Lord Snatch, levering open gummed eyes, peered from within his horse head and beheld, gimcracked, culturally deracinated: internalities of structure. Odours of unguents pervaded. Of, also, humanity, which, having toiled, egregiously neglects its ablutions, choosing rather to wallow in its own desuetude. —
Lord Snatch
“What my master, whose bondsman I am, means to signify,” said this creature, “is that you are to be recognised by the lesion upon your groin. It was I,” added Onanisticles the Scagsmith, “it was I who prevailed upon Sergeant Drew to carry you hither, in case you was wondering.” —
Onanisticles the scagsmith
“Stop thy fookin’ mitherin’,” snapped vey abruptly Ianeass the Gimp, “gnaw boddeh wants to gnaw about it.” —
Ianeass the Gimp
“Forgive me Master,” simpered Onanisticles the Scagsmith, “shall I fetch the chess set?” —
The chess set
The bondsman absenting himself, there now developed between the shed chatelaine and his aristocratic visitor a certain froideur, which to my mind at least did insidious violence to the venerable tradition of ξενία. Howsomever, the lengthy and vey surly silence was eventually broken by Ianeass the Gimp. —
Xenia, Ianeass’s shed
“His name,” said Ianeass the Gimp vey promptly, “was J.J.Beast.” —
J.J.Beast
“Well!” said Miss Minerva Ledwitch, subsiding with the most sublime contentment onto a ziggurat of wicket-keeping gloves and jockstraps, “well, I knew it had to be you! I recognised your chancre. Syphilis, is it? I always wondered. You’re quite the talk of the town, you naughty boy. Damsels swoon, matrons are scandalised, dowagers resort to inundated nosegays.” —
Herod
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