The Player was dead. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk and the undertaker. Atown-Liker did not sign it, for he was also dead, or at least believed so. It turns out he was hiding from Marge in the Dominican Republic. However, the Player was as dead as a door nail. Atown-Liker knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? The Player was killed in Atown Liker's own house, though at the time it had been taken over by the demoness Marge. Atown-Liker's own gardener, Karl, did the deed himself with a keyser blade, though some might endeavor to call it a slingblade. Atown-Liker's own cats witnessed the deed, saved as they were by Karl from their execution in the microwave oven.
Atown-Liker and the Player were blogging teammates for I don't know how many years, until Atown-Liker grew weary of the Player's complaining and banned him from this blog. But the Player was now dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet's Father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot -- say Saint Paul's Churchyard for instance -- literally to astonish his son's weak mind.
Atown-Liker never took the Player's photo off of the blog. There it is, a year and a half after the Player's demise.
Once upon a time, in Parallel Time, having left his wallet behind in Non-parallel Time, Atown-Liker, a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner, finds himself in need of some cash. He stumbles across the Blogging Headquarters of Parallel Atown-Liker and finds that no one is home. He decides to snoop around.
So this is the headquarters of Parallel Atown-Liker. It's identical to my own house in Non-parallel Time. ... Hmmm. My key fits right into the door nob. ... Might as well take a look around. ... Well, what have we here? ... Good lord! This guy has no taste. These walls are beige! God, I hate beige. ... No cats. Well, that's a plus. ... I wonder if his house has a secret room? ... No carpet on the stairs? Hmmm. Maybe I should have mine removed. ... Well, there's no door for a secret room. ... Nothing up here in the attic at all but this butt-ugly Victorian armoire. ...
Wonder what he's got in there? ... Hey, my key for the secret room fits right in. ... Empty. What the hell? Maybe there's a secret compartment for valuables. Let me reach in here a bit. Grunt! ... WHOA!
What the hell just happened!?
Oh! I beg pardon sir, I thought I'd bring the laundry by. I thought you'd be at the counting house, sir.Yikes! Yikes, sir? Who are you? Where am I? Did you see that big lightning vortex thingee? Vortex thingee, sir? I don't believe so, sir. ... I'm your laundress, of course, sir, Mrs Colby, sir and you're in your very own house of course, Mr. Scrooge. ... Can I get you some tea and gruel, sir? Scrooge? Tea and gruel? Do you have any beer and pretzels? ... What year is this Mrs. Colby?The year? Why it's 1843, of course, sir.
And where is this? Why, we're in London of course as I live and breathe. You're usually at your office at this time of day counting your money with Mr. Cratchit, sir. Did you say money? Yes, sir. There's lots of money to be counted in your office sir, if I may be so bold, sir. And where exactly do I find this office full of money?
