Upon his return to his lodgings at the Mynah’s Arms, Mr Tristram Acridotheres did not tarry in the public bar of that establishment, but betook himself straight to his room, where the chambermaid had prepared for him a most comfortable nest. In so doing, he passed without the exchange of pleasantries straight by the very same table at which sat the very same collection of rogues as on that previous occasion when, perching on the shelf above with his pint of Gem, he had first introduced himself to the present chronicle. —
Mr Tristram Acridotheres, The Mynah’s Arms
For their part, the aforementioned rogues - Solomon the wise, the clown Hieronymus, Medusa the Gorgon, and St Just the tiger (or catamite if you will) - did not deign to remark upon the fleeting passage by their comble of the mynah bird, wrapped up as they were in their latest intrigue, viz. the charivari which they thought they might get up. —
charivari, Solomon, Medusa, The charivari
There was now to be discerned at the bar Mr Crass Cheseham with, miraculous to relate, a most animated Miss Minerva Ledwitch at his side, this happy couple taking delivery of, respectively, a pint of Tribute and a glass of sweet white wine of indeterminate provenance. These provenders being duly supplied, the aforementioned pair now eased their way through the comble pressing them about, and took the empty places reserved for them at the table of rogues. —
Herod, Mr Crass Cheseham
“Hand oy,” announced Solomon not wishing to be excluded from this roll of honour, “’as played moy part boy thieving the materials vor the puppets that Geronimo hath devised, vrom the Crapstore down yonder in Zevier Street.” —
Crapstore
“Arp,” said Solomon, “the puppets that Geronimo hath devised vollowing moy theft hov materials germanly to this wery purpose be hin the lock-up hov Mr Francis MacMahon, hup yonder hon Montypelly Hill. He be keeping them,” added the philosopher of Turbo Island Opposite the Ghastly Hipster, “hin ’is jalopy that his parked therein.” —
Francis MacMahon, Montypelly Hill
“We ’as come to see the puppets vich ’as bissen dewised by Geronimo vor the charivari that oy ’as thought up, hand vor vich Zolomon hath thieved the materials vrom the Crapstore down yonder hin Zevier Street. Thee bist keeping the puppets hin kvestion,” she added helpfully, “hin thy jalopy.” —
Crapstore
The puppets - or more exactly, perhaps, voodoo dolls - were immediately revealed as exactly the sorry things they were, that is to say, crude things cobbled together by a simpleton from such scraps of felt and rubber and toilet roll as the larceny of his associate afforded him. Withal, the likenesses were obvious enough. Sufficient grey and red stuffs had been furnished to render the simulacrum of the former Mayor, and sufficient white to furnish that of his erstwhile fiancée, lately wedded to the present incumbent. Some aspiring Caravaggio with a felt tip pen had etched onto their heads the features of gargoyles gurning from the pit. The pair were sellotaped back-to-back, and mounted on a device, by now much weathered, but which the universal speculum would recognise as the scooter upon which, many years before, the predecessor of Miss Bianca Columbina in the affections of Mr Hawksmoor Perroquet had first been towed into town. —
The puppets
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