Sunday, 16 January 2011

The Worm That Flies in the Night


Sometimes when I can't sleep, I listen to an audiobook from the merry band of public benefactors over at Librivox. Saturday night, I finished Bram Stoker's lesser-known horror offering, The Lair of the White Worm*.

Although in many passages an admirable response to the menace of insomnia, in the end I must firmly recommend against this particular medicine, lest my dear readers should be overcome by the horror, the horror.

Can a racist gold-digging weresnake and a decadent globe-trotting mesmerist find fortune and true happiness? Can they lace their own shoes without using detonating cord and setting it on fire? Can our plucky band of heroes beat them to the coveted inaugural Darwin Awards for 1860? No; hell, no; and no, but only by a short head.

Now you need not suffer as I have suffered.

* Alias The Garden of Evil, alias What Rikki-Tikki-Tavi Did Next, alias Doin' the Lambton Walk.

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