Menu Ireland Calls

'Mystic Doughnuts' by 'ruggles'

The Great Seer saw me, as I departed the great steel chariot (read: bus) to my humble place of occupation.

I stood there for a moment, gathering my bearings. A chilled breeze blew, cutting through to my bones, and blowing my wayward mane into my eyes. I gazed up, the breeze having just then subsided and my hair falling back into place, and I saw him, too. He was standing under the great awning of the Towne Confectionery. He was looking ominous yet worrisome all in one breath.

He lifted a crooked finger, and beckoned me to come towards him.

The Great Seer: Come forward Lady Babsivere, for I await word on Sir Manson.

Lady Babsivere: Um. Righto, my good lord. Hang on a mo, while I partake of a coca-cola diet Pepsi, as my throat is parched from the long journey on the big steel whatchamacallit. I shall take my leave to the Towne Pizza Parlor, they shall dispense the libations, and I shall return.

The Great Seer: Righto.

*cue to Lady Babsivere hitching her skirts (read: inconspicuously pulling up hip-hugger type jeans so as not to accidentally flash any passersby) and marching forward to barter for said coca cola diet Pepsi*

Lady Babsivere (returning with coca-cola diet Pepsi in hand): You wish to speak of Sir Manson, oh Great Seer?

The Great Seer: Yes. For many nights and days now, I have heard of his great trials, and I fear that he has gone to the far off lands, seeking peace of mind.

Lady Babsivere: You are right, oh Mighty Seer. For two sundowns ago, we got word on the great talking machine (read:phone) that his domicile was abandoned, and left in ruins. We knew not of where he'd gone, or what had transpired.

The Great Seer: Then it is as I feared. He has run from his home, seeking solace in the south.

Lady Babsivere: He spoke to you of the south?

The Great Seer: I have heard rumors, yes. He has contacts, one lies in the Land of the Quakers (read:Pennsylvania). He may have possibly fled there.

 

Lady Babsivere: I spoke with him of his friends (read:one random possible nutjob), but he would not say from whence they hailed nor where their camps were, for fear that word might get back to the dreaded Sylvia. He has not gone to see these friends though, he has instead taken the mighty steel chariot with the cute doggie painted on the side (read: Greyhound Bus) to the land of the south that you spoke of.

The Great Seer: I know of them, his friends, but I am not at liberty to say anymore. Sir Manson trusted me greatly, and I do not wish to lose that trust.

Lady Babsivere: Righto. Actually, it's more of a job hunt REALLY. But a dangerous job, if he chooses to be employed.

The Great Seer: Job hunt or no, there is danger in this hunt. He is no longer in arms reach of you or the rest of your family. Great danger awaits him in the southlands. Trust my words. He is alone. They will see this vulnerability.

Lady Babsivere: Well, yea, we are worried about him a bit. But he's a clever man, my lord. He will not be attacked easily.

The Great Seer: He left his Spidget, his family. This is what happens when your domicile is a '57 Chevy. You are driven to madness. His mindset, I fear, cannot be good.

Lady Babsivere: Well Queen Ma DID offer to let him reside with us, over the cave of the Mighty Landlord Dragon. But you know how Queen Ma and Sir Manson are, they bump heads far too much. And Sir Manson is far to full of pride to take on such an offer. And, to be fair, he's a bit of a twit, really.

The Great Seer: Aye, this I know. But I am not privy to delve into such personal matters. What concerns me is those that lie in wait in the south. They will hear his accent, a tongue not far from their own, but with his inflections and odd ways, I fear he may be misunderstood, and slain for it.

Lady Babsivere (now thinking the Great Seer is ALSO the Great Paranoiac): I reckon if he sticks with his usual uniform of cotton flannel and pantaloons made of dungaree, he will be able to keep his allegiance to the north well hidden. As for his accent, many summers ago, when we took the Land of the Quakers with Queen Ma and Sir Trash, along with the Dreaded Sylvia and Sir Manson's own 2 heirs, for recreation, they took great amusement in fooling the Quakers and speaking with an accent just like their own. Almost all were fooled, save for a Mennonite who'd seen NYPD blue once. He will use these powers, I'll wager.

The Great (paranoid) Seer: You may well be correct. But it's not right. I don't like the way he took his leave of this island. He's run away. It can never turn out well, if one has run away. It does not sit well in my gut.

Lady Babsivere: Um. Well I suppose. But it really IS just a job hunt now. The way he left was a bit off, but for a good reason (perhaps) in the end.

The Great (paranoid) Seer: Damnation woman! Running away is running away! You're as mad as your brother Sir Manson!

Lady Babsivere: Well, not QUITE. But I AM trying.

The Great (paranoid) Seer: Do you see that man over there, on the quaint 2 wheeled vehicle of self-propulsion (read: a bloody bike)?

Lady Babsivere (squinting): Er, yep.

The Great (paranoid) Seer: He is insane, he rides on the sidewalks, when the laws of our land clearly state that this is not to be tolerated. Then he is brash enough to accuse innocent pedestrians of being in the way, and threatening them if they do not make way for his passage.

Lady Babsivere: Bit fucked up, that is.

The Great (paranoid) Seer: Aye. I told him once already and nearly physically assaulted him. Someone's got to stand up to these ruffians! I told him next time I would thrust his bicycle up his bottom end, so much so that he would have to reach down his throat to hit the brakes. (read: shove his bike up his ass if he didn't quit bugging people)

Lady Babsivere: Um. OK. I really must take my leave of you, the hour grows late, and if I am tardy my employers may flog me or, at the very least, write me up.

The Great (paranoid-and now apparent bike-villain vigilante) Seer: Mark my words, Lady Babsivere. All is not well with Manson's departure. Something is going to happen.

Lady Babsivere: Ah, he'll be OK. Toodles.

*cue to Lady Babsivere toddling off towards work and bumps into gay fishmonger and has cigarette with him despite having just told the Great (paranoid and now bike-villain vigilante) Seer that she was late*