Parisian People and Fleople
Victor, be nice.
I knew I should pay more attention to fashion.
Certainly. One question first -- How have you been feeling of late?
That would be an excellent trick. Thank you!
Flanimal!
Gregory realizes that there's no place in soceity for a bunch of fleople
Flegory]Flenclave for themselves
Freginald
Flalice
Soflonia
Flann
Flictor
Flartin
Fluplicates
Fleme
No, it is a scheme.
Sophronia, Talos can't read.
He can if you write it, Alice.
No, he can't read. Someone will have to read it to him.
I'm sure Uncle Leon would do it.
This is very weird -- time sharing Kristen's brain.
I can just email her.
Flartin -- Keep up!
I presume that like you, they have peopleto talk to
One would think so
What do they call them? Stooges?
No, snitches, perhaps.
You may have to make a flamunity for them.
No, a flenclave.
On the moon.
That's not the dumbest idea...
A flamunity of fleople on the Floon!
Diorama theater!
Two Flalices
A Flalice and a Flalec
Oh god we're doomed
We've got a hulk. We've got two hulks.
Last names don't matter.
They certainly do! We're not going to use first names!
We aren't?
I believe in this case it's right to relate to them as servants.
I suppose.
Your flerson and Anne's flerson are having a threesome with Lord Mace's flerson.
I would not!
Flues and his Flunderbolt!
Zeus and Fleginald
Divine Flunderbolt made by Flephaestus
Does he have breasts?
No.
Fascinating!
That would imply that Fleginald is Flegory.
I admit I hadn't seen the FLs coming.
From Alden
An interlude, just prior to the primary events of the adventure
January, 1840. A small but cozy workshop, behind the hotel where the Beauchamps, Wilkinsons, and Lady Durless have taken rooms. Inside, a curtain divides the workroom from a very small foyer. Sounds of tools being moved about blend with two voices. The words are indistinct, but one is a man's barritone, ever so slightly querulous with age, the other musical soprano, with vaguely metallic undertones.
A knock sounds at the door, then a well groomed but slightly harried looking young man steps inside.
"Mr. Wilkinson? Sophronia? It's Gregory. Are you already at work?"
Some indistinct barritone muttering and more metalic noises from the other side are the only reply.
"I'm afraid something rather urgent has come up. Nothing very dangerous, just the usual sort of nonsense, but we do need to take care of it promptly. I'll still be abel to look after Martin, as promised, but I'm afraid I'll have to take him with me on safari, as it were, rather than look after him here.
More muttering, this time with just a note or two in soprano.
"I'm terribly sorry" says the man, retrieving a small pile of books from under his arm. "I'd planned to... Ah, no matter." Placing the books on a shelf by the curtain, he continues, "I thought you might enjoy... I'll just collect Martin, and be on my way."
A baritone grunt, followed by the sounds of tinkering.
The man bends down and calls out, "Martin, come along old chap, time to hit the trail. Come on then. Mao? Meaow? Rrrrrorwrrr. Reear-rowrrrr!"
"Burrrowe?"
"Yes, I know it's cold, you can ride inside my coat, so long as I'm wearing it. We'll even stop for a snack on the way back. Now quit stalling you horrid hrrrhissffffft and get your grrrowwreing tail out here."
As a black and white cat appears from behind the curtain and jumps into the man's arms. He straightens up, telling the cat, "There you are, you sorry son of a... oh dear. So sorry about that! Pardon my French. Ahem, right, we'll just be going then"
As the door closes, the camera pans down to the pile of books, showing the spines. The titles include Le Morte d'Arthur, several popular recent romances and penny-dreadfulls in English and French, and at the bottom, two slim volumes. The first, in Danish, tiled Eventyr, fortalte for Børn. Sekund Samling by Hans Christian Andersen. The second has a Yiddish title, די גאָלעם פון פּראַג, and inserted near the end is a bookmark with a note written on it, "Start alternate ending here."
