Fleur’s Scheme
in true carny fashion- allegations of a conspiracy
- some little sinful thing I’ve done
- wear dead cats on their heads
- don’t want to continue the alliterations
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Fleur’s scheme for dealing with the francophone aerialist intelligencer was predicated on her surmise that he was not a circus clown, but a carnival clown, and thus relied on him behaving in true carny fashion when presented with allegations of a conspiracy. But not accusations directed at him. No, my wife was about to declare that she knew some little sinful thing I’ve done, and by “sinful” she’d mean “treasonous.” By his accent I judged him to be from the Lorraine region, and a rural part of it at that, probably a backwater where they wear dead cats on their heads. I hoped Fleur was taking that into consideration when calculating what crimes to charge me with.
Meanwhile, she had lowered herself into a crouch over my supine form on the table. She had, after all, just watched me eat a whole platter of grapes. The table’s uneven legs played a stately heartbeat in time to her motions.
“You’re a dog,” she growled. “A dirty delinquent, a deserter devoid of devotion!” The table’s thump-thump, thump-thump filled a lull, then she went on. “Desperation drove your despicable deeds. Don’t doubt my determination, just because I don’t want to continue the alliterations.” Her voice was climbing, the thump-thump accelerating.
“Could you be, perhaps, more specific?” asked the leotarded interloper. “What has this man done?”
Fleur arched her back, holding up one index finger to tell the clown spy to wait. The table fell silent as she poised motionless at the brink, and then her face lit with transcendent pleasure.
“I’ll tell you what he’s done,” said Harry. “He’s a traitorous dog, all right.”
bonus points for using them in order