What Manner Of Skylarking Has Permitted This To Occur?

Now, a brief word from the 19th Century's own Cornelius Potfiller:

Oh calamatations. This day finds me most vexed. I endeavored to inspect the electronic cataloging of illustrated stories being offered by the Timely/Atlas, oh pardon my error, the Marvel Publishing Company for the forthcoming month. It is a great enjoyment of mine to discern which serials, and how many, shall be available for my purchase each week. But woe and lamentations, my seekings found no evidence of the fourth chapter of the delightful Pasty Walker: Hellcat story listed for the 11th month of this year. This despite it having been solicited with various other (inferior, might I add) products for November several months. While I had accepted its absence in October due to there being no solicitation for that month, this was an unexpected conundrum. Where might the particular issue reside?

Further inspection revealed to me the issue emblazoned with the numeral our neighborhood sausage-maker refers to as "vier" would not arrive at my corner newstand until the eve of Christ's birth, rather than by my family's Day of Thanks, as I had hoped. Upon learning this, my visiage grew as red as the beard of the Irishman I cudgeled about the crainium this past weekend, after he made lewd comments towards a upstanding young lady with whom I had just attended the opening of A Trip To Chinatown. Truly, I was wroth, sending the housekeepers scurrying from my presence in terror. Then in my unrefined fury, I did hurl my Nana's favorite snow globe against the wall. Oh, catastrophe! This miscalculation, combined with the earlier bad news as to the multicolored novella, and with my butler Pittsley delivering the message that a shipment of silks I had planned to sell was hijacked by raiders in Manchuria, sent me into a state of severe melancholy.

Wait, what news is this? Reputable sources inform me that the hero known as the Ray has been observed performing admirably in service of Earth's defenders in another ongoing short story. That encouraging news fills me with new strength and resolve.

Herewith, I shall retain the services of Wilson Wadell, noted gun for hire, to reacquire my silks. It is a mark of my fine bearing that I hire him despite his face resembling uncooked meat which has been trampled beneath a carriage wheel, and that I instruct my servants to make no comments regarding his appearance until after he has departed the premises. Through the rear door, naturally. It would hardly be proper for those jabberwocks at the club to know I consort with a known scoundrel. Perhaps Wilson can resolve this interminable delay in the conclusion of the Hellcat story, without connecting his actions to me, of course. I believe I shall ruminate further on this with a sifter of cognac while I soak in my lithium vapor tub. That should help restore the vigor this chilling drizzle has stolen from my bones. Then, with my mood improved, perhaps I shall adorn my spats and bowler hat, and amble down the promenade, giving silver dollars to the street urchins. *pause* Oh ho ho! A pity the fellows from the club were not present to hear that jest. The merriment would have grown exponentially.

Current Day CalvinPitt: Isn't he great? Give him a big hand. Or, alternatively, throw things at him. I really don't care which, just watch out for his primary housekeeper. She's pretty accurate when it comes to throwing cooking implements from up to a furlong away (her spectacles double a telescopes).