“Eldritch, myopic diptych?” I asked, the thought of which made little sense to me.
“You see, the systematic cynic, well, he sat down at the picnic,” began the Cryptic Mystic. “He sat down beside the eldritch, myopic diptych of the flesh-eating witch!”
“Eldritch, myopic diptych?” I asked, the thought of which made little sense to me. “How could such a thing be worthy of my visit–forgive me– as I sit here cramped in your minuscule hutch?”
“Yes, I must admit that there’s not much to my tale. But believe me! That hag was . . . worse than an itch!”
“Ah,” I nodded my head as best I could without hitting it on a piece of wood. “Forgive me, but you did not answer the question posed: Diptych? As in a painting? Or something to write on? And if so, if one were to suppose that this is a very decent witch–or an itch, as you said previously–how would she be both a flesh-eating, myopic eldritch thing while also being a diptych? Should all of that not cancel each other out?”
The Cryptic Mystic covered his ears and said: “You don’t have to shout! Now what’s this all about? Are you telling me that you do not know the dangers of the eldritch, myopic diptych of the flesh-eating witch!”
I tried not to roll my eyes . . . “I now see what you mean by worse than an itch!”
“There now, see? That wasn’t so hard after all! Now, close your eyes . . . It’s time to feast!”
I stared at the Cryptic Mystic long and hard. “Do you mean to tell me,” I began, “That you are nothing more than a lowly beast? Thinking that I’d let you eat me? Why you–”
The Cryptic Mystic quickly cut me off. “For starters, I am not the real Cryptic Mystic. Before he left for the holidays we made a deal: that I would be able to have his most annoying visitors for my meals if I pretended to be him. I am in fact the heartless, gutless, two-headed ram-ewe.”
I screwed up my face in confusion. “The one who doesn’t chew its meals, and who likes to steal wheels?”
“The very same!”
This time I did roll my eyes.