Michael Edwards
"You know, what I like best about the Shakespeare controversy is when they call him The Bloke From Stratford - that humanizes him you see. And the reason is because it removes him from the ether and places him somewhere in the nether," Josephus Cuntilever told everyone present. Lady M. Pire slapped the chap next to her on her right to express displeasure with the wording of her host's exegesis. "Reason is because indeed!" she spat at Sir Edmund Dintletwitch to her left. She was roundly applauded for having finally made up her mind.
Cuntilever being the cleverest academic in the room waited till the applause died down before resuming his thesis. "Everyone who is man or beast knows perfectly well it was Elizabeth herself who wrote the Shakespeare plays but she couldn't very well be her own patron you see. Someone recommended the Earl de Vere since he was the unofficial Court Poet but no, she said, and the reason was because he had knocked up one of her Ladies in Waiting, fairy or not."
The little fat man to her right prepared for yet another slap but Lady M. Pire shrugged this time since 'was' was used instead of 'is' so it became someone else's problem
Meanwhile Cuntilever continued with his thesis, telling his fellow academics that Elizabeth instructed her courtiers to find her "a bloke from outside the Court, a mere commoner, who the world will honor as the greatest playwright who ever lived and the reason will be because -"
Here two astounding things happened simultaneously, the Lady M. Pire again refrained from slapping her little fat seat mate, muttering how "will be" has yet to occur so it will be another's problem. Even more astounding, Cuntilever lost his train of thought and when he regained it he said "is" in place of "will be" - "The reason is because the Tudor line will die out and I have no wish to have another dynasty credit itself with your Virgin Queen's great achievement."
The world knew - how could it not - that the Lady M. Pire would, upon hearing "is" where her ears anticipated a "will be," strike out in retaliation of the infelicity. This time the little fat man was unprepared.
Some men's noses grow when they lie as all men know. This little fat man's "thing" grew whenever he was slapped by a strong woman. As it so happened he always managed to be seated to the right of Lady M. Pire at these weekly academic seminars. His "thing" was rumored to be reaching the two foot mark. In truth his name was never mentioned again in the Academic Community from the day he quit teaching to pursue a career as a pornographic star, a career short lived when it was learned he was impotent.
The International Rescue Team managed to identify all 700 children when their orphanage was blown to bits by an 18 thousand pound bomb manufactured somewhere to the West. These orphans were said to be harboring a terrorist. "No civilian casualties appear to have occurred." The Western Press applauded the army's restraint in limiting their attack to one 18 thousand pound bomb. Major universities had to be shut down when scores of students demanded a full scale investigation. The International Rescue Team, on their way to testify, all died when their plane missed the runway and crashed into Mount Rushmore, completely knocking the nose off a famous President. The Law Making Body where the bomb was made concluded after a full half hour's investigation that the International Rescue Team was an arm of a militant wing and the bomb they were carrying exploded prematurely. A Fund-Me terrible militant in their basement and a militant terrorist in their broom closet. Even the infants were implicated.
"When someone is accused of treachery by a reliable source, we must investigate before the situation becomes a threat to our national security," the Ruling Body said in a statement read over all the airwaves. "We can state with certainty that a body was recovered in the vacant building on our Southern border." It was further reported that steps were being initiated to replace the fallen nose of the famous President - which certainly allowed the nation to rest easy knowing the really important things were looked into.
As if all that were not enough proof, there was something odd about one of the arms found in the rubble. "It's a terrorist arm if ever there was one," it was concluded. "You can just see the maniacal hatred in what's left of it."
"Rather small for a terrorist," the resident skeptic suggested.
"That can only mean one thing: it was the infamous dwarf that's been posing as an orphan. Got him dead to rights this time! He won't be hurling no more Molotov Cocktails at decent citizens!"
Cuntilever began bringing three old Hags with him to his Academy's weekly seminars. "The reason is because," he explained their first visit, much to the consternation of a certain Lady M. Pire, "these witches have promised to assist my search for definitive proof of Elizabeth's authorship of the Shakespearean plays."
