Dincton Flatt and the Very Grey Suit

Uh-oh, another one.




“This suit,” Flatt muttered, half turning to the left, then right, as he admired himself in the mirror, “is rather grey.  Extremely grey, one might say.  But is it…”  He ran his hands over the coat.  “…too grey?”

“I shouldn’t think so, sir,” his robot coyote responded with a tilt of his head.

The tailor started, falling back onto his bum and dropping his tape.  “Heavens!  It can talk?”

“Featherby can extremely talk,” Flatt sighed, waving a hand in dismissal of the obvious.  “For him not to speak would be the proper marvel.”

The tailor frowned, but went back to work.

Flatt’s gaze returned to the mirror, but truthfully, had never left it.  “Perhaps you’re right, Featherby.  One can never have too grey a suit, can he?”

“Not when made by the finest tailor in Danesbury, sir.”

“Oh, well,” the tailor sputtered, distracted but obviously chuffed, “th-thank you, yes.  You’re a–a fine thing, I suppose.”

Featherby nodded curtly, and Flatt shook his head, summoning an appropriate reply to his tongue, but before it could bust snappily and handsomely through his lips, the shop’s door swung open and a man in a lavender suit twirled in.

“What on Earth…?”  Flatt only saw him through the mirror, and still didn’t feel like turning around.

“I require a tune-up for my vestments,” the entrant announced, voice lilting all over the place.  His short hair and mustache were blue, which they had no business being, if Flatt were to be consulted on the matter.

“Mr. Gabbery is quite occupied at the moment, I’m afraid,” Flatt said, ensuring his tone suggested his own importance without necessarily rubbing it in the strange man’s face.

“Yet I am an immediate man,” the newcomer assured, holding his arms out and strutting fancily over to the others.

Featherby piped up, “And who are you, precisely, if you do not mind my asking?”  There may have been a bite to his words.  Good for Featherby.

The man turned to the coyote and set his fingertips upon his breast.  “Dabither Fudgebegotten, naturally.”  He swooped down and held out a hand, to which Featherby tentatively offered a paw, and they shook.  He then straightened up and faced the tailor once more, gesturing over himself.  “Now present me that I am presentable.”

“Of–of course, just as soon as I finish–” Mr. Gabbery began, but Fudgebegotten overrode him:

“Cannot be borne, I regret to say.  I have many preparations to make.”

Flatt finally deigned to turn his head, raising an eyebrow.  “Surely, my good man, you cannot mean to interrupt my fitting?”

“I haven’t the time to wait on questionably grey suits, I fear. I’m certain you understand.”

“Nonsense,” Flatt grumbled.  “Its greyness is precise…”

“Nevertheless,” Fudgebegotten intoned, addressing the tailor, “my needs are a priority.”  He smiled, and his mustache twiggled.  “I promise.”

The tailor furrowed his brow, but nodded.  “Very well, then.”  He gestured headwise for Flatt to step down from the pedestal.

Flatt eyed him.  “Truthfully, Mr. Gabbery?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Flatt.  He did promise.”

Flatt groaned but complied.  “Come, then, Featherby.  Let us quit the scene of this indignity.”  He marched toward the exit, coyote in tow, but stopped as he reached the door, glowering back at the lavender-suited tailor usurper.  “Mr. Fudgebegotten – you wouldn’t happen to have been wearing a hat earlier, by any chance?”

Maaaybe,” Fudgebegotten practically sang, lips pursed joyfully and eyebrows waggling for a needlessly extended period.

Flatt’s face darkened, and he flung his way out through the shop’s threshold.

“You know, sir,” Featherby mused as they walked down the street, “now that I see it in the daylight, I wonder if it could be said that your suit is, perhaps, after all, just a touch too much on the grey side.”

The frown on Flatt’s face might have dislocated his jaw.  “Oh, Featherby, why did I build you?”

“For good times, sir.”


Bene scribete.


Nightmare Fudge

Scary Fudge

Yep, it’s green.


But WAIT!  This isn’t a recipe ‘blog!

Well, shut up, you (AKA me).  Because…whatever and stuff.

Sometimes snacks are nice when writing, O.K.?

Anyway, I used to make fudge a lot.  It tastes nice.  But making fudge the “proper” way involves uncommon ingredients like extra-fine baking sugar, evaporated milk, and marshmallow goop; it also requires precise temperatures, and can generally be kind of an ordeal.  Recently, however, I came across the notion of using canned frosting as a fudge base.  It sounded a little crazy, but the basic makeup is pretty similar, so I thought I’d give it a try.

It turned out…like fudge.  And was actually pretty dang good.  I’m not sure whether to be indignant about having done things the hard way all this time, or excited about the possibilities of this method. Probably both.

Want to give it shot?  Here’s what you’ll need:


Blue Funfetti FrostingChocolate Chips


That’s it. Seriously. A 12oz bag of chocolate chips, and a 15.6oz can of blue vanilla “Funfetti” frosting (for some reason the store didn’t have any regular vanilla frosting, so fine, thought I – I’ll just make it a thing).


Prepare as such:

  1. Melt the frosting in a sauce pan until it’s just about bubbling, stirring constantly.
  2. Mix in the chocolate chips until you have a nasty, homogeneous green paste (I use a beater prong for this type of stuff).
  3. Remove the pan from heat and keep stirring as it thickens (it tends to want to separate).
  4. Pour in the sprinkle things from the frosting (how are you supposed to open that sub-lid, anyway?)
  5. Dump the mixture into a foil-lined 8×8 pan or pie tin (it should come out in a mostly-clean, cohesive glop) and smooth it out.
  6. Refrigerate for a couple of hours.
  7. Lift the fudge block out with the foil, turn it over, and dump it onto a plate or cutting board.
  8. Chop the block into haphazard chunks, stick ’em in a Ziploc bag, and store at room temperature.

And thus you will have the easiest fudge ever. Which happens to be horrifyingly green. With multicolored crunchy splotches.


Bene edite.