Big day here amongst the interstitial fluids, think of it as the oil in a venerable Briggs and Stratton and let's hope for a working oil pump so that slopes can be climbed without the kind of damage that precedes the white smoke of surrender. Our hero has entered the portal, it was built in the Victorian Age. The roof, in places, leaks from lack of funds, the damp produces interesting blooms on ceiling plaster, windows wait months for the glazier, but the food is good for those not accustomed to the much-ness of plenty, the Cherry flavored jelly is the treat for good behavior and on the Sunday lunch there are tinned Mandarin Oranges in it. And oh yes, Crabtree has accepted the existence of The Rabbit. Which is an awesome temptation.
And by "awesome" your writer of pulp himself sits upon the precipice, stares
down into the wonderland of a narrative that pulls its strength from something
like a toothache, rather than a whole well thought out series of considerations,
or what I supposed some might call plot. The thing about plot, it reduces
exploration, becomes more like the hurdle race where highly tuned thighs leap
fences to reach a preordained conclusion. Call it a climax and you'd be right to
blush at the sight of a straight line that runs so endlessly it could be called
pointless. However, down here we are what Walking Stewart calls a Beast in the
Forest, or more properly a Beafft of the Forefft. Two F's equaled an S for the
printer in the 18th Century. And the other thing worth noting, I know how the
Rabbit of Usk ends, and I'll call it cheating to save you the trouble.