I know, I know: it's December and thus NaNoWriMo is over and done with. However, given how much my masterwork has captivated dozens of you I've decided to keep on keepin' on with it. You're welcome! So this epic tale of love and power and kielbasa and pong will continue on here until it becomes like every other novel I've started: unfinished and in a box in my attic.

Little did Edith Stumplonia suspect that she'd find Count von Hasselfhoffer and Dame Maggie Percival Chatterlily engaged in hard and fast sex when she opened his bedroom door. But she did. And try as she might she couldn't help but be aroused by the sweaty, sexy sight before her.

I'd go further into just how sweaty and sexy the sight before her was, but that would be too easy. I can write sweaty, sexy about as easily as I can make a ham sandwich -- and I know how to make a ham sandwich very easily. In fact my ham sandwiches are known throughout the neighborhood as the tastiest and easiest to make ham sandwiches around. Yep. So even though I won't give you the details of the couple's sweaty, sexy, hard and fast sex, rest assured that it was sweaty and sexy and hard and fast.

"Ahem," Edith Stumplonia said to announce her presence. Despite being aroused by their hard and fast sex she had business to attend to with the Count and she desired to get it over with. Unfortunately the Count and Dame's hard and fast sex was so hard and fast that they didn't hear her, so she tried again.

"Ahhemm," she said.

Still no response.

"AAAAAhhhhheeemmm."

Nothing.

"AHhhHHHHHHHeeeeEEEEEEMMMmmmMmMmMm."

Nope.

"AHHHHHEEEEEKnBkbbKJKVPM+EFMMCF_S&%_*mmmmmm."

Nada.

It seemed there was no way she could interrupt their hard and fast sweat sex. Edith Stumplonia was stumped. I've been dying to use that line. I mean, her name begs for it. "Stumplonia." Come on, that's perfect. You see 'cause the word "stump" is in the name "Stumplonia." All I had to do was type "Stumplonia" and then backspace over the "-lonia" part. I think this is the type of thing that sets me apart from other fair-to-middling NaNoWriMo writers. Who else thinks of doing stuff like that?

So Edith Stumplonia was stumped. She was so stumped in fact that she failed to notice how her name had the word "stump" in it, thus she didn't recognize the irony. Poor Edith! Disconsolate and frustrated and bummed out, she released the psychotics-laced meat loaf from between her legs and the loafed meat hit the floor in a meaty, loafey thud.

"What was that?" Count von Hasselhoffer asked Dame Maggie Percival Chatterlily. His face was in her armpit.

"What was what?" she replied.

"I heard a thud."

"A thud?"

"Yes. Like the thud of loafed meat."

"Loafed meat?"

"Meat loaf."

"The singer? Where? I think he's fantastic."

"No, not the singer," the Count said removing his face from her armpit, "the food. It sounded like someone had dropped one."

"I did!" the no longer stumped Edith Stumplonia said.

The Count and the Dame both sat up and bed revealing their glistening non-clothed bodies. Before them stood one hot ass mamasita with a meat loaf at her feet.

"Edith Stumplonia!" they said in unison, equally and unifyingly shocked.

"The one and only," Edith said, trying to act cool. Nobody ever says that line without trying to act cool. Believe me. I used the line constantly in high school.

"But what are you doing here?" Count von Hasselhoffer asked. "Man, your body is booming," he added.

"Thank you," Edith responded. "I've come to wish you good luck with the election."

"Good luck?" Dame Maggie Percival Chatterlily chimed.

"Yes, Edith said, "with this tasty token meat loaf of good luck I just released from my thighs."

"You were holding it between your thighs?"

"Yes, I find that the climate around my thighs to be the perfect environment for keeping my meat loaf fresh."

"I bet it is," the Count said, flirtingly.

"Stop that!" Dame Maggie Percival Chatterlily slapped the Count on his arm. "Not even a minute after we've engaged in hard and fast sweat sex and you are flirting it up with another hoe."

"Sorry," the Count said.

"Who you calling a hoe?" Edith shouted.

"I'm calling you a hoe, hoe!" The Dame said indignantly.

"I ain't no hoe. You're a hoe!"

"No, I'm not, hoe!"

"Yes, you are, hoe!"

"No, I'm not, hoe!"

"Yes, you are, hoe!"

"No, I'm not, hoe!"

"Yes, you are, hoe!"

"No, I'm not, hoe!"

"Yes, you are, hoe!"

And then suddenly there was silence because both women had run out of things to say to one another. Also because I totally lost track of who was saying what. Writing dialogue is hard work. I never know when to add a "he/she said" and when not to. It sucks.

"Well," Edith Stumplonia said, all at once breaking the silence and ending the confusion about who was saying what, "would a hoe do this?" And with that she again raised her Boston Red Sox World Champion sweatshirt and revealed her ample bosoms.

"My, oh my," the Count said, agoggedly.

"Actually, I think a hoe would do that," Dame Maggie Percival Chatterlily replied.

"Oh," Edith said. "I guess you're right. Sorry. Bad habit."

Finis De Part IX.

This post is dedicated to gold-plated anything.