Twitter: Fitzwilly-Flannelcat Daftwager Von Quatloo the Third

Have to say, coming to admire Twitter. Not online these days enough to justify starting own account – blog sufficient for time being

Therefore, will honour with imitation of style:

Twitter: Fitzwilly Flannelcat Daftwager Von Quatloo the Third!

Happy V-Day!

Happy V-Day!

Day 1:

07:00; Day 1 of Evil. Arose early and dispersed vapors of hope and love that congeal nightly. Good results; finally nailed that bluebird with the under-the-pillow revolver.

08:00; Note to self from yesterday: “Don’t forget, you have a helpless widow to tie to a railroad track at 9:30, and an orphanage to rob at 10:15.”

I like how I stink.

09:45; Unfortunately, my butler confuzzled my Timetable of Terror and I did them in the wrong order. I did the orphanage at 09:30, relying on the 10:15 post-cartoons crash that would be typical of their generation. Alas, at 9:30 I found them to be all hepped up on sugar and anime.

10:00; One of them bit me early on – has turned green in course of the chase. Might have been well-advised to contribute to the ‘Mothers Against Waifish Gangrene’ weeks ago, rather than shooting that charitable maunt in the face.

10:30; Orphans chased me to the tying of the widow, a scheme which had relied upon the timely nature of the 9:30 from Birmingham to Shropshire. Said scheme was undone by the fact that it was now 10:15, and the next express would tarry until 11:00, thus providing the orphans ample time to untie the widow.

10:45; Previously agoraphobic, youth-fearing, old narcoleptic billionaire widow subsequently adopted her orphan saviours.

Well thats just phantasmagorical!

12:00; As I was murdering her to augment my own inheritance, one which will now go to her new heirs, this dastardly scheme has backfired somewhat.

Zounds.

13:00; Wondered why the constabs were not hot on my heels. Apparently, the children believe they mistook my alerting them to the widow’s endangered situation as the robbery I actually committed. She was unconscious the entire caper until rescue.

There is a parade in my honour at noon tomorrow.

14:00; What was I thinking, robbing an oprhanage! What do orphans have to steal?

I hate yesterdays.

15:00; My parade balloon looks awfully similar to Bluff from Popeye. Like the balloon from last year’s parade!

16:00; My parade dirigible makes me look fat.

17:00; No monetary reward with my parade. Widow knows ”I’d never accept it”. I wish she wouldn’t smile when she says that. Painful reminder, yes, but also, her teeth are wooden. Must be like kissing Pinnochio.

18:00; Good has no anti-rewards. Gross admiration – from the elderly, the young, and the ugly middle aged. Gross indeed.

19:00; Party in my honour finally ended. It was the bedtime for everyone but me, and projectile vomiting time for me.

20:00; Two small successes; One: injesting gelignite in small doses over the course of the day does lead to literal projectile vomiting. Two: Punished butler. Two birds, one throw.

21:00; Butler replaces drapes to my satisfaction. The same cannot be said for his replacement toupee. Stoat fur, I’m almost certain.

22:00; Draw up notes on stoat mutant possibilities. I see them depositing newborn live young into steaks, being eaten, eating the host’s food before emerging fully grown either bursting through the chest, or leaving burrow style through host orifices.

23:00; In last ditch effort to perk up spirits, concisely lay down notes on the means to cure influenza conclusively. Roll notes into a cigarillo, then smoke to destruction.

I certainly feel better.

00:00; Now if you will excuse me, I have a namesake-dirigible to detain. Good day to you sir!

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