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tikificTitle: The Most Improbable Adventure of Miss Murderface and the Wayward Kitties
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Femme Murderface slashes Fatty Ding Dongs in a steampunk AU. Yes. Really.
Warnings: Nonsensical Victoriana
Notes: This requires a bit of an explanation. I actually came up with this ridiculous prompt myself, as an example of something so stupid and bizarre no one could possibly be expected to tackle it. And then Z dared me to write it. SHE DARED ME! And when The High and Exalted Queen of the Twisted Prompt herself throws down the gauntlet, well, you’d probably be better off whistling softly to yourself and wandering away. But, I’ve never been known as a particularly sensible person. So prepare to enjoy the literary equivalent of tiki getting her tongue frozen to a light pole. ALSO: the song is sung to the tune of the old Tom Jones hit, “Pussycat, Pussycat.” Of course.
“Miss Wilhelmina, would it not behoove you to remain in the House of Insufferable Violence in order to finish our latest stereo recording?”
“It would behoove me,” answered the bass violist, sitting primly in a chair in Mr. Ofdensen's well-appointed salon, “to schet forth to correct a great injuschtische.”
Mr. Ofdensen adjusted his cravat and then sat forward, steepling his hands. “Is not the child in question, young Master Fatty Ding-Dongs, the legal ward of yourself and the other members of our ensemble? Would then not the true nature of your, uh, quest cross certain social boundaries?”
“Well, I never!” protested Miss Murderface, smoothing her carefully coiffed hair. “Why would you think ill of my motivatschionsch, Mr. Ofdenschen?”
“As the Manager of Business Affaires, I have already suffered approbations for the forward-thinking step of including a personage of the female gender in our Morbid Timepiece Ensemble. Pray do not bring forward the continued low esteem of our community with your adventures! I wish not for further scandal.” Mr. Ofdensen extracted a golden Vacheron Constantin pocket watch from his vest pocket and consulted it. “And now pray I must call an end to our encounter, as I am expected at a rendez-vous with the chief maker of iced milk novelties!”
Miss Murderface rose, fixing the pin into her hat. “You schall not have heard the lascht of thisch matter, I asschure you, Mister Ofdenschen,” she vowed, taking her leave.
Mr. Ofdensen sighed upon her departure, wiping his spectacles with his embroidered handkerchief. He leaned over to seize his telephonic device, but found himself halted by the waft of a sadly familiar scent. He looked up to see the contenance of his ensemble’s licentious bohemian of a percussionist.
“Mr. Pickles,” scolded Mr. Ofdensen, “am I to understand you are once again partaking of opium?”
The redhead, who was going about today scandalously bare-headed, leaned over Mr. Ofdensen’s elegant mahogany desk and spoke boldy to him. “Yeh, dood. Wanna hit?”
Miss Murderface proceeded with all haste from Mr. Ofdensen’s salon, bravely holding back righteous tears. Why did everyone doubt the motivations of a spinster such as her? She had always comported herself with the strictest standards. Well, with the small exception of wounding that ill-mannered member of the press with her Derringer. And perhaps the time she had left that other intemperate Fleet Streeter with a knife wound to the belly. And of course that one ill adventure where she had urinated upon…. But she forced herself to stop this enumeration: these were small matters, to be expected of nearly any girl.
She set her cap and decided to retire to her chambers for a relaxing inventory of her collection of arcana from the War of the Roses.
“Ams da goods day, Miss Moiderfaces.”
She stopped and nodded as Mr. Wartooth, their secondary violist, politely doffed his cap to her. “I had no noticed it as such, Mr. Wartooth, but I schincerely wisch that your day schall bring you better fortune than mine scho far.”
“I ams sorries, Miss Moiderfaces. I ams wonderings if you ams wants to works on da Fantasticals Univoise of Urinary Incontinences projects today?”
“I fear I have not the schtamina today, Mr. Wartooth,” Miss Murderface confessed. “I have had yet another upschetting meeting with our amanuenschisch, Mr. Ofdenschen.”
“Oh? Ams he givings you da hard times again?”
