Downtrodden Abbey: The Interminable Saga of an Insufferable Family Read Online Free PDF Page A

dragging a dead body? Are you attempting to work as a valet at a massive estate, but continually bothered by the snickering of contemptible co-workers from behind, as one sort of girly fellow angling for your position seems determined to get your sorry rump sacked?
    Something in the posting rings true for Brace—though he is not sure exactly what. At his earliest convenience, he makes an appointment in the village to see the advert’s author, Dr. Mark Quidusade.
    In the waiting room, Brace peruses the current issue of Mallet & Saddle to see how his fantasy fox hunting team is faring this week. Last place, as usual. Glad he couldn’t afford season tickets. Oh, well, he thinks— wait ’til next year .
    “Mr. Brace? The doctor will see you now,” the receptionist calls out.
    An hour later, Brace has filled out the necessary forms and—barely—lugs himself into Quidusade’s office.
    Once there he sees, on the wall, a huge metal device featuring sawteeth, barbs, sharp edges, clasps, and traps.
    “Ironic and postmodern,” Brace observes, as the doctor takes the contraption off of its hook. “How ingenious—a guillotine! A medieval torture device no doubt in view to settle the nerves of your patients, who would never have to endure such—pardon me, why are you putting that thing on my leg?”
    “Mr. Brace. First off, one could hardly call this mangled flesh at the end of your torso a ‘leg,’” Dr. Quidusade says. “I must urge you to allow me to do my work. It’s very simple. I’ll give you a shot of Scotch, then spend the next seven hours screwing this doohickey into whatever shred of bone you have left. Then all you have to do is get yourself accustomed to hauling around an extra four stones on the lower half of one side of your body.”
    “You’re pulling my leg?”
    Quidusade nods his head. “Indeed—pulling it, stretching it, manhandling and further misshaping it as well—”
    “I meant, ‘Are you jesting?’”
    “I’m afraid not, old bean.”
    “Hmm…” Brace conjects. “I suppose it all sounds reasonable enough. One prays the Scotch is quite good.”
    Across town, another medical procedure is called for.
    Isabich pays a visit to the Scalp Ward of Merciless Hospital, where she meets a young father suffering from chronic eczema, seborrhea, and—most poignantly—the heartbreak of psoriasis.
    “Have you changed shampoos?” she asks the man, who is well beyond frustrated from the effects of constant itching.
    “How can a fellow with such little hair suffer such hideous dandruff?” asks a voice from behind Isabich. It is Vile, as usual unable to keep her noble nose out of anyone else’s affairs. The dowager countess questions Isabich’s actions.

    “The good news, sweetheart, is that I’ll be home sooner than I thought.”
    “My dear Mrs. Crawfish. You cannot possibly hope to heal the world of its scalp problems. Seriously, how could one?”
    “Balls,” Isabich replies.
    “Well, it certainly appears that you have no shortage of those.”
    “I mean charity balls, you senile witch. That’s my plan to raise money and awareness of maladies of the pate. Additionally, it’s not impossible—as Atchew is to inherit Downtrodden Abbey—that I would convert the entire structure into a clinic for the follically challenged. Offering not just scalp treatments, but possibly hair weaves, and waxing … perhaps a combination of hospital and high-end salon.”
    “Over my dead body!” Vile exclaims.
    “That certainly sounds like a viable option. And if that’s what it takes, I’ll put a dagger into that crusty heel of bread you call your heart. Sorry. That came out a little harsher than I meant.”
    Vile shakes it off. “In any event, are there not more pressing problems in the world than dryness and flaking on the head? Smallpox, perhaps? Bubonic plague? The black death?”
    Little does Vile know Isabich’s secret—that her late husband’s cause of death was severe, accelerated male