In this next episode, our prim and proper couple host afternoon tea with a distinguished acquaintance. Catch the earlier episodes here and here
The Repressives Entertain
Pressensia’s hand hovered over the porcelain sugar dish. “One lump or two, Colonel Muskgrave?”
The corpulent officer nodded to her. “Five, if you would, my dear Mrs. Repressive. I’m trying to cut back.”
“Ah, dietary restraint is the hallmark of the civilized individual,” commented the elegant lady of the house, an enormous stuffed Amazonian duck perched on her hat, threatening to fall of at any moment and squash the petite-fours. She dropped the Caribbean-grown sugar into his tea.
“Speaking of civilized individuals,” remarked Clod, his walrus mustachio waggling in anticipation, “Please regale us with your latest military exploits in deepest, darkest Africa.” Clod puffed away on his Cuban cigar.
The Colonel’s superior sized baleen mustachio rocked violently in response. “Of course, of course old chap. As we speak, my fleet of native servants are organizing and unloading my collection of animal parts, trophies and stuffed witchdoctors in my Hystoria Hotel suite. They do so make for a cozy atmosphere.” Clod and Prissy nodded in polite agreement.
“Won’t the native tribes miss their witchdoctors?” asked Clod.
“I doubt it. We killed all of them too. Far too many to stuff, of course. They were in the way, you see. Our regiments’ officers were on safari, hunting Gnu’s, to pass the time, and the blighters kept getting in our way. Whole villages right in our path! Well, what else could one do?”
“Oh, very sensible,” remarked Prissensia, as she sipped her Ceylon tea.
“Indeed,” commented Clod, the ash from his cigar settling on the Indian-made porcelain butter dish. “These natives are just lazy lay-abouts. They should be grateful to be part of the Empire. Why, most of them wouldn’t even know what shoes were, if it weren’t for us.”
“Here, here,” ejaculated the Colonel in agreement. “See these boots,” as he held up one of his own legs, “Real African Crocodile!”
“Did you shoot it yourself?” asked Prissy.
“Oh no. Far too dangerous. I killed several chieftains who wore crocodile skin and had them sown together. Saved myself an infinity of trouble, you see. Very clever, these chieftains.”
“Don’t these uncouth natives try and defend themselves?” asked Clod conversationally.
“Well, they’re mostly armed only with sharpened fruit and wicker baskets. Complete amateurs in the theater of war. Why, one of our men was almost impaled with a particularly sharp banana, during the last campaign. Can you imagine? The ignominy of being subdued by produce. It was almost too much for him to bear.”
“How horrid,” exclaimed Prissy.
“Indeed. Well, of course we gave them the option of indentured servitude before we decimated their kiwi-bearing warriors, but I don’t think the translator was able to convey that clearly. Pity. They would have made great factory workers. Small hands, you see.”
“What a pity, indeed,” said Prissensia, sympathetically. “Don’t they know we offer then a lifestyle far more advanced than their own?” With a negligent hand, she absentmindedly adjusted the blooming-dead flowers in her Ming vase. ‘The coral colored flowers and jade carvings set each other off, so well,’ she thought to herself.
“Well,” said Clod, “As least the natives have taken to moral religion, instead of all that superstition and heathenism. Saved their souls from eternal perdition, that’s what I say.” Clod looked down and noticed his Mason’s ring which had been inadvertently smeared with a small amount of jam from his scone. He surreptitiously polished it with his napkin.
The Colonel smiled broadly, his mustachio splitting in twain. “Did I tell you how our chaplain singlehandedly converted an entire city of aboriginals? Yes, his bout with smallpox killed off most of them (after they’d been baptized, of course), and the few that remained, he convinced to build him a church on their old burial ground. Quite the coup for Christianity. Speaking of which, I’d like to congratulate you on your Egyptian obelisk. Is it real?”
“Oh, yes,” said Clod. “From the tomb of Ramses the II. Quite the acquisition. We obtained it from the British Museum, after they rescued a whole cartload of relics from some shady Arabs who came to London.”
“Traders?” asked The Colonel politely.
“Antiquarians, I believe” replied Clod. “Shifty lot, these Arabs. Trying to get money for starting a museum in Cairo. In Cairo!”
Colonel Muskgrave snorted derisively. “As if camel riders could appreciate the value of ancient cultures.”
Prissensia nodded calmly. “I do agree, good Colonel. But it’s not just savages who don’t appreciate the past. The Reprehensibles, two doors down. They purchased a mummified cat from the tomb of Khufu. And do you know what they did with it?”
“Do tell, good lady.”
“Chastity ground it into a powder, and is now using it as a tonic. Apparently Victor is getting on in years.”
“Shocking! How uncouth!” exclaimed the outraged soldier, sipping his tea, calmly.
