The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 2

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MY READERS MAY WELL think me inconsistent and fickle in coming upon this second volume of my memoirs, particularly after recalling my statement that I did not care to renew my familiarity with either Bella or Julia, those two succulent, white-skinned damsels whose acquaintance I managed in the course of my professional activities of blood-sucking. Therefore a word or two of explanation is in order.

At the conclusion of my memoirs, I said also that I emigrated, in order to put many miles between myself and these two fair young ladies and the seminary in which they finally took refuge—if yielding to the carnal ardors of fourteen virile men of the cloth can be said to furnish refuge. That much was certainly true. I left England, wafted by a favorable wind blowing to the south, and found my own refuge in a little village in Provence, aptly named Languecuisse—which, for those astute readers who are not fluent in the French language, is translated to mean, “Tongue Thigh.” I may say that I did not choose this site of my next adventure with any foreknowledge of the titillating cognomen of this village; I simply was opportunist enough to let the wind carry me where it would. Autumn was not far off, and the chilly climate of England did not appeal to me; I would have had to go into hiding or hibernation, limiting my chances of nourishment and also of diversified contact with interesting people. For even a lowly Flea may have aspirations to culture, mark that well.

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