Berger clung like a leach to the side of the black coach as it lurched along the damp moor. They were miles from the village now; night was closing in and a light, cold rain was falling. Up above on the coachman's platform, Begala jerked and snapped the reins on the tired team of horses. The two menials - Berger the cutpurse and thief, with remnants of his last snack at the corners of his mouth, and Begala the toady, with a face radiating such stupidity that it amounted to a kind of pitiful innocence, had boarded the coach hours earlier when they set out with Lady Hillary for the country house of Lord Soros.Inside the coach, her large, luxurious body pitching and rolling like a steamed suet pudding in a muslin bag, sat Lady Hillary. Across from her, snoozing, lolled the vulpine Carville. The shadows cast on Carville's face by the dim carbide gas lamp gave him the appearance of man at some stage of transformation into a possum. Outside, Berger whimpered in the wet, cold night air.
Why, Lady Hillary thought, had she brought that freckled, red-faced, bilious wad along on this mission? Because Lord William had insisted. Something might have to be stolen, he said. Lord William also insisted upon Begala, even with his inexpert hand with horses and his episodic delusions of importance. Even Sir Robert Gibbs, with his encrustation of conceit, his mental incontinence and un-baked cookie face was more impressive than Begala.
And Carville? She wanted Carville, but not in the usual way. That was out of the question, as attractive as he was to her. He would simply come in handy when there was dirty work to be done. The rancorous half-man Carville held a canine sense of loyalty, and also like a dog was unable to comprehend the shabbiness of its masters but would kill in their defense. Some said he'd been a Marine, and some also said he was the best reason to keep heterosexuals out of the military.
Yes, Carville was useful, and the words "primary challenge" rolled like tiny, velvet feather pillows, back and forth, inside Lady Hillary's skull. The year was 2012. The man to be deposed was....Lord Soros would understand. He had to. He would be made to understand. There was a world to subdue, and she and Soros would subdue it...
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It was two hours past dinnertime. At the capstone of exuberance within that blustery March evening appeared on the caliginous horizon from a rough sand-pillar the devil's nursling, a deathlike personage emerging from a far-away field surrounded by the foul stench of consumption and beet sugar. Viscount Rushton of Limbaugh leaped onto the stairwell and with hot breath filling his orbit climbed the flagstones bound for the Soros entry-way.
Not unlike furred vermin in panic or cloven-hooved flocks worried by hounds, the scurrying behind the oaken portal and anteroom was both spirited and audible. Lady Hillary spoke soft and low to a lamenting Begala 'I know I need not tell you - Lord Soros is to be informed- Viscount Rushton must die.'
The usual way with Carville requires imbibing massive amounts of adult beverages so she passses out before his slug-like sperm flagella detach themselves from his forehead and slither hissing across the sheets.
A very scary story.
Cut to the chase.
OK, you have cast your bait and it has been swallowed! Now set the damn hook before they spit it out!
Lock & Load!!!
Sons & Daughters of Liberty Unite!!!
I say we call Grossett & Dunlap before lunch and make a deal.
Cloven-hoove flocks worried by hounds and hissing homunculi will knock any editor dead.
The advance will be big enough for a six-pack of Miller Lite, two bottles apiece!
As the coach rumbled through the night, Lady Hillary felt the soft, small sack containing Lord William’s cods swing between her sanguinivorous paps. These withered accomplices of his once prodigiously fecund, although slightly bent and now permanently detumescent pleasure rod are rumored to have magical powers. This is the only reason she did not force him to eat them like fava beans with an aged Chianti.
“Hold!” she screams at the coachman.
To Begela; “Bring this to Bumbledom Shire where Lord William resides with Maid Monica, she of the bucculent maw! Tell Lord William to take this to Lord Soros for he and he alone will know what to do with them to defeat Viscount Rushton!”
Begela snatches the disagreeable sack from her outstretched hand and scrambles for the coach door, his untrimmed toenails seeking purchase on the hot cobblestones of the Soros Highway to Hell.
Lady Hillary orders her coach seats to be burned in order to destroy the last of Carville’s loathsome flagella, several of which have found their way into Berger's pantaloons.
Sig, is that the version sold behind the counter at Foyles on Charing Cross?
I heard about it years ago.
I dunno Rhod. Will this come out as weekly installments ala Dickens?
Speaking of him, Martin Chuzzlewitt was styled after DC's great grandfather, and Uriah Heep had some connection to the Goomba line.
I smell a Masterpiece Theatre in the making.
The ultimate plot line here (lost in my horror of thinking of Hillary's infatuation w/ Carville, is that, yes, a primary challenge would be amazing to think of.
Just as I was settling on that, Sig's imagery stopped me right in my tracks. Scary, man.
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