12 March 2007
Fight to the End
The same day, 1856
In some of my wildest dreams, I have fantasised about having a legion of prostitutes descend upon me, ready and willing to perform any sexual act my filthy mind could conjure.
What reality presented to me instead, however, was a legion of prostitutes descending upon me, bearing an assortment of weapons, ready and willing to slay me in whatever fashion their cold, dark hearts could conceive.
Mrs. Dinklesuck cackled loudly as her sex-crazed soldiers bore down upon us. Inspector Spunkleford and I fired our pistols frantically, from our meagre vantage point behind the small, stone wishing-well, while Botter looked on, boggle-eyed.
“BOTTER!” I snapped. “Grab your weapon and start shooting!”
“My thoughts exactly, your lordship,” Botter said, rubbing his groin.
I sighed.
“Likely!” cried Spunkleford, as he fired a bullet straight into a whore’s leg. “We can’t hold these ladies off on our own! We need to do something, with immediate effect!”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said, as a knife flew past my ear and fixed itself firmly into the ground behind me. “Botter?”
“Uh…yes, your lordship?”
“For God’s sake man, put your penis away and focus.”
“Sorry.”
“Now, Botter, are you prepared to lay down your life for your lord and master?”
“To be honest, my lord, I would rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”
I put a reassuring hand on Botter’s shoulder.
“Dear, loyal, kind-hearted Botter,” I said softly. “You are a good man, and you know I would not put you in needless jeopardy. I just felt I should ask.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
I smiled, then shoved him into the open, and into the line of fire.
“There’s a good man, Botter. Draw their fire!”
Botter screamed, and began running as fast as he could to the opposite end of the garden, bullets zinging past him as he did so. Satisfied that the prostitutes were suitably distracted, I broke cover and headed nearer to the house, with a view to bringing down the wretched crone who was master-minding the attack.
I resumed cover behind a nude statue of Adonis, standing by the side of the house. I checked my fire-arm, then quickly stood out from behind the stone Greek, ready to blast Mrs. Dinklesuck away.
Instead, I found myself nose-to-barrel with a rifle, firmly gripped in the hands of the aforementioned Mrs. Dinklesuck.
“Balls,” I muttered, meekly dropping my gun to the floor.
“I’m afraid yours are now mine,” chuckled Mrs. Dinklesuck.
She gave me a sickeningly crooked grin, then pulled the trigger.
There was a click, then nothing.
Sensing my chance, I turned quickly, and with an almighty tug, I pulled off Adonis. That is to say, I removed the statue’s stone phallus.
Clutching the concrete cock-piece, I whipped around to face Mrs. Dinklesuck, who was still trying to get her gun to work.
“Excuse me,” I said, ensuring I had her full attention. “Would you care to suck on THIS!”
I hurled the ornamental organ with absolute force and precision at Mrs. Dinklesuck, who shrieked in horror. A split-second later, she fell to the floor with a large, stone penis embedded in her face. Exhausted, I stood up, and straightened my hat and tie.
“Dick-head,” I said to the recently-deceased Mrs. Dinklesuck, amusing myself with my own quick-fire quip.
The death-scream of their mistress had somewhat subdued the rest of the prostitutes, who recognised that the jig was up, and that they were defeated. Spunkleford rounded them up, and set about taking names and details. Botter, meanwhile, remained cowering behind a small wheel-barrow at the other end of the garden, weeping softly.
All in all, I had a good day…but there was still a mystery to be solved.
