On Myth.

Myth; Or, Lady Windermere's Baby Lap-Gorilla

"Oh, Mrs. Cadwallander! You postitively MUST join us for dinner. Charles has brought back the most perfectly ENCHANTING little homunculus from the wilds of the Dark Continent!"

Fast forward to dinner five years later. The banquet table is upended, most of the cutlery is embedded three inches into the walls of the parlor, and the bodies of several guests lie broken under heaps of silk and taffeta on the dining room floor, heads crushed like cantaloupes. The silverback is upstairs, playfully trying on Lady Windermere's skin.