J. Jasper Theramungo
B 1/2 Wickerstone Lane
Upper Insmouth
Greater Britain

My DEAREST J.J.,

Oh dear, oh dear! I am in SUCH a pickle! Do send word if you can lend me an ounce of your good sense and common advise over cable or by pigeon?

Tut tut,

Gatsby

Dearest friend of my heart,

But of course my council is yours! You needn’t even BEG permission to bend my considerable ear – merely query me with what concerns you, and my best summation is yours for the application.

Fondest cares,

J.J. Theramungo

J. Jasper Theramungo – VIA PIGEON POST
B 1/2 Wickerstone Lane
Upper Insmouth
Greater Britain

Jasper, old chum, you do my overtired heart a WORLD of good. You see, I am faced with the most curious of catastrophic conundrums! A fortnight past found me in my favourite chair ’round tea time, eating a delicious pheasant (just one, the doctor has been on my tail regarding a certain amount of pudge ’round my mid-section, you see), when a sudden commotion from the back veg garden startled me nearly onto the floor! When I had quite composed myself enough to peer from the kitchen window into the garden, I was flummoxed to discover a TERRIBLE wreckage between the chard and the first of the season’s pumpkins.

Outfitted in my tall boots and with only a large meat tenderizer to defend myself against whatever FOUL FOE foiled my fall planting schedule, I crept towards the smoking carnage that was once the most delicious of pumpkins. Oh sir, this tale grows stranger still!

Beneath what appeared to be a large, partially collapsed zeppelin of sorts, was the slight and quivering form of a lady! Yes, I was as shocked as you certainly must be! I will allow a moment to collect your thoughts…

Ahem. As I was saying, this lady was ENTIRELY in-swooned. Though her face still remained partially covered by one arm, I still took her to be the lovely and much fabled Lady Greta Pennyweather. THE Lady Greta – star of silent screen and muse of famed flautist Horatio Smythingworth – was quite sprawled beneath the crumpled remains of her infamous flying contraption, the R.S.S. Quiver.

Unable to rouse the Lady from her slumber with my strongest salts, I had no choice but to manually extract her from the wreck, and carry her to my home. Before you venture a guess, I was quite sure to enshroud my hands in my lavender kid-skin gloves. A gentleman does NOT touch any portion of an un-acquanticed gentlewoman, after all!

Lady Greta slept quite soundly for three days, fretfully calling out for her “dearest Snump” from time-to-time. When she awoke, she was perplexed by her surroundings, claiming no memory of even her own name (let alone her impressive performance of the titular character from 1927′s phenomenal Ophelia Fresco). Showing her the remains of the R.S.S. Quiver did not jar loose her missing memories, nor did wrapping her in the fine fur stole I found flung some distance from her crash. The only curious recollection she can muster – and it curiously only surfaces while dining on curd – is of a man chasing her in a dark alley. A man she calls H. She has also absolutely forbade me, through a great show of hysterics and manipulations, to contact Constable Humphries or the honorable Doctor Chiggles about this puzzling malady.

While I do not find the Lady’s company unpleasing, or her countenance unbecoming in the least,  a gentleman MUST rectify such bizarre and troubling facts… mustn’t he? So I turn to you, my DEAREST friend, for your council. How should good old GB proceed in such a curiously curious case?

With the greatest fidelity and highest esteem,

Gatsby