10 February 2010
One Score and Four, The Final Hour: The Queen’s Head
11:36am, 29th of January, 1891.
I CAME to moments later, a hand furiously tugging at the sleeve of my coat. I blearily looked round to see Felicity Boondoggles eagerly trying to rouse me from my explosion-induced stupor.
“Quick, Likely!” she hissed. “We’ve got to keep moving!”
“How is it,” I enquired groggily. “How is it that you appear to be fine, my dear, while I feel rather like…well, rather like I’ve just been in a ruddy big explosion?”
“Maybe I’m just made of stronger stuff, your lordship!” Felicity winked. “That, and the fact I was wearing a reinforced corset,” she added, tapping her midriff proudly. “Now come along, we have a Queen to save!”
“Where are we?” I muttered, slowly getting to my feet.
“We are inside Buckingham Palace, your lordship,” Felicity said. “That explosion hurled us clear over the gates, and through one of the front windows. ‘Tis one way of navigating past the guards,” she chuckled.
“Your hat, milord,” said my man-servant, Botter, proffering forth my terrific topper.
“Oh, I see you are quite alright as well, more the pity,” I remarked. “Don’t tell me that you were wearing a reinforced corset as well, eh?” I laughed.
Botter lowered his eyes. “Your hat, milord,” he repeated.
I gave Botter a curious glance, snatched my hat from his grubby mitts, and then we all raced down the hall to try and locate Her Majesty before that twisted terrorist Samuel Ben-London could place his bomb-laden crown ‘pon her august head.
We zig-zagged through resplendent hallway after resplendent hallway, each adorned with the finest furnishings and decorations, with row after row of portraits of round, ruddy-faced kings and queens peering down at us from their elevated position ‘pon the walls, almost as if they were willing us on in our mission to save the Queen, the country and the entire EMPIRE. I ran on ever harder, ever more determined. I was DAMNED if I was going to let a collection of paintings down, confound it.
We wound our way up an ornate, winding staircase, whereupon we met a footman heading down the stairs.
“Where’s Vicky?” I demanded, grabbing the footman by the arms.
“Whom?” asked the footman.
“Vicky..Victoria…gah! Queen Victoria…you know, sits ‘pon the throne, rules over us all…”
“Ah! Her Majesty is in the Crowning Room,” intoned the footman.
“They have an entire room for putting on the crown?” whispered Felicity.
“Either that, or Her Majesty is giving birth again,” I replied. “Either way, we need to get there as soon as ruddy possible! Sir!” I continued, turning back to the footman. “Where is the Crowning Room? We have URGENT business with Her Majesty!”
“Well, ’tis just at the end of the hall, here,” indicated the footman. “B-but who are you? I cannot just let anyone burst in on Her Majesty, you know!”
“I’m not just anyone!” I snapped, flourishing a small business-card from my pocket. “I am Lord Likely – Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action!”
“This says, ‘For A Thoroughly Good Rogering, Please Visit Madam Underlay‘…” replied the footman.
“Bugger…wrong card,” I noted. “Look, you’re the footman, yes?”
“Well hop it, then!” I snapped, and with the poor devil reeling from my verbal dexterity, we dashed off to the Crowning Room, pausing momentarily to allow myself to admire my handsome reflection in a nearby mirror, to make sure that I was looking my very best while heroically saving Her Majesty from armed lunatics. Satisfied that I was looking as incredibly debonair as ever, I consulted my pocket-watch.
It was 11:52am. We could ill-afford to dilly-dally any further….
“HOLD EVERYTHING!” I yelled, as Felicity, Botter and I finally burst into the Crowning Room.
“How very forward of you,” replied Her Majesty, coolly and calmly, as befitting one who has seen and heard it all. “Might I suggest that you at least have the common decency to buy me a drink, first?”
Egad, I thought as I beheld the bewitching form of the Queen stood before me, in all her regal splendour. While she was undoubtedly in her twilight years now, she was still a fine, full figure of a woman, and was still rather attractive, probably due in no small part to the fact that she currently ruled over of a quarter of the globe. Power is after all an aphrodisiac, and with that sort of power at one’s command I was surprised that Her Majesty wasn’t constantly chock-full of cock, to be frank.
“Your majesty,” I said, regaining my composure long enough to form words. “You are in great danger!”
“The only danger I can foresee is that my morning is in danger of being irreparably ruined by this intrusion…what is the meaning of this, sir?” the Queen replied.
“Your highness, Miss Boondoggles and I have very good reason to believe that there are sinister forces at work who wish to end your life…” I looked around at the two maids who were helping Her Majesty dress for the day, one of whom was clutching a velvet pillow, upon which lay what could only be the booby-trapped crown we had been seeking. ”With THAT very crown!”
“Ha-ha-ha! Ridiculous!” chuckled the maid carrying the aforementioned article. “This man is clearly a lunatic, your majesty! Shall I call the guards to remove him?”
Her Majesty eyed me cautiously. “My dear,” she said to the maid. “I have not survived numerous assassination attempts on my life without being cautious and considerate,” she continued. “Let me hear this gentleman out.”
“Thank you , your highness,” I beamed, bowing. “If I may?” I asked, motioning to the deadly diadem. The Queen nodded, and I strode into the room and carefully plucked the crown from it’s velveteen plinth. “Hmmm…yes, I see…hmmmm…yes, of course…” I said as I slowly turned the crown over and over in my hands. And then, before anyone could stop me, I spun round and punched the maid right in the jaw.
“What in the name of me do you think you are doing to that poor maid?” exclaimed the Queen, clearly shocked.
