Ferdinand –

You do not know me, sir, and yet I am all too familiar with you and your detestable unbidden interlopings. While your squalid upbringing and low social standing have undeniably exacerbated your penchant for dispensing bedlam upon your betters, it cannot excuse the wreckage you have done to my dear heart, my precious pumpkin, my lumlums Leopold.

When I met Leopold in Tangier late last Summer's eve, he was suffering  from a variety of physiological and spiritual maladies, including both Mongolian brain flukes and figurative pleurisy. Only a woman's satiny touch (focused in a rhythmic, cupping motion) could restore him to his bygone state of health and fettle. My feminine ministrations - along with the skilled efforts of my pet rhesus macaque Hieronymus III - were put to the ultimate test, but with the liberal application of ether and whale-oil lubricant we proved victorious!

You see, Leopold is in acute need of a woman of true maidenly sensuality and rotundity. A full-figured flower whom he can care for and fertilize – lithe as a lily carved of ivory, or a lovingly taxidermed Heironymous II sculpted of ambergris and attar of rose. You sir, on the other hand, walk as though you've befouled your small clothes, and look as though you can smell it. I'll be perfectly blunt so that my subtle verbal manoueverings are not lost on you: Leopold's erstwhile desire for the male member is pitiably misplaced. He was, as can be vouchsafed by my solicitor, ensorcelled by your masculine whiles for only the briefest of lamentable moments. (As well as those of the local stable boys and most of the clergy in the surrounding parish.) (And there was that one sodden, bewhiskered tinker two nights past.) But hear me, sir: what he truly desires, in the deepest and most secret antechambers of his soul, is to be wrapped in the hairless, veinless arms of the fairer sex.

This is merely to say (in simple locution so that a cretinous jackanape such as yourself might hope to grasp it), that if you value what remains of your deservedly-impugned manhood, you will not even entertain to dream of appearing at any place of social intercourse at which my newly-betrothed and I will be in attendance -- much less the gala event of the social year.

As you know, the highlight of the masquerade season is very nearly upon us, and any personage of quality or careful upbringing shall find themselves20preparing for an exceptional evening of intimate musical saturnalia. (This, naturally, will exclude you.) Not Waving But Drowning, that calithumpian carnival of choral curiosities, will be playing at the Zebulon Café next Tuesday at 8:30 in the evening.
Joining them will be the sinisterly seductive stylings of the Evil Horns’ Noir, a syndicate of silver-horned sirens, as well as the bracingly bawdy burlesque of Darlinda Just Darlinda, a buxom belle of boundless beauty.

If I or any of my underpaid and occasionally testy menservants see you within a buzzard's tongue of the Zebulon Café Concert, we shall be forced to take immediate and irremediable action. This is no idle threat: in addition to being a master of the rhythmic cupping motion, Hieronymus III is an expert in the art of flinging both Cathayan shuriken as well as his own waste, with deadly accuracy on each count.  Rest assured that, should you show your doltish sloping forehead come Tuesday, your life will be as short as it is nasty and brutish.

With unrelenting sincerity,

 - Persimmonia & Hieronymus III

*****

   http://www.wavingdrowning.com
   Tuesday April 28th - 8:30pm
   Zebulon - 258 Wythe Ave in Williamsburg
   Free