22 April 2007
A Wanted Man
Botter and I, still sporting our crafty disguises, departed the Tackle-Tuck shop and headed back out into the spookily quiet streets of London Town at night-time.
“What’s my name, then, milord?” Botters asked, apropos of nothing at all.
“What?” I hissed, trying to keep a low profile.
“Well, I can’t just be ‘a Russian’, can I sir? I’ve got to have a name, and an identity, haven’t I?”
I rolled my eyes and turned to face my stupifying servant.
“Fine, Botter, fine. Tell me, did you have any suggestions for your new nom de plume?”
“Well, I dunno about that, sir, but I’ve got some ideas for my new name. I was thinking, Ivor is quite a common name in Russia, is it not? So how about either ‘Ivor Biggun’, or ‘Ivor Hugecock’. Get it? Pretty funny, eh, milord?”
“How would you like to be called Ivor Great-Big-Sword-In-My-Throat-Argh-Argh-I’m-Dying-Oh-The-Agony-Help-Me-Please?”
“That doesn’t have such a good ring to it, sir.”
“By the great bearded arse-crack of Zeus,” I said, suddenly noticing something behind Botter.
“You are not even trying, now sir.” Said Botter, oblivious as usual.
“Shut up, Botter. Shut up and look at this!” I pointed behind my man-servant, to a poster that had been affixed to the wall. This is what I saw:
“Oh,” said Botter. “Oh dear.”
“Oh dear is absolutely correct, Botter,” I said. “This is awful. Terrible, even. Awful and terrible.”
“Yes, milord. It seems the police are quite determined to ensure your capture, doesn’t it?”
“Hmmm?” I said, quite distractedly. “Oh, I’m not worried about that little annoyance, Botter. I’m more enraged about the fact they have clearly mis-spelt my name! Look at that! Anyone with half a brain knows it is spelt ‘k-e’, not ‘e-k’. Honestly, what kind of witless baboons do they have working on these things?”
“Ah, right,” said Botter.
“And furthermore,” I added, my indignation growing stronger by the second. “What kind of a mockery of a reward is ten guineas, for the capture of one as important and generally fantastic as I? It is a fucking pittance, and a damned cocking insult, is what it is!”
I furiously tore down the poster and held it aloft.
“I am in a good mind to take this shambles of a poster down to Scotland Yard and lodge a complaint. And then lodge this,” I said, waving the poster wildly in the air, “this shitty piece of shitting shit up the shitty back-side of the stupid bastard who wrote it, up there with the rest of the shit so that there becomes an overwhleming excess of shit in his shitty colon and the shit is forced up through his shitting mouth and he chokes to death on his own shitting shitty shit!”
“That…that’s a lot of shit,” observed Botter.
“Damn right that’s a lot of shit,” I shouted. “In fact, I think I shall go straight up to Scotland Yard now to carry out my shitty scheme!”
I began marching off, but Botter put a hand on my shoulder, and pulled me back.
“Uh, milord, while I obviously sympathise with your misgivings, don’t you think it’d be wiser to head away from the police, rather than head directly to them, what with you being a wanted criminal and all?”
I paused, and gave consideration to Botter’s unusually sensible words.
“My dear Botter,” I said, my rage subsiding. “Where would I be without you? You are quite correct, of course. We must proceed as planned, and not get distracted along the way. Besides, there will be plenty of time for me to pursue my shit-based vendetta later on. Come! Let us continue on.”
“Very good, milord,” said Botter.
“Oh, and Botter?”
“Touch me again without my permission, and I shall tear your fucking hands off. Do I make myself clear?”
“As crystal, my lord.”
“Jolly good, Botter.” I said. And with that, I tossed the crumpled remains of the offending poster over my shoulder, and we made our way onto the Russian Embassy.
All in all, it was a rather shitty day.
- Lord Likely.