“Allow me to explain, your majesty,” I said as I roughly dragged the maiden to her feet. “This is no maid – but a MALE!” I proclaimed, whipping the curly blonde wig from the maid’s head, to reveal the considerably less coiffured locks of Samuel Ben-London, the terrorist leader of the Anti-Hat League.
“Curse you, Likely!” he spat. “How on earth did you know?”
“Well, firstly the style of maid’s uniform in which you are dressed is out of date by a good four or five years, sir. Secondly, the crown is heavier by quite a few pounds, suggesting to me that something has been added onto it – an explosive device, no doubt. And finally,” I continued, pointing straight at Ben-London’s upper-lip. “Your moustache was rather a keen giveaway, I’m afraid.”
“Damn you! Damn you to Hades! But not to worry!” cackled Ben-London, swiping the crown from my hands. “I still have this! I can set it to go off RIGHT NOW, destroying the Empire’s most powerful hat FOREVER! And once that is gone, a NEW world order shall rise, with THE PEOPLE in control!”
“But people are damned fools,” I reasoned. “You clearly have not thought this through.”
“Gah! Enough of this! Mr. Wallops, get them!” he shouted to the other maid, who turned out to be the big, brutish cad I had come up against at Sir Rhubarb Muddick’s gala ball earlier. As he advanced toward me, Felicity suddenly stepped in front of him, hitched her dress up and delivered a rather stunning round-house kick to the oaf’s head. The blaggard stumbled backward, crashing into a full-length mirror as he did so. Slightly dazed, Wallops staggered back to his feet, but before he could fully regain his composure Felicity was upon him, fists raining down upon his head like a most violent rainstorm.
“Don’t just bloody stand there, Likely!” she called out to me as she drubbed the bounder senseless. “Go and save the Queen!”
I turned to see Ben-London edging slowly backwards to a set of double-doors leading onto a balcony, forcing Her Majesty to follow him by pressing the loaded crown to her temple as if it were a pistol.
“Now, now, yer lordship,” sneered the bastard bomb-maker. “Don’t try any funny business, right? Else Her Royal Highness shall become Her Royal Sky-Highness!”
“You unhand that monarch immediately, you fiend!” I bellowed.
“Hahahaha!” guffawed Ben-London. “You can’t stop me now!”
“Maybe he cannot, but I am jolly well certain I can!” interjected the Queen, thrusting her elbow so hard into the rogue’s ribs that she not only succeeded in knocking the wind out of him, but also sent him careening through the double-doors and onto the balcony outside.
“Oh! Well played, your majesty,” I smiled, applauding politely.
“Yuh…(cough)…you sh-shall regret that, yer..(cough)…majesty…” wheezed Ben-London, as he picked himself up and shook the shards of glass from his person. “Yer…yer all going to be blown to bloody bits, now!” He said, triumphantyl holding the crown above him. But, as he did so, a pigeon suddenly flew at him from nowhere, flapping wildly about him, its wings beating the wretch about his face.
“Grrrarrrgh!” Ben-London cried, as he tried to shake the pigeon off him. “Get off me, you blasted bird!”
I saw my chance, and I quickly leapt forward and wrestled the bugger to the ground, wrenching the crown from his grasp. As Ben-London flailed uselessly at me, trying to get the accursed head-wear back, I quickly turned a small dial on the base of the crown, and then in a flash, rammed the crown firmly on the bastard’s bonce.
“Congratulations on your coronation, dear boy!” I beamed, and then I tipped the felon over the side of the balcony. Ben-London cursed loudly as he fell, and then suddenly he exploded like a fire-work, except with less pretty colours and more flying entrails.
“Poor sod. I fear he rather let it all go to his head,” I quipped wryly, as Felicity and Her Majesty joined me on the balcony to watch the show.
“We are quite amused,” said the Queen.
As we observed the ongoing explosion, the heroic pigeon fluttered gently down onto my shoulder, whereupon I noticed it had a small note attached to its leg. I carefully opened the note and read:
At: Samuel Ben-London: This is the police! Give yourself up, you are surrounded! From: Inspector Spunkleford.
I peered over the edge again, to see Spunkleford and some officers down below. He waved, and I waved back, never before having been so pleased to see him and his frankly ludicrous Twittering Messaging Service.
“I must thank you for your sterling service to not only myself, but the whole Empire,” said the Queen, turning to face me. “Naturally, You shall be honoured, and medals shall be awarded for your heroic deeds.”
“Victoria Cross?” I asked.
“No, I am very pleased,” Her Majesty replied, a small smile creeping across those stern lips of hers. I smiled in return, and she departed, ferried away by a score of worried assistants and servants.
“Well, it has been…interesting working alongside you, your lordship,” said Felicity. “But I must go. Heaven knows I shall have a mountain of paperwork to complete now.”
“Must you go so soon?” I enquired, laying a hand softly on Felicity’s shoulder. “I did bring this along, after all,” I continued, drawing from my pocket the lady’s self-pleasuring device which I had taken from the offices of CTUN earlier. “It seems a shame not to make use of it…”
Felicity raised an eyebrow, and grinned. “I suppose so…”
And so, after a day of explosions and bombings, the banging continued long into the night…
- Lord Likely.
* His lordship would like to thank each and every one of you who supported this attempt at a twenty-four hour adventure. While his useless scribe, Mr. Fanton, only managed twenty-one hours in a row, we hope you still enjoyed this rip-roaring tale nonetheless! Many thanks to you ALL! HUZZAH!
If you have enjoyed One Score and Four, or indeed any of his lordship’s wonderments, please feel free to donate to allow us to buy a few beers so that we may drink ourselves delirious in celebration! Many thanks, chums.