Wherever his golden stamina conveyed him, it never seemed to be enough. Never. Why was it that Francesca always seemed to be avoiding him, just when his hilarity quotient peaked? It seemed more than coincidental, more than fateful. Some kind of conspiracy perhaps? Very likely.
Zen was hard to look at. He thought he was so damn funny! I mean, sure, that thing with the cumquat and bowling ball was pretty clever. But the sycophants who girt him with their supercilious perforations were beyond nauseating. Better to avoid him and his "posse" entirely. Definitely.
Arthur the Forgotten wrote letters. Many, many letters. He never sent them, of course. Sheer bravado! Artistic endeavour polluted by the act of transmission! His fancy ran free. Free to decipher the wonders of Zen's circuitous mind. Free to bathe in the splendour of Francesca's decisiveness. They were worthy muses.
(Thanks to Em for the reprint rights)