Many there expressed doubt about three has been witches possibly knowing anything of Elizabethan Theatre; but were cautioned they could be charmed into believing themselves damsels in distress.
"Do they have names?" it was asked.
"Indeed so," Cuntilever assured his fellow academics.
"Then why haven't they introduced themselves? Did their black cat get their tongues?"
"They are shy about such things, that's all. They see names as others see underclothes; so to say their names is tantamount to removing one's undies."
"Tell them they are free to remove their undies," said the little fat man. "And if no one objects I could do likewise."
Of course the Lady M. Pire strongly objected.
"So what are their names - Winken Blinken and Nod?" Sir Edmund Dintletwitch asked to much laughter.
"Winken Blinken and Jake," Cuntilever corrected his colleague.
"Jake? Not Nod?" huffed a scandalized Lady M. Pire. "Why, I know many who would kill for a chance at just such a name. Why only yesterday in the Capitol Dome the Speaker offered a handsome reward for anyone who could legitimately procure for him that very name; and placed a bounty on the head of anyone along the Egyptian border with that name or any derivation thereof."
"So why Jake?" someone thought to ask before the third Hag wound up with a bullet in her brain and buried in a pauper's grave for wont of proper identity.
"The reason is because she sees herself as a teenage punk rocker on a motorbike snorting coke and sipping Pepsi as she beats off her way across country."
Wow! thought the little fat man: small world!
"Will you take a sabbatical?" Cuntilever was asked.
He was only half listening and misunderstood. Thinking the reference to Black Sabboth, he assured his fellow academicians he would do whatever it took, even if it meant going to the ends of the earth or taking unholy sacraments.
"Spoken as a true Elizabethan1" his Dean observed.
The Circus is in town. "That's where I'm headed," the little fat man announced to his Dean.
It was a bit of a journey for him getting to the Capitol in time to catch the first act; but he made it. He sat among the dignitaries. The house lights went down. The stage began brightening. The show was beginning.
A command performance of the Cirque d'Pornyay.
The Speaker of the House and his Whip had set it all up. "I've always wished we could have a real circus right here where we work so I don't have to get all dressed up just to see some clowns," the Speaker said. His Whip seconded that sentiment. The two of them, before the house lights went down, were intently watching the three Hags accompanying Cuntiliver, who had also decided to take a peak at the Cirque he had heard so much about from his fellow academics.
"I've seen those Hags before," the Speaker told his Whip, who prodded him for details.
"Where was that? Was it at a rally?"
"No, as I recall it was a play."
"Oh, which play was it?"
The Speaker shrugged. "Who knows: it was a play, they're all alike. Something about McDonalds, I think."
"Then they were cooks, these Hags!"
"Could have been: I know they were boiling water. But as I recall they weren't very good at it. They found it a lot of 'toil and trouble' - their exact words."
"You gotta be French to boil you up a good batch of water," the Whip opined. "Take that guy with the hump back: now there was a real champ at boiling water. But then he goes and spills it all down the wall."
"Typical French!" the Speaker concluded.
The lights were down. The Circus began. They came out dressed in their finest circus outfits, which they proceeded to remove one piece at a time.
"Don't they usually do that after the show, backstage?" the Speaker asked his Whip, who was so intent on the performance he failed to respond. So he repeated his question much louder but was shushed by those around him, especially the little fat man, who had managed to secure a front row seat.
Meanwhile Cuntilever whispered to the three Hags why they had begun their quest here of all places. But the Hags shushed him.
The Speaker told his Whip in a much lower tone that he felt the performance inappropriate for a place all citizens looked upon with great solemn reverence, adding that he did think the players were quite good and very well suited to their jobs.
The little fat man could no longer contain himself and shouted out "You ain't seen nothin' yet! Just wait till I join 'em!"
"Well if you're that good why haven't you already joined them?" the Speaker asked.
"I'm waiting for my solicitor to look over their contract," came the reply.
