When we last spoke, dear Readers, I had decided to visit Miranda. It’s kind of hard to keep a straight face when you’re cleaning off a statue’s tatas, but I managed.
Miranda: THANK YOU, DEAR.
Me: *peeling moss from well-formed breasts* Miranda, someone’s shooting at Phil and Willard.
Miranda: JUST WILLARD.
Me: …okay. *brushing away dirt and polishing her shoulders* And Joe.
Miranda: YES, WILLARD AND JOE. THANK YOU, DEAR.
Me: And putting moss on you. *pointing at the dead campfire* And building fires.
Miranda: I BELIEVE HE THOUGHT I MUST BE COLD.
Me: *gathering all my patience* Miranda, he shot at me too. This isn’t good for the backyard community.
Miranda: NO, I SUPPOSE IT ISN’T.
That’s the thing about having an oracle in your backyard. They’re sometimes a little frustrating to talk to. At least there were no more crossbow bolts winging by. So I gathered my patience again.
Me: *brushing off her skirt* Miranda? Do you happen to know who this person is?
Miranda: OH YES, DEAR. IT’S LOUIS.
Me: *finally feeling like we’re getting somewhere* Lewis?
Miranda: NO, LOUIS. SPELLED FRENCH, PRONOUNCED OTHERWISE.
Me: How did you know I spelled…oh, never mind. Look, so where can I find this Louis-pronounced-otherwise? I really need to explain some things to him.
Miranda: I CAN INTRODUCE YOU, IF YOU’D LIKE. HE CAMPS HERE AT NIGHT, OFTEN.
Me: Good Lord. Okay. When?
Miranda: COME BY TOMORROW MORNING.
Me: *remembering weather report* It’ll be raining.
Miranda: NOT WHEN YOU COME BY. ALSO, YOU’RE OUT OF BACTINE.
Me: You mean I’m going to need it?
Miranda: *nods, smiling gently*
Me: Oh, fuck.
Miranda: LANGUAGE, DEAR.
As usual, she was right. (Don’t ask. It had to do with a frightened cat, Odd Trundles, and leftover spaghetti. I SAID DON’T ASK.) Not about the language, but about the…well, anyway, the next morning I checked the iron-clouded sky, sighed, poured more coffee, and sallied forth.
TO BE CONTINUED…