“He has forbidden my taking my leave on a venture overseas for to visit an old aquantance.”
“You ams wants to visits da old friends, Miss Moiderfaces?”
“Pffft! What ams da distaffs takings to da faintsing couch today?” scoffed Mr. Skwigelf, who had just boldly strode up to interrupt the conversation along with Mr. Explosion.
“Eh. You shouldn’t be intemperate to YOUNG LADIES, Skwisgaar. Makes ‘em all funny in the head. That’s what FREUD SAYS,” lectured Mr. Explosion, piling a handful of crisped potato snacks into his mouth.
“Thisch isch none of your buschinessch!” sniffed Miss Murderface. “And I have no knowledge of your friend, Mr. Freud, but I am schertain it isch none of hisch affair either.”
“She ams wants to go visits da friends,” piped up Mr. Wartooth.
“And Mr. Ofdenschen, or Manager of Business Affaires, will prevent me,” explained Miss Murderface.
“You ams goes gaddsing abouts, all alones?” huffed Mr. Skwigelf, taking a bow to the violin he had ever at his shoulder. “Ams da inappropriates behaviors for da ladypersons. We ams tells you dat.”
“Unless she’s, you know, having lady problems with her lady parts, which I don’t know what they are, we being all proper Victorian gentlemen and all that shit,” mused Mr. Explosion.
“Ladyparts?” squealed Mr. Wartooth, who fainted dead away at the mere mention of such.
“Pffft, Miss Murderfaces, see what you ams dones again?” sighed Skwisgaar, who shook his head as Mr. Wartooth’s head impacted the floor with an audible klunk.
“How isch thisch unfortunate conschequence my fault?” protested Miss Murderface.
“Dey ams your ladyparts,” accused Mr. Skwigelf.
“Yeah, better get one of those Brotherhood of the Timepiece dudes with some smelling salts,” nodded Mr. Explosion. “And also, I’m out of these crispy potato snacks. Actually, get the snacks first, I’m sure he’ll stay unconscious.”
“I schall schow you! I schall schow all of you thingsh of which women are capable!” vowed Miss Murderface, who was growing most intemperate.
“Oh. Like getting MORE CHIPS?” asked Nathan, shaking his empty tin at her.
Miss Murderface turned on a laced-up heel and strode away in all haste. Before she had quite fully considered the consequences of such bold behavior, she found herself at the House of Insufferable Violence’s capacious garage area, where were parked the latest in automotive technology. With a quick glance around, lest she be observed by members of the Brotherhood of the Timepiece, she stole stealthily into the garage, and towards a small Dirigible of Dire Consequence that was parked there. She turned the crankshaft on the front end and, with a last hasty glance around, mounted the small airship, setting her course for the Morbid Timepiece Ensemble Shelter for Unfortunate Felines.
She counted herself fortunate that her journey contained no unforeseen adventures, and, thanks to the sleek and modern transportation device, had soon arrived at the island wherein lie the Morbid Timepiece Ensemble Shelter for Unfortunate Felines.
However, Miss Murderface, upon dismounting the craft, was soon to learn the sad result of her intemperate behavior, as it was not long before she found herself beset by a not inconsiderable pack of the island’s residents. Letting out a rather regrettable scream of “Leave me alone you fucking catsch!” she turned and run, but unfortunately was constrained by the uneven terrain and her rather heavy wardrobe. Being a female, and thus subject to the whims of her sex, she made unthinkingly for the perceived shelter of the jungle. However, she was not long in the vegetation before she regretted her bold adventuring, and found herself, ankle painfully twisted, a vengeful mob of kitties closing in for some no doubt terrible consequences.
But suddenly, there was a cry that echoed through the wooded area. It sounded rather awfully like, “MEOW.” Miss Murderface had just harkened to the haunting call when she found herself manhandled, and, to her terror, being gripped by a personage unknown and swung from a hanging vine!
“Kindly unhand me, sirrah!” she cried when at last they had come to rest in the crook of a tree.
“I most sincerely apologize for my impolitic behavior, Miss Murderface” answered the stranger, who politely let go.
