By my sainted aunt, pussy types! We left you last time on the verge of becoming a magical savant such as Madam Blackcatski or Merlyn the Optician. This was so that you might return to the house of the mysterious Mr Griffin, your quondam mentor in the art of being a crime lord, and best him in a battle of magical wills. Somewhere after that, I fell asleep due to the onset of screaming boredom and the consumption of a large quantity of prescription drugs. I have recently awoken to discover the New Year is upon us and jittery January is underway. Thus, it is time to fulfill the prognosticatory obligations proper to my station as the bard of baffle and the prophet of piffle, laggard though they be in the matter of timing.
In the interim, you'll be pleased to know, little has occurred besides an outburst of cosmic flatulence in the lugubrious sign of the Goat. Thus, you worked on your grimoire 'Prestidigitation For The Pussy', contracted a health problem and performed experiments with the tiny magical creature you made from your quill. It must be said that the nature and purpose of these experiments may not be revealed until all those with whom you have direct ties of blood have passed away and thus may not be subject to any public shame or vilification. Let us raise the cup of jittery January so that the vile and bitter fluids splash from its unsteady rim, revealing all.
Mischievous Mercury inserts his supple digit into the nether regions of Uranus, the idiot god. Thus, you find you're ensorcelled by the desire to make more tiny creatures like the one already made in order to amuse yourself with the exercise of your sorcerous powers and surround your person with mindless creatures that obey your every wish without demur. As marauding Mars thrusts his rudest bit into the private parts of jolly Jupiter, you dress in your finest pussy robes and prepare to make magic.
But as a Full Moon comes in neurotic Cancer, you realize you've already sacrificed your one and only quill and thus have no feathers left to make more mannikins. Egad, my preening galoots! What will you do?
As grim Saturn clasps the body of Uranus, the idiot god, in a hideous embrace, you decide to cast a spell that will summon the requisite feathered creatures to your palace of the occult, a relatively simple magic to make as chicken farming is popular in the region. Such creatures as then arrive, ensorcelled, will provide the feathers for further mannikins, and perhaps serve a secondary purpose in pussy's cooking pot. Yum!
Thus, as ghastly planets too hideous to name fart in nasty aspects too tedious to describe, the spell of Prestidigitation Pussy brings fowl by the hundred, nay by the thousand, to the ramparts. And, my tiny mewling morons, it isn't just chickens that come a-clucking! By all the gods alive and dead, it's not that simple! As the great Sol Invicti and mischievous Mercury grind a ghastly passage into Aquarius, sign of the idiot god, great birds of the air swoop down in magical visitation, their wings bent to the will of a master magician (that's you). Though they excrete profusely and insanely (ugh) on your luscious locks and sorcerous robes, they nonetheless stand ready to do the bidding of the world's greatest living occultist since Dr. Johann Fastarse!
Hawks, falcons, eagles, vultures, emus, ostriches and even a few errant penguins flutter at your door, mixing freely with the chickens, ducks, turkeys and geese from the local farms. Gadzooks! You are the lord of the fowls, my odious hairdressing types! That must place you at the top of the pecking order!
But what's this? By my sainted aunt, say not so! A New Moon comes in idiot Aquarius and we find you decked out with feathers and bird lime like some pontiff of poultry! But the march of grim Saturn as he clashes with the great Sol Invicti and mischievous Mercury comes knocking, nay pounding, at your door! Eek! It's a brace of local farmers, my wittering loonies! They're angry, armed and demanding the return of their chickens. Eek! Will it be magical quills and the Sunday roast? Or will it be pussy on a spit, as the art of witch-burning makes a comeback in the climes of countrified coition with near relations? Click here next month and see, my fatuous felines. Ave!