Monday, September 3, 2012

The Mystery of Edwin Drood

Chapter II
Mr. Grewgious Has His Suspicions

“An ancient English Cathedral Tower?” scowled Mr. Grewgious shaking his head by the fire. Obviously Edwin Drood was stoned once again—having imbibed much too much evil opium for an evening’s entertainment.

“How can there ever be an ancient English Cathedral Tower there inside Drood’s dull head? His stupid, gnarly little Pea-Brain—it can’t even encompass a tiny cup of tea!!!”

And yet, there it was! A strange unknown massive gray square tower—a tall vast mysterious old Cathedral? How can that be there inside Edwin Drood’s head! Sprawled out stoned so rudely—there in his living room by the brooding fire?

Mr. Grewgious was the one & only infamous visitor from Porlock—whose job it was to have interrupted the great opiate vision of Kubla Khan in the dizzy mind of Samuel Coleridge. 

Except Edwin Drood was a much more difficult case—nothing could ever possibly discombobulate the already severely discombobulated mind of Mr. Drood’s obviously stoned reverie tonight in front of the compy fire.

There was no use even trying to poke a spike of rusty iron into the flaming inner fire—the fiercely burning one between Drood’s fluttering cross-eyed pair of bloodstained stoned eyeballs. 

No magic words, no sobering reprimand—not even the Sultan’s orders or a horde of Turkish robbers could awaken Edwin Drood from his fantastic meanderings. 

One by one—and two by two. The cymbals clashed and the Sultan fled the palace in long procession. Ten thousand scimitars flashed in the sunlight—and 
thrice ten thousand dancing-girls strewed flowers on poor Drood’s pale feverish forehead.

A dozen pink elephants caparisoned around and around—in countless gorgeous grotesque contortions. And an infinite number of nude attendants—danced their way obscenely through the hallways of the uncouth  Cathedral Tower rising from the ashes of Drood’s writhing prostrate figure on the grim floor.  

Mr. Grewgious was simply disgusted—how could everything have gotten so screwed up and tumbled all awry? Far beyond any gentleman's sense of normal decency—devoted instead to the disreputable consideration of vague impossibilities?

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