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Archive for November, 2011

PSYCHO KILLER
Darlings this is Ye Old Hag, or as the Black Orchid calls me, Auntie Carol. I think of all my cases the case of C. Percy Newberry has the most dramatic and certainly the most lurid potential. And I shall read from my actual transcripts. Oh Lord, me, I do rejoice that my little business The PrimRose Detective Agency has grown from a two person office to a firm of over fifty detectives and support staff.

Just last week we solved a major diamond heist involving Nick, the “Butt End,” Aeoleo and his frightful paramour, Lucretia Le Bump Poo Poo. Two more nefarious characters I’ll never know, I deign to say. They were ambitious enough to pull off the robbery yet not smart enough not to use credit cards even with phony names such as Mr. and Mrs. Smith. I attribute this to the fact that neither of them watched Unsolved Mysteries or Cold Case Files on the television. Instead they watched the Jerry Springer show which gives no information whatsoever as to how to be a criminal mastermind. In fact one could say the thought process does not come even come into play in this instance.

Oh yes where were we? The heinous case of C. Percy Newberry. Oh, “murder most foul” as Hamlet would say. He murdered his lovely wife, Clytemestra, his partner of thirty years. They found her in the Italian market hanging from a meat hook with all the dead boar, rabbits, and geese. She was dressed in her wedding dress, with a look of absolute bliss on her beauteous Croatian face. She was impeccably made-up and coifed, and her pale luminescent flesh imbued the scene with a Madame Tussaud kind of effect like a candle melting in the darkness. She had black hair the color of a raven’s feather, and her alabaster skin had the faint tinge of pink on the cheeks like the dying rays of the setting sun. Her raw umber eyes glowed with a preternatural light like that of Ligeia in Edgar Allen Poe’s tale of the same name. Of course the major difference, I might add, is that unlike Ligeia she did not come back to life. Her full pouty lips inspired many men to bite them to taste the raw honey of her lust, and Percy hated her as he also loved her. Oh Lord, me a “tainted” love.

I shall describe this wondrous personage as it goes to the over all etiology of this most horrendous crime. In body she was elegant as a long stemmed white rose, thin and curvaceous in the derriere. Not only was she a ravening beauty but she was an accomplished pianist and she possessed a double degree in English literature and astro-physics. She was a mail order bride par excellence and a credit to her race. The scent of lavender always permeated the air as she strolled by. Men desired her and women hated her except for the lesbians. She was very very spiritual and dreamy, a kind of shimmering mist enveloped her which put one in the mind of a fog arising on the moors. Upon meeting her, people remarked, and murmured, “What an extraordinary woman!” as she wordlessly passed by.

Now why in heavens name should such a wondrous creature meet such an untimely death? Why, indeed? The answer, to cut to the chase was sex. No, silly, she was not “frigid”. Au contraire. She was a tigress in sex, multi-orgasmic, insatiable, even a tad bit brutal for she would rake Percy’s chest with her long leonine fingernails at the point of climax. Yes darlings there was blood. Percy, a “Rock Hudson” look alike, only straight, and a titan of industry gloried in her excesses. He bedded her quite often and she was his raison d’etre. His heart went out to her like a valentine candy “Be mine Broken One.” For she “broke” him on the axis of passion. Her every wish was also his desire, so besotted in her was he.

Then one night, Fate intervened, or as Edgar Allen Poe in the poem, Annabel Lee so prosaically said, “The angels not so happy in heaven/went to envying her and me.” With her legs up behind her head and Percy thrusting in her like a rutting goat, she banged her head on the headboard. She then fell from consciousness and was in a coma for two weeks, and Percy never left her side. The doctors warned him that she might never regain consciousness again, such was the damage to her frontal lobes.

