FROM THE DESK OF JOSEPHINE, SIZE FIVE PAIR OF ARGYLE UNDERWEAR
Re: The Purple Zoowalash
To Whom It May Concern,
My life has taken a turn for the stranger since having been rescued by a strange man from above the caverns. I found him flailing about in the shallows of our hollowed sacrificial island. I had hitherto been jammed by the sock priests' brief guards into the temple rocks, to be drowned as a sacrifice to the lint god when the tide came in. I was, however, saved from such a fate by the aforementioned man, who for some odd reason had somehow found his way to our protected island, hotly pursued by a large and visibly delicious wooden door.
The man, whom I have fondly named Squeaky, seems not to be terribly intelligent, though affectionate in his own crude fashion. He often tries to communicate with me via handsignals, and was clever enough to mend a slight rent in my waistband. He carries all manner of contrivances with him as though on a journey, which makes me believe he is yet another idiot that our lint god Dumble Door sent down to be eaten by the sock clan. Squeaky strikes me as a rather pathetic figure, a victim of circumstance and fashion than an offender of our god. I have taken him under my wing, so to speak, and guided him back up through the caverns towards his home in the aboveworld.
Squeaky, however, seems bent on completing the suicidal mission that was undoubtedly set before him by our beloved lint god Dumble Door, in the form of a search for the Purple Zoowalash. If I remember correctly, the last victim to be sent on this fool's errand was a man named Flitwick, who not only made it down to our island, but also managed to locate the Purple Zoowalash, fought it for five straight weeks, then made an attractive ascot out of it before attending a prom date with Jerry Lewis on the moon. That man does more acid than anyone I know.
The fact is, there is no such thing as the Purple Zoowalash. My poor pet Squeaky managed to penetrate the innermost chambers of our caverns and discovered what he at first took to be the Zoowalash, but seconds later realized it was merely a twenty foot tall man-eating eggplant. This eggplant has been devouring the victims of our lint god since time began, and it looked as though Squeaky might be added to the list of his unfortunate meals. The eggplant lunged at Squeaky, but before I had time to react, he pulled out his wand and transfigured the eggplant into a modest office fern! I will admit I did not think Squeaky capable of any substantial magical abilities. I quite frankly did not think him capable of doing anything other than writing in his journal and crying over the "skinny pretty people" in Vanity Fair that he completely fails to resemble. But as it turns out, he rose to the challenge magnificently, and it is because of this newfound magical prowess that I have decided to keep him, rather than eat his brain at the first available opportunity, as I previously planned.
And so it now appears that, eggplant in tow, Squeaky will be bringing me with him into the aboveworld. What I can expect in this new plane of existence, I can only conjecture. My opinion of the afterlife has always been rife with dissenting views from that of my lint-worshipping brethren and led to my life as a persecuted follower of a pagan religion. Despite that, I have no doubt that I shall meet the true entity from whom I spring, and for in belief of whom I was first punished as a sacrifice. . .the harvest goddess Par Vati, who cast her children into the dark caverns as punishment for some unknown original sin.
Squeaky, in the meantime, has been joyously typing up a letter to the lint god Dumble Door about his "success", as well as vainly attempting to make the transfigured eggplant produce chocolate syrup and string. A return letter is expected from the lint god, and though I care nothing for Squeaky's job problems, I must admit I do wonder at what will be the final outcome of his bid for the Dark Arts position. In the meantime, I shall do my best to help him learn the beautiful and complicated language of Argyle, and perhaps he will be able to someday converse with me in a less savage and witless manner.
Sincerely,
Josephine Dulchea Vittoria Former High Priestess of the Lint Altar
Re: The Purple Zoowalash
To Whom It May Concern,
My life has taken a turn for the stranger since having been rescued by a strange man from above the caverns. I found him flailing about in the shallows of our hollowed sacrificial island. I had hitherto been jammed by the sock priests' brief guards into the temple rocks, to be drowned as a sacrifice to the lint god when the tide came in. I was, however, saved from such a fate by the aforementioned man, who for some odd reason had somehow found his way to our protected island, hotly pursued by a large and visibly delicious wooden door.
The man, whom I have fondly named Squeaky, seems not to be terribly intelligent, though affectionate in his own crude fashion. He often tries to communicate with me via handsignals, and was clever enough to mend a slight rent in my waistband. He carries all manner of contrivances with him as though on a journey, which makes me believe he is yet another idiot that our lint god Dumble Door sent down to be eaten by the sock clan. Squeaky strikes me as a rather pathetic figure, a victim of circumstance and fashion than an offender of our god. I have taken him under my wing, so to speak, and guided him back up through the caverns towards his home in the aboveworld.
Squeaky, however, seems bent on completing the suicidal mission that was undoubtedly set before him by our beloved lint god Dumble Door, in the form of a search for the Purple Zoowalash. If I remember correctly, the last victim to be sent on this fool's errand was a man named Flitwick, who not only made it down to our island, but also managed to locate the Purple Zoowalash, fought it for five straight weeks, then made an attractive ascot out of it before attending a prom date with Jerry Lewis on the moon. That man does more acid than anyone I know.
The fact is, there is no such thing as the Purple Zoowalash. My poor pet Squeaky managed to penetrate the innermost chambers of our caverns and discovered what he at first took to be the Zoowalash, but seconds later realized it was merely a twenty foot tall man-eating eggplant. This eggplant has been devouring the victims of our lint god since time began, and it looked as though Squeaky might be added to the list of his unfortunate meals. The eggplant lunged at Squeaky, but before I had time to react, he pulled out his wand and transfigured the eggplant into a modest office fern! I will admit I did not think Squeaky capable of any substantial magical abilities. I quite frankly did not think him capable of doing anything other than writing in his journal and crying over the "skinny pretty people" in Vanity Fair that he completely fails to resemble. But as it turns out, he rose to the challenge magnificently, and it is because of this newfound magical prowess that I have decided to keep him, rather than eat his brain at the first available opportunity, as I previously planned.
And so it now appears that, eggplant in tow, Squeaky will be bringing me with him into the aboveworld. What I can expect in this new plane of existence, I can only conjecture. My opinion of the afterlife has always been rife with dissenting views from that of my lint-worshipping brethren and led to my life as a persecuted follower of a pagan religion. Despite that, I have no doubt that I shall meet the true entity from whom I spring, and for in belief of whom I was first punished as a sacrifice. . .the harvest goddess Par Vati, who cast her children into the dark caverns as punishment for some unknown original sin.
Squeaky, in the meantime, has been joyously typing up a letter to the lint god Dumble Door about his "success", as well as vainly attempting to make the transfigured eggplant produce chocolate syrup and string. A return letter is expected from the lint god, and though I care nothing for Squeaky's job problems, I must admit I do wonder at what will be the final outcome of his bid for the Dark Arts position. In the meantime, I shall do my best to help him learn the beautiful and complicated language of Argyle, and perhaps he will be able to someday converse with me in a less savage and witless manner.
Sincerely,
Josephine Dulchea Vittoria Former High Priestess of the Lint Altar