James Joyce's "The Werewolves of London"

This is some next level fanfic:

(Mayfair. The Newspaper-Boy holds a copy of the late edition, ink smudging onto his fingertips. Passers-by slow as they read the splashed headline.)

THE NEWSPAPER-BOY: Extra! Extra! The hairy-handed gent who ran amuck in Kent has lately been overheard in Mayfair! Extra Extra!

A PASSERBY: (admonishingly) Yeh bett’r stay away fr’m h’m. He’ll rip yer lungs out.

THE NEWSPAPER-BOY: (in a newsboy cap, plaid trousers of white and Tuscan sand and mahogany, knee-high black socks, and a billowing linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up the forearm by one-third) I’d like to meet his tailor.

THE PIANO: (ebulliently) Din-din! Din-din! Din-din-din-din! Dun-dun-dun, din-din! Din-din! Din-din-din-din!

THE WEREWOLF OF LONDON: Aaaoooooo!

Full story, brief at is is, at the site of some purveyors of pretentious claptrap.

I want to read Joyce, now, but if I lie down for a bit the feeling will probably pass. I am currently dividing my Kindle time between a Fallout: Equestria re-read and medieval transformation clopfic The Golden Ass. Good stuff. Dead raiders, sexy ponies, witches pissing on people's heads. Low culture is the best.

Comments

[FanOfMostEverything]

This is amazing. I'm going to need to share it with my more literary friends and family.