Then miracle of all miracles, she awoke one day and her brown eyes, were clear and bright and she was absolutely luminous. Percy was absolutely ecstatic and dumped one dozen red roses on her bed sheets, and screamed at the top of his lungs, She’s alive! Alive! I love you, my little monstrosity. My minx!” He then uncorked a bottle of Dom Perignon pouring her a full glass which she downed like a drunken sailor. Then she a ponderous look came over her face and she enjoined him with this quixotic phrase, “I am vexed. Am I not without mercy”. Percy perplexed, replied, “Have I displeased you in any way, my little Cuckco Dove?” And she paused, with a contemplative look, and uttered the same phrase again even more insistently. In fact that was all she ever said for the rest of her tragic life for the next twenty years. And even more horrendous when she said that phrase she got a joyous, triumphant look and dimpled up, and seemed to think she had delivered The Sermon on the Mount or something equally earth shaking.

At first, Percy loved her even more intently for what is more appealing than an injured, helpless beautiful person. The ugly ones get kicked to the curb. A sad but true fact. Alors! And Heavens, no. What is more charming than a tainted love I ask you? Making love to a brain damaged wife was even more titillating as she was even more passionate and wild in a glutinous, absurd, and devastating way. Her skin was even several degrees hotter than it formerly was.

But as my husband Herman Sherman so crudely puts it, “Man Does Not Live by Poontang Alone!” Percy began to tire of all the eroticism and her inability to communicate in any logical and learned way. It was if her soul had fled her and only her lovely, bumptious, bodacious body remained. He began to refer to her as “The Succubus” and to avoid her at all costs. He quit giving lavish, sumptuous dinner parties and avoided his numerous kind, and jolly close friends. He considered her a monstrosity and he was ashamed of her and burdened by her abject dependency and increasing slothfulness for it was clear that she still deeply loved him and this made it worse. Much worse. He began to spend late nights out with the lowly criminal element, gamblers, pimps, and whores who were all too delighted to spend his vast fortune. In short, he became a rotter. He shunned culture, art, beauty and literature, and all the things that made him a fine human being.

When he finally came home at late at night he would find her sobbing her heart out and playing Bach interludes on the Grand Piano. It was like a scene from Phanthom of the Opera, only not in a “fun” way. Then she would recite timidly and hopefully, “I am vexed. Am I not without mercy?” These words would grate on him in much the same way as Chinese Water torture operates. The repeated one drop of water on the forehead over and over would begin to echoe inside the head of the prisoner and it would drive him mad. Her words drove Percy quite insane, and her rank, sexual smell nauseated him like a dead carcass rotting in the woods. He could not stand the sight of her: it was enough to make him retch, the very idea of her, this dreadful morass of neediness. He determined to poison her slowly so as not to invite suspicion on the part of the police, untraceable ancient poisons from Eqypt, the poisons the blessed Cleopatra used to dispatch bothersome lovers. Yet she would always awake, cheerful, loving, and hopeful with the same ghastly phraseology delivered in a boisterously loud voice. In his mind she became a grasping, insatiable strumpet intent on destroying him one syllable at a time. He came to view his malaise in spirit as solely caused by her, the obstreperous whore of a woman. He came to think, “It’s either her or me. And it’s gonna be her goddamnit!”

Then he dressed her up bathed her and did her hair as she used to wear it and he applied her make-up meticulously and perfumed her in lilac. He dressed her in her wedding for he was not without a sense of irony. Why shouldn’t death be humorous he reasoned and he had his criminal friends gut her with the meat hook an leave her hanging in a meat locker for the surprised proprietor to find the next morning. They complained that she took a long time to die and said “I am vexed. Am I not without mercy?” with her last breath. One of the whores commented in pity, “She died a beautiful death, Lurch. Just Beautiful.”

