And so, with Paunchbulb returned to the Whipple Van Buren Asylum for the Blatantly Deranged, he was placed once again in the doting care of Nurse Abalone and her ample, nay cavernous cleavage. Rarely perceived as approachable, that which his devoted nurse lacked in maternal instinct, she made up for in her vigilance; ever watchful, forever judging.
'I had no idea this level of derangement was capable of lying latent for so long!’ proclaimed Nurse Abalone, on his arrival, clearly impressed.
'With an apoplectic propensity such as this, a full, bounding pulse should be expected, yet I still have vexing concerns over his vermilion complexion...' articulated Dr Prout with impressively well seasoned word salad.
'His vital mettle was whittled to an almost imperceptible nub during those desolate years that he squandered at Farcy' countered Mr. Children, locked, as ever, in a competitive struggle to maintain the intellectual 'upper hand' when in front of the laity.
The other free-ranging inmates were all quick to welcome Paunchbulb, particularly Elizah Squint Grimace whose melancholia waxed and waned with the phases of the moon. Fortunately for Paunchbulb, Squint Grimace proved quite amicable, despite the new inmate’s role in the lunatic’s original asylum committal. The doctor remained largely unmolested and unrecognised, although this may have had more to do with the repugnant and retarded claptrap cascading wholesale from his woefully corrupted brain, than it did with the influence of the moonstruck Squint Grimace
Less convivial was the now permanently shackled Guthrie Belper, whose rampant libido and incessant gnawing made him a liability and a constant threat to all, with the singular exception of Josephine Straddlecock, a woman who bore a face not even a mother could love, and in whom he had absolutely no interest whatsoever.
A familiar face in and around the wards was Madam Anna Palindrome, who had for a short while become an observant volunteer, seeking to gain an authentic insight into institutional life, for a forthcoming play she was writing. To coerce potential subjects, and as a conversational carrot, she would bring with her what she coined her 'reward drawer,' which would variously contain tasty and tempting edibles; cinnabar biscuits, raspberry-powdered rings and iced fingers aplenty, which could coax even the most obstinate kooks out of the woodwork. A hankering for Madam Palindrome's homemade rock cakes, with their spongy crust and firm brawny center, could bring many an inmate to tears.
Another regular fixture was Dr Tumblety, a transient American Doctor, who could justly be described as convivial, if a little unorthodox. Tumblety put his every faith in ‘colour therapy’, whereby the inmates were at liberty to sample the liquid delights of the medication trolley at whim. Thus, they could choose between assorted, unlabelled miniature cups, some whose contents was a delicate, provocative shade of pink, some a startling tint of spirit-level yellow, others, a hectic green. It was his sincere belief that in some sentient way they would be able to self-medicate.
Despite showing a few improvements of the mind, the project was swiftly brought to a halt, after a year. Side effects ranging from post emasculation suicidal tendencies, involuntary sphinctal blink and an affliction resembling delirium tremens became apparent in more than half of those under Tumblety’s care.
Unhappily for Paunchbulb, there was scant practical help available for a man in his unenviable situation, even with the relatively new twin sciences of phrenology and physiognomy at their disposal. Although he made confident strides over the ensuing years, his irrepressible, impudent urges ensured that he would never again be a liberated man, although his age and authoritative manner meant he was allowed perhaps a little too much freedom, especially at night.
In latter years he became a minor celebrity of sorts. Allowed to free roam after lights-out, he would often walk distances of up to nine miles whilst still apparently asleep. Known to many as the district somnambulist, he was a source of some amusement to the children of Stilton Milk Hill, who would poke him with sticks when he ambled lethargically past, his slack face muttering ceaselessly of ‘an extra, extra clever mongoose in the form of a weasel', apropos nothing. His expletive outbursts, however, grew ever more obscene, ever more obtuse, which of course did nothing to dispel the hungry crowds who gathered nightly, eager to hear the latest licentiously abhorrent spewings produced by the misplaced logic of his irreparably misshapen perspective.
And, as surely as irony dooms a man, Paunchbulb's elliptical fate seemed almost sealed from the start, as he suffered the ultimate exquisite irony of having his own questionable elixir prescribed to him. For, despite his flagrant flouting of the rules, he had inadvertently bestowed the medical community with a sensational, if entirely empirical, corrective procedure. Of its true benefits, only time would tell, when the full rigours of medical research and the contentious 'invasive probe' could be freely employed.
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