Milrose Munce and the Den of Professional Help by Douglas Anthony Cooper Page B

presence of Munce diminishes the experience somewhat. Are you all right?”
    “In a manner of speaking. It’s been a pretty disquieting time.”
    “We have been worried. They’re not … harming you, are they?”
    “Well, they’re certainly doing damage to my blithe equanimity. Can you help us get out of here?”
    “I am not sure. We shall certainly try. As you know, we have … trouble with the first floor. It may not even be possible to descend. Nobody knows, really.”
    “But maybe we can climb up.”
    “Stunning idea, Arabella! You have always evinced superior imagination.”
    “Um, like, when all this blather is complete,” Milrose said, “can we maybe concentrate on
how
we’re going to accomplish this floor-hopping?”
    Percy sniffed. “One man’s blather is another man’s poetry.”
    “Exactly.”
    “There is a door,” said Arabella. “It’s not the kind of door that we generally use. We the living.”
    “A door! That’s certainly a hopeful sign.”
    “Yes, but it’s the kind of door that would probably be more useful for you. To … descend.”
    The silence that followed spoke of cowardice.
    “Well then. Any other ideas?”
    “Come on, Percy. I thought you poets were all about experiencing extreme emotions. Like rank terror.”
    “Munce, you will never understand the way of the artist.”
    “Percival,” said Arabella, “where precisely
are
you?”
    “That is a fine question. I don’t really know. I inhaled the scent of almonds, as I say, and somehow found myself turning left where I’ve never been able to turn left before.”
    “Yeah, that’s kind of where we’re at. To the left of possibility.”
    “Do you think we’ll all have trouble returning?” mused Arabella.
    This unwelcome thought had almost occurred to Milrose Munce a number of times, but he had always shoved it back into his unconscious, where it was less intrusive.
    “Let us pierce that wall when we come to it,” said Poisoned Percy, pleased with his metaphor.
    “Piercing
floors
is what we should be thinking about now, poetry boy. Any bright ideas?”
    “I’ll have to give this some thought.”
    “Well then, we don’t have much hope, do we.”
    “Please curb your ironic tendencies, Munce.”
    “Percival,” said Arabella, “perhaps it’s best if you return to consult with the rest of the dear departed. I imagine a plan will emerge.”
    “You always did have the most magnificent imagination, Arabella.”
    “Stow it, Percy. If I throw up, I’m going to be annoyed. Now, something you might do, if you’re in the mood to be useful, is contact people more useful than yourself. The guys we want here are my friends on the third floor.”
    “I do not have … social contact with that floor,” said Percy with disdain.
    “Yeah, well, have no fear: I doubt they’re gonna want to socialize with you either. A quick message will do. Something along the lines of, ‘Milrose and Arabella are in trouble; I’m a useless poet; can you guys help?’”
    “Poetry is not supposed to be useful.”
    “Right. In particular, I want you to get in touch with Deeply Damaged Dave. He’s an expert at … well, things. And Kelvin. Talk to Kelvin. He can maybe lead the assault.”
    “Do you mind, Percival?” asked Arabella.
    “If you think it would help, I shall have … a brief word with these ‘people.’” Percy sighed. “And now, I shall attempt to make the arduous journey back to my compatriots.”
    “Alternately, you could just, like, walk there. And lie about it later in a rancid poem.”
    “I shall imagine that I did not hear that, Munce.”
    “You always did have the most splendiferous imagination.”

CHAPTER
SIX
    M ILROSE M UNCE AND A RABELLA SAT TOGETHER ON THE TOPMOST MATTRESS AND SPOKE NERVOUSLY.
    “Do you think he’ll make it back?” said Arabella, implying, amongst other things, that it mattered to her whether something happened to Poisoned Percy. Milrose heard this implication with a sense of evil