Lord Snatch, who anticipated that he was presently to be met with the bathetic and tawdry reality of a Wizard of Oz, now found his expectation amply justified. There emerged from the darkness of the doorway a plump little fellow, not above five foot four. Upon his bonce, pink skin glistened beneath a sparsely tufted and scraped arrangement of wire wool. From the middle of his fat little face, two blue eyes stared weakly out, looking vey much as though they could vaguely pry into the outermost dissemblances of men. Adorned he was in the acrylic tweeds - grey and beige for the most part, but with some modest concession to brown, and which made him perspire - of some long-defunct gentleman’s outfitters of the lower-middling sort. Upon his feet, thick beige socks accomplished a notable mastery of the ars inconcinnitatis in concert with the pink plastic sandals upon which it pleased him to negotiate life’s tricky path. —
Lord Snatch
“This is Lordy,” reprised Clismathea, “he’s a junkie, but a posh one, so that’s ok.” —
Clismathea
“I stand before you: Illingworth, humble purveyor of wholesome natural herbal remedies and … er … holistic therapies; holistic therapies mostly nowadays, as it happens,” he continued, introducing into his discourse a wheedling and bitter tone, “ever since the medical establishment saw fit to conspire against me and rob me of my livelihood.” —
Mr Illingworth
Illingworth’s consulting room was, as they now found, and notwithstanding the signal lack of spavined fauteuils and rotting feet of pachyderms, decidedly peculiar. In the centre of the room, a hospital bed took pride of place, vey grimy and battered and wretched, and evidently rescued, either many years before from a closed mental facility, or perhaps more recently from some hipster’s schlafkamer. Underneath the window, from which a Venetian blind mercifully filtered most of the light, a nasty little plastic desk grudgingly supported teetering piles of undifferentiated paper, and hemmed in an equally unpleasant plastic chair. Against the wall adjacent slouched a couple of frankly hideous beige metallic filing cabinets; from these, more paper poked, and in so doing discovered itself to be similarly undifferentiated. All over the floor, which was covered in a still browner and stickier linoleum than that gracing the vestibule, pink tubing intestinally coiled; two or three lengths of this latter commodity poked down the seatless toilet which some latter-day Duchamp had thought fit to install against the back wall. —
Illingworth’s consulting room
“If you must know, I use my consulting room for the administration of high colonics.” —
High colonics
“Enriched uranium?” said Enematopoeia helpfully. —
Enematopoeia
Lord Snatch who, on account of being both a Lord and an adept of the Via Bohemiana, was doubly immune to petty bourgeois conventions and social niceties, greatly obliged Illingworth with a display of the abscess disfiguring his groin. —
Via Bohemiana
Illingworth having absented himself once more, Lord Snatch sauntered over to the filing cabinets, and after digging around a bit, was exceedingly gratified to unearth composting therein a large number of lavishly illustrated editions of the British Journal of Clisters* which, as he now found, lived up to its name in being devoted to that vey clinical discipline in which Illingworth professed himself competent. Leafing through those pages of this esteemed organ which were not - by who knew what diabolical agency - entirely gummed together, Lord Snatch to his delight came upon several vey candid photographic representations of Clismathea and Enematopoeia undergoing the procedures in question. Wordlessly, he sidled towards the nasty little desk and equally nasty little chair on which respectively those maidens were now taking their ease. —
British Journal of Clisters
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