Talking to the Dead
...a priest, a nun and a rabbi walk into a bar...
...you'd think one of them would have ducked, wouldn't you?
I attended Leonora Hurstley's annual Seance last night, more out of obligation than any particular willingness or interest. I made my dear sister Martine put on a relatively clean bearskin and accompany me, as the doctors said it was important for her to interact with civilized society as much as possible. She behaved very nicely, although I fear I may have the percocet I slipped into her moonshine to thank for that.
Where was I? Oh, the pre-seance party.
Leonora had invited most of the town last night, and as most of the town showed up, she was in a fine mood. She flitted about the gathering showing off her various baubles, her clear favorite being the five gallon glass jug of pure lard she had had sucked out of her thighs and upper arms last Spring in Mexico. There had been more, she said, but her cook had mistaken it for cooking lard, and had whipped up several batches of fried chicken for the Baptist Potluck before anyone realized the mix-up. I silently thanked Thor for my avowed heathenry.
Captain Baldercock was in attendance, and I am glad to report that his wounds are not only no longer weeping that odious yellow pus, but that they have taken on a brilliant ruby sheen that actually looks quite festive! He, of course, brought his arachnid bride, the tarantula he has named "Rose". He'd tied her to his epaulet with a pink ribbon, and everyone had to admit her social skills have improved tenfold. She only bit two people, and since one of them was merely a member of the waitstaff, he hardly counts.
The Rice siblings also attended--all four of the towheaded inbreeds. I can hardly tell them apart, myself, so it seemed as if there were a dozen of them at times. One of them was quite insistent that I grant it a dance, and I finally gave in...I only hope it was the female.
We didn't get around to the seance itself until midnight, and Leonora insisted that only seven of us could actually take part. She, of course, would officiate, and she quickly chose myself, Martine, the Captain and Rose, young Billy Prufock (upon whom Leonora has a bit of a crush, despite the tracking collar those fellows from the college up North attached to him three Winters ago), and May-Bell Perkins. I suspect she only chose May-Bell as a way to "show off", since M-B (as we call her) is a bit of a celebrity around here. She's won the crochet contest at the State Fair twelve years running with her handmade thongs and pasties, which she herself uses in her full-time job as an exotic dancer. At 83, she is still spry and nimble, so much so that everytime White Zombie comes on the radio, she's gyrating on top of the nearest table in no time flat....but I digress.
Leonora, as always, tried desperately to communicate with her dear departed life-partner, Cybill. She, as always, failed. We were lucky enow, however, to receive a visitation from an entity calling itself "Atak, Warlord of Grunk", who spoke through May-Bell and promised that his coming would spell the end of all our hopes and dreams. Naturally, we found this quite amusing, as none of us are much for hoping, dreaming or letting damned foreigners on our lands in any event. A good time was had by all.
...you'd think one of them would have ducked, wouldn't you?
I attended Leonora Hurstley's annual Seance last night, more out of obligation than any particular willingness or interest. I made my dear sister Martine put on a relatively clean bearskin and accompany me, as the doctors said it was important for her to interact with civilized society as much as possible. She behaved very nicely, although I fear I may have the percocet I slipped into her moonshine to thank for that.
Where was I? Oh, the pre-seance party.
Leonora had invited most of the town last night, and as most of the town showed up, she was in a fine mood. She flitted about the gathering showing off her various baubles, her clear favorite being the five gallon glass jug of pure lard she had had sucked out of her thighs and upper arms last Spring in Mexico. There had been more, she said, but her cook had mistaken it for cooking lard, and had whipped up several batches of fried chicken for the Baptist Potluck before anyone realized the mix-up. I silently thanked Thor for my avowed heathenry.
Captain Baldercock was in attendance, and I am glad to report that his wounds are not only no longer weeping that odious yellow pus, but that they have taken on a brilliant ruby sheen that actually looks quite festive! He, of course, brought his arachnid bride, the tarantula he has named "Rose". He'd tied her to his epaulet with a pink ribbon, and everyone had to admit her social skills have improved tenfold. She only bit two people, and since one of them was merely a member of the waitstaff, he hardly counts.
The Rice siblings also attended--all four of the towheaded inbreeds. I can hardly tell them apart, myself, so it seemed as if there were a dozen of them at times. One of them was quite insistent that I grant it a dance, and I finally gave in...I only hope it was the female.
We didn't get around to the seance itself until midnight, and Leonora insisted that only seven of us could actually take part. She, of course, would officiate, and she quickly chose myself, Martine, the Captain and Rose, young Billy Prufock (upon whom Leonora has a bit of a crush, despite the tracking collar those fellows from the college up North attached to him three Winters ago), and May-Bell Perkins. I suspect she only chose May-Bell as a way to "show off", since M-B (as we call her) is a bit of a celebrity around here. She's won the crochet contest at the State Fair twelve years running with her handmade thongs and pasties, which she herself uses in her full-time job as an exotic dancer. At 83, she is still spry and nimble, so much so that everytime White Zombie comes on the radio, she's gyrating on top of the nearest table in no time flat....but I digress.
Leonora, as always, tried desperately to communicate with her dear departed life-partner, Cybill. She, as always, failed. We were lucky enow, however, to receive a visitation from an entity calling itself "Atak, Warlord of Grunk", who spoke through May-Bell and promised that his coming would spell the end of all our hopes and dreams. Naturally, we found this quite amusing, as none of us are much for hoping, dreaming or letting damned foreigners on our lands in any event. A good time was had by all.
posted by Dark Angel at 3:05 PM
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