“Indeed, we purchased one too, but we’ve been much more sensible,” noted Prissy.
“Oh yes,” agreed Clod, “We use ours as a doorstop.”
The corpulent officer nodded to her. “Five, if you would, my dear Mrs. Repressive. I’m trying to cut back.”
“Ah, dietary restraint is the hallmark of the civilized individual,” commented the elegant lady of the house, an enormous stuffed Amazonian duck perched on her hat, threatening to fall of at any moment and squash the petite-fours. She dropped the Caribbean-grown sugar into his tea.
“Speaking of civilized individuals,” remarked Clod, his walrus mustachio waggling in anticipation, “Please regale us with your latest military exploits in deepest, darkest Africa.” Clod puffed away on his Cuban cigar.
The Colonel’s superior sized baleen mustachio rocked violently in response. “Of course, of course old chap. As we speak, my fleet of native servants are organizing and unloading my collection of animal parts, trophies and stuffed witchdoctors in my Hystoria Hotel suite. They do so make for a cozy atmosphere.” Clod and Prissy nodded in polite agreement.
“Won’t the native tribes miss their witchdoctors?” asked Clod.
“I doubt it. We killed all of them too. Far too many to stuff, of course. They were in the way, you see. Our regiments’ officers were on safari, hunting Gnu’s, to pass the time, and the blighters kept getting in our way. Whole villages right in our path! Well, what else could one do?”
“Oh, very sensible,” remarked Prissensia, as she sipped her Ceylon tea.
“Indeed,” commented Clod, the ash from his cigar settling on the Indian-made porcelain butter dish. “These natives are just lazy lay-abouts. They should be grateful to be part of the Empire. Why, most of them wouldn’t even know what shoes were, if it weren’t for us.”
“Here, here,” ejaculated the Colonel in agreement. “See these boots,” as he held up one of his own legs, “Real African Crocodile!”
“Did you shoot it yourself?” asked Prissy.
“Oh no. Far too dangerous. I killed several chieftains who wore crocodile skin and had them sown together. Saved myself an infinity of trouble, you see. Very clever, these chieftains.”
“Don’t these uncouth natives try and defend themselves?” asked Clod conversationally.
“Well, they’re mostly armed only with sharpened fruit and wicker baskets. Complete amateurs in the theater of war. Why, one of our men was almost impaled with a particularly sharp banana, during the last campaign. Can you imagine? The ignominy of being subdued by produce. It was almost too much for him to bear.”
“How horrid,” exclaimed Prissy.
“Indeed. Well, of course we gave them the option of indentured servitude before we decimated their kiwi-bearing warriors, but I don’t think the translator was able to convey that clearly. Pity. They would have made great factory workers. Small hands, you see.”
“What a pity, indeed,” said Prissensia, sympathetically. “Don’t they know we offer then a lifestyle far more advanced than their own?” With a negligent hand, she absentmindedly adjusted the blooming-dead flowers in her Ming vase. ‘The coral colored flowers and jade carvings set each other off, so well,’ she thought to herself.
“Well,” said Clod, “As least the natives have taken to moral religion, instead of all that superstition and heathenism. Saved their souls from eternal perdition, that’s what I say.” Clod looked down and noticed his Mason’s ring which had been inadvertently smeared with a small amount of jam from his scone. He surreptitiously polished it with his napkin.
The Colonel smiled broadly, his mustachio splitting in twain. “Did I tell you how our chaplain singlehandedly converted an entire city of aboriginals? Yes, his bout with smallpox killed off most of them (after they’d been baptized, of course), and the few that remained, he convinced to build him a church on their old burial ground. Quite the coup for Christianity. Speaking of which, I’d like to congratulate you on your Egyptian obelisk. Is it real?”
“Oh, yes,” said Clod. “From the tomb of Ramses the II. Quite the acquisition. We obtained it from the British Museum, after they rescued a whole cartload of relics from some shady Arabs who came to London.”
“Traders?” asked The Colonel politely.
“Antiquarians, I believe” replied Clod. “Shifty lot, these Arabs. Trying to get money for starting a museum in Cairo. In Cairo!”
Colonel Muskgrave snorted derisively. “As if camel riders could appreciate the value of ancient cultures.”
Prissensia nodded calmly. “I do agree, good Colonel. But it’s not just savages who don’t appreciate the past. The Reprehensibles, two doors down. They purchased a mummified cat from the tomb of Khufu. And do you know what they did with it?”
“Do tell, good lady.”
“Chastity ground it into a powder, and is now using it as a tonic. Apparently Victor is getting on in years.”
“Shocking! How uncouth!” exclaimed the outraged soldier, sipping his tea, calmly.
“Indeed, we purchased one too, but we’ve been much more sensible,” noted Prissy.
“Oh yes,” agreed Clod, “We use ours as a doorstop.”
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