Confession of a Epicaricacist

As I sat at the table of the bed and breakfast trying to ingest the incondite tonic prepared by my host, a pilgaric with a face of chimeric proportions, a terrible thunder whose verberations threatened to rive the establishment  asunder diminished into the sound of scree scrabbling down the rooftop.  Curious as to the sound's emanation, I picked up my cup and peered out the fulinginous window while sipping the infernal draught.  The tonic quickly erupted from my nasal cavity and turned into a fine mist that coated the window as a cachinnation escaped me due to the scene below.

Surreptitiously wiping the spray from the window, I observed an odious hobbledehoy engaged in a matutinal battle of mystical proportions with the virago who had been camping out on the front stoop of the bed and breakfast since yesternight  The xanthippe beat the jejune lad in perfect cadence to her colorful curses  with a supple willow switch.  The switch caught him about the ankles and curled about his legs in a manner that threatened to pull his ill-fitting jeans even further down his posterior.  The object of their rivalry appeared to center around a mysterious contrivance; which, I realized, was still pulsing its steady thunder.  Small bits of tile, brick and roofing fell past the window, identifying the source of the scree-like sound earlier.

Being a tramontane, I have had little in the way of entertainment; so I, like the rest of my village, regulary engage in epicaricacy.  I must aver, my stay in the city has proved most satisfactory in this regard.  If it weren’t for my alchemical quest that caused me to leave my hamlet, I might never have known such amusements were to be had in a metropolis.

Alas, it seemed my diversion was to end when the altercation was observed by a local authority, invested in his full bumbledom, who tried to separate the combatants.   He had marginal success until another quidnunc came and helped subdue the unequal warriors.

Then a twist of events that would tempt even the most nihilistic nature to believe in fate rewarded my continued vigil.  A zypher suddenly swirled down the street in a funnel of dust and litter and circled to group.  The wind blew open the shirt of the harpy to expose some bodacious tatas and blew the toupee off the head of the second magistrate.  The first man stared in shock and the other scrabbled blindly trying to clear the piece blocking his vision.  In a sudden shift of allegiance, the youth and the woman escaped the kerfuffle running hand in hand down the street carrying the throbbing contraption.  I wished the two Godspeed as they disappeared around a distant corner, the pulsation of their contraption growing fainter.

A hush ruled the scene as the officials argued, two doryphores trying to regain the dignity usurped by the wind.  My revels now ended, I picked up my tome from the breakfast table and trudged back into my cell.  I locked the door, sat on the bed, looked into the book and saw only a tabula rasa.  I cursed the lethologica which impedes my study by manifesting every time I try to recite a recipe for the enigmatic auric formula.

Ah, well.  Might as well get a burger and hit a strip club while I’m in town.