Now Percy resides in the House of Funny Forever. He’s fond of saying, “Women you can’t live with them and you can’t live without them.” And he still looks dashing or at least I think so.
By CAROL ANN author of Poems of Thunder @ Amazon & BN.com

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This is Auntie Carol and I have just seen a most disquieting sight. I am most certainly in a dreadful state. The police contacted me early this morning to come over to “Death by Chocolate” an upscale chocolate shop in the heart of the city owned by one Honore de Balzac, (no not that one, silly). And what befalls my startled eyes but an unknown man boiling away in a huge vat of chocolate. Dare I say it? “Oh murder most foul”. A little bon mot for you by the Melancholy Dane, Hamlet. There was a note left not far away which said “Good Night, Sweet Prince.” It was certainly an arcane little witticism and by that I deduced that our killer was a an English major. Lord knows they are a dangerous lot. Well at any rate our killer was highly educated: that was apparent.

The police, such study lads, fished the body out of the huge tureen of boiling chocolate and inserted the body in a body bag. One of them licked his fingers and I cannot but think that it was a tad cannibalistic. His features were unrecognizable and his fingerprints were all burned off. One of the policeman proposed we call the victim, “Mars bar” but I stepped right in and informed him it was not seemly and that no gentleman would propound such an insensitive idea. I suggested we call it “The Godiva Caper” which met with uniform applause and approval.

The owner, Honore de Balzac, was so beside himself, he went around muttering in German phrases, “Ach du Meine Gutte (Oh My God). Nein, nein, nein. (No, no no).” When the police tried to interview him he became hysterical and cried into a kerchief. This was a job for a woman. I must describe Monsiour Honore. He was dressed in a tailor made yellow satin suit of the kind seen in the court of Louis XIV “The Sun King” and lavender stockings. It was foppish to say the least. And he was given to dramatic hand gestures. I reassured him by acting like a dear motherly women and I becalmed him. I found out that he had locked up as usual and that the keys were owned by himself and the manager Mr. Helmut Stumpf, and that he had been at a private screening of Felini’s Amarcord at a “men’s party” the night before. Ah, “The Love that dare not speak its name” (Oscar Wilde). And that was his alibi which checked out. This was a typical crime passionelle.

Before I describe Herr Stumpf, I should spend a few moment describing the victim, a huge man well over six feet tall with a “massive instrument”. I sneaked a look when the police were backing up the van to load the body in. Curious minds need to know. He was portly and very muscular. Why people don’t know how to swim is beyond me. Over 98% of the earth’s surface is water. Go figure! If I was in a capsized ship I would simply swim to shore or float until further notice. Of course there is no accounting for pernicious sharks nor boiling chocolate for that matter. Alors! I do digress. What a perilous world we live in. The more I solve these cases the more I realize we’re all going to hell in a hand basket.

At any rate Herr Stumph, came marching in and I do mean marching. He had a more than passing resemblance to Adolph Hitler with little beady raw umber eyes and unkissable lips topped by an abbreviated moustache. He was as immense physically as Monsiour Honore was frail. It was obvious that there were multiple perpetrators as the victim was so immensely muscled, tall. and heavy. Sometimes the more peculiar people do not commit such crimes as they are dreamers and live in their own heads On the other hand, sometimes they do commit the crimes. It can go either way. Human nature is a fearsome conundrum, a Rubix cube, if you will. At any rate, Herr Stumpf, indignantly declared his innocence and said he was his French mistress, FiFi, Le Blonde Dum. I called her and she said he was with her all night long and she gave me a message to give to Herr Stumpf. It was that he would have to pay more since he killed her “pussy”. Not that kind silly. Her cat. In a fit of passion he strangled the poor unfortunate creature. I am reminded of E.A. Poe’s story, “The Black Cat” in which the animal takes revenge on her cruel master. One can only hope, dears.

