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“Welcome to my humble palace,” the Count said, as he kissed Lady Orvath’s scented hand, his moustache feeling like a wet caterpiller to her, the kind you see decapitated after mowing the yard on a hot summer day, the various insects’ entrails cooking in the heat like sausages writhing on a grill, and the little caterpiller’s legs spasming in death, while the remaining caterpillers continue to move with frantic haste (but always so slowly) away from the blades of the approaching lawn mower, only to be torn to grisly pieces, the carnage of insects and insect parts flying in all directions and then carried away by the insatiable appetite of patient predators, even as Lady Orvath murmurs a polite but demure, “I’m charmed, I’m sure.”
Don
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