CROWNSVILLE, Md. — Police were baffled Saturday when a family of four went missing in a wench’s cleavage at the annual Maryland Renaissance Festival. The Mitchell family — David, 46, Anne, 43, and their children Charles, 11, and Scott, 9 — was last seen around 2 p.m. when Scott curiously approached longtime festival attendee and renowned strumpet Cynthia Baker, known in the festival circuit as Golda Gildenfleur.
Another festival participant, Skylar “Giles” Anderson, witnessed the disappearance. “The lad was transfixed by the maid’s bounteous features; though truth be told, she is no maid. Once his puckish gaze rested upon her glorious bosom, he was drawn completely into that rapturous abyss.”
In a panic, Anne Mitchell attempted desperately to retrieve her son.
“Whilst lining our bellies with turkey legs and discussing falconry, Giles and I espied the boy’s mother reaching betwixt Golda’s gilded décolleté, speaking in a vulgar and unfamiliar tongue,” Gilead van Fundlecruk (real name not given) explained.
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“David! Oh my God, David, call the police! Her tits swallowed him whole,” Fundlecruk recited, imitating Mitchell’s modern American accent and flailing his hands mockingly. “I believe the old nag meant the constabulary.”
“And to make matters more peculiar, the woman was wearing breeches, like a man. Verily, I spilt my ale laughing,” Anderson added. “‘Twas a valiant effort, as mother fought and failed to wrest her babe from Golda’s luminous orbs, but it was for not, as she soon joined the boy in the chasm, like foolish sailors to Charybdis.”
“Sirens, dumbass,” Fundlecruk interjected. “Charybdis was the monster. Sirens were the hot ones. Wait, I mean, curb thine impudent tongue, knave. Thou knowest not mythology.”
Soon after, Charles Mitchell climbed into Baker’s cleavage to find his brother and mother, though bystanders noted that it was with a certain wanton eagerness, and vanished within seconds. His last reported words were “boobies” and diminishing muffled giggles.
Torn between staying on the line with the police and his obvious parental obligation, David Mitchell set his phone on a nearby bench, shrugged his shoulders, and said smilingly to the crowd, “Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.” He then leapt headfirst into Baker’s beguiling bosom, leaving behind a single loafer.
Local police struggled to make sense of eyewitness accounts, deciphering middle- and early-modern English and anachronistic Victorian phrases. They were further at a loss as whether to classify the family as missing or “entrapped in a supple sea of ecstasy, the likes of which bards dream and mortal men envy.”
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