I have never been a cuckolding husband, but if I were, and were I confronted by a long-suffering shrew of a spouse, and yet, as in a French farce, was secretly innocent…?

Cast Julia Hoffman as the embittered wife and one Barnabas Collins as the blameless and bedeviled pater noster , and you have the scene that erupted in Collins Hall as I was just finishing a particularly juicy chapter of Tristram Shandy and attempting to relax before going to sleep. My formula was working marvelously, and then?  Quick as boiled asparagus, Doctor Hoffman appeared in a blast of Chanel Number 5 and stale, cigarette smoke to accuse me of feeding upon Maggie Evans.  I most certainly did not, as the rumbling from my stomach and general, sour mood could easily bear witness.  Maggie had been the victim of some other vampire.  Thomas Jennings, Angelique, Dirk Wilkins, and Megan Todd clearly taught the community that I am not a single-sellership in the realm of the beast.  Did Julia believe my declarations of innocence?  It takes no Sebastian Shaw to penetrate the mystery of that inquiry.  Regarding Julia’s opinion?  At this point, is there any person of reason who gives a tinker’s damn?

I will sort this all out when the sun sets, but as for now, I simply lie here in an insomniac’s helpless rage.  I have no desire to cause violence to innocent humans.  I merely want to parse fact from fiction, eradicate whatever vampire bit Maggie, and then try to move on with saving Collinwood from utter destruction.  That was, as I recall, the entire point of our actions.

Does that strain the boundary of reasonable expectations?  I think not.



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