by Rocky the Diabolical Cat™ My darling Evangelina and I were lounging in my basement bachelor pad, listening to a Lloyd Cole CD, when the phone rang.
"Rocky here ... hello Hector! What? We need to come to your place? Angelique's very ill? We'll be there immediately!"
We jumped in my old Saab, put the car through all five gears and quickly arrived at their house.
Hector answered the door, the lenses of his bifocal pince-nez clouded over from weeping. "Come in, friends," he said softly.
He led us to the sickroom.
On a velvet fainting couch lay his ladyfriend Angelique, the back of her left hand resting against her forehead. She was thinner and paler than her usual goth girl self, but her cheeks were rosy.
She coughed a few times, then whispered, "Hi Rocky. Hi Evangelina." She sunk back, exhausted from speaking.
I turned to Hector and asked quietly, "Dear fellow, what is wrong with her?"
"Rocky," he replied, "she has consumption. She hasn't wanted anybody to know because she is so proud."
I quickly draped my monogrammed handkerchief over my snout. Not wishing to offend, I made a couple of nose-noises.
"Consumption! Who would have known! In this day and age!" Evangelina cried.
"Life under the Bushist junta has taken us so far backward in time, it should be no surprise," I said.
"Rocky," Angelique said weakly, "I wanted to tell you that I always have and always will love you." Suddenly, her body became limp, her hand fell from her forehead and her arm dangled over the edge of the fainting-couch. Dead!
Evangelina screamed. Hector's pince-nez fell to the floor and broke. Both eyed me suspiciously.
To be continued ...