"Solicitor?" the Speaker huffed. "What's wrong with a good old red blooded American lawyer?"
"I don't trust 'em!" the little fat man came right out with.
"Most of my colleagues are lawyers," the Speaker rejoined.
"I rest my case," the little fat man let slip, a costly slip that nearly kept him from Ethiopia permanently.
As it happened, Ethiopia was the seventh stop on the itinerary the three Hags had planned for Cuntilever. Just by pure chance the first six happened to be on the Cirque's tour schedule.
As soon as the performance ended, to a standing ovation, the Speaker returned to his podium and banged his gavel, a genuine reproduction of the original gavel the first Chief Justice bestowed upon the first Speaker just before the first Executive gave the first State of the Union address. Not understanding its true purpose, this first Speaker used it to bang the first Executive over the head when the address had gone on long enough. After that unfortunate incident the first Speaker was trained in the proper use of his gavel. It took him only a month to get the hang of it, a feat never repeated since.
"We must all get down on our knees and pray to God for this lovely Circus, then for forgiveness for our enthusiasm." Here, to authenticate his enjoinment, the Speaker spat in his special spittoon, after which he adjourned for the evening.
As it happened the Lady M. Pire had business at the Big Bank on Wall Street, otherwise she would not have been in New York at the right time to catch a special performance of the Cirque d'Pornyay. With the Lady was Sir Edmund Dintletwitch, who if truth be told only agreed to accompany her hoping to get a little. He of course had no idea he would end up the center of an international diplomatic imbroglio. The Lady specifically had a document she wished to have certified by the Bank's International Teller.
"Ah madam," the obsequious Teller exclaimed, "it is indeed a pleasure to see you!" Actually the Teller had mistaken the Lady for the Star of the Cirque, who was also a strong woman with a fine backhand.
She at once thrust the document in his outstretched hand. "I need this certified," she told the Teller. "I'll be going abroad shortly."
"Of course," the Teller, taking the document, agreed. "And will Madam be at this evening's performance?"
Here Sir Edmund braved to answer for the good Lady "We wouldn't miss it for the world."
"A word of caution," the Teller lowered his voice to relate. "There's been a little fat groupie hanging around the theater all afternoon. New York's finest say he's harmless - but do be careful."
"We will indeed," Sir Edmund acknowledged the warning.
"I say," Sir Edmund said when they were out of ear range, "who are these 'New York's finest' I wonder."
"The Police, I believe. Though I don't know why it would concern us."
The Lady and her escort went in style. First they rented a limousine; then they donned their best evening attire. On their way in, they happened upon Josephus Cuntilever and his three old Hags.
"I figured you'd be on your way to the UK by now," Sir Edmund speculated. "Why are you here?"
"The reason is because my three Hags felt we might locate some important document or two at the New York Public Library." In a lower voice he informed his academic associates that "they mispronounced it as 'Pubic Library.' And they're even from this very state! Buffalo I believe."
"Do tell!" exclaimed Sir Edmund. "Pubic eh? I dare say where their minds are! By the bye, did you find what you were looking for at this...Pubic Library?"
"No. So we decided to come here before our next stop."
Cuntilever's linguistic faux pas, anything but lost on the Lady, prompted her usual reaction. She frankly didn't care who she slapped; but as it turned out who but the little fat groupie she and her escort had been warned about, out of the sheerest coincidence, happened to be stepping around the good Lady to get to his seat before the house lights faded. He thanked the Lady for yet again improving his chances of joining the Circus.
Meanwhile Cuntilever's three Hags were tugging at his sleeve to get inside and seated before the show began.
"I say, why are your Hags in such a huff to get going?" Sir Edmund asked his fellow academic on sabbatical.
"They think there may be some crucial document - in fact a letter signed by Elizabeth herself addressed to 'The Bloke from Stratford' stashed under stage left."
"Why on earth would they think that?"
"The reason is..." here Cuntilever trailed off. "Come to think of it I don't know."
The little fat groupie walked away, dejected and not a little pissed at Cuntilever's hesitation.
