One April afternoon, I lay dreaming in the smoking-room, just as I had lain two years before, and mechanically I looked among the tawny Eastern rugs for the wolf-skin. At last I distinguished the pointed ears and flat cruel head, and I thought of my dream where I saw Geneviève lying beside it. The helmets still hung against the threadbare tapestry, among them the old Spanish morion which I remembered Geneviève had once put on when we were amusing ourselves with the ancient bits of mail.
-The King in Yellow
⤓ Whatever happened to the Scarecrow?
-The Masque of the Yellow King (album)
"Hey...Sooo, Whatever happened to the Scarecrow?" Jimmy asks the old wizened man with red octagon lensed glasses. Jimmy tottered on his broom stick legs his orange pumpkin face contorted into a terrified grimace. The slightly moldy green and black eyes fixed firmly on the story teller.
Old Dr. Nikidik, his face as bald and expressionless as a bowling ball continued the tale, "Being ravaged and killed by the flying monkey motha fuckers he was dead and left where he lay, straw here straw there,a little fabric, a little cloth, his painted face head all ripped to pieces"
"And Feathertop in the Hawthorne story became in the end a medley of straw and tattered garments, with some sticks protruding from the heap, and a shrivelled pumpkin in the midst. The eyeholes lustreless;with a rudely-carved gap, that just before had been a mouth twisted into a despairing grin? What is to become of me?" , erupted Jimmy in an excited panic of terrible realization.
Old Dr. N, the crooked Mollkin magician from Moloch County held out his pepper box and tapped out a line of white poweder onto the mirror that sat between him and Jimmy. "Dr. Pipt's Powders, son, will keep you wired for life. I will see to it that you stayed hooked up."
"But I don't like white powders Doc! Why can't I smoke a pipe like old Feathertop?" Whined jimmy as he whipped his nose and shivered all over with a fresh wave of tension. He could feel his eye holes widen out and his heart, or what ever that served as a heart race.
"Can't cop it kid! Mother Rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name. Nobody came. There is no more smoke to be had in this county." Dr. N snorts with a disapproving scowl.