01 March 2007
Beggars Can Be Choosers
2nd March 1856 (or thereabouts)
Now, where was I?
Ah, yes, heading to London Town to track down my would-be assassin.
Well, having gathered our senses after our drunken debacle, Botter and I recommenced our journey. However, after a few hours of aimless wandering, we soon came to the inevitable conclusion that we were lost.
“We are lost, Botter”, I exclaimed. “Furthermore, you appear to have soiled your undergarments during the night, and thus you are now emitting a stench so foul I feel I may have to throw up into my own nasal cavity, so I can longer smell it. To whit, my dear Botter, you stink of shit.”
Botter stopped the carriage to allow me a temporary reprieve from his awful odour. I strolled into a small copse nearby, and drew in a long, hard lungful of the fresh, country air.
Except, to my nose’s horror, all I could smell was urine.
I swiveled round quickly, and swiftly located the source of this latest malodour. I was confronted by a fearful apparition, all unkempt hair and cheap fabrics. The terrible creature lumbered towards me, mumbling in some fearful, unholy tongue.
I swiftly drew my fencing sword, and used it to keep the monster at an agreeable distance, while I loudly summoned Botter to my side.
My man-servant made his entrance, and then to my bewilderment, approached the terrible beast with an outstretched hand.
“Botter!,” I began. “Keep away! We know not what devilry this fiend may enact…”
“Wotcha,” said Botter, addressing the creature. “How’s it going?”
I could only look on, agog, as the two began conversing in what I could only estimate to be some long-dead language.
Botter gave the foul abonimation a friendly pat on the back, and turned to me.
“Your lordship, this here is Albert Spunkleford. He’s Mrs. Spunkleford’s little boy. You remember, right? She was friends with that woman who ran that small bakery in town that made novelty buns shaped like cocks, who was married to Mr. Retch from the council? Y’know, the brother of Waldo Retch, the watch-maker? Who was briefly married to…”
“Cease, Botter, before you recount to me the complete ancestry of every damn soul in the land.”
“Sorry, your Lordship. Anyways, Al’s from London Town, see, but wound up stranded here after visiting relatives. He reckons he knows the way to the Town, sure enough. Could be helpful, sir.”
I eyed up the haggard form of Albert Spunkleford, replete with a rather too recent urine stain about his crotch.
“It is decided, then” I announced. “He travels with us.”
Botter and Al both smiled.
“BUT,” I added, “he travels on the roof.”