By show's end Cuntilever too was dejected, for there was nothing stashed beneath stage left - or stage right or even center stage.
The very next day Lady M. Pire and Sir Edmund Dintletwitch were on their way to Haiti, certified document in hand. The Lady owned some property in and around Port-au-Prince which certain rebel factions had mistakenly taken for their land. She needed to set matters straight, thus the need for International Certification of her Bill of Sale from France, issued by the Chequer of the Foreign Exchequer in Paramaribo.
"Yes, madam, your papers are in order," the French Chargé d'Affairs concluded.
"There's another matter I'd care to look into," Lady M. Pire then added to the discussion. "I'm looking to acquire some offshore leases in the Port-au-Prince region. Can you assist me with this matter?"
"At some point, madam, you will need to consult the Haitian Administration," the Chargé recommended.
"Why must I deal with them?" the Lady inquired. "I would have thought dealing with France would suffice."
"We must adhere to the protocol, madam, as Haiti is now something of a sovereign state," the Chargé explained in his finest diplomatic voice.
"Oh what's a little sovereignty among friends?" the Lady demurred.
"I of course agree entirely," the good Chargé understood at once his guest's dilemma. "However, the protocols do want observing. In the meantime since their Foreign Office is closed for the day, may I suggest a most delightful evening's divertissement? There has entered our fair city a special Circus, but for one performance alone - this evening at eight P.M. I can reserve seats for you and the good gentleman. What say you?"
"Oh let's do!" prompted Sir Edmund. So it was done.
As it happened, Josephus Cuntilever with his three old Hags was in attendance, as was the little fat groupie, still awaiting a post from his solicitors in London.
Certain key words in the course of conversing with his fellow academics passed Cuntilever's lips; certain actions transpired involving Lady M. Pire's right hand, the little fat groupie's face, then another part of his anatomy.
But once again the three Hags had it wrong: there was no document implicating Queen Elizabeth I's connection to Shakespeare's plays. "We were so sure this time," they confessed.
The very next day Lady M. Pire, accompanied by Sir Edmund Dintletwitch, made for the Haitian Foreign Office, asking to speak to the friendliest agent handling foreign claims upon Haitian lands.
"A thousand pardons, madam," the second friendliest agent apologized, "but our friendliest agent was mercilessly gunned down by a rebel band claiming sovereignty of all Haitian lands. I shall do my best to fill their shoes."
"Their shoes?" asked Sir Edmund. "Were there more than one friendliest agent mercilessly gunned down?"
"Oh no, good sir, fortunately only one. But they preferred the impersonal pronoun, as I'm sure you can appreciate."
"So only one casket then," Sir Edmund owned, "with a plethora of pronouns for company."
"Very well put, your lordship," the second friendliest agent complimented Sir Edmund.
"We lost our peerage in the Crimea, don't have all the details," Sir Edmund corrected the Haitian agent.
Thinking Sir Edmund had said porridge, Agent Number 2 chose not to pursue the matter further, satisfied with reminding himself that all Brits were comedians at heart.
"May I suggest to my ladyship a nice visit to the French Embassy for a more detailed analysis," the agent suggested.
"As an American I have no peerage," Lady M. Pire advised the agent.
There's the reference again to porridge, the agent thought. I'll run it by the Director. Perhaps a running joke among the Five Eyes?
"But I will take your suggestion and pay the French Embassy a little visit," the Lady decided. "Where might one find it?"
"You can't miss it: it's the big building being dismantled for return to sender."
The large sign read: Return to Sender. The Lady and Sir Edmund went at once to the Ambassador's suite, knocked, and went in. Lady M. Pire went straight to the point."
"I'm told getting an offshore lease is out of the question at the moment."
"I'm afraid so, good Lady, and good Sir," the Ambassador himself answered the inquiry.
"Surely you can pull a few strings," the good Lady hinted.
"I'm afraid, Madam, all strings have been packed away for shipment."
Sir Edmund found the Ambassador's wit jolly good, and said as much.
