In which your humble narrator flies into a terrible rage, accuses the Rev. R. Mole of heresy and attempts to burn him at the stake.
I must confess, dear reader, that at the commencement of the Reverend’s tale, I was somewhat nonplussed.
“You must forgive me,” I said, rising clumsily from my chair (for the port had been rather good and had sent me into a near-comatose stupor) “I believe I should retire. It has been an instructive evening, and I thank you for it. Goodnight.”
“You needn’t take it like that, old chap” the Mole replied. “It is only a matter of ecclesiastical differences, nothing more.”
I suspected at this that he felt himself snubbed, and went to great pains to reassure him of his own powers of narration, and my unworthiness as a listener for such a complex tale.
“Control yourself, young man!” shrieked the Reverend, clambering up the back of a chair with his great claws. “I am a man of the cloth, I meant no harm!”
At this, I was utterly bemused, and began to wonder whether, during the course of the noble Reverend’s tale, I had in fact dropped off into slumber. I asked him if I could perhaps get him a brandy to settle his nerves.
“MURDER!” cried the Mole, “A MURDER is taking place!” and, fixing his great dark eyes upon me, his pince-nez flashing menacingly in the light from the fireplace, shouted:
“You’ll never take me alive!”
I tried to assure him that I had no intention of taking him anywhere, at which point he pulled a great knife from a sheath concealed under his trousers and waved it furiously in my face, putting me in grave danger of a nasty scratch. I felt rather injured by this show of ingratitude for my hospitality and I am sure that if he had asked for the brandy at that point I would have found some way to refuse him on principle.
Panting heavily, the Mole (who after all must have been exhausted from brandishing a knife much longer than himself) wheezed “I’ll kill us both before you burn me, villain!”
He then inexplicably strapped a small device on to his back, and began vibrating at great speed, rendering him almost invisible but for a small portion of his buttocks that was completely stationary. I showed him out, but, as he appeared to be in no condition to find his way home, I was compelled to call him a cab which I then had to carefully lift him into, receiving several deep cuts for my pains.
It was with a sensation of great relief that I watched the cab drive away, but my questions remained: who were these small Gods? And were they such blackguards as the Reverend had suggested? Perhaps that was the reason for his mysterious frenzy. I retired to my study in deep thought.
In which the Rev. R. Mole breaks the fourth wall entirely and starts taking questions from the audience