Cheap Gothic Soap Opera, Part 85

Mrs. Woodson came out of the manor and said goodbye to Richard:
she spoke in a monotone accent while staring at her feet, "Fairwell...my...brother, I hope you love...town,"
Mr. Woodson looked away from her quickly, "Yes, sister, I hope you love... the Manor."
She put all of her fingers on her nose "I love... the Manor like I love...by god, Brother, what's that with your car!!?"
She hurried over to the two-wheeled wreck and wiped a smudge off of the passenger window.
"Akkkakak, those smudges, always smudging things up!"
And with that, she ran into the woods to collect herbs...at 11:49pm

Mr. Woodson started driving down the hill, and, in the distance, David was looking out of his window mumbling, "die die die die die die. Father will die father will die will die will die." The servant stood behind the child, with a face full of shock and fear.
"Ok, David, time to try on your shock-and-fear mask; that's enough of Father-kill-time. Now you have to make your bed."
"But! But! But it is your task to do such a things regarding my bed-making now! And why do I have to wear that instipuous unhappy mask-thing? Why must I always look sad!?"
"Because, David, your father will not see you looking happy." the servant said as she left the room walking backwards.

Meanwhile, Mr. Woodson continued driving. Suddenly, a passenger train cut him off, driving quickly across the steep hill. Damned run-away trains he thought as the thing plummeted into the darkness around. He continued as the hill grew steeper, when a large acorn fell on the roof.
"What the hell!?" he screamed in panic and his life in jeopardy. The car swerved down the road. Using his expert driving skill, Mr. Woodson righted the vehicle and continued safely. Then he realized that the car had no steering nor wheels nor roof nor car. Then he swerved into a pile of pillows and packaging turds left after a UPS pillow convoy was attacked and massacred by a Fed-Ex muffin militia.

Mrs. Woodson was sitting in the drawing room, playing piano and sobbing while her guests, who had only come either at her invitation or to court her favor in the town elections, suffered through cocktail hour in awkward silence. Once one of them tried to talk to her, "dearest Bithle, please tell us your grief and perhaps we coul-" BA-BANG BANG BANG BAAAANG but the attempt was drowned out by five banging f-sharp minor chords. Ten minutes of time and ten hours of silence later, the phone rang, and all of the miserably bored guests rushed to the phone hurriedly, but the Woodson Fishery manager fended off the others with his cache of fish-hooks and marlin and picked up the phone, "yes...yes, this is the Woodson Residence...yes, she is here but...yes...12:00 is her sobbing hour bu--" BU BU BU BAAAANGANG BU BU BU BANNNNNGGU! the conversation was again drowned by the brass section of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony-- for piano. When the finale came around, one of the guests coughed up his drink and ran out of the room tearing at his ears.

Mrs. Woodson picked up the phone. "What is the matter?" she asked no one in particular. "What!? My blover? Is he OK? But... but he is allergic to piles of pillows! Burns? What kind? First degree? On his wrist! By god! What happened to the car? No one can tell? Ask more questions? Like this? OK? Thank you!?"

(OP: Ben, April 28 2008)