As soon as this professor strolled through the doors at King Arthur’s Royal Ball, one thing became dreadfully apparent: they were dancing.
Not all the guests, but most.
And this professor doesn’t dance, you know.
Most warriors don’t. How can one dance with a katana? Of course, I didn’t have my katana, but warriors don’t partake in girlish activities, see.
Dancing is not girlish, you might argue.
Why kid yourself, I ask?
Anyways and all the ways, they were twirling about, and this professor made his way to the punch table. That’s always the safest place to go. And it’s also a good test for the evening.
Good Punch = Good Party
Bad Punch = Bad Party
Before this professor had a chance to sample things, Mr. Ratherquite and his two ladies appeared.
He was out of breath.
Must’ve been dancing.
“I say, sir!” he said.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Can you please, sir, dance with one of my ladies? See, sir, I can’t dance with both at the same time, sir!!!”
I suppose it was a noble gesture on his part, trying to find a match for his one lady…but shouldn’t that have been taken in to account?
And Mr. Ratherquite was still a bit red in the face (some of us are not in shape, see) when I asked: “Mr. Ratherquite, I don’t mean to be professorish, but…shouldn’t you have thought about that before you purchased two ladies?”
The question hit home.
Mr. Ratherquite’s face puckered up. “How dare you!”
The ladies let out little shocked gasps as well.
“Worm!” the red-haired lady said.
“Dumb vagebond worm!” the blond-haired lady said, with a shake of her curls. (They look like pudding at times, truly.)
I bowed, and Mr. Ratherquite knocked my hat off.
That wasn’t nice.
“You’re so violent,” I said. “How come?”
“You insulted my ladies—” he began, but I cut him off.
“No. You did. The least you could have done was duplicate yourself and dance with both of them.”
I ducked as the blond-haired lady swung.
I think she ended up hitting Mr. Ratherquite. That made him even more cranky.
And that’s when it happened: I made a mistake. I can’t stress enough how costly mistakes are in war…
Oh well. Even the best warriors do commit them at times.
I dropped a purple ring.
You see, it wasn’t my purple ring; it was King Arthur’s.
But when I found it on his floor, it looked very dusty and all that jazz…so I didn’t see his initials on it till later. I think Lionel Howard saw me leave the castle with it. I wasn’t stealing… Once I found out about the ring, I was going to return it. As a matter of fact, that’s why I came to this party.
But now it was dropped.
And Mr. Ratherquite saw it drop.
Then the brute did the meanest thing: he kicked it—into the middle of the dance floor!
And without a second’s hesitation, he and the ladies returned to the dance floor, doing some sort of strange triple dance. I don’t recommend it. Not only is it bad form, it causes nightmares.
Now, of course, this professor wasn’t about to run out into the middle of the floor… (A busy dance floor is worse than a busy intersection–and more dangerous.)
Tonight, LottieOllie’s hair style was short. And it was black. She had gray eyes. I never saw someone with gray eyes before. And she looked very cranky, being all dressed in black-spy form-fitting clothes.
I tried to move away, but I couldn’t without causing an incident.
“The ring,” she said. “I know you have it.”
She was too close.
“Don’t do not neither either!” I said, a bit too excited. “It’s out there on the floor!” And I pointed.
Now, don’t you know, at that exact moment, Prince Beef—who was dancing with Princess Gertrude (who is Schwarz Tauptinker’s sister; yes, this is too much history)—well, Prince Beef…he stepped right on the ring.
Even with all the music, I heard the little:
And everyone heard the shriek.
“Malediction!” Prince Beef screamed, bellowed, yelled, burst forth, and screamed.
That stopped the dancing cold.
Immediately, Lottie took off, after the ring, I presume.
And that’s when this professor began his getaway.
But Amelia stopped me at the door.
Now, I know I’ve never described Amelia…and I apologize for that.
I must make amends.
Amelia isn’t tall; she isn’t short. Amelia doesn’t have long hair; she doesn’t have short either. Her eyes are shrouded in black, so it’s difficult to tell the color. She was wearing a fluffy tiger dress that some women seem to wear frequently.
(In fact, you can always spot those women at parties. Don’t you judge me, you know exactly what I mean!)
“VC…” she said. “A pity about the party…I wanted to…dance.”
“All’s well,” I said. “See, Mr. Ratherquite most definitely could not add another lady anyway. He was busy with two, see.”