(and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow–oh wait, that’s too many tomorrows)
When Queenie Scaranges wanted things done, they got done. Usually. Eventually. It was a truth self-evident, that when she thought a thing, she did it. Mostly. Let’s be clear. Some thoughts, like the one about that mustache twirling villain on top of the suspension bridge support tower dancing a jig, would be most problematic to bring about. I mean, first of all, where could you find a reputable false mustache–one worth twirling anyway!–dealer in this day and age. Time was, you couldn’t skip a stone without hitting one, but now? Now, it was a veritable wasteland of mustache supply stores. Time was, when a person wouldn’t be caught dead out of doors without at least one (though sometimes three) mustache or false mustache upon their face. Some had it easier than others. Some, those lucky few, could grow luxuriant, brooms upon their faces, especially good for soup, if you know what I mean. The unluckiest of all, though, were those ones who could grow a “mustache”–if one could even call it that–but were left with such a patchy monstrosity that the only thing to do was to shave the nasty thing off and paste on a decent one from the shop down the road. Yeah, those were the good old days, she sighed, scraping some butter across her toast.