The third suspect, was sarcastically, called “Mr. Jolly” as he never smiled and was always making morose statements like “Life is not worth living: I think I shall fling myself over a cliff.” Or at other times he would say, “I am not attractive to the opposite sex” or “Mother never really loved me.” They kept him around because he was the only person who would work for the wage they paid him. He faintly resembled James Joyce with his thin face and wire rimmed glasses. I looked in his eyes and realized he was a true psycho and like all other known psychos, he had a stutter, and lived in an attic. He was in charge of the nuts. No silly, not that kind. Pecans, walnuts and peanuts. In his hand he had Doestoevsky’s book, Crime and Punishment, and he also carried a biography of the serial killer, Ed Gein. So to put it daintily, I hope I shan’t meet this character in a back alley or a lonely country road. And he had no alibi as he was home reading the night before and in his own words was “improving his mind.” Yet with my psychic ability I discerned that this psycho would only kill women, and was at that moment, thinking of strangling me with my own panty hose. I made a mental note to myself, “We are not responsible for our thoughts. Stay far away from this horrid man. And you might well meet him at future crime scenes. But he is not the killer at this particular time.”

Then like a bolt of lightning, I had a vision of The Black Orchid and her two robust male acolytes putting a screaming, squirming man into the huge vat of boiling chocolate. I did not tell the police about this revelation and made a quick exit holding a sachet to my nose and fanning myself with an Oriental fan to make them think I was overcome with revulsion. You know, a “mere woman.”

When I got to her palatial estate she greeted me at the door without me even knocking and said, “I’ve been expecting you, Carol. I knew you would comes for me.” And his lush emerald eyes filled with tears. She was dressed in a leopard skin leotard with hot pink tights and held a bar bell in her hand and a rank sweetness assailed my nostrils. She was shiny as a spit upon pearl from her workout which was three hours a day every day.

“I knew your psychic powers would lead you to me yet as you fully understand, psychic revelations are inadmissible in court and there is no DNA evidence in this particular case. The boiling chocolate took care of that and we all wore rubber suits, gloves, and hair hats to prevent the loss of even a single strand of hair. I was a thief on the streets of Calcutta in 1200 AD. and there is no lock which can encumber me. I have murdered people for less reason my dear. We immortals are not subject to middle class morality. I do not meant to negate our friendship. Do not forsake me, Auntie Carol.”

“What was the reason?” I asked.

“He was an imperfect piece of excrement is why. He seduced Las Cabronas and they were living in my house under my protection. They were subject to his whims and dominance. He told them he would have them expelled if they didn’t service him. They were the innocent victims of a Vile Seducer. He seduced them with wine and chocolates. Those who live by chocolate shall die by chocolate. I have spoken. Then there’s the matter of him being my favorite love slave. I was injured beyond repair and as they say ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ You cannot convict me Carol. I left only one bit of evidence, the Death card in the Tarot deck, and you’ll never guess where I put it. Up his ass,” and with that The Black Orchid broke into her panther like laughter.

I confess it was eerie and that I am always alarmed when she laughs. It kind of reminds of the scene on the bed when Linda Blair’s head turns around backwards. It gives me the chills.
“Will, you have a chocolate cherry, my dear?” inquired The Black Orchid.

Yes,” I replied. “Why stand on ceremony?” I said.
And we never mentioned this incident again. Let sleeping dogs lie as the saying goes.
Written by Carol Ann Author of Poems of Thunder @ Amazon & BN.com

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Lady Lynda stepped up from the wood side steps to the stage. Once she got there her signs of nervousness disappeared. She quickly perused the mostly young to middle aged crowd. Her observation was couples in various ethnic groups, including blacks and Hispanics. She tastefully cleared her throat and started lecturing. The middle aged woman looked demure in her lemon chiffon sheath.
“I am truly grateful you came here to see my teach you proper manners. Can you imagine how thrilled I am to be on this tour. I want to thank you from the cockles of my heart…”

Suddenly a young rowdy male teenager in tee and jeans yelled “WTF lady!!!”

Lady Lynda replied “My dear young man. I understand what you are trying to say. Allow me to tell you my talk is only tonight. I’m terribly sorry but its not Wednesday, Thursday, Friday too.”

