Sir Benedict Wrigley

Sir Benedict Wrigley is pictured here on the left. Sir Wrigley is a noteworthy socialite whose interests and pursuits include Badger Combing, Inner Thigh Pancake Cradling Dashes (100 yards) and Hit and Run Pauper Slaps and has recently become con-joined with lance-corporal of Industry, Beauregard Worthington.

Sir Benedict wrote us this plea:

"Everything bad started with that flirtatious, and highly flatulent, pompous buffoon Beauregard Worthington. Sure he may be one of the richest men in the States, but to go around showing off his newest sidearm like some holy trinket from the archivial churches of Italy...it was downright deplorable! Yes, it was a new weapon of unfettered might, something called a Manmelter or somesuch. I must say he had a captive audience of societies social elite. Even my beloved Virginia showed some peaked interest in his mindless prattle about 'vaporized elephants, his ability to light his Cuban cigars with the lowest setting (even in the torrential down pours of a tropical storm), and the tingly feeling he experienced down to his shin bones when he fired it on full blast.' I had to do something. Something which I think would set him straight as to who the affections of Virgina truly belonged to.

Like an idiot, I challenged him to a duel.

Rayguns at 10 yards. His Manmelter versus my trusty and tested Wave Disruptor. I think it may have been one of the only kind to occur in the Americas; however, not that many aristocrats know of your pure, but secretive, genius Dr. Grordbort. Beau looked at me as if I was joking, but his hand was on the handle of his raygun, as was mine. Virginia looked on, and I only hoped that she would see the folly of throwing her affections to so obvious a blowhard. She dropped her handkerchief. We drew our rayguns. Energies were unleashed, and resonant waves of subsonic concussions filled the air as the beams arced and entertwinned the short space between Beau and I. When the vaporized moisture cloud from the resulting implosion subsided, I looked upon my foe with even more hatred through eyes still recovering from the multicolored flash. Our bodies had become fused by the implosion! Every waking moment must now be spent with that hateful face just 7 inches from my own. We must share the same chairs...the same baths...Meals together. Even more troubling are the awkward stares during tea with Virginia. The agony must end.

While he currently sleeps, I write this message imploring your technomantic genius...please Doctor, separate us!"