Miss Murderface let out a gasp of surprise and modestly covered her eyes. The male person in front of her was nearly naked, save for a fur loincloth. She peered between two fingers, noticing, though it was scandalous, that he possessed a rather fine set of abdominal muscles. “Might I know the identity of my reschcuer, as I am currently at a dischadvantage?”
“I am none other than the person you of the Morbid Timepiece Ensemble referred to as Master Fatty Ding-Dongs, O these many years ago.
“Oh?” asked a genuinely surprised Miss Murderface. “You are Master Fatty Ding-Dongsch? When did you learn to schpeak?”
“All shall be revealed,” Master Ding-Dongs assured her, “If you would be so kind as to accompany me to my sandbox.”
“You schandboxsch? Well, I schupposche scho,” ventured Miss Murderface, who did not wish to be impolite to her rescuer, who really did have a rather impressive set of abdominal muscles. No sooner had she assented, but they were once again flying through the jungle by means of hanging vines, and brisky thus had arrived at a cosy hillside cave.
“So you can see, Miss Murderface, this is my humble abode,” apologized Master Ding-Dongs.
“Oh, it’sch not bad, acschually,” consoled Miss Murderface, who was quite surprised by all the modern furnishings. “Ah-choo!” She wiped her nose on a sleeve, glancing around at the seeming large assemblage of house cats also present here.
“Bless you! After your ensemble left me here to fend for myself, I soon learned that I was not the only refugee from civilization to make my home here. I found these items you see displayed inside a dirigible labeled Oceanic Airways, which had apparently crash-landed here some years prior.”
“Oh, you have a chronophotographic machine!” cried Miss Murderface, who was passing impressed.
“Why, yes,” answered Master Ding-Dongs. “And I have a selection of music hall frivolities committed to celluloid,” he noted, proudly displaying his collection of motion pictures.
“Ah-choo,” said Miss Murderface. “Er, isch thisch cat hair?”
“Most assuredly,” Master Ding-Dongs told her. And then he continued, “Moreover, through these artifacts, I have learned, if you will excuse me dear lady, not only the English language and the proper behavior of a gentlemen, but the art of wooing a fine lady such as yourself.”
“Wooing?” blushed Miss Murderface, wiping her runny nose and hoping that she wasn’t soon to be ravished by this terribly well-muscled man, but if she was to be, she started to helpfully loosen some of the buttons on her blouse.
“Why, yes, Miss Murderface, for I have dreamt of you since the day you departed, leaving me to the kitties.”
“Oh, well, I guessch I schall be ravisched now,” she allowed, removing her hat and tossing her hair, which rapidly fluffed into an odd triangular shape.
“Yes, I will now … sing!”
“Uh, sching? Ah-ah-ah-CHOO!”
And to her surprise, Master Ding-Dongs pulled out a gramophone and, extracting a wax cylinder, loaded it to the device.
“Mr. Thomasch Jonesch?” asked Miss Murderface, regarding the label on the cylinder and the picture of the gentlemen in question. “He looksch schuschpiciouschly bohemian….”
But Master Ding-Dongs had already begun to sing along.
Ah-choo, Murderface, whoa whoa whoa
Ah-choo, Murderface, whoa whoa whoa
Murderface Murderface
You’re so witty
You left me to the kitties
But I don’t mind
Just come and listen to my little Murderface song
Whoa-a-whoa-a
Murderface Murderface
I esteem you
Yes I do
You and cute sniffly nose
Whoa-a-whoa!
“Er,” commented Miss Murderface, stepping back from two or three kitties who were rubbing at her legs, thus getting rather a lot of itchy cat fur on her skirts.
Murderface Murderface
You’re my sensation
You like urination
My cats do too!
Just carve a heart with your Murderface knife
Whoa-a-whoa-a
Murderface Murderface
You like morbid shit
You’re a hit
You and your triangle hair
Whoa-a-whoa!
“Come on,” urged Master Ding-Dongs. “All the kitties, SING ALONG.”
“Er, sching along?” sneezed Murderface, whose eyes were starting to swell. The cats yawned and stretched, but did not seem to react much to the commotion.
