Fiendish Succubae shatter a Tender Heart...

If you expect the Maid Lottie to amuse you with more skittish play...well...I care not for your disappointment, for the cruelty I have suffered is beyond tolerance.

A rare flower, crushed under French Heeled Boot!

I have endured a grave treachery – the pain magnified by the perverse nature of my persecution! Sweet Mama! A tender girl can face no greater foe than one drawn from the ranks of her own jealous gender.

 

What queer fever brings forth this accusation?

Ha! Let me draw from the well off bitter experience.

Scant weeks ago I was the object of the Crown Prinz’s  favour and indulgence. I was his Personal Secretary, but - of course - my charms had demolished all professional restraint. He showered me with Regal Gift and while I sat upon his generous lap he pledged his everlasting devotion. Of course, I was under Secret Orders to foil his sordid Prussian Project, but being only human, I could not fail to be stirred by his infatuation.

Then...the arrival of those vicious harpies changed everything, and my gentle heart was broken into pieces

Hush Hush my child, and take pause, you beg.. but no, I must finish this.

The Indeceny of those bullying witches.

I recount the cruel behaviour I have endured.

---------------------------

Instance 1. Company House, London. November 15th of this year.

On arrival in the office of Josef Geldhabe the Countess Fifi mistook me for a Chaise Lounge. While kneeling by the CFO’s filing cabinet, carefully ordering his yearly accounts, I felt her Parisian rear quarters press down upon my back. Before I could register complaint her companion Lady De Monfort tossed her cape over my head.

When CFO Geldhabe stood to remonstrate, the French vixen buried her sharpened nails into my sides and began to scream. A moment later she raised her hand to her brow and fainted.

I could not free myself from under the supine body as the sharp heel of her boot was pressed tight against my tender portion. I cried so long and hard I lost consciousness.

Instance 2. Company House, London. November 16^th of this year.

On the subsequent morning I skipped to my darling’s chamber full of cheer and keen to put the previous day's misfortune behind me. But as I opened the door... I was shocked to see the Crown Prinz cavorting with those hussies round the mahogany desk!

As just yesterday, it was I  - being playfully chased with horse-whip - I could not understand the sudden mis-direction of his regard.

But when I approached my Lord with gentle question, the Countess Fifi turned sharply and hissed at me with such violence I staggered back and fell into the fireplace.

My dress and wig swiflty ignited and - accompanied by the cackle of cruel laughter - I fled the room in fiery humiliation.

Instance 3. Company House, London. November 17^th of this year

Again with good cheer, I....

-------------------(transcript interrupted)------------------------

Bletchley Park: ok thats enough of this...

A Hand of Bridge with the Gloating Overlord!

The Drowned Man was weak, alone and de-moralised.

But as the Psychonautical survivors of the Royal Society can testify, the Gloating Overlord requires more occult conditions for Psychic Invasion.

-------------------------

I am a well-bred son of Surrey stock, sound in mind, spirit, shoulder and calf. And yet my duty to the Queen has dragged to me the most intolerable cesspits of Indigenous squalor. I speak not off Calcutta, Khartoum or Shanghai... but those unmapped zones beyond which most white men have yet to venture.

Places where physical and mental torment compels the Noble Explorer to imbibe the Sweet Poppy for his very survival: the accursed cities of Xinhua, Ttxechocalan and Salford.

The Scum of Media City!

I am not proud of what I have ingested in Defence of Her Majesty’s Honour (in truth there are few Imperial Officers alive who have consumed as much Heathen Horse), but I do not regret my selfless sacrifice. It has caused deleterious effects upon my spin-bowling, marksmanship and (as Abigail can testify) marital relations; but nevertheless as a good soldier I must make the best of my hand and toss down the high Spade with a wink and a smile.

 

A Metaphor

Unfortunately my best Spade was woefully trumped by the Astral Hand of the Gloating Overlord.

 

Enough with these endless Bridge Metaphors you splutter..!

Well in Plain English, the Monsters that lurk beyond the Abysmal Plain can only enter our dimension through the psychic dreams of the Opiated Sleeper...

Is that clear enough for your slack wits!! Forgive my lack of patience, but having to continually re-organise my atoms after mental agitation gives me Welsh Temper

------------- So....to return -----------------

The scheming Trickster who manipulates those Abysmal Terrors (with the slick charm of a Hebrew Banker) needs more than just Poppy to gain entrance to our Queens Realm...

As subsequent investigations of the Royal Society’s Psychonautical Supper Club have discovered, the Gloating Overlord is an entity that thrives on pain and death. It seeks agents in the various dimensions it infiltrates, and these agents must smooth its transgression through the violent sacrifice of innocents. 

So, you retort.. the Monster would seek some Turk, Hun or Spaniard for its bidding...

Nay, here the plot thickens... The Overlord seeks not wilful massacre by Psychopathic Mongol, but something more terrible...

...what ancient legend calls the “The Angel of Death”... One whose very presence brings misfortune upon the innocent.

