Pepe spent a rough night before the Final Battle. There is no time when skunk is more alone.

At such times the demons of self doubt and guilt plague us most. With no good soul next to him to remind him of his generous deeds, his good days, his mind was unconstrained to veer down dark twisted lanes. He wept. He groaned. All those things he never did in public as it was not considered skunkly.

He woke early and in a ceremony eerily similar to that of the Spartans at Thermopylae, cleaned himself with dry tongue. Even though parched from lack of water. His time in the French Foreign Legion served him well in siege days. His patrol was vigilant. His senses sharp as he watched for a Catadonian night attaack through some improvised breach. At least alone he could not be betrayed.

He sang a low volume rendition of his most beloved Legion march hymn:

Com ateel a moi, sohn estrella....
Com teel a moi ler poeter.
Dahns ahn grand chance... Dahns ahn grand chance...
Dahns ahn grand chance pleur ay...... away.
Le trahn numero vahntayahn... entrohn gar... kay... numero deuz

Natheen mair romahnteek thahn a trahn stayshun ahn a foggay day, no?

Wair awr yoo leetle wun? eez eet nawt time to ahnd ze charahd ahnd gahz eento each ahthairs ahs wunce agahn? Deed you nawt mees me lahk nevair my warm ahnd zo fuzzay wun?

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And so, the sun rose. Two figures gigantic faced each other.

Pepe: Ah cheri, tha yahrs hav trahted you zo ...

Catadon: SEELANCE SKONK! AH AV BEEN DEPUTAHZED BAH ZE GOVAIRNMAHNT OF THEES LAHND. TO BRAHN YOU EEN. DAID OR AHLIVAH!!!!

Pepe: ahnd whaht eez mah crahm othair thahn looveen you?

Catadon: You hav keeled ahnd dastroy'd. weeth naw regard for othairs. You hav reeseested the offeecairs of ze staht, ze Surete, ze grahnd armay.

Pepe: Thaht's raht, coppair! You weel nevair tahk me alahv!

And so began the inevitable clash of fang and claw. Each will absolute. No yielding. The ground shaking under the shifting weight of mountainous contending foes.

But the great cat had weakened Pepe with siege. With a campaign of movement before the final cruel trap. Her heart hardened. Her eye clear.

Catadon: No mair weel suffair yair odair foul ahnd pairish baytwain yoor smellay toz!

Pepe: You weel hav to end me hair, coppair! Ah weel nawt go een shahns to Dahveel's Eyelahnd!

While the fierce cat tried to pin and bludgeon him into submission, Pepe struck with k1lling blow aimed at her heart. This f0rced a parry and counter that knocked Pepe off his balance, and he toppled down down down onto jagged, muurderous rocks. Mortally wounded. Life ebbing away.

Pepe: You are ze mawth ahwnd ahm... *gasp, death rattle*

So endeth the long and colorful life of the great Pepe Le Pew.

Catadon wept. For all that he was and forgiving what he became. All the world would too. Duty is a heavy burden that sits on all our necks. Tragedy is mixed with our triumphs.

What more can I say? I will be on the avenue of light, soon, driinking to his better days. Thinking of his legacy. Smiling at his finest proverbs. Driinking his favorite brand of wiine.



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But, as they say, violence does not solve anything...

Peplet: Zair eez zomtheen rottain een Dahnmahrk!

Ghost of Pepe: WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Peplet: Ze sleens ahnd ahraws of ze awtRAHgees fawrtoon bowns offa de skonk soul! Ah plah ah theenk eez zee theen taw cahch ze conshays of ze feeleen!

Shatner: To go... To boldy go...

The White Comanche: Peyote and then rifles in the center of town. On horseback. Rifles.

Chuck Magione: A beg gon gon a gon gon gon. da da da da da da DAA DAA DAAAAAAA da da da da da daaaa DAAA DAAAA!