Murderface, Murderface
You’re allergic
And my panegyric
Cannot compete
So come and dance along with my backup felines
Whoa-a-whoa-a!
“Uhhh,” said Miss Murderface, handkerchief over her nose. “Well, I would sincerely like to remain here, but I have juscht remembered, I left the engine running in my Dirigible of Dire Conschequenschesch….” She muttered.
And then, springing out of the cave in one great leap, she hit the ground running, the padding of very small feet fast on her heels.
“I received an urgent communication through my vacuum tube device from Mr. Richard Knubbler regarding your stereophonic recording session,” huffed Mr. Ofdensen, who had hastened down to the lower levels of the House of Insufferable Violence without donning his top hat, cravat all sadly askew.
“Oh. You smoking dope with Pickles again, Ofdensen?” chuckled Mr. Explosion.
“Mr. Explosion!” cautioned Mr. Ofdensen, who regrettably did indeed give off a definite scent of opium.
Mr. Explosion did not reply, but, continuing to partake of crisped potato snacks, waved a hand at the glassed in Booth of Musical Recording, wherein stood Miss Murderface, who was gyrating in a most scandalous manner.
“I got the CAT SCHRATCH FEEVAH!” sang Miss Murderface, plying at her violincello. “CAT SCHRATCH FEEVAH!”
Mr. Ofdensen adjusted his cravat and frowned.
“You know, that’s actually kinda catchy,” mused Mr. Explosion as he crunched.. “Wanna crisped potato snack thing?” he asked, holding the tin container towards Mr. Ofdensen.
“Thank you, I have grown a little peckish,” agreed the Manager of Business Affaires.
“Uh, your hand, Ofdensen?” grumbled Mr. Explosion.
“Yes, Mr. Explosion?” inquired Mr. Ofdensen, crunching on the tasty and modern snack offerings.
“Get it off my ass, or you’re gonna lose it.”
“Oh. My sincere apologies for my indescretion.”
“Yeah. The hand?”
“Very well.”
And they continued to listen to a most intriguing new composition.
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Femme Murderface slashes Fatty Ding Dongs in a steampunk AU. Yes. Really.
Warnings: Nonsensical Victoriana
Notes: This requires a bit of an explanation. I actually came up with this ridiculous prompt myself, as an example of something so stupid and bizarre no one could possibly be expected to tackle it. And then Z dared me to write it. SHE DARED ME! And when The High and Exalted Queen of the Twisted Prompt herself throws down the gauntlet, well, you’d probably be better off whistling softly to yourself and wandering away. But, I’ve never been known as a particularly sensible person. So prepare to enjoy the literary equivalent of tiki getting her tongue frozen to a light pole. ALSO: the song is sung to the tune of the old Tom Jones hit, “Pussycat, Pussycat.” Of course.
“Miss Wilhelmina, would it not behoove you to remain in the House of Insufferable Violence in order to finish our latest stereo recording?”
“It would behoove me,” answered the bass violist, sitting primly in a chair in Mr. Ofdensen's well-appointed salon, “to schet forth to correct a great injuschtische.”
Mr. Ofdensen adjusted his cravat and then sat forward, steepling his hands. “Is not the child in question, young Master Fatty Ding-Dongs, the legal ward of yourself and the other members of our ensemble? Would then not the true nature of your, uh, quest cross certain social boundaries?”
“Well, I never!” protested Miss Murderface, smoothing her carefully coiffed hair. “Why would you think ill of my motivatschionsch, Mr. Ofdenschen?”
“As the Manager of Business Affaires, I have already suffered approbations for the forward-thinking step of including a personage of the female gender in our Morbid Timepiece Ensemble. Pray do not bring forward the continued low esteem of our community with your adventures! I wish not for further scandal.” Mr. Ofdensen extracted a golden Vacheron Constantin pocket watch from his vest pocket and consulted it. “And now pray I must call an end to our encounter, as I am expected at a rendez-vous with the chief maker of iced milk novelties!”
