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The Last Invitation of Summer
Dear Madame Quince-Dowry,
As summer is ending I felt it incumbent on me to invite you to a thunderstorm
which is scheduled to take place outside the herring factory this evening
at dusk. You needn’t dress in any but the most perfunctory manner
nor bring any crickets (there will be plenty of those!) as I myself
will be wearing but a thin military camisole from the pelvic region
upwards and will be toting a gecko or two. By the way, I can see the
dunes from the third-storey window of my cabin, and they are absolutely
still – not a grain moving – at this time of day. I know not
what lies within them, but I have a friend (a recent lover of yours,
say the boys down the pub) who is a spelunker and he says he’s
not interested in them because they’re not caves. I’ve asked
him not to accompany us and he’s more than happy to oblige. Will
there be fireworks? No, there will not be fireworks, but there’s
a young Christian girl (a bastard daughter of yours, if Reverend Glitch
is to be believed) who will read from the Bible for tips and cheese.
I’m so excited by the prospect that you might actually join me
on this little outing that I’ve quite been masturbating –
and furiously! – all morning in anticipation. Dr. Craque (the same
fellow who, according to the papers, performed your last hysterectomy)
told me that this would be good for calming my nerves – indeed
the opposite, for I find myself in a neurasthenic frenzy just contemplating
the notion that you and I might picnic together this very evening beneath
those same bolts of lightning which are sure to set the Riddley barns
aflame again. Have you any toothpaste? Be sure to screw the cap on tightly:
I have an aunt (one of your mothers, I believe?) who died not long ago
from leaving the cap unscrewed on a tube of Sterident. The poor woman
left the world without a will, and we’ve been squabbling over her
miniature teacups ever since. Please respond by flare (red yes, blue
no) as soon as possible. I must close now as my wife (your squirrel-catcher
in a past life, swears Sturluson the trance medium and elbow boxer)
is leaving on her errands and I would like for her to deliver this letter,
along with the rooster I borrowed, to your hallowed door.
With Fondest Regards to you and your lovely poodle (does she suffer
yet?),
Your Dithering Suitor,
Andromimicus ‘Andy’ Clump, Esq.
From Spiral Agitator by Steve Venright
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