What on earth does this superstitious nonsense have to do with The Helmeted Hero of Helmand...?   

Well, sit quietly and listen my friend, and I will recount my tragic history...

The Siege of Kandahar Part III

I tossed the executioner’s revolver into Macpartout’s lap.“Make every shot count you Foul Jock Cur..” I muttered in encouragement, to rouse his rum-sodden spirits...

But before we could raise our gun-arms, the rampart collapsed. A fusillade of Hindu Cannon reduced the East wall to rubble and our bodies were toppled like chess-pieces.

Through divine intervention my stunned body fell upon soft cushion, as beneath me lay a mattress... a mattress filled with the Smack-ruined corpses of the Regiment.

So yet again the Lord smiled upon his Champion, for though half-crippled, and woozy with Helmand-Poppy, I found myself surrounded by the arms and munitions of the Queens Finest.  

Eyes closed I raised and fired, reloaded, then shot again. Roaring violent curse and kicking out with my barely functioning legs I caused panic amongst the invaders.

More in fear at my Christian anger, than by my blind shot, the vile tide ebbed then fled from the ruined Fort.

Alone (with scant Ghurka help) I faced the Horde!

But the Drowned Man's respite was brief.

As darkness fell, amongst the rubble and cooling bodies of my death-drugged comrades, my morale began to sink.

The loyal Ghurka tended their wounded, rearmed and marshaled the lower wall; but I knew without the virile command of a white-sahib the Fort was lost. And yet I could not sustain my spirit. Perhaps it was the realisation I might never see my darling Abigail again, or perhaps it was the diminishing energy of that long distant Opoid-breakfast. Whatever... I felt close to surrender...

And it was then, at my weakest, I first heard the seductive voice of the Gloating Overlord!

To be continued....

The Siege of Kandahar Part II...

The Drowned Man on the Bugles,

Deserting the field, the Afghan coolies rent the air with their womanly shriek. It was every white man against the horde.

Granted, MacPartout was barely recognisable as British Stock: but as I turned to face the blood-crazed Thuggees of Kali, there was no time to split whiskers. The heathen filth swarmed the walls, and the two of us held the Fort alone.

And the Regiment? Where the blazes were those limp cowards, you roar?

The lack-lustre support was disgraceful. But it was - arguably- a consequence of my own action.

For the sake of factual accuracy and historical record, I consult my diary...

On expulsion from Kandahar Fort

November 1st, Kandahar Fort

Having mistakenly shot the Garrison's Mascot (an irritating goat), I fall victim to devilish prejudice. My superior - Quartermaster Longfellow - in a fit of unreason - dispatches me, as punishment, to scour the district for supplies and larder. A miserable task for a Gentleman.

The half-witted cheer of my Ghurka cavalry, and Sturgeon's skittish antics, spare me despondency...and yet...

...how I miss my fair Abigail.

November 2nd, Kandahar, District of Keethvaz,

The local Chief-turban says there is no wheat, rice or tobacco in the whole region. The Thuggees have confiscated all! But as he still possesses a few cartloads of Finest Poppy, I disburse the Queens Tender and move swiftly on.

November 3rd, Kandahar, District of Monikalee

To my confounded surprise it appears yet again that the Thuggee has appropriated all consumables bar the Brown Sugar! So, a trifle discomforted, we fill our pallets and sally forth...

November 4th, Kandahar, District of Preetipatel

Not Again! Chief Turban gives us the self-same runaround! Dammit man, though fully provisioned with Opiates, we are still absent edible Squaddie-tuck! Quartermaster Longfellow will not be impressed...

November 5th, Kandahar, District of Snyde-bhoona

Find the toad MacPartout... etc. etc.


---------------- Okay lets skip forward a few weeks ------------------


December 1st, Kandahar Fort

On return, an unfortunate misunderstanding occurs.

After 4 long hungry weeks, Fort Kandahar erupts in starved celebration at my return; but the ferocity of their exult, brings mental pause...

I could not, in all conscience, dismiss their cheer with the nonchalance of a Frenchman. To protect their sapped morale, I made a soldiers choice, and declare a virtuous untruth.

I announce that we have procured ample oatmeal for the garrison. It was an inaccurate description of the manifest, but such is the burden of leadership.

I assumed of course, that Quartermaster Longfellow would examine the stock with professional zeal. But the prejudiced fool neglected his duty and murdered the regiment.

December 2nd, Kandahar Fort

Due to a sickening display of feminine weakness, the Garrison has fallen into a Morphine-Coma!

With disgusting greed those supposed Knights of Victoria fell like gluttons upon Longfellow's toothsome Smack. As they suckled - so he pushed heedlessly the Heathen Horse!

Unconscionable weakness amongst the soldiery!

And having grown womanish in their month long's indolence, the Gruel's spice brought sleep, and then death upon the regiment.

So only I, The Drowned Man, mildly-addled by this Oriental Breakfast of Hallucinogenic Porridge, faced the Rabid Cult alone.

 ...to be continued....