Miss Murderface rose, fixing the pin into her hat. “You schall not have heard the lascht of thisch matter, I asschure you, Mister Ofdenschen,” she vowed, taking her leave.
Mr. Ofdensen sighed upon her departure, wiping his spectacles with his embroidered handkerchief. He leaned over to seize his telephonic device, but found himself halted by the waft of a sadly familiar scent. He looked up to see the contenance of his ensemble’s licentious bohemian of a percussionist.
“Mr. Pickles,” scolded Mr. Ofdensen, “am I to understand you are once again partaking of opium?”
The redhead, who was going about today scandalously bare-headed, leaned over Mr. Ofdensen’s elegant mahogany desk and spoke boldy to him. “Yeh, dood. Wanna hit?”
Miss Murderface proceeded with all haste from Mr. Ofdensen’s salon, bravely holding back righteous tears. Why did everyone doubt the motivations of a spinster such as her? She had always comported herself with the strictest standards. Well, with the small exception of wounding that ill-mannered member of the press with her Derringer. And perhaps the time she had left that other intemperate Fleet Streeter with a knife wound to the belly. And of course that one ill adventure where she had urinated upon…. But she forced herself to stop this enumeration: these were small matters, to be expected of nearly any girl.
She set her cap and decided to retire to her chambers for a relaxing inventory of her collection of arcana from the War of the Roses.
“Ams da goods day, Miss Moiderfaces.”
She stopped and nodded as Mr. Wartooth, their secondary violist, politely doffed his cap to her. “I had no noticed it as such, Mr. Wartooth, but I schincerely wisch that your day schall bring you better fortune than mine scho far.”
“I ams sorries, Miss Moiderfaces. I ams wonderings if you ams wants to works on da Fantasticals Univoise of Urinary Incontinences projects today?”
“I fear I have not the schtamina today, Mr. Wartooth,” Miss Murderface confessed. “I have had yet another upschetting meeting with our amanuenschisch, Mr. Ofdenschen.”
“Oh? Ams he givings you da hard times again?”
“He has forbidden my taking my leave on a venture overseas for to visit an old aquantance.”
“You ams wants to visits da old friends, Miss Moiderfaces?”
“Pffft! What ams da distaffs takings to da faintsing couch today?” scoffed Mr. Skwigelf, who had just boldly strode up to interrupt the conversation along with Mr. Explosion.
“Eh. You shouldn’t be intemperate to YOUNG LADIES, Skwisgaar. Makes ‘em all funny in the head. That’s what FREUD SAYS,” lectured Mr. Explosion, piling a handful of crisped potato snacks into his mouth.
“Thisch isch none of your buschinessch!” sniffed Miss Murderface. “And I have no knowledge of your friend, Mr. Freud, but I am schertain it isch none of hisch affair either.”
“She ams wants to go visits da friends,” piped up Mr. Wartooth.
“And Mr. Ofdenschen, or Manager of Business Affaires, will prevent me,” explained Miss Murderface.
“You ams goes gaddsing abouts, all alones?” huffed Mr. Skwigelf, taking a bow to the violin he had ever at his shoulder. “Ams da inappropriates behaviors for da ladypersons. We ams tells you dat.”
“Unless she’s, you know, having lady problems with her lady parts, which I don’t know what they are, we being all proper Victorian gentlemen and all that shit,” mused Mr. Explosion.
“Ladyparts?” squealed Mr. Wartooth, who fainted dead away at the mere mention of such.
“Pffft, Miss Murderfaces, see what you ams dones again?” sighed Skwisgaar, who shook his head as Mr. Wartooth’s head impacted the floor with an audible klunk.
“How isch thisch unfortunate conschequence my fault?” protested Miss Murderface.
“Dey ams your ladyparts,” accused Mr. Skwigelf.
“Yeah, better get one of those Brotherhood of the Timepiece dudes with some smelling salts,” nodded Mr. Explosion. “And also, I’m out of these crispy potato snacks. Actually, get the snacks first, I’m sure he’ll stay unconscious.”
“I schall schow you! I schall schow all of you thingsh of which women are capable!” vowed Miss Murderface, who was growing most intemperate.
