28 January 2010
One Score and Four, Hour Twelve: Making An Entrance
11:00pm, 28th of January, 1891.
“GOOD EVENING, sah. And whom might you be?” sniffed the snooty butler who came to Sir Rhubarb Muddick’s door.
“WHOM MIGHT I BE?” I exclaimed, almost apoplectic with rage. “Egad, sir, your master owns a news-paper or two, does he not? I dare say my face has been on the cover on more than a dozen occasions!”
The butler looked me up and down dismissively. “Can’t say I recognise you, saaah. Are you on the list?”
“On the – ?” I snorted dismissively. “I do not need to be on any list, sir. I AM the list!”
“Your name, saaaah?,” droned the bounder.
“Pah! This is RIDICULOUS! Fine, my name is Likely! LORD LIKELY!”
The tedious little man scanned up and down his precious list a few times, while I impatiently tapped my foot.
“You’re not on the list, saaaaah,” he whined.
“Have you tried looking under ‘A’, for ‘Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action’?”
The man slowly took his eyes off me again, and consulted his sheet again. “You’re not on the list, saaaaaah,” he repeated.
“How about under ‘H’ for ‘Handsome’?” I ventured hopefully.
“You’re not on the list, saaaah,” the weasel intoned.
“Then the list is ARSE!” I raged, swiping the list from the butler’s hands and tearing it into a thousand, tiny pieces. “HA! Now what do you propose to do, you pathetic little whelk?”
“Nothing, saaaah,” said the man.
“HA! I thought not.”
“But Mr. Wallops might,” the butler continued.
“Mr. Wallops?” I repeated. “Who is…” Suddenly, a large, dark shadow fell over me. Turning around, I saw a very tall and very wide fellow sporting an ill-fitting tuxedo, his large brow suggesting minimal brain-capacity, his large fists suggesting maximum punch-capacity. “Ah, Mr. Wallops, I presume?” I smiled, tipping my hat.
People have often remarked on how I always know how to enter a party. Indeed, I have earned the nick-name ‘the carpenter’, on account of my uncanny skill at making an entrance. And this evening was to be no different, as I came crashing through a large, bay window, accompanied by Mr. Wallops, out of whom I was trying my level best to beat the living excrement.
We landed with an almighty crash on a table laden with food and drink, before rolling out into the centre of the room, to the utter bewilderment of the shocked party-goers.
“Ack..ah, good evening,” I wheezed to the assembled guests, as Mr. Wallops held me in a excruciatingly tight head-lock. “I..ack! I wonder if someone might guh-get me a drink?”
- Lord Likely.
*WE are at the HALF-WAY point of our 24-hour adventure, chums! REJOICE, and thank you for your support thus far. HUZZAH!
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