User:Boxcar Ego

A Most Illicit Breakfast He was awoken by the potent odour of hickory-smoked porpoise. It was an overwhelming stench, so strong he could practically taste the contraband. The baron stirred. He had had his doubts about this “Alan” lad, but once again his incredulity was dashed against the rocks like so many water bound lemmings. The phonograph began to play "1812".

Baron Widdershins oscillated across his cot- a careful, cautious maneuveur. His feet, encased in polished ebony shoes, poked and prodded around the floor, searching. A rust-coloured ropelike object slid over his right heel in a sudden flash, disappearing beneath the mattress. Widdershins froze, his eyes narrowed. He steadily yarded his arm across the surface of the massive cot, and then slipped it into the darkness below. The rope took the bait. With a sudden hiss it shot forward, latching onto its five-armed prey. The baron grinned, and pulled his hand out into the half-light of the room.

The snake squirmed and twisted around his arm, whipping its body about in quick, lightning movements. Its fangs were buried deep within Widdershins’ subterranean pale skin, pumping a viscous liquid deep into his veins. Widdershins brought the creature closer to his face, and, with his free hand, groped around for his spectacles. Ah, there they were. His eyesight improved, he studied the rope. Yes, just as he thought- a diamondback rattler. The serpent writhed helplessly. “Oh, do come off it already,” Widdershins said, clipped.

He steadily pried the fangs out of his arm. The puncture marks were deep indeed, two penetrating holes as precise as an ore mining operation. Widdershins clicked his tongue and, with a flick of the old strangling-limb, launched the serpent through the air. It twirled and twirled, putting any common Olympian to shame. Widdershins observed the trajectory with a certain amusement. The serpent finally pirouetted into the wall with a resounding thwack. It dropped to the ground, twitching. The good baron sighed and arose steadily. He promptly fell out of his bed, which, as he had evidently forgotten to note, was located on the ceiling. Escher, he thought, when will you cease?

“Alan, retrieve the flask and two litres of pomegranate juice, if you please.” There was a frantic scurrying below the floorboards, a harsh, agonized scream, and the steel screech of industrial power tools. More screaming followed. Widdershins rubbed his neck absentmindedly, and set about eliminating the wrinkles from his coat. He reached for his cane, an elaborate time-worn thing, embellished with arcane symbols and what could very well be blood. He tapped it in time to the phonograph, which was still pulsating with Tchaikovsky. Da da da da da da da da da da…

The trapdoor flung open with a brief creak. Widdershins glanced up with a look of half-interest and said, “Ah, there you are my boy. I thought the pomegranate was already deceased.” A tiny head poked out through the opening. “나는 그것을 죽였다. 그것은 죽는다. 수박보다는, 그렇다 그렇다 나아지십시요?” Widdershins stared at the head and said, “Alan, I don’t understand Korean.” Alan muttered, tossed the flask into Widdershins’ hands, and popped back out of sight with a slam of the hatch.

The baron held the flask up to a nearby candle. Its crimson contents swirled and sloshed with each slight movement of Widdershins’ hand. He positioned it directly above the wicker flame. “Culinary skullduggery, yth’tsu rotunda, pithy rosary, tepid aviary,” he chanted. The flask, now in direct contact with the flame, began to heat up. Widdershins rocked back and forth slowly, as if in a trance. “Pious jingo, petulant tango, rin-tin-tin.” His eyes were closed now, and the glass was cracking under the pressure. “Rickshaw cacophony, ungulate tragedy, Windsor promises.” The flask was vibrating violently, as if being pulled in all four cardinals by ghostly magnetism.

Widdershins snapped to attention, his back rigid. He raised the flask high above his head, and with one swift stroke, shattered it on his injured limb. The pomegranate juice seeped into his pores quickly, spreading across the width and breadth of the arm and funneling into the serpent’s handiwork. Widdershins shivered in anticipation as the salve coursed through his veins, purifying the venom within. His body contorted wildly, but there was no pain, only sheer pleasure-fantastic, wonderful pleasure. It was positively orgasmic. Vibrant images flashed before his eyes, strange, distorted scenes of slaughter and rhinoplasty.

Widdershins grinned a grinny grin and cried, “Alan, that porpoise smells absolutely delicious!” The ancient grandfather clock stroke 5:00 AM. Two hours had passed since the serpent, and Widdershins now sat down to savour the first meal of the day. Alan dashed about with cutlery in hand, hastily and yet oh so meticulously placing them down on the yellowing tablecloth. Alan was a tiny, disheveled boy of about ten. Or six. Widdershins could never tell with these. He had come into the baron’s ownership two months ago, as reparation for a rather troublesome incident with the corpulent mayor of Istanbul. Widdershins had recently misplaced his Vietnamese child at the time and was in the market for fresh new labour.

This Alan was a remarkable find, by all accounts: Agile, staunch, handy with a blade, not to mention a chef of some caliber. His virtues were myriad. Widdershins sipped his tea. Aye, and this meal he has prepared! Truly a marvel to behold! Porpoise was notoriously scarce these days, what with its position on the vaunted “endangered species list”. Its rarity made it all the more succulent. He had sampled bald eagle, giant panda, even the Brazilian man-vole in his time, but this porpoise was truly top-notch black market cuisine. The meat was slick and nourishing, the skin just sturdy enough to make for a fair tortilla substitute. It conjured up childhood memories for the baron, days of yore spent harpooning mighty leviathans among the tribes of the Arctic. Widdershins was jolted out of his reverie by Alan’s unintelligible gibberish.

“Yes yes, what is it? Has the existentialist made his plea for refuge and solace?”