"I'm afraid it's more serious than that," the Ambassador was compelled to point out. "You may need to go directly to the Home Office on the Seine. I understand they have a few last minute leases on hand."
"Have you none here?" the Lady asked.
"I'm afraid no, Madam, and good Sir. You see, we're in a most delicate situation here. Specifically, we lost our land. It was taken by the descendants of the farmhands we brought with us to work the fields. Someone slipped guns into their hands thinking they could protect our plantations from the natives. But instead they joined forces and took our lands, not to mention the very nation itself.
Paris was all decked out. No one knew why. When asked, the President said simply "We're French!" The Home Office on the Seine was no exception. Strings of lights outlined the building's art deco design, and all the gargoyles wore little hats and had party favors in their little outstretched hands.
"What are we celebrating?" the President's lovely wife inquired.
"By the time Parisians have grown tired of it, we'll have come up with something," the President answered.
"Maybe it's Bastille Day," suggested one of the Cabinet Ministers.
"Best not tempt fate," cautioned the President. "The least said of that day right now the better."
"Anyway," the President added, "I hear there is a world renowned circus being set up along the Seine even as we speak."
"Then let's stop speaking," suggested the opposition leader.
It was agreed. "Last one to stop speaking is a horse's ass," blurted out one of the Cabinet Ministers before realizing the finality of his statement.
Lady M. Pire and her escort Sir Edmund Dintletwitch of course had arrived in advance of the Circus and were busily engaged in the Home Office still attempting to secure offshore Haitian leases.
"I fail to understand why these leases you have here are not ready for distributing," the good Lady asked point blank.
"There are some kinks yet to iron out," the Home Office Secretary informed his guests.
"Might we speak to whomever is ironing them out?" Lady M. asked.
"I can give you their names and address. But as our solicitors are in London, that's where you'll need to be."
This was most inconvenient for the Lady, and she said as much. "I really wasn't planning to cross the Channel -" she started to explain.
"Then perhaps madam would care to avail herself and her companion of the tunnel beneath the Channel," the Secretary suggested.
"Well if I must," the Lady admitted.
"Oh I say, it'll be ever so jolly to see the old place again," Sir Edmund added. "And rather a hoot to sneak in, as it were, from under the sea!"
On their way out, the Lady and Sir Edmund encountered the little fat groupie.
"I say old chap what are you doing here?" Sir Edmund asked.
"The circus is coming," came the eager reply. "First stop of their European Tour. Then they're off to London, Brussels, Berlin, Rome, Madrid. Then it's on to Africa! Cairo, Addis Ababa, Pretoria, possibly Kinshasa and even Kigali and Lagos before returning stateside."
"I say old bean, you plan to follow them wherever they go?" Sir Edmund asked.
"No indeed," replied the little fat groupie, "I plan to join them just as soon as my solicitors give the contract their okay."
"Oh dear me, you may have a long wait. English solicitors move at lightening speed then slow it to a crawl once they receive their fee in full."
"I've only paid half. They get the rest when they finish examining the contract. They did the first two hundred pages in a flash. They only have a hundred to go: it's an American contract, you know," the little fat groupie explained.
Sir Edmund thought this over and concluded "Then you may have their verdict just about the time you make it to Addis Ababa."
"Better late than never!"
"Yes. And had you paid in full, better never than nevermore!"
"That too is fine - just as long as Cuntilever is around to give us plenty of reasons. And of course so long as Lady M. is seated next to me," the groupie resolved. "By the way," he added, "are you planning to attend the Circus?"
"Madam has yet to decide," Sir Edmund said.
In fact Lady M. and Sir Edmund did indeed attend. Strangely, though, the little fat groupie was nowhere to be found the evening of the performance. He was detained for questioning regarding sexual abuse and drug activity.
But as it happened Cuntilever and his three old Hags were present. As he explained to Lady M. and Sir Edmund, his Hags had gotten a tip from one of their contacts, code name Quasimodo, that the very document he was seeking had been in a crypt beneath the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Cuntilever and his Hags were headed there right after tonight's performance to locate the crypt.