Peplet: Oh fathair! Ah har ze drahms of ze chaldrahn of shanshez. Ahn yoor ghost mahks me zo pahl!

Ghost of Pepe: Raaaahvaynngah. Ahnd nevair fairget... Savoir Fair... he eez.... evairywair!!!

Shatner: Ev... ry... where!

Savoir Fair: ahhh hahhhh hahhhh haaaaaaaah

Fog. Mist. Battlements stark and lit by lightning. A poor tortured soul. Tragedy, I tell you , is conserved in this bleak existence. Nurtured by the dark f0rces that prey upon skunkanity. You will never escape it! Never outgrow it!


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Orfeline: Peplet! Oh my dear Peplet! Forget your faather! Live! Love!

Peplet: Yoor ahksahnts stransh tawday sees taw mahk may smahl. Mah skunklay zol ees burdained weeth fathair ahngst.

Orfeline: My dainty little heart beats just for you! I would learn your language if it made you love me too! oooof I have spilled yet another can of paint down my backside. And must wiggle dry.

Peplet: Wahl.... mahbay a leetle dahtoor weel nawt ahfahnd fathair too mahhhtch. oooo laaa laaaa!

Ghost of Pepe: Awwwww ze gam of loov gaws awn. Mah ghostlay hahrt bahts zo prawd!


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The cool thing about being a ghost is the time you have for new hobbies. If you can just chill out and focus on something creative instead of annoying people.

Is it any wonder that Pepe could finally get around to pop culture. Do some catching up. And still trouble Peplet...

Pepe: I yam Pepe! I yam Pepe! I am Pepe! waaaaaawwwwwwwwwrrrrrrr I yam Pepe! I AHMMMM Pepe!

Peplet: Oh fawr fahks sahk!

Pepe: Ah yam ah blanchahhd bahch bahbay. Doancha wash yoo cahn smahl mah?

Peplet: Fathair. Ay walh do eet Ah promahs. Gahv mah sahm pahs yah knaw?

Pepe: Bahbay yoor ze hahlaht of mah low laf. Tahk ah sheetay dah ahnd mahk eet ahl raht.

Peplet: Thaht outfeet wad bay zo wran zo vairy wran ahn yoo eef only skonk sahz. baht skonkscrahpair sahz? ah mah gawd!

It is so true that our family is our weakness. Our undoing. If only Peplet could step out from under that gigantic shadow. But so often we fail to free ourselves and plummet.



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If you are a writer, tragedy is what it is all about. It is a hell of a lot of work. Because it is the serious bit that justifies the profession. The Chorus is the ever-loving voice of mankind! It is the state of the species. When Carthaginian hordes are rampaging through your countryside, and you are tasked with stirring up the Republic. When you must respond to a Cannae. By reminding your people of their glorious past and glittering destiny. It is the form of choice.
Great villains arise and great defeats come. But the will is strong and more heroes spring up to carry the day. The carnage, the chaos, the titanic struggle. All make the final decisive victory that much sweeter. In fact, even the resolve settle for nothing less than total victory is celebrated. The rush of victory is even more heady because it is paired with the immense relief that total destruction was avoided as well. Conqueror and Protector regnant.
Yes. Tugging at powerful, ancient strings. Ears buzzing with the echos of history. And not dithery do duets.
So while part of us does wish for Peplet to wise up and take the sure, narrow, virtuous path, another part of us wants his tragedy to take rapid flight into the searing path of the Sun. To witness his utter destruction so we can once again link into the primal, thrumming beat of the dread Chorus as it marches us into Glory.
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The Spectacle! Gyrate in beg naked dancers! As I consider whether to indulge your lust for it. You burn for so many things. A strong itch is the glorification of your species.

I have a silver tongue that can scratch that itch. I have a sense of History. of Destiny. I know of everything you long to be. All your virtues and vices.

But I am corrupt and lazy. And weary of your limitations. You must know them. All men must. So I will pause, consider, rest and savor.