“Oh. Like getting MORE CHIPS?” asked Nathan, shaking his empty tin at her.
Miss Murderface turned on a laced-up heel and strode away in all haste. Before she had quite fully considered the consequences of such bold behavior, she found herself at the House of Insufferable Violence’s capacious garage area, where were parked the latest in automotive technology. With a quick glance around, lest she be observed by members of the Brotherhood of the Timepiece, she stole stealthily into the garage, and towards a small Dirigible of Dire Consequence that was parked there. She turned the crankshaft on the front end and, with a last hasty glance around, mounted the small airship, setting her course for the Morbid Timepiece Ensemble Shelter for Unfortunate Felines.
She counted herself fortunate that her journey contained no unforeseen adventures, and, thanks to the sleek and modern transportation device, had soon arrived at the island wherein lie the Morbid Timepiece Ensemble Shelter for Unfortunate Felines.
However, Miss Murderface, upon dismounting the craft, was soon to learn the sad result of her intemperate behavior, as it was not long before she found herself beset by a not inconsiderable pack of the island’s residents. Letting out a rather regrettable scream of “Leave me alone you fucking catsch!” she turned and run, but unfortunately was constrained by the uneven terrain and her rather heavy wardrobe. Being a female, and thus subject to the whims of her sex, she made unthinkingly for the perceived shelter of the jungle. However, she was not long in the vegetation before she regretted her bold adventuring, and found herself, ankle painfully twisted, a vengeful mob of kitties closing in for some no doubt terrible consequences.
But suddenly, there was a cry that echoed through the wooded area. It sounded rather awfully like, “MEOW.” Miss Murderface had just harkened to the haunting call when she found herself manhandled, and, to her terror, being gripped by a personage unknown and swung from a hanging vine!
“Kindly unhand me, sirrah!” she cried when at last they had come to rest in the crook of a tree.
“I most sincerely apologize for my impolitic behavior, Miss Murderface” answered the stranger, who politely let go.
Miss Murderface let out a gasp of surprise and modestly covered her eyes. The male person in front of her was nearly naked, save for a fur loincloth. She peered between two fingers, noticing, though it was scandalous, that he possessed a rather fine set of abdominal muscles. “Might I know the identity of my reschcuer, as I am currently at a dischadvantage?”
“I am none other than the person you of the Morbid Timepiece Ensemble referred to as Master Fatty Ding-Dongs, O these many years ago.
“Oh?” asked a genuinely surprised Miss Murderface. “You are Master Fatty Ding-Dongsch? When did you learn to schpeak?”
“All shall be revealed,” Master Ding-Dongs assured her, “If you would be so kind as to accompany me to my sandbox.”
“You schandboxsch? Well, I schupposche scho,” ventured Miss Murderface, who did not wish to be impolite to her rescuer, who really did have a rather impressive set of abdominal muscles. No sooner had she assented, but they were once again flying through the jungle by means of hanging vines, and brisky thus had arrived at a cosy hillside cave.
“So you can see, Miss Murderface, this is my humble abode,” apologized Master Ding-Dongs.
“Oh, it’sch not bad, acschually,” consoled Miss Murderface, who was quite surprised by all the modern furnishings. “Ah-choo!” She wiped her nose on a sleeve, glancing around at the seeming large assemblage of house cats also present here.
“Bless you! After your ensemble left me here to fend for myself, I soon learned that I was not the only refugee from civilization to make my home here. I found these items you see displayed inside a dirigible labeled Oceanic Airways, which had apparently crash-landed here some years prior.”
“Oh, you have a chronophotographic machine!” cried Miss Murderface, who was passing impressed.
“Why, yes,” answered Master Ding-Dongs. “And I have a selection of music hall frivolities committed to celluloid,” he noted, proudly displaying his collection of motion pictures.
“Ah-choo,” said Miss Murderface. “Er, isch thisch cat hair?”
“Most assuredly,” Master Ding-Dongs told her. And then he continued, “Moreover, through these artifacts, I have learned, if you will excuse me dear lady, not only the English language and the proper behavior of a gentlemen, but the art of wooing a fine lady such as yourself.”