And while Cuntilever and his three old Hags were pleasantly entertained on the banks of the Seine, the little fat groupie was being arraigned before a magistrate in downtown Paris.
"You are complicit," the magistrate was reading him the charges. "You are guilty of hypothetical pedophilia - the worst kind. Had there been minors in performance, when you exposed yourself before those on stage, you would have likewise exposed yourself to these minors as well had they been there. We cannot ignore a crime of this magnitude here in France, the very cradle of civilization. And you, sir, have rocked the cradle!"
"You didn't read me my rights!" the little fat groupie delivered the coup de grace.
"You have none," remarked the Magistrate. "If you think you're in Moscow or some other barbaric place, this, sir, is France! Viva la France!"
The magistrate, after a solemn patriotic moment, read out the remaining charges. "You, sir, are hereby charged with drug trafficking. It has been established that illicit sex is always accompanied by illicit drugs."
"You have no evidence of that," the little fat defendant pointed out, again in the manner of delivering his coup de grace.
"This is quite true, sir. However, in the absence of actual evidence, we must defer to the hypothetical properties of the statue."
In truth, the magistrate badly misspoke, though unfortunately the defendant failed to pick it up: he said "statue" where he meant to say "statute." Had he a keener ear to accents, he could have had all charges against him dropped on the stop (so much for coups de grace!).
"Are there any more complicities?" the little fat groupie cum defendant inquired.
"Sir, this is France! Viva la France!" A moment's silence. "We have more complicities than were ever seen in your philosophy, Horatio!" the Magistrate proudly announced.
This last volley was not lost on the defendant. Although again he lost another coup de grace: his name was not Horatio so he clearly was not the man they were looking for. At any rate, he resolved that when again encountering his fellow academician Cuntilever, he would suggest looking here in the Certé for his missing documentation - information he chose to keep to himself lest his associate on sabbatical become somehow complicit - complicity being a regular past time in La Belle Francé.
Instead, he asked the magistrate if he might now consult his solicitors. He was told yes, he might, at which point he took his leave, turned, and left, walking clear of Paris and all the way to London via the brand new tunnel, which though currently closed to motor traffic was perfectly acceptable for pedestrian traffic.
The little fat groupie cum defendant cum escapee had failed to inform the French authorities that his solicitors were in London; and that, owing to their being on Page 73 of the French Terrorist List, they dared not set foot in La Belle Francé. So what choice did he have but to make his way to London?
He had also failed to inform Cuntilever of his suspicions regarding the whereabouts of Elizabeth's document - a failing he chalked up to his need to contact his solicitors, Elkins and Pemberly. To his great dismay both had been arrested and were being held in the Tower of London. They were at the top of Page 730 of England's Most Wanted Terrorist List. To make matters worse, the newly crowned King of England had also made the Terrorist watch List, Page 2001, for having Elkins and Pemberly for his backup solicitors; otherwise he would have issued a Royal Pardon. The three passed their time playing whist and drinking ale, reminiscing better days, and singing long forgotten drinking songs and every once in a while questioning the newly elected Prime Minister's loyalty to the Crown, Elkins even going so far as to intimate His Majesty's possible regret in hindsight at having opened this session of Parliament, since the King's arrest was the first order of business.
"Oh dear," expressed solicitor Elkins. "And I did so wish to see the Circus - it's coming, you know, day after tomorrow. To Piccadilly. The Globe is booked. The P.M. is giving a big speech about something or another of great importance to his supporters."
Just then a little fat groupie burst into their cell.
"I say," pronounced the King, "this is a private club."
"I must speak with my solicitors," the groupie explained. "It's urgent."
"Do you have an appointment?" asked Pemberly.
"I was hoping to dispense with formalities."
"My good man," the King beat both Elkins and Pemberly to the chase, "this is Britain. We can no more dispense with formalities than we could refuse a nice cup of tea in the afternoon."
A dejected little fat groupie cum defendant cum escapee turned to go. As he did, the King asked if he might take them with him.
