What ho, fatuous vanities! Last time we left, you were trembling in your mighty boots and up to pussy's bow in trouble. You had set out from the fortress of the evil Mr Griffin, crime lord, to make your way in the world by going on a mighty trek, clad only in the aforementioned fashion accessories that you had recently designed. And yet, your first night in the wild found you wishing you had not left the comfort of the nest of ruffians that has been your home since your jailbreak. Darkness descended. Bitter cold assailed your every exposed part. Strange voices muttered from the stygian gloom of night. And, just as you were panicking and set to run, a cracked and ancient voice commanded you to stay.
And so it is that my mighty voice now takes up the tale of PUSS IN BOOTS. Grovel in my mighty presence, pussy folk! It is I, Asperitus, the oracle of bitter truth! And I am here to prognosticate upon you from a great height. This is awful August! Eek! These are the dire and terrible doings thereof. And of the direst and most terrible they be, let me remind you, should your cheesecloth brain be unable to retain the information for longer than an ingénue tourist to the East can retain the most recent prandial undertaking.
The ghastly proceedings begin with mischievous Mercury in perverse reverse and groping the private parts of narcotic Neptune. Thus, you begin to witter and whine in fear, as a strange and outre figure approaches through the stygian gloom, pointing a gnarled finger in your direction, a digit that is desperately in need of a manicurist's attention. With cranky Chiron now returned to grim Capricorn and your solar sixth house, you find you're transfixed with fear and rooted to the spot.
But what's this? With jolly Jupiter in your solar third house and the great Sol Invicti clashing with nasty Neptune, it turns out the fellow is no threat at all to your mighty person. He is in fact the oldest living member of the paparazzi and the only one the media of the world could spare to cover your journey, should you happen to fall in the way of a scandal or a nasty upset. And, the sole reason he cried out was that he could not keep the cracking pace set by your mighty boots, as he has but an ancient bicycle upon which to carry out his prurient work with the fourth estate. Why, it's turned out nice again, hasn't it, my frightful pussy persons!
Come a New Moon in your unspeakable sign, you sit at the campfire, regaling this aging Jimmy Olsen with saucy tales of your exploits (largely exaggerated), as he drifts into a sleep that is the proper pension of those adrift in dotage. Still, an unconscious audience never inhibited your ability to talk about yourself before! Come the morning, you offer to treat the still befuddled ancient to breakfast at a nearby café, but then try to coerce him into meeting the tab from his expense account as vamping Venus is ravished by dark Pluto, underworld god. A row erupts as marauding Mars grapples with mischievous Mercury and the local authorities become involved (jolly Jupiter slithering into congress with the loony South Node).
However, just as incarceration appears imminent, a rabid supporter of your fashion house appears, fetchingly turned out in a lilac pussy's bow such as you might wear. This brainless creature offers to settle the bill in return for being able to accompany you (trailing at a respectful distance, of course) on your mighty trek. Egad! I expect these pleasant turns of fortune are due to the entry of vamping Venus in to the decadent sign of Libra. And, no doubt, the forward motion of the mischievous messenger has something to do with it as well.
Anyway, by the time it's all done with, there's quite a crowd gathered. And, as a Full Moon comes in lunatic Aquarius, you set off on the next leg of your mighty trek with an entourage of supporters, hangers-on and wannabes in tow. As the great Sol Invicti grinds his way into anal Virgo (eek), you do rather well out of getting them to meet your day to day expenses by offering lectures and witty anecdotes on the early days of your struggle to bring pussy's bow to the attention of the public. You even reduce some of your rapt listeners to tears, though the reason for their lachrymose response may not be quite what you imagine. Nonetheless, you've never been a puss to be deterred by the disinterest of others in yourself.
But then, my freakish felines, just as you feel everything is going rather well, the predictable farting of ghastly planets in the cosmic winds comes along to spoil the day. It's marauding Mars, you see! The psychotic war god and patron of belligerence! He harasses mischievous Mercury and narcotic Neptune with his improper attentions and suddenly, as you cross the brow of a hill upon your path, you're confronted by a fearsome crowd of nasty looking individuals. They carry a banner that reads 'death to mighty boots and down with pussy's bow'. Eek! How alarming that will be if it proves to be prophetic! It seems your rag tag and bobtail of admirers has met with an army of opponents. And, by the look of the baseball bats and bike chains they carry, they mean to make a fashion statement of no uncertain kind!
Egad, my feckless felines! What will happen now? As I'm feeling tired and largely disinterested, I think I'll take my medicine and go to sleep. Do call again next time if you wish to read of the horror, set to unleash itself upon you. Ave atque vale, tiny hairdressing types!