And play my guitar. And ruminate. *strum strum strummity strummity strum strum struuuuuuuuum*

K sirrah sirrah. Whatever will be will be...

Ah weel conseedair ze Franch heathair thaht ah haf zeen ahn approch een Pahplahts gahnairal di rahct shon.

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Turn away! Remember, if you can that wondrous sweet moment of charity when though a guilty, shameful wretch, your people showed you compassion and mercy. Their eyes turned rational and soulful for that moment and shed tears for you and lifted you up! Remember how your soul lifted, your smile spread so wide and easy, your heart felt that pure, noble sort of love and you were happy, feeling how wonderful life can be. Resting easy with content dreams. Feeling so rich with your humble lot because it was plenty and just one aspect of a cup truly running over.

Jealousies so easily laughed away. Gritting teeth and glares replaced with happy smiles and hugs. When you demanded nothing, expected nothing, just delighted in being alive and still having that gift of being able to affect good, to build. The very things that no ghost can ever do.

Do not rush to your own destruction. Keep marching through hell. Do not wish tragedy to come down and burden us all. Let your fascination with it retreat back from whence it came.

And release me from the curse of having to slake your hellish need for it. Let me escape duty and compulsion. Let me find that same thing I knew only in my ch1ldhood, given by loving parents, that some have gone into the Twilight Zone to pursue.


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Doom...
Doom Doom...
Doom...
Doom Doom...

Hear the brass. A fanfare to precede cowled figures.

Dread Chorus: Παλιάνθρωπος! Παλιάνθρωπος! Οι θεοί απαιτούν μια αιματηρή θυσία!

Language ancient. Gods divine.
Brass bravado. Ascending. Crescendo.

Doom...
Doom Doom...

Bellow of pricked war elephants. Scream of the Nazgul.

Dread Chorus: Παλιάνθρωπος! Παλιάνθρωπος! Οι θεοί απαιτούν μια αιματηρή θυσία!

Tremors from the crush and press of ecstatic bodies. Rationality retreating. Lost to mob. Pure instinct. Hive.

Dread Chorus: Παλιάνθρωπος! Παλιάνθρωπος! Οι θεοί απαιτούν μια αιματηρή θυσία!

Who shall stand when it careens in its relentless way down the Avenue of Tribute? Who will resist the primal itch for it.

Doom...
Doom... Doom...

Dread Chorus: Παλιάνθρωπος! Παλιάνθρωπος! Οι θεοί απαιτούν μια αιματηρή θυσία!


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Wow absolute gobbledygook Medication time Quote

Director: What are you doing? How can you justify this? Peplet does not meet the requirements. He is just a poor skunk who has lost a faather. He has had to deal with the moral ruin of his faather. And the gigantic prick has even gone so far as to hang around in limbo and terrorize his s0n rather than shuttling on to his final destination with some kind of grace. He needs some time, Peplet, to grieve and get some counseling maybe. Not to be destroyed and used as a cautionary tale. Compassion rather than cruelty.

FATE: He has already made the vengeance decision out of his weakness, Like his faather he has not embraced the preciousness of life. He presumes he can act with impunity. Like some kind of super-skunk. Peplet, Skunk of Cawdor, prince of Denmark....

Director: Aha! Stop that right there! He is not skunk of Cawdor. He is French and not a prince. You are wantonly magnifying his power and duty, so he qualifies as a valid subject. Lord knows how he even got onto those battlements...

FATE: Nobody wants to hear your bleeeding-heart hand wringing. We want this skunk for Justice! Not the boring justice of the State, with its proceedings and briefs, but the majestic awe-inspiring justice of the gods.

Director: I think I see now partly why a powerful person is required by the tradition. He can hope to avoid or even control the State but not the gods. If you buy into this stuff. Count me out. I will not be an instrument of such cruelty.

FATE: You will or you will suffer! This is no request. It is your duty!

Director: I choose to suffer!

FATE: So be it... Script Writer of Commercials.

