I am very, very sorry for not putting this up before. I’ve had it for months, and completely forgot about it.

I’m trying to write actual new stuff as well, but I seem to lack motivation….

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The mob waded through the waist-deep water in the third cellar, torches held aloft. Some select few waved pitchforks instead, though where they had obtained them was a mystery to all involved.

“Hunt down this murderer! He must be found!” they sang angrily as they blundered from one dead end to another. The camera lurched onto its side between shots for the sake of tossing in a dutch tilt or fifteen, but the makeshift mob didn’t seem to notice.

Meanwhile, Christine had fully donned her wedding dress after what had seemed like an eternity of awkward moments as she tried to find a private spot in which to change, while Poot did a poor job of maintaining his gaze in the opposite direction. She turned to him, and began to sing.

“Have you gorged yourself at last in your lust for blood?’ she asked. “Am I now to be—I need to sit down.”

She stopped without finishing her line and plopped down on the floor, looking ill. Poot wondered if he should sing about his horrible face some more, but concern for his lady love overrode his ever-present self-pity, and he knelt beside her instead.

“What is it?” he inquired. “Is it my face?”

Christine shook her head. “I’ll be fine…it’s just that all these dutch tilts are getting to me.”

“…what’s a dutch tilt?” asked a bewildered Poot.

“It’s when the camera is tilted to one side so that the bottom of the frame isn’t parallel to the horizon line. Some people think it makes a shot look more exciting,” explained Christine as the fourth wall quietly imploded.

“…’kay…” responded Poot, creating another anachronism. “Are you sure you’re not just getting sick from looking at my abhorrent face?”

“I’m sure!” snapped Christine, exasperated with his fixation. “It really doesn’t even bother me anymore.”

“Oh,” Poot sat back and considered her answer. “Not even my eye?”

The eye stared balefully at her, leaking water from ill-formed tear ducts and generally looking unattractive.

“No,” intoned Christine firmly.

“Then why—“

“You kill people!” said Christine disapprovingly. Poot stared at her, uncomprehending. Just then, Raoul splashed up to the porticullis.

“Wait,” grinned Poot, a plan forming in his deranged little mind. “I think, my dear, we have a guest!”

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You know how it goes from there.