Run, Zweibel, Run!

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Run, Zweibel, Run!

Well, with my vast fortune stolen by the villainous high-way-man Black Scarlet, I must once again make my way in the world. The local constabulary has no leads on the where-abouts of this fiend, who cleaned me out so thoroughly that I am as poor as a church-mouse.

The Zweibel Estate has been put up for sale. I was hoping the proceeds would restore some of my funds, but I have been informed that they will go toward my wastrel sons' enormous alimony payments and ongoing absinthe addiction.

The Baintons, my annoying, effete next-door neighbors, are the likeliest buyers. "The grounds would make ever such a scrumptious place to play croquet," said Chauncey, paterfamilias of that idiotic, inbred clan. "But that beastly mansion will simply have to come down. It's dreadfully imposing and gloomy, don't you know."

Curse those Bainton twits! To think that the great, historic Zweibel Mansion will be torn down like a tar-paper shanty! It's too awful to think about! How I will miss it and all my beloved possessions inside!

Good-bye, big stuffed moose-head! Good-bye, chafing-dish! Good-bye, meerschaum pipe! Good-bye, blotting-paper! Good-bye, armoire! Good-bye, cuspidor! Good-bye, death-bed! Good-bye, enema-bulb! Good-bye, iron-lung! Good-bye, socks!

Decades ago, a court order confined me to my estate. But because it is about to be lost, I find myself in a woeful quandary. Of course, my rotten sons do not want any part of me, as their inheritance is lost. So the state wants to lock me in the poor-house. Never! I would rather die first, or become a fugitive from justice! Since I am not dead, I have no choice but to become the latter.

Yes, it's true: T. Herman Zweibel will have to embark on the lone-some road, with only the clothes on his back, his wheel-chair, and a few meager personal items secured in a bandanna. Thankfully, my faithful man-servant Standish will accompany me in my desperate flight from the law. Dear Standish! How I treasure his immense obsequiousness, which I previously thought was rather eerie!

I will continue to communicate to you in my weekly "Message From The Publisher." But, because I am trying to elude the authorities, I shall write it under a pseudonym, Mr. Herman T. Zwiebel. If any-one asks you if you have read this column, deny it. Reading this has automatically made you an accomplice to my crime, and you could face serious jail-time.


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