06 October 2007
Lord Likely and the Indians
July, 1856.
Preparing myself for the worst, I armed myself with the pistol Ludlow had given me, and edged towards the door of my carriage. These red-skinned savages had already killed two men, and I would be buggered if I would let myself become their third victim.
I pulled back the hammer on the pistol, took two deep breaths, then threw the carriage door open. I hit the ground hard, performed a rather spectacular forward roll and came up with my pistol pointed in the direction of our attackers.
“Nobody move, or I swear to cockery I will fill you so full of ruddy lead that you will be able to use your penis as a pencil,” I yelled, trying to make out the assailants through the cloud of dust thrown up by my exertions.
There was silence.
“Well, hark at HIM,” came a rather fey voice, and then the speaker stepped through the dust cloud.
Now, I may not have actually met a Red Indian face-to-face, but from the images I have seen I know what one should look like; they should look lean and mean, wearing simple clothing made from animal hide, their faces adorned with face-paint, that sort of thing.
The fellow I found myself confronted with did not fit the mental picture I had created in my mind. He was supremely over dressed, in bright, vivid colours, with a head-dress so full of feathers that it looked like he had an entire company of parrots nesting on his head. And his face-paint was also similarly extravagant, and seemed to have been applied with far too much care and attention. In short, he looked like he was better suited to the chorus-line of a theatrical musical production, rather than life on the open range.
“Well, hello there!” the man squealed. “How delightful to meet you!”
“Likewise, I’m sure,” I said, rising to my feet.
“Oh, don’t get up! You were quite alright where you were, if you know what I mean!” the man giggled.
“Oh, you didn’t!” cried another, equally garishly-garbed man, joining his accomplice. “I swear, you are the living end!”
“I couldn’t help myself, really I couldn’t!” simpered the first man.
“You’ll have to excuse my friend, here,” the second man said to me. “He’s a randy little bugger at times. Usually between dawn and dusk!”
There was more raucous laughter from the two men.
“Oh, but how rude are we?” the first chap exclaimed. “We haven’t introduced ourselves! I am Chief Spurting Cock, and this handsome devil here is Fulsome Buttocks. We’re from the Red Rump tribe…I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how we got that name!” The pair collapsed into paroxysms of laughter once more.
“I see. Gay Red Indians, is it?” I said. The pair immediately stopped giggling , their faces turning deadly serious.
“We prefer to think of ourselves as homosexual Native Americans, if it is all the same to you,” sniffed Spurting Cock.
“What a savage!” added Fulsome Buttocks, nodding his head sadly.
“Well, whatever you prefer to call yourselves, I call you cold-blooded killers and my previous threat remains. If any of you so much as lay one finger upon my lordly frame, I will shoot you a new arsehole.”
“Oooh. A new arsehole? Sounds like fun!” squealed Fulsome Buttocks.
“We are not cold-blooded killers, sir!” snapped Chief Spurting Cock. We are a peaceful tribe, who want nothing more than to spend our days balls-deep in anus, thank you very much!”
“Peaceful? Try telling that to the two poor men you killed!” I shouted, pointing at the bodies of the two train-drivers lying dead on the ground.
“Ah, yes. That was terrible. It’s Sucking Pole, I’m afraid. He insists on bringing a bow and arrow with him when we go out, says it makes him look more butch. I say it makes him look like a queen with a quiver, but he won’t listen. You don’t listen, do you Sucking Pole?” said Spurting Cock, addressing the small group of gaily-coloured men behind him.
“Sorry. Dreadfully sorry. It went off by accident,” Sucking Pole said, looking at the floor forlornly.
“Oooh, I bet he says that to all the boys!” cried Spurting Cock, and everyone collapsed into helpless laughter again.
“He means well, bless him,” said Fulsome Buttocks, his make-up streaming from his tears of laughter. “Well, that’s enough about us. Who are you, tall, dark and handsome?”
“I am Lord Likely, aristocratic adventurer and gentle-man of -”
“Likely?” asked Spurting Cock. “Did you say your name was Lord Likely?”
“I did, for it is,” I replied. The two Natives exchanged knowing glances.
“I think we have someone you may know back at our camp,” said Spurting Cock. “He calls himself Lightnin’ Lance Likely…”
“Lance?” I cried. “You have met Lance?”
“Oh, yes,” said Spurting Cock. “And he lives up to his name, let me tell you. Well, I don’t know about the ‘Lightnin”, but I can safely vouch for the lance! I swear, he could be the world’s first nude jousting champion!”
More laughter.
“You have to take me to see him at once!” I declared, ignoring their tawdry innuendos.
“Oh, do we now? Hark at her,” sneered Spurting Cock. “It seems we have something you want, and you,” he leant in closer. “You have something we want, your loveliness.”
I felt a feeling of dread swell up inside of me, as I was fairly certain the man was not referring to a monetary reward, and I was not sure I wanted to indulge in another homosexual act so soon after I had bedded Mr. Abraham Lincoln. How on Earth could I escape a fate worse than buggery?
“Alright, milord?” came a voice behind me. It was Botter, arriving at precisely the right moment. “I heard gunshot, and I came as fast as I could, but that luggage compartment is awfully cramped and I kept tripping over suitcases and getting tangled in handles and straps but then I – “
“You may take your fee out of the backside of my man-servant, Botter, here,” I proclaimed, pushing Botter in front of me. “He is most obliging, and relatively hygienic.”
The Indians huddled together in frantic discussion, occasionally glancing our way as if they were sizing us up. Which is probably what they were doing, in fact.
“Erm, what’s going on milord?” asked a confused Botter.
“You are helping me to meet my half-brother Lance,” I said, putting a hand on Botter’s shoulder. “You are to be commended, dear Botter. I shall see you get a medal for this!”
“The VC?”
“The Victoria Cross? No, probably more like…like…the VD.”
“The VD? What’s that, milord?”
“It’s…it’s a special reward, Botter, it…um, ah! Here comes the Chief!” I cried, as Chief Spurting Cock broke away from the group and approached us.
“We agree to your terms, Lord Lovely. We have a deal. Let us shake on it,” said the Chief. I extended my hand to him, but the Chief just looked at it with puzzled amusement. “Who said anything about shaking hands?” cried Spurting Cock, causing his whole tribe to erupt with laughter.
I sighed. This was going to be a very long day.
- Lord Likely.
