Last week, I told you how Standish and I had happened upon my vast fortune in a clearing in the middle of a forest. My joy at finding my precious wealth soon faded, however, when I espied my thieving nemesis, Black Scarlet, cavorting with none other than Mr. Tin, the ro-bot who once served as my nurse.
Faithful readers of the Publisher’s Message will recall how, several Christ-mases ago, Mr. Tin fell madly in love with my iron lung and abandoned my employ, wheeling away his beloved with him. Treacherous metal turn-coat! He despised me because I never returned his pathetic entreaties for love and acceptance!
Seething, I could only watch helplessly behind a bush as Black Scarlet and Mr. Tin reveled amongst their ill-gotten gain. As they frolicked, I strained to hear their conversation with my ear-trumpet.
“Tin, my friend,” Black Scarlet said, “thanks to you, I have achieved my long-time goal of relieving the vile plutocrat Zweibel of his riches. Many times I have bribed and cajoled his servants to disclose the where-abouts of the swag, but only you knew its precise location. You shall be rewarded handsomely, good ro-bot Tin!”
“How it cheers me to know,” Black Scarlet continued, “that old Zweibel is as penniless as those he so cruelly exploited! And now, I will be able to distribute this booty to the deserving home-less and destitute, discard my red-and-black mask, and return to public life once again under my true identity: the lead singer of Queen, Freddie Mercury! No, I did not die in 1991—I went under-ground and assumed the unlikely alias of a saucy, epee-wielding, devil-may-care gentle-man-bandit of the open road!”
I did not understand Black Scarlet’s latter remarks, but his cheek so other-wise enraged me that, in a burst of energy the likes of which I have not felt since I was 94, I fought off Standish’s restraint and raised myself from my wheel-chair.
“Wretch!” I cried. “You may have stolen my fortune, but you shall not complete your nefarious mission if I have any-thing to do with it! Yes, ’tis I, T. Herman Zweibel, and I have come to reclaim both my dignity and my wealth! Standish, procure the bowie-knife! I shall run this evil-doer through and restore the tarnished Zweibel name to all its lustrous glory! Stand and deliver, scheming black-guard!”
Black Scarlet looked as though he had seen a ghost. But before he could recover, a booming voice and the click of a gun’s safety sounded through-out the clearing.
“Sheriff’s deputy! Reach for the sky, and don’t move!”
T. Herman Zweibel, the great grandson of Onion founder Friedrich Siegfried Zweibel, was born in 1868, became editor of The Onion at age 20, and persisted in various editorial posts until his launching into space in 2001. Zweibel’s name became synonymous with American business success in the 20th century. Many consider him the “Father Of American Journalism,” also the title of his well-known 1943 biography, written by Norman Rombauer.
