For clear background to read text throughout ACR, run cursor over graphics display.
"The Best Little Whorehouse Not In Texas"
On her swashbuckling way through the wilds of Ginvod just finally to refind and reclaim Joshua Skittlebury as her very own, Queen Violet Bravehead kept catching castles and jeweled diadems and gourmet decor delights and little blinkie thingy bugs snatched from the cybersphere orbiting around and abandoned lands off the shifting ground and disgorged creatures found to be unknown on her outstretched sword...... all of which she pinioned like the grande dame she is to the legendary lee of the lay of her fiefdom Harmony Hail, stamped with its seal and left scattered along the hurried trail like Gretel's storied cookiecrumbs.
Then she took a looooooooong nap on mauve napkins klept from rains of the lizard's lair.
And awoke refreshed for perking a pot of strong coffee to lace and brace with the rest of home overdue and luxurious.
Queen V. dreamed of dolled-up mines left behind tickling the pretender posse jammed on the path patented to the gold throne.
Once she'd careened crazedly off sullen edges of a famously fatal wagon wreck of fatuous personnas at the flatulent aquifer of guava fermenting from the south.
And then oily ooze seeped from the weeping creep's cave ledged to one climb around Peter's Peak. She slid on it into cretin's crevice at the foot of No Man's holler bruised and beaten by groaning stones thrown from the unsavory lick favored by nattering nymphs ignored and bored of drips bouncing past.
She recalled well the alarmed crawl that followed for her grateful bed to count the store of tales fetched and fashioned for a lustred Book of Days ornately illustrious from pen to paint.
"Ain't this sublime?" Queen V. murmured into the well of spirits hanging out around the moat of the palace regained.
"Whore," Benji rattled as he paddled the moat heading for a home-baked meal.