Sir!
As wished, I kept a watchful eye on your front door, postbox, back door, personal club armchair & your favoured seat in the Mandrake (and moreso, the one in the Medusa’s Head… I took the liberty to erase the little carvings in the wood with a heavy Steinkrug and a small hatchet while the landlord was distracted, frankly not without tracing them beforehand using a piece of charcoal & my trusty newspaper. We may have to discuss this later. Much, much later, since):
I very much advise you to extend your stay in calmer & healthier pastures (crypts? necropoleis? tombs?).
Your door and "terrace" front is still marked by the most vicious of grafitti, not all of which can be directly looked at lacking protectional equipment. The neighbours are awakened at the most inconvenient of times by the banging noise of judicial citations, challenges to duels, love letters that I think are of a sarcastic persuasion and, worst by far, invoices being nailed onto your doors & shuttered windows. Your postbox was nailed, soldered & cemented shut after the steady stream of boxed rats and spiders resulted in the formation of rat city-states, spider spires, miniature-scale war, enslavement of the spiders under a monarchic rat empire and finally in a series of spider/rat cavalry raids on nearby orphanages and butcher shops. I personally dumped a few sticks of L.B. dynamite into the postbox before the constables sealed it. I can’t forget the tiny inhuman screams. (and I don’t want to, despite being offered quite a handy sum in exchange!)
A supposed cat told the Gazette some rather indiscreet details regarding your "bloody rants" at the Duchess’ salons. One of your maids ran away to become a pirate queen. A person claiming to be your butler sold your table silver to a known & often-hired murderer. An unprobably named orphan down the corner to M----- Street shows the cueball that was involved to anybody willing to pay a penny or a moonpearl. A Pair of Spanish spies uses your name to sign their code-letters, which, due to their near-legendary incompetence in turn lead to a new, slightly unfortunate slang-vocable: "to do the snopes". I will spare you its meaning.
Three Young Stags, one Constable and two Devils tried to gain access to the secret compartment in your armchair at the club. I sternly reprimanded all of them, except for the devils, which I thoroughly drubbed. I still haven’t regained my knuckle hair or the ability to sleep without being slowly smouldered by spontaneous bedfires, but the Bishop of S-------- granted me a curt nod. Maybe you should direct a letter or two at him. And maybe I should drag that chair upstairs into the "billard" "room", where nobody ungentlemanly or unprepared dares to venture, but I suspect the secret compartment to contain a gunpowder trap, a highly volatile lead slab or a medium-sized monkey with a scimitar. Probably it’s some combination of the above.
I hope I could sway you to not hasten your return. The state of affairs does not warrant the much-deserved warm welcome. And don’t they have very picturesque chapels in the tomb colonies? And wartime stories aplenty? And duels every even hour? Day and night and day?
The London weather is horrible too, my old, non-suspicious albino surface friend on a visit is quite literally sweating to death. Or figuratively? Well, I’ll leave the intricacies of the English language— to the English.
Yours most humbly&truly
Hr. H.d.Glas
edited by HinterDemGlas on 1/21/2014