“Wooing?” blushed Miss Murderface, wiping her runny nose and hoping that she wasn’t soon to be ravished by this terribly well-muscled man, but if she was to be, she started to helpfully loosen some of the buttons on her blouse.
“Why, yes, Miss Murderface, for I have dreamt of you since the day you departed, leaving me to the kitties.”
“Oh, well, I guessch I schall be ravisched now,” she allowed, removing her hat and tossing her hair, which rapidly fluffed into an odd triangular shape.
“Yes, I will now … sing!”
“Uh, sching? Ah-ah-ah-CHOO!”
And to her surprise, Master Ding-Dongs pulled out a gramophone and, extracting a wax cylinder, loaded it to the device.
“Mr. Thomasch Jonesch?” asked Miss Murderface, regarding the label on the cylinder and the picture of the gentlemen in question. “He looksch schuschpiciouschly bohemian….”
But Master Ding-Dongs had already begun to sing along.
Ah-choo, Murderface, whoa whoa whoa
Ah-choo, Murderface, whoa whoa whoa
Murderface Murderface
You’re so witty
You left me to the kitties
But I don’t mind
Just come and listen to my little Murderface song
Whoa-a-whoa-a
Murderface Murderface
I esteem you
Yes I do
You and cute sniffly nose
Whoa-a-whoa!
“Er,” commented Miss Murderface, stepping back from two or three kitties who were rubbing at her legs, thus getting rather a lot of itchy cat fur on her skirts.
Murderface Murderface
You’re my sensation
You like urination
My cats do too!
Just carve a heart with your Murderface knife
Whoa-a-whoa-a
Murderface Murderface
You like morbid shit
You’re a hit
You and your triangle hair
Whoa-a-whoa!
“Come on,” urged Master Ding-Dongs. “All the kitties, SING ALONG.”
“Er, sching along?” sneezed Murderface, whose eyes were starting to swell. The cats yawned and stretched, but did not seem to react much to the commotion.
Murderface, Murderface
You’re allergic
And my panegyric
Cannot compete
So come and dance along with my backup felines
Whoa-a-whoa-a!
“Uhhh,” said Miss Murderface, handkerchief over her nose. “Well, I would sincerely like to remain here, but I have juscht remembered, I left the engine running in my Dirigible of Dire Conschequenschesch….” She muttered.
And then, springing out of the cave in one great leap, she hit the ground running, the padding of very small feet fast on her heels.
“I received an urgent communication through my vacuum tube device from Mr. Richard Knubbler regarding your stereophonic recording session,” huffed Mr. Ofdensen, who had hastened down to the lower levels of the House of Insufferable Violence without donning his top hat, cravat all sadly askew.
“Oh. You smoking dope with Pickles again, Ofdensen?” chuckled Mr. Explosion.
“Mr. Explosion!” cautioned Mr. Ofdensen, who regrettably did indeed give off a definite scent of opium.
Mr. Explosion did not reply, but, continuing to partake of crisped potato snacks, waved a hand at the glassed in Booth of Musical Recording, wherein stood Miss Murderface, who was gyrating in a most scandalous manner.
“I got the CAT SCHRATCH FEEVAH!” sang Miss Murderface, plying at her violincello. “CAT SCHRATCH FEEVAH!”
Mr. Ofdensen adjusted his cravat and frowned.
“You know, that’s actually kinda catchy,” mused Mr. Explosion as he crunched.. “Wanna crisped potato snack thing?” he asked, holding the tin container towards Mr. Ofdensen.
“Thank you, I have grown a little peckish,” agreed the Manager of Business Affaires.
“Uh, your hand, Ofdensen?” grumbled Mr. Explosion.
“Yes, Mr. Explosion?” inquired Mr. Ofdensen, crunching on the tasty and modern snack offerings.
“Get it off my ass, or you’re gonna lose it.”
“Oh. My sincere apologies for my indescretion.”
“Yeah. The hand?”
“Very well.”
And they continued to listen to a most intriguing new composition.