Lady Lynda partook from the cup nearby. “Its only water. I think it was be the height of impropriety to drink something stronger. I’m certain you get my drift. Getting back to my talk. Etiquette is the art of making people feel comfortable. Specifically my mission is to save young womenkind of hellocious influence of this dastardly world. Do your utmost never to disparage anyone. If you need to do so, do it discreetly. In that way they won’t get hurt. As they say what they don’t know won’t hurt them. Please don’t comment on disparities too. For instance if you see a man whose 2’8” and a man whose over 8′ don’t say well thats the short and the tall of it. Pardon the sentiment of telling a person with different colored eyes. Well one blew this and the other blew that way. These two examples bring back the time Seymour and I visited the World Cheapest Freak Show in Intercourse PA. Stop tittering. That’s the height of decadence. I forlornly remember the star freak was a man with a deviated septum. The poor dear I thought but for the grace of the LORD there go I. Here’s a different example If you ever meet siblings who were born conjoined twins never mention the song by Peaches and Herb “Reunited. I deign believe it would traumatize the poor dears. Let them go their separate ways. I recall some years ago a dear woman friend called me in the middle of night. She was utterly distraught discovering her favorite male movie star was bald. I consoled her by mentioning ‘Look what he’d save in hair products. Why the snickering?” Lady Lynda inquired puzzled and rather miffed.

Some slutty young woman yelled “That’s not the only benefit. Besides I could really use a “Snickers” right now. as she snickered.

“Pray tell what ever could be some other good in being hair deprived?

A sassy young woman dressed in a purple shag hair style, matching make up in the latest Goth fashion yelled “A different benefit comes to be me right away” She emphasized the word comes ever so slightly but enough that many of the individuals there quickly understood her drift.

Lady Lynda still puzzled decided to ignore the woman who so intensely reminded her of the female charges of the “Charm School for Wayward Girls” If only this dear waif was so unfortunate not be part of her class. Maybe if she ignored her crude remark and continued on with her talk, the poor dear just might learn a thing about proper manners. Such as not interrupting with crude remarks.

Lady Lynda continued smoothing out her fine lemon chiffon dress to regain her composure. “Moving on I remember the other day I was walking through the corridor of a subway station. A young man came up to me and said he wanted to let his thing do its thing with me. I told him of course constructively yet firmly. That was the worst pick up line ever!!!” Besides thing is such a general term. He looked peeved at me but it was for his own edification. I told you won’t impress if you are redundant. Let me repeat. Noone likes someone who uses redundancies.”

“Speaking of being redundant I hope you were edified by my talk and I continue my tour. I wish you adeiu my dears.”

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Well, I have news to share. Lady Lynda shall not accompany me in the Primrose Detective agency in my criminal sleuthing. She will continue on the lecture circuit, teaching our young ladies decorum and manners. I consider it a meritorious undertaking. People need to know proper manners and morals in these hellacious times. Man was born a savage and needs the ameliorating effect of such instruction. A lady is to draw the line at her neck line and not topple over at the first utterance of an insincere or nefarious compliment. Ardor should be contained until the wedding night. Then Pop Goes the Weasel. A little witticism for you, dear. Ah the glorious, halcyon days of youth and innocence. But, I do digress.

Well my next case involved the shady, sorrowful, sumptuous death of the late pop singer, Tom Bones best known for the song, “What’s New Scaredy Cat”, whoa, whoa, whoa. He was a fine looking, rustic, bawdy looking Welch man, and had a way of moving that suggested amorous intent. He had a passionate voice so as the melt the heart of the most chill of women. Ah, those quivering hips, I deign to say. I am so outré, so naughty. I even shock myself.

