25 April 2007
A Performance Worthy of the Bard
April, 1856.
After our brief distractions, Botter and I continued onto the Russian embassy, making good on our legs and keeping a quick but steady pace. Soon we had made a significant advance in our journey, and found ourselves only a few streets away from our target destination.
“Botter,” I said to my man-servant, who was trying to adjust his fake beard. “We have made a significant advance in our journey, and find ourselves only a few steets away from our target destination.”
“Hurrah, milord!”
“Hurrah indeed, Botter. However, although we are nearing our journey’s end, do not lag or let your guard down. We are not quite out of the woods yet. Except in the literal sense, of course.”
No sooner had I spoken those words, when we suddenly found ourselves rounding a corner, and coming face-to-face with a police officer.
“Balls!” I muttered, under my breath.
“Good evening, gents,” said the officer. “And what are you two doing out on the streets at so late an hour?”
I turned to Botter, who was frozen in fear. I feared he would prove to be no use in the discourse with the officer, so resigned myself to handling this unfortunate turn of events myself.
“Ah, good evenink, officer! How pleased we are to be findings a police-man! Dah, very pleased!”
I hoped the police-man was not very well travelled, and had not spotted that my Russian accent was decidedly rusty at best, absolutely useless at worst.
“Hmmm. You don’t sound like you’re from around here,” said the constable. “Are you lost?”
“Dah!” I exclaimed. “Dah, that is exactings what is happened here! We are looking to finds the Russian embassy! For we are beings Russian!”
“Oh, in a hurry, are you?” the police-man ventured.
“What? Ah, nyecht. You are misunderstandings me. We are Russian, not rushing. I can see your confusions, dah. Maybe it is being the fault of my terrible accent?”
“Ah, right. Russian. Well, gents, I’m afraid the embassy will have locked up for the night by now. I should leave it to the morning, if I were you.”
“Nyecht! This is not possibles! We are havings urgent business to conduct! Do you not be recognising this mans, here?” I shouted, indicating to the trembling form of Botter. “He is beink Russian royal family, dah!”
“Really?” said the police-man, narrowing his eyes.
“You bet your behinds he is, mate! He is the beink, now let me see here…dah! He is beink the third cousins, twice removed of the best friend of the neighbour of Tsar Alexander II!”
There was a pause as this new information sunk into the brain of the constable.
“That…that doesn’t sound very royal,” he said, eventually.
“What? That is an outrage! How dares you stand there, all fats in your stupid hat, and claim this man to beink unroyal! I should apologise right now, before I report this to the tsar himself and he will be being very pisseds off with youse, and no mistakings! He will probably have your ballses for this, dah!”
I was fully getting into my character now, and was becoming extremely animated and increasingly vocal. This act seemed to convince the officer, who looked extremely flustered in the face of my faked outrage.
“Uh…I…erm…I’m sorry, your highness,” he stammered. “Uh…please don’t take my balls. I like my balls! I’m so very, very sorry!”
Botter looked up at me, with confusion and terror fighting for supremacy in his eyeballs. I nodded and smiled at him, in an attempt to encourage him to speak. Botter swallowed, wiped the sweat from his filthy forehead, and opened his mouth.
“Я прощаю Вам за вашу ошибку. ПожалуйÑта, не волнуйтеÑÑŒ Ð´Ð»Ñ Ð±ÐµÐ·Ð¾Ð¿Ð°ÑноÑти ваших Ñичек,” he said.
“What did he say?” the constable hissed into my ear.
I did not answer, as I had been momentarily stunned into silence by Botter’s supreme mastery of the Russian language. That little scrote is remarkably versatile when he desires to be.
“Well? What did he say?” the officer repeated.
“Oh, yes. Um, that is to say, dah.” I blustered, still reeling from the shock of Botter being genuinely useful for a change. “He said…he saids you will be pardoneds if you escorts us to the embassy, so we do not get attacked by muggers or enemies of Russia.”
“Fine! I’ll do it! Just don’t let him get my balls!” whined the police-man. “Please, follow me gents!”
“Большое ÑпаÑибо, Ð’Ñ‹ очень полезны,” said Botter, rather too smugly for my liking.
“Shut up, you,” I snapped.
And so we set off on the final leg of our journey, under police escort. It is quite peculiar how events unfold, sometimes.
- Lord Likely.