"And does His Highness and his solicitors have an appointment?" the little fat intruder asked.
"He's got us there," the King told his solicitors.
But before he could even get out the cell, the intruder's British reserve and resolve softened.
"I do it seems have some free time," he told the three terrorists. "Will fifteen minutes do it?"
"Too bad we don't have British minutes to accompany our British pound: this is a bit rushing it," all three terrorists agreed. "However, if we don't dawdle, we just might make a jolly good escape!"
So it was done. On the way out the intruder told the night watchman the three terrorists had been summoned to late evening tea and crumpets with the Prime Minister.
"Do make it decaf," the night watchman, clearly of American origin, insisted. "I don't want my prisoners wandering about like insomniacs - and they're my best prisoners: no trouble at all."
"I say old chap, do we sign out?" the King asked.
"No. We're not that formal around here."
The terrorists nodded at one another, each thinking the same thought: Indeed an American!, making mental notes to report this watchman for his lacsidasical attitude. "Not formal indeed!" they huffed.
The little fat groupie led the three fugitives from justice directly to Piccadilly Circus to catch the late evening performance of the Cirque d'Pornyay.
Scotland Yard and Interpol's finest, Sir Percival Jans-Carbert-Flignst-Karch-Smithy-Edmunds Pinch - Percy Pinch for short, code name Snaggletooth - was on the case and was bound to catch his man, as he always did. He scoured London looking for "International Terrorist, nameless at present, in the company of three National Terrorists and prison escapees Elkins and Pemberly and their ring leader the King of England." He'd find them or his name wasn't Gregory St. James d'Paree.
He failed to look, however, in the one place they were: Piccadilly Circus attending a late evening performance. (It would seem his name wasn't Gregory St. James d'Paree after all.)
Who did find them, though, was none other than Josephus Cuntilever, accompanied by his three old Hags and Lady M. Pire along with Sir Edmund Dintletwitch.
"Do introduce us to your guests," Lady M. insisted of the little fat groupie cum International Terrorist.
"These are my solicitors, Elkins and Pemberly. But I don't know who this third fellow is. He was loitering about their cell so I had no choice but to let him tag along."
"By the bye, Elkie makes a dammy good scrambled egg," the tagalong made bold to interpose.
"He always was a good egg!" Sir Edmund couldn't resist quipping.
The Lady M. was asked all around what in heaven's name she was doing here in London.
"I'm looking for a couple solicitors," she replied to one and all.
"Well, we're free, Pemberly and myself," reported Elkins. "Anyway, for now," he added.
"I don't wish to engage their services," the Lady explained. "Merely to speak to whomever is France's solicitors."
"That be us!" said Pemberly.
"Then I'd like to visit you tomorrow at your office. I already have the address," Lady M. informed France's solicitors.
Suspecting their office had already been raided and stripped clean by England's Terrorist Squad, the solicitors nixed that idea.
"Then at your temporary quarters," Lady M. suggested.
"We're hoping not to return to those quarters anytime soon," Elkins nixed that plan as well. (Famous last words, those.)
"Then how about the French embassy?" Sir Edmund saw fit to suggest.
A brief conference among the three outlaws brought forth the conclusion that as they were not wanted in France there would likely be no wanted posters at the embassy. (A most unfortunate conclusion given that one of the three had been made a "Terrorist in Absentia" in France owing entirely to England's departure from the European Union. And of course, also forgotten in the excitement of escape, the King's solicitors were on a French Suspected Terrorist List.)
Eventually, during intermission, it was learned that Cuntilever's three old Hags had pinpointed the location of Elizabeth's document at the Globe Theatre, of all places. But they were refused admittance and, in consequence, put on Britain's Terrorist Watch List just behind the King of England. (Just in the nick of time, it would be prudent to point out, the Home Office added another thousand sheets to that august List.)