“그는 구걸하고 구걸하고, 흐느껴 우고 흐느껴 우다. 그 아직에게서 정보, 아니오.” “Again, I am at a complete loss as to your dialect. Let us be concise for a blink. Has he mentioned the policy yet?” “그렇다 그렇다 남작, 그는 통과안에 저것을 언급했다. 우리가 돈이 거짓 맹세 도로에 떨어뜨리는 그것을 모을 수 있는다 것 을 말한다.” Widdershins rapped his spindly fingers on the table and said, “Perjury Road, you say? And it has been paid for in full?” Alan kicked his heels together and gestured angrily. “Of course it has. I would not doubt it, not after that bout with the prawn. I suppose we should be off, then. Fetch the flame’s draught.”

The diminutive Korean nodded and dashed into the back room. Widdershins dabbed the corners of his mouth with his monogrammed napkin, took a swig from the glass of wine, (30 January, 1661-A fine year, he thought) and straightened his suit. He trotted over to the nearby bureau and flung open the doors. The bureau was absolutely barren except for a lone carton of fine hashish cigarettes, courtesy of the Emir, and the complementary lighter. Widdershins pocketed both. He studied the room, as sparsely decorated as it was, with a certain pity. Pity the flame wouldn’t have more to consume. Still, it would manage to garner a sizeable amount of gob if the existentialist’s words rang true. It should be enough to cover his considerable debt, and perhaps convince Child Services to look the other way and twiddle their thumbs.

Alan entered the room grunting under the strain of his load. Upon his back lay two massive cartons of pure, undiluted petroleum. Widdershins clapped his hands together in anticipation. “Splendid. You know what to do, lad. Remember the pattern I taught you last time around.” Alan placed one of the cartons on the floor and lifted the other over his shoulder with titanic effort. The clasp, which had already been loosened beforehand, unhooked itself in gravity’s wake. The thick film of the petrol oozed its way out of its prison, cascading onto the ground as Alan began pacing about the building on his flammable errand. Widdershins tossed his cane into the air, caught it deftly, and twirled in joy. He walked out the front door, humming.

The deed done, ever-efficient Alan let the second carton fall. He stood back and admired the brilliant execution of it all. Every last inch of the house was covered in the tar-like stuff, every boiler, every crouton, every last of those god-awful Russian nesting dolls. The baron would be so very proud of him. Maybe he’d be rewarded with only twenty lashings this time. He giggled gleefully and ran out after his master.

“As we marched down to Fenario~ as we marched down to Fenario~ Our captain fell in love with a lady like a dove~ And the name she was called was pretty Peggy-o,” Widdershins sang softly to himself. He paused and lit a cigarette. He drew from it deeply, with great satisfaction. “Come go along with me, Pretty Peggy-o~ Come go along with me, Pretty Peggy-o~ In coaches you will ride with your true love by your side~ Just as grand as any lady in the areo.” Alan appeared on the verge on the doorway, bobbing in his delight. Widdershins motioned to him to come forward, and Alan complied. Widdershins never looked down at the boy, but handed him the ornately engraved lighter. He knew what to do.

“What would your mother think, pretty Peggy-o~ What would your mother think, pretty Peggy-o~ What would your mother think for to hear the guineas clink~ And the soldiers all a-marching before you-o?” Alan kneeled in front of the outermost trail of petrol. “You’re the man that I adore, Handsome Willi-o~ You’re the man that I adore, Handsome Willi-o~ You’re the man that I adore, but your fortune is too low~ I’m afraid my mother would be angry-o.” The lighter clicked back and forth, summoning its blazing minion. Alan placed the edge of the flame over the foul surface of the pool. “Come a-tripping down the stairs, Pretty Peggy-o~ Come a-tripping down the stairs, Pretty Peggy-o~ Come a-tripping down the stair, tie up your yellow hair~ Bid a last farewell to handsome Willi-o.” The petrol took to the spark, and the yellow-red tempest ignited.

Alan bolted out of the soon to be ex-building. Widdeshins looked on fondly, taking another drag of his hashish. “If I ever return, Pretty Peggy-o~ If I ever return, Pretty Peggy-o~ If I ever return, the city I will burn~ And destroy all the ladies in the areo.” The inferno reached its glorious crescendo. A horrifying screech echoed from somewhere within as the last symphony took its curtain call. The roof was the first to go. It was beautiful, majestic. Widdershins did not know whether it was the chemicals in the air or sincere emotion, but his eyes welled up just a tad.

“Our captain, he is dead, Pretty Peggy-o~ Our captain, he is dead, Pretty Peggy-o~ Our captain he is dead, he died for a maid~ And he’s buried in Louisiana county-o…” Alan tugged on Baron Widdershins’ debris-stained sleeve furtively. “Hm? Ah, the insurance company. It nearly slipped my cerebellum. Perjury Road, was it?” Alan stared butter knifes at his companion. “I jest, I jest,” Widdershins said, “I know precisely where it is. I must say, Alan, I will surely miss my dear cousin. He was such the gracious host. That’s one less Christmas card, at the very least.”

Widdershins grimaced as if ran through with a cutlass. “Alan, you did retrieve my hat, did you not?” The boy reached behind a shattered life-size porcelain cat on the front lawn, and proudly presented the baron with his beloved headgear. It was a luxurious felt top hat of the Victorian style. Widdershins donned it with a sigh of relief. All was well, for he knew where his hat was at. An alert and enterprising look glimmered in Widdershins’ eyes. It was high time to spread some good cheer.

Perhaps he would go pinch a policeman’s helmet. He was in just the right mood.