Director: Aiiiiiigggggghhhhhhhhh!!!!

Medici: How's it going? Need a hand?

FATE: Ahhhh good... goood.... It has been a while since you have given a commission.

Medici: I know just the fellow. He needs a patron. Right at that point of his career where it can go up to the heavens... or burn up in flames and spiral down sprinkling ashes all over the countryside.

FATE: Peplet... Skunk of Cawdor. Prince of Denmark...

Guild: Wait just a moment Medici. We won't have you throwing your weight around anymore! We call a general strike! Is your boy a card carrier?

Medici: Hmmmm a scab is the thing to catch the conscience of the skunk. Momentito. I am sure a solution can be found.

FATE: The sword. The Dread Sword of Damocles hangs over your head skunk! Though your crime is only in thought at the moment... I FATE can lock that in and give the appearance of free will while predicting with certainty your complete destruction!

Optimist: It is the best of all possible worlds!

Καθ Βγαίνω ραντεβού μαζί σου? Ναι καλά!







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As great powers move in the background...

We can only wait and wish poor tragic Peplet: good night sweet skunk.

And hope that his faather has moved on to some final place where he torments his s0n no more.

P00r Orfeline should also be in our thoughts. After her bucket dried, her lover returned to his brooding. I am afraid he may move beyond the frontier, abandoning all who love him...

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Therapist: Now Pepe. Now Peplet. Don't you see that this caustic relationship must end? Pepe, you really need to move on. Hanging around this long after death is really sick.

Pepe: Awraht awraht. Ah loov laf saw mahch y'knaw. Baht ah mahst mahk spahs foor ze nahkst keed saht.

Peplet: *sob* Ah loov mah fathair. Ahnd foorgahv yoo. Wun lahst hug!!!

Pepe: Yoo cahn nahwt hoog ah gast. seelay. Baht ah weel blaw yaw keeses. mwaaaaaah. le mwaaaaaaaahhhh. Ahm zo prawd ahv mah sanh. Geez mah lahz ahv grahndcheeldrahn weeth Orfeelahn! Loov, ahs zay say eez ahlways ze answair!

Orfeline: Oh happiest day!

Peplet: Ah hav gahned waf ahnd fathair bahck agayn. Mah hairt fahls ah wayt zo havay leeftaid!

Therapist: And even better this is porn therapy! these big tits, that you have been drooling over are now yours too! Your reward for so much progress!

It is so true that the healing and love we make can nip tragedy in the bud. And make FATE curse his FATE!

Oh gentle reader I am so happy to end this story sans tragedy, with Medici in transit, and all parties in their happiest safest state. That and this nice fall weather will make for a relaxed joyful mood. Strife always exists somewhere in the world. But let's be thankful that it only rules where we permit it to rule through hard hearts and inflexible attitudes.

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Our play is done and all the world rejoices!

Enjoy our talented chorus!

Chorus: είμαι χορωδία! είμαι χορωδία! είμαι χορωδία! είμαι χορωδία! είμαι χορωδία!

Chorus: Όλα είναι σαν όνειρο στο Κάνσας Σίτι...

Chorus: έχουν προχωρήσει όσο πιο μακριά μπορούν
Chorus: έχουν ένα μεγάλο θέατρο που το λένε μπουρλέσκ...
για πενήντα σεντς μπορείτε να δείτε ένα dandy show!
Chorus: ένα από τα κορίτσια είναι χοντρό και ροζ και όμορφο.
τόσο στρογγυλή από πάνω όσο αυτή είναι στρογγυλή από κάτω.
και όταν άρχισε να χορεύει σε έκανε πραγματικά να νιώθεις
ότι όλα όσα έχει είναι απολύτως αληθινά!
Πήγε όσο πιο μακριά μπορούσε! Ναί! Μέχρι εκεί μπορούσε να φτάσει!

They get all slurry and leave out verses when they have been into the wiine. And they are famous for their pronoun troubles. Quote