17 January 2008
Lord Likely and the Kingdom of the Crystal Pig
May the 1st, 1851.
After being released from gaol by Inspector Albert Spunkleford, I made it my first point of business to put as much distance between myself and my detestable former cell-mate, Mr. Harry Flashman. I hailed a passing hansom cab, and headed back to the Crystal Palace, leaving Flash Harry to be fawned and drooled over by the awe-struck Spunkleford. Had I stayed in their company any longer, I fear I would have vomited upon them both.
I arrived back at the Great Exhibition later that afternoon. I made sure to pull my hat down over my face, lest I be discovered by any of the police officers patrolling the area, and be recognised as the bum-flashing deviant who so offended the Queen. I did not particularly relish the idea of returning to gaol so soon after my recent liberation, nor did I relish the fresh chance of any anal penetration from sex-starved prisoners. It is not that I hold any great disgust towards those fellows who partake in the love that dare not speak its name, but if someone wishes to use my elegant sphincter for such means, I would rather it was with my full consent, preferably in writing. I am not a piece of meat, you know.
I ducked and dived through the crowds, keeping an eye open for any police officers nearby. As I glanced furtively about me, I crashed into another fellow, and loudly cursed myself for not keeping both my eyes open.
“Buggeration!” I roared. “Why don’t you look where I am going, you bumbling twat-hole?”
“Oh! Hello, milord!” came the chirpy reply. It was my shambolic excuse for a man-servant, Botter, who had been notably absent during my recent travails.
“Botter! Where in the name of Napoleon’s nut-batter have you been?”
“Oh, I’ve just been enjoying the Great Exhibition, milord,” he said. “It’s really…um…uh…great! Look! I even treated myself to a little something!”
Botter unwrapped a package he was clutching, to reveal a glittering crystal pig.
“Am I to understand that while I have been holed up in gaol, listening to the wafflings of the most tiresome bore known to history, and all the time fearing for my anal safety, you have been out shopping for trinkets?”
“It’s…it’s a very shiny pig though, milord,” Botter replied.
“I don’t care if it is fashioned from the brightest star in the cosmos, Botter. You should have been at my side. Or at the very least my backside, fending off unwanted advances.”
“I…I’m sorry, milord,” Botter apologised.
“I mean look at this, Botter,” I scoffed, grabbing his porcine purchase and holding it up to the light. “It is just cheap tat, you know. Someone surely saw you coming.”
“Hey! Don’t be mean about Glyn!” Yelped Botter, snatching his crystal pig back and clutching him to his chest like a child with a teddy bear.
“Glyn?” I repeated. “Who on earth is Glyn?”
“The pig,” Botter explained. “I…I call him Glyn. Glyn the Glinting Pig.”
“I see. You are quite clearly demented, Botter. Now come along, and stick with me this time. If there is a repeat of your earlier performance, then you will find yourself enjoying a meal of crystal sausages before the day is out, mark my words.”
Botter nodded, and so we headed off to explore the rest of the exhibition; Botter, myself, and Glyn the Glinting Pig.
There was no doubt that the exhibition was a triumph; the place was adorned with fine art, beautiful furnishings, stunning jewels and astonishing feats of engineering drawn from all four corners of the globe. What it did lack, however, were any ladies worthy of my aristocratic attentions. As the exhibition was open to all, the palace was heaving with wretched commoners, with their wonky teeth, bad hair and grating voices. Whenever one of these paupers addressed me, it sounded like someone was slowly drawing their nails across a black-board. Whilst screaming into a bin, and shitting through a funnel. It made me feel quite nauseous, I can tell you.
However, my prospects picked up considerably when we chanced upon the display from India. Among their fine fabrics, sculptures and works of art were three stunningly attractive Indian ladies, each more divine than the last.
“I must say, you three lovely ladies are surely the finest exhibits here today,” I said as I tipped my hat in greeting. “I wonder if I could see what else you have to display before me?”
The ladies giggled softly behind their silk veils, their gorgeous dark eyes glinting with endless promise.
“Sir, you are most forward,” said one of them, in a beautiful sing-song cadence that only served to make me want to pump her harder than before. “I always thought you British gentleman were supposed to be more reserved!”
“The only reservation I have right now is that I was not born with three penises.”
More giggling. My charm offensive (or offensive charm, depending on how you look at it) was working a treat, and I felt that this conversation was heading to its inevitable, sweaty climax. I straightened my tie, and continued with my attack.
“You know, ladies, I had been hoping to purchase an Indian rug here today…”
“Ha! I cannot believe you seriously expect that old ‘Indian rug’ line to work, your lordship! I had hoped you might be more sophisticated than that!”
I did not need to turn around to identify the source of this brusque interruption, for I had spent far too long listening to that voice lately to forget it.
“Mr. Flashman,” I said, for it was he. “What an unexpected and distinctly undesired surprise.”
“Please, call me Flashy,” the rogue beamed.
“I would rather have my tongue pecked out by hens,” I rejoined curtly.
“Suit yourself. Whatever floats your boat, you know,” Flashman said, as he eyed up the three Indian girls. “You know, for a miserable old duffer, you have a pretty good choice in women, I’ll give you that.”
“I ought to cut your balls right off, right this instance!” I spluttered, enraged by the uncouth swine’s remarks. Flashman, however, was not paying any heed to my threats, and was busily introducing himself to the ladies in question. Furthermore, to rub metaphorical salt into the equally metaphorical wound, he was doing so in their native tongue.
“You speak our language!” cooed one of the women, evidently highly impressed.
“Aye, indeed I do,” Flashman beamed. “I have a gift for languages, you see. It is just a natural skill I am blessed with. If you’d like, girls, I’d be happy to demonstrate a few more of my natural skills in the bedroom, if you know what I mean.”
The girls giggled again, and chattered excitedly between themselves.
“We’d be very happy for you to do us that honour,” said one of the ladies, to my horror.
“Excellent!” Flashman grinned, putting his arms around the ladies, and strolling off. As he walked away, he turned to me and winked, then laughed out loud.
I watched the bounder depart, every fibre of my being filling with rage and an unquenchable fury.
“Botter,” I muttered. “Grab something big, heavy and blunt. I do believe Mr. Flashman is about to have a most terrible and unfortunate accident.”
- Lord Likely.
In Memoriam: This adventure is written in tribute to George MacDonald Fraser, the author of the Flashman books who died last week, aged 82. It is not intended to infringe upon any copyrights, but simply to pay homage to Fraser’s excellent work as a writer.
For more about Fraser and Flashman, read Mr. Andy Fanton’s article ‘Flash Men and Likely Lords‘.
His lordship’s glorious group, The Upper Crust