The second act was where the little fat groupie cum terrorist made his move, this time going right up on stage and exposing himself to the naked Circus Troupe. Boos and catcalls all around and from one or two ladies plus three back benchers who had not been invited to the Globe that evening a round of screaming. Scotland Yard was called. They began grabbing up one after another naked man until finally they found the man they were after - the one whose nakedness precipitated the call. They took him away and read him his rights: "None. You have no rights. This is Britain." After which they booked him for disturbing the peace.
"Is that peace or peas?" the little fat felon couldn't resist asking, just to lighten it up a bit. The result, however, was anything but light, for upon perusing the statute itself, they discovered their House of Lords' misspelling of "Peace."
"Dammy if he doesn't have us on a technicality," the indisputable logic of the situation compelled their conclusion, for there it was, in black and white, the word "Peas." The Lords, as it so happened, had just been read a bedtime story about "Peas Porridge Hot, Peas Porridge Cold, Peas Porridge in the Pot, Nine Days Old."
"Dammy good story that!" the Lords all agreed. Good story or no, the Lords were put on a separate page of the Terrorist Possible Watch List - a new list just created for misspellers and misinformation aficionados.
So the little fat felon was freed. For now. In fact he just barely got out of town when his description came across the wires, accompanied by a warrant for his arrest for impersonating someone or another (they weren't yet sure who).
His loft apartment off campus had been raided by the Bureau and searched thoroughly, which took practically no time at all since he had neither furnishings nor clothes; but did have a several gigabite flash drive containing dozens of selfies.
The entire Bureau data base of mug shots was thoroughly searched before they found a match: a small time hood named Nosy Mack McKnife, a hood renowned as having "the biggest nose in the business." He was a rag picker and a fine wine taster.
When the little fat hood was picked up at Heathrow attempting to board a Jumbo Jet to Brussels accompanied by his solicitors, Elkins and Pemberly, and the King of England, once again he had to be released.
"Are you Nosy Mack McKnife, the biggest nose in the business?" he was asked.
"No I'm not," he replied. "I'm a little fat man with the biggest (here he whispered in their ear) in the business. You have the wrong man."
What could they do? They had the wrong man - or more precisely the wrong man's anatomy. They had no choice but to let him go.
Since the King of England was something of a persona non grata on the Continent ever since Britain and the European Union parted ways, for as Romeo told Juliet, "Parting is such sweet sorrow," especially when annual fees departed as well, the fugitives thought it better taking their chances with Snaggletooth the snoop. And so it was that the greatest gathering of known terrorists in Britain's history (four strong) brought their ring to an abrupt end before a single terror attack could be planned, let alone executed.
"Bye bye!' the little fat terrorist shouted as he was boarding the Jumbo Jet to Brussels.
"Ta ta!" his accomplices answered back in typical British reserve.
And he was off to Brussels for a whirlwind tour of the continent.
Lo and behold, who should he meet on board but his esteemed colleague Cuntilever, along with the three old Hags, he in his Sunday best, they in their tattered worst.
"We do have a dress code," the Hags were informed upon boarding, for which compliment they inclined their heads and made a mental note to concoct a thank you potion for the Virgin Airline CEO (though unknown to them this was not a Virgin Airline by any means).
"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" the little fat groupie cum defendant cum terrorist cum fugitive asked.
"The reason is because -" Cuntilever started to explain, putting his interlocutor into a deep depression over the absence of Lady M. Pire on the London to Brussels wine and cheese flight - "we found no smoking gun at Piccadilly or at the Globe, which the next day after the Prime Minister's talk we managed to ransack."
Aha! a passenger having overheard Cuntilever's remark decided to follow these terrorists. This passenger was just by chance the agent code named Snaggletooth - said chance being his mistaken belief the King and his accomplices had boarded the plane and were stowed away in the baggage compartment. He was in fact on his way there when he just barely caught the reference to a "smoking gun." So that's how they plan to assassinate the PM: a specially designed gun that when triggered releases not a bullet but a poison gas. Must surely be of Russian design. I must warn the Foreign Office to keep all firearms away from 10 Downing, no matter how innocent they may appear. And above