The professor recently attended a late night party at Prince Beef’s palace. In truth, I fear like I’m always at one party or another. In truth, this is true.
I marched over to the punch table where I found Schwarz Tauptinker, looking rather perplexed.
“Hello, Mr. Tauptinker.”
“If you’d excuse me, I’d like to get some punch,” I said, hoping Schwarz would move out of the way.
Schwarz didn’t even look at me, and he certainly didn’t move.
The professor cleared his throat. “But you see…uhh…sir, you are in the way just a bit, bits, and little bits.”
Schwarz turned. “Listen, okay, there’s no scoop-thing to get the punch out with. And Mr. Ratherquite hates when I use my hands. Look at him! He’s staring at me just waiting to holler and yell!”
I looked, and sure enough, Mr. Ratherquite did seem rather interested in the proceedings at the punch table.
“Well,” I suggested, “perhaps we could just dip the cups in the punch?”
Prince Beef walked up. “I love pink punch—as is my wont. I must have pink punch at every single one of my parties.”
“Very nice,” this professor said, “but how do we get it at?”
Prince Beef suddenly became aware of the problem.
“Malediction!” he shouted.
The whole party suddenly became aware of the problem.
Mr. Ratherquite joined us. “Sirs, what a pity!”
The Ladies giggled.
Prince Beef looked haughtily around the room. “Who stole it the scoop-ladle from the punch?”
Daddy Salami laughed. “What makes you think someone stole it, cur-brain?”
It seemed—to this professor, at least—that the prince’s eyes almost popped out of his head.
“Are you talking to me?”
“Yep,” Salami answered.
“Sir!” Mr. Ratherquite scolded. “Do not talk to your prince like that!”
“I wasn’t talking to anybody,” Schwarz added, needlessly.
That’s when the Veezler stepped forward.
“Ha…ha…ha…ha…” He dropped the ladle into the punch. “Do you all see how you were going to murder each other over a missing ladle?”
“No. No.” Schwarz shook his head. “We were only going to murder the person who stole it.”
“Which is you,” Daddy Salami said, staring at the Veezler. “Hehaha. Bwa-lala.”
“Yes! Come on! Kill me. Prove that the entire PL is wicked.” The Veezler just stood there.
“We shan’t!” the prince said. “Because you want us to.”
The prince grabbed the punch bowl, walked over to the Veezler—who was standing with his head hung and eyes shut—and poured the contents over his head.
“There you go, my man.”