Pearly Hotdish played ever such lovely
dirges on that harpsichord in the village square, and it wasn't until
“the condition” set in that she ever had any problems whatsoever.
In fact, we all thought that Pearly Hotdish would go fantastic
places, do great things, and make a wonderful, wonderful and most
delightful name for herself on the blessed harpsichord.
“Play me some of those old-timey
songs,” would screech Rascal Matley as he drew close to Pearly, his
dank, reeking breath forming droplets of moisture on her alabaster
back (for Pearly Hotdish would only play the harpsichord while
entirely devoid of clothing – she said that woven fibers made her
weak and tone-deaf). “I love those old-timey songs.”
Miss Hotdish would oblige, of course
(How could she resist the four-toothed grin of Rascal Matley? How
could she?), and Rascal would leap in the air, sloughing great clouds
of dry, dead skin as he pirouetted. Crowds would form. Elderly men
and women would dance a small folk dance from a far-off land, and
Miss Hotdish would play all the more earnestly and with greater
emotion, working herself into such a haze of perspiration.
“I have for you a small treat,”
said Rascal Matley, producing a small sugarcube from the folds of the
adipose tissue around his waist. The cube was moist, as you might
expect, and perhaps just a little foul-smelling. “Allow me to
improve upon this fair cube of sweetness,” he did say, turning away
and pulling a small brown bottle from the pocket of his loin-cloth.
The label on the bottle read “Scramble the Melon!” and Rascal
twisted it open, drew out the eye-dropper attachment, and dropped a
single spot of the pinkish fluid onto the surface of the sugarcube.
The cube drank up the fluid, and nary a stain remained upon its
surface.
“For you, the precious Pearly,”
said Rascal as he offered her the sugarcube. Pearly stopped playing
for a moment and turned around on the bench, her sweat-moistened
bottom making a queer squeaking noise as she swiveled.
“Mister Matley,” sighed the
precious Pearly, “it is ever so kind of you.” She received the
tiny sugarcube into her dainty, outstretched palm, and conveyed it
thence to her pink, waiting lips. “My, but it is sweet,” sighed
the precious Pearly.
The pinkish fluid worked quickly, and
Pearly Hotdish was as limp and flaccid as a Maine Coon in its lover's
arms.
“I can no longer play a delightful
and melancholy dirge for you, Mister Matley,” sighed Pearly as she
slumped onto the keyboard of the harpsichord. Short, red-haired
attendants that were waiting nearby walked up to her and, taking hold
of wrists and ankles, carried her to the waiting sedan chair. Pearly
allowed herself to be gently tumbled into its seat, where another
attendant covered her with a modesty-shawl.
“Precious Pearly,” said Rascal
Matley with reeking breath, “you will, no doubt, be my guest at
Matley Manor this very evening, where I will feed you shellfish and
bitter herbs, and you might delight me with a dirge upon the
harpsichord.”
Pearly Hotdish looked at Rascal Matley
through woozy eyes and tried to focus on his four-toothed grin. “I
do not think that would be prudent,” sighed Pearly as her brother,
Captain Traynor Hotdish of the Duke's Grenadier Guards walked up to
the edge of the sedan chair.
“I believe I will escort my sister to
her home,” said Captain Hotdish, his saber and medals jangling.
Rascal Matley let out a great, reeking
breath. His face flushed a bright red.
Captain Traynor Hotdish scooped his
sister and her modesty-shawl into his arms, and with a turn and shake
of his spurs, they strode off toward the Hotdish estate, the plume in
his hat bouncing jauntily.
The harpsichord in the village square
was quiet that evening, as was the harpsichord in Matley Manor.
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