I viewed the pictures of the crime scene, so gritty, and graffic like a Diane Arbus picture of the idiots standing on their little pin heads, (the poor dears). I asked, Moe Wheedle, the head detective, if I might view the murder scene to get some psychic vibes I might be able to gather there. I felt the evil presence of an unknown woman waft through the still air. People used to ask me for the happenings at the end of their lives and I used to tell the truth and got into a lot of contretemps and sometimes, fisticuffs, so now I tell all women their ex- husbands will be at their graves, pining for them and regretting the acquisition of their trophy wives. For men, I tell them I see them bedding Marilyn Monroe in a pile of thick, rose hued cumulus clouds after death.

Tom was found head down at the New York Park Hyatt, frothing at the mouth. To me, this indicated a poisoning of some kind. Mo Wheedle affirmed this theory, but said that the tox screen revealed no known poison. Mo, a large, fat frumpy man, in wrinkled suit and dirt on his collar, chewed his tobacco said, “I think he was headed for the ‘terlet’ when she done him in.” His second sergeant said, “Ah, boss, you always say that every time.”

“Cuz, it’s true most of the time, pilgrim. When people are emptying their bladders it’s an excellent opportunity to kill them because then they’re not alert! Ya see.”

I concurred though I did not exactly follow his line of reasoning. Always butter up the detectives and let them feel superior. A man’s ego is so fragile, my darlings. Well again I digress. The room looked like a Victoria Secret set with panties bras, bustiers, and silk stockings thrown about and Moe Wheedle surmised that Tom was a closet “fairy” to use his patois. I informed him that women threw their panties and room keys on the stage when Tom Bones performed and he just said “Oh,” and looked pensive, no mean task for him. In fact he looked kind of misty in mind like phone ringing nobody home. No wonder he needed a psychic!

Before leaving me to my musings, he paused at the door, and turned to say, “Oh yeah one thing is kinda preculiar. He had been drinking heavily and he had a pair of black lace panties in his mouth when he died. Watcha think of that, Madame Carol?”
I gueried him as to whether he tested the panties for poison and he pompously said that he had and not to try to second guess him as he was in charge of the investigation not me!

I apologized for my foolhardiness and expressed my amazement at his superior sleuthing and told him I was just a mere woman. He was much soothed and walked out like the cock of the walk.

I decided to study the women in his life for it was known he never had dalliances with his fans though he did collect and take their panties with him after the performances. I knew the mode of poisoning it had to be in the panties and was an unknown poison.

He was married to Helena Bonham Farter for ten years and I surmised she knew him best, so I researched her first. She was an astounding beauty, dark haired and porcelain skinned, like an E. A. Poe heroine. I liken her to the mistress of the “House of Usher”. She was for a delicate woman a ferocious lover, wild and wanton. What do the men say, “a lady in the board room and a whore in the bedroom.” When they divorced she went to “The Farm of Funny”. And she came out of that place distraught, morose and moody, and took to burning Tom in effigy every Sunday, chanting, “Die, die you rotten scum. I’ll burn your damn wandering cock”.

Afterward he dated a stripper a Miz Una Linear, a tempestuous Taurus. Though beautiful as Botticelli’s Venus on the Half Shell, she was terribly insecure. In fact, she took to her bed for three days after seeing crow’s feet forming under her vapid cerulean eyes. She was like a cavern that could never be filled, and her constant neediness drove Tom away. This is a lesson, for you, Dears, never be a tabula rosa for “Nature abhors a vacuum.”

Then there was Meredith the Monolith, a dominatrix, he dated for a time. She was stern and masterful and liked to give Tom a good thrashing on occasion and she demanded he “worship” her feet by licking her toes. There were many others but I picked these for they seemed the most “unmanned”. A little bon mot for you, darlings. I decided to interview Helena as the other two had alibis at the time of his death. Besides in the old movies the wife is always the culprit. One can’t argue with that can one. There is one thing I must shamed facedly admit. When I went to the morgue to see his corpse I sneaked a peak at his ‘love instrument’ and I deign to say it was magnificent. I am no angel after all.
So, I interviewed Helena, the ex-wife, who was not without wit. The first thing she said was “I want you to know I’m not burning Tom in effigy anymore. That would be redundant!” Then she let fly raucous laughter like a hyena on the Serengeti Plains. I liked her: I love a good belly laugh.

