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The Countess-Prelate von Sträsmussenbörg

Bleeped out for September 19, 1999.

The winged chariot broke this week. I had to put the horses down, too. It broke, and the horses all started meowing and howling like wolves. It was very unpleasant.

While wandering about Saudi Arabia on foot, nearly dead, but alive with life, a messenger brought me a letter from Mister Ollanthorpe von Sträsmussenbörg’s widow, the Countess-Prelate von Sträsmussenbörg. I began reading, after killing the messenger:

Dear Mister Årp:

You are searching in the wrong place for the Englebee Troobles, for which my husband also sought. They are not in Europe, or in Asia. They are not in Afghanistan, or Prague, or Saudi Arabia, or Egypt, or Crete, or Lemnos, or Ithaka, or Macedonia, or Kosovo, or Smolensk. They are not even in Tashkurgan, or Mohenjo-Daro, or even ancient Çatal Höyük. They are not anywhere on this planet at all. You must look beyond this planet. Beyond, sir.

Far beyond. Travel to the stars, sir. That is why they have been screaming at you. They are beckoning to you. Calling to you. You must heed their call if you are to find the Englebee Troobles and put an end to your asinine search.

You are an ass. Die.


Regina Maria-Theresia Louisa Ilsa Ollanthorpe

Countess-Prelate von Sträsmussenbörg

What…? To the stars? The screaming stars? What a melanderous idea!! I decided I must ask Alyssa Milano, or maybe the President of the United States, if this was a good idea. Maybe William Shakespeare would have the answer. I decided to go to England.