the Engine Room

It was during his weekly Thursday luncheon, with Doctors H. and J., when Sir Edmund Suffer suddenly realized his mounting distaste for the company of other humans.
“ Phaw”, he blurted, through a mouthful of garlic potatoes.
The good doctors lowered their daily newspapers simultaneously.
Dr. H. raised his right eyebrow slightly.
Dr. J. raised his left.
Sir Edmund responded to the eyebrows with a forkful of Beef Wellington each.
“I say…”, exclaimed Dr. H.
“Really old man”, spluttered Dr. J.
“Pppphhhlllbbtt”, Sir Edmund spat, delivering his most fervent raspberry to date.
Sir Edmunds exit was abrupt.
The doctors were more than a little flustered.
Dr. H. retrieved his monocle from a bowl of lobster bisque and issued a loud “harrumph”.
Dr. J. declared the entire event indecent and publicly distasteful.

The following Thursday came and went, as did the next and the one after that as well, with nary a sign of Sir Edmund Suffer. Inquires were discreetly made, by acquaintances at the club, with no results.
Still more discreet, were efforts to contact Mrs. Suffer, regarding her husbands behavior.
The good doctors raised all four eyebrows in unison upon receiving a telegram, some weeks later.
“Mrs. Suffer no longer in residence 112 Bow truckle Lane stop Last seen fleeing premises in dressing gown and with a modicum of luggage stop Sir Edmund witnessed on front stoop hurling liquor bottles and live chickens stop Fear the worst stop”

Yet another Thursday came and went with no signs of Sir Edmund. He did not return to the prestigious Shropshire Men’s Club, nor to any of his other usual haunts.
His absence was noted at the Foundation for Block and Tackle Research, at the Friends of Asians Association meetings and the Metropolitan Museum of Unusual Haberdashery, as well.
It became the consensus that Sir Edmund Suffer was wandering the Americas dressed in women’s clothing.
The truth of Sir Edmund was somewhat less scandalous, yet more… irrational. Having shunned the company of humans entirely, he had spent the recent weeks drinking cherry beneath his billiard table and plotting.
Whether it was from the cherry, or the sub-billiard and cramped confines, or Sir Edmunds refusal to eat anything other than blood pudding, he passed into unconsciousness on a Friday morning.
While in this state, he had a vision in which he cavorted across a shallow pool, hand in hand, with and ambulatory pickle.
A sentient vegetable graced with a singular and disarming disposition.
Monday morning arrived and brought with it several local barristers, with concerns about Sir Edmunds considerable holdings.
They found his home deserted.
The only evidence they found of the man himself was a brief list, written in his own hand, on the floor of the upstairs lavatory.
It read: “No.1 – Liquidate all holdings. No.2- Locate scientist with flexible moral fiber and love of drink. No. 3- Purchase farm land.”

One likes to think, whatever his actual plans and their outcome, that Sir Edmund Suffer found happiness, with a pickle of some sort.