“Why do you not ask the cause of death?” I inguired.

“Madame I read newspapers, you silly goose, after all I do live in this world. I loved Tom and would never actually harm him. I so state it,” she countered. They are not aware of which kind of poison killed him, a real pity. It’s like that Escher painting of a man climbing stairways that lead nowhere.” And came the outrageous laughter again.

“You know Tom was really the only man I ever loved, so giving, kind and sensual, and the voice of Gabriel, The Angel. I could not harm a hair on his head. Never. Ever.”

I saw a movement out of the corner of my eyes and asked her what it was. She replied that it was her two Gila Monsters, Mort Sahl and Sally. Did I tell you Tom had a fascination with women’s underwear, putting it in his mouth, and throwing back a shot of Stolichnaya, and then singing “I am marching to Pretoria.”
“You did it didn’t you? Gila Monsters are deadly poisonous. And you knew of his fetish.”

“Perhaps so, if memory serves. But on the other hand I am certifiable insane and gasp, don’t know right from wrong. So do you think I climbed the fire escape like a cat burglar and poisoned all the pants. Ha! Prove it! The evidence is circumstantial and don’t you think I’m smart enough to destroy the tainted pair of underwear. This is all hearsay evidence. Never would I poison them all. You can’t call this a confession either as I had no lawyer present and you did not read me my Miranda rights. Pet the lizards: they are fond of you.” Her laughter was so incongruous to her pale unearthly Degas like beauty.

Curiously Strange. But, I liked that evil women. Things down with panache and style are commendable. Of course I turned her in but knew she would be wild haired reciting snippets of Shakespeare’s Hamlet, running amok when they came for her. “Mad but north northwest” as they say.

Written by CAROL ANN bond author of POEMS OF THUNDER @ Amazon & BN.com

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Lady Lynda Descends

Lady Lynda May Hoffenfetter Toze was filled with glee. Her tour was finally commencing. She was delightfully pleased she made a concerted effort to start her delectable teachings was here. The ruffians of society would be saved by her elucidations. It would be a fait accompli. Her fervent dedication, preparation would now pay off.
This was moment she was waiting for. At last she would make her grand entrance to the dilapidated peons of society. Lady Lynda told herself she would gently, genteely elucidate proper manners. Never, no matter how ignominious, she would never impugn them.
To do so, she dogmatically reminded herself would the height of rudeness. Plus it was intolerably insensitive. It wasn’t their fault they were so ignorant. It was her duty to teach them. Not to harangue the ignorant crowd.

Now was the moment. She would momentarily make her grand entrance onto the stage. Her flowing lemon yellow chiffon dress she so tastefully wore would complement her tasteful gold and garnet jewelry. There Lady Lynda would instruct the people the way of correct etiquette. They would be boors no more.

It was at the Lula P. Dankwarth municipal Conference Center. It was in Savannah GA. It would be at the grand ballroom. She wished she wasn’t feeling butterflies in her stomach. So much so it seemed as if an entire colony. She was glad she put on enough deodorant, antiperspirant and lightly dusted herself with lilac dusting powder. On her soft delicate hands, stylish white gloves. Oh yes she thought that would be the height of rudeness to let them see her sweat or even worse, emit a disagreeable odor. She would be a hypocrite.

Even so Lady Lynda was pleased her flowing chiffon outfit breathed in a most delightful manner. Now if only she could breath as delightfully. This was the moment of truth. It was do or well she realized the rest of the saying. She would appear to be a blithe, sophisticated spirit. But underneath she was feeling like a charlatan. She knew it was imperative she was up to the task. But just this once she would seize the moment.

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