pugleaf

Those things you mistook to be undeleted viciousnesses were
undepleted unviciousnesses; the deleted viciousnesses were much
more viscous; consider yrself murky.  Any viciousnesses, ever,
were unindented.  Except when you had infideliberatrociousilly
annoyed me.  Which was not all that seldom.  Darling.

A leper messiah is what Xjqiggy is lika, while a leopard messiah
is a leper messiah that has changed its spot-lights and stars
in the movie _The Return of the Crystallised Fruits_, which
knocks the audience no less sideways second time around.   An
unqualified mess-i-a-h is a mess with poor grammar claiming to
be a `h': self got there first; tough.

			*	*	*

The Post Office Tower falls from his nerveless hand as the door
slowly opens.  Double-crossing the threshold, in, out, he
whizzes around the moat in a pleasure-boat, wondering if he
dare brave the chilly blackness of the hall. Carefully screwing
his courage to the brass door-plate, he re-enters the castle,
clobbered on the way by the threshold's Jewish Mama, who will
not forgive wrong done to her lowly offspring.  Signing the
visitors' book under the name of "m. cheating", he gazes at
the wallpaper at about the height of a receptionist's head and
haughtily announces that if he had had a woman with him, she
would most certainly have been his wife, thank you very much.
Seemingly heartened by the crushed silence of the space on
the wallpaper at about the height of a receptionist's head, he
reaches confidently into his briefcase, abstracts another Post
Office Tower, and grimly reloads it.  His footsteps echo on the
marble cakewalk as he reels in the staircase, stands at its
base, and, jerkily humming songs of his youth, begins to climb.

A small child out walking its frog glimpses something floating
on the oily waters of the moat, and, coming closer, fishes out
a filofax.  Having wrung it dryish, he notices the City-&-Provincial
Bus Timetable tucked into the back flap.  The 3.30 to Gateshead is
ringed in green.  Over the hill, the town hall clock is heard
striking 2.47 BST.  Allowing for distance, gravity, and the mayor
having one of his turns, the child estimates the time to be 2.52 BST.
Presuming the owner of the damp filofax to be both within the castle
and unwishful of missing its bus, the child leaps over the moat and
through the scullery window.  He is a boy-scout.  They are like that.

In the control-room behind the morgue, A. M. Ward, long believed
dead, listens to the sounds of intrusion floating at him from
the surveillance-pipes, opens his safe, and, moving aside the
blood-encrusted receptionist's head, picks up a small curved
dagger.  Patiently swiveling in his chair, he observes his
reflection in the dagger's steel blade, removes the price-tag,
and giggles to himself as he waits.

Happily, the child explores the vast hall, pocketing any spiders
in its path.  In matchboxes.  With breathing-holes.  He is a
boy-scout.  They are like that.  As he follows an almost extinct
Hungarian lesser splodged specimen upstairs, he chances upon
our hero seated on a step, having a coffee-break.  Union rules
allow for a seven(7)-minute coffee-break at 3.00 BST.  Dialogue
ensues, during which the frog falls from between two railings and
plunges five hundred (500) feet to what is assumed, for the
avoidance of overproliferation of characters within the narrative
framework, to be its death.

Speeding through the morgue, the almost extinct Hungarian lesser
splodged spider scuttles under the door of the control-room,
attracting the unsteady monocled eye of A. M. Ward.  The dagger,
now priceless, is hurled through the brownian movement and embeds
itself in the door-frame, carrying with it a not insignificant
percentage of the arachnid, which has become even more of a
collector's item, being four(4)-legged as well as Hungarian &
lesser & splodged, the only known one of its kind.  Footsteps are
heard in the morgue.  Ward retrieves his dagger and turns a faded
photograph of his mother face-downwards on his desk.  He leans
back in his chair as the door opens.

			*	*	*

Will our hero catch his bus?  Are the possible death of Ward and that
of the frog mutually exclusive?  Why don't you take me to night-clubs
instead of down-loading yr squiring duties onto malte-shopping libs?
Will the child discover &/or suffer the fate of the receptionist?
What else does that briefcase contain?
						[tbc, subject to whim]

 M M
 MMM
 M M.