- Hola, creeping creatures of hair gel and styling mousse! How is everything in the darkest reaches of the underworld kingdom of Pussy Mabusé? You're accumulating quite a felonious curriculum vitae as you now add your first jailbreak to a list of transgressions that would make your sainted mother quake and tremble in her sackcloth underpants as she reached for the holy book to beg forgiveness of the deity on your wretched behalf.
For that's where we left you last time, tiny mewling addlepates! You were being spirited away in a chopper, the top felon in the big house about to meet the mysterious crime lord, Mr Griffin, who has taken an unsolicited interest in your career on the dark side of the thin blue line. All this is something of an irony when one considers (as one does) that you only find yourself in jail in the first place because of behaviour based on the delusion you held that everyone else thought you as wonderful as you thought yourself. It's rather like condemning one's cattle to death for farting. Though, it is arguable that that is in essence what we do, I suppose. However, if I remain on this point any longer with a view to having a serious discussion, one or the other of us will be unconscious before long. Thus shall we eschew the arena of enlightened debate and so return to the task at hand. The vile and bitters, little things of minuscule brain and hair gel!
Your chopper docks at what appears to be a crime castle of fairyland proportion, though the fairies that reside therein may be of the darkling kind. All this is due to the ghastly shenanigans of mischievous Mercury and vamping Venus, conjoined with Pluto in silly Sagittarius. As these two shift their nuisance value to gloomy Capricorn, you're spirited speedily (but with respect) to a large boardroom wherein there are comfy chairs, a long table and a rather odd stone statue of a creature with an eagle's head and wings but the body of a lion. By my little brown bottle! It might have been placed there in honour of your good selves, my little pussy types! What do you think?
You sit, lost in admiration for the thing though you also find it faintly disturbing. You wonder what will happen next in this house of business you find yourselves in. The old lag from stir is by your side. You ask him what's afoot. Waiting for Mr Griffin, comes the reply, with an odd glance at the statue. There's nothing to be done. You are here, free at last, courtesy of the gentleman. The least you can do is wait with good graces. You settle in to do so. In the meantime, underlings scurry. Myrmidons (every crime lord has them) loom at doorways. Each of them, strangely, with only one eye. Even so, you note that Mr Griffin has the best set of looming myrmidons you've ever seen.
As the great Sol Invicti conjoins with cranky Chiron to clash with the Lunar Nodes, the light in the room changes in a subtle but bizarre manner. A faint chill comes on the air. You begin feeling dizzy. 'We're waiting for Mr Griffin,' says the old lag with a nod towards the statue. You glance in that direction. By all the gods alive and dead! You're not going to believe this, my tiny pussy types but, exactly as the great Sol Invicti moves to idiot Aquarius, you look up to see the wings on the stone statue begin to flutter. Egad! This can't be happening, you cry in terror, inwardly of course! But it is, my little twerps! It is!
The Full Moon blazes in your lunatic sign. Eek! The statue lifts itself from the pedestal on which it rested and stands on the floor. Aargh! Your pussy limbs are quaking! You sweat and tremble in a manner that can't be good for your mousse or your underarm deodorant. Almost do you pass out with horror of it all! The room seems to spin. And then, faintly, in the back of your mind (it's not a long journey from the front of it anyway) do you remember your lessons at school. Had you only listened more instead of trying to see your reflection in the windows of the classroom! Still, some tiny piece of information rises to the surface of the sluggish lake you laughingly call a brain. Griffin! This is a creature of myth, a fearsome monster known as the Griffin. It's not a 'mister' at all! It's a thing! It's an outré beast of horror! A legend, come to life! It's a killer!
The old lag grins, then laughs aloud. Mischievous Mercury bangs and clatters into lunatic Aquarius and the beak (for beak it has, O gods) opens. A peculiar combination of dust and grey spittle drools forth from the maw. 'Good evening, Pussy Mabusé,' says the beak. 'I am Mr Griffin.'
Oh gods! Even I dare not look upon what happens next. You'll have to click here next time to find it out. It may just take me that long to recover from the shock and awe of it all! Farewell, Pussy Mabusé!