I have been taken hostage by bad poetry bats. Apparently, there are far more of them than anyone could have predicted. They have me in a very high, undisclosed location.
There are hundreds of them. Their leaders – I have named him Lord Byronesque – is the size of a small minivan.
Horatio managed to escape. I hope he is taking good care of our bestiary in my absence.
to secure my release, Horatio, get fifty large jars of kosher dills, and a hundred copies of Poetry Magazine. Take them to the big dumpster behind the Benbrook Public Library. Leave them in styrofoam coolers, next to the dumpster. Include a note of apology.
I am – I assure you – very, very sorry for attempting to capture a bad poetry bat.
They plucked me off the ground and carried me away.
I should mention that failure to do so will make them light my ears on fire with their tongues. After some time with these strange creatures, I’m not sure if that’s a metaphor or exactly what they are going to do.
The conversation, however, in rhyming iambic pentameter, is forced and dull enough to make me think it is both a metaphor and a fact. If I have to listen to anymore discussions about the good qualities of different sorts of pickles in dreadful, rhyming iambic pentameter, I think I will burn my own ears off.
Ahem. Hail Lord Byronesque. His poetry is VASTLY superior to mine. Yes. Yes, he is probably going to read this message, and I want to make sure everyone knows.
Anyway. Horatio, please provide the pickles. And the magazines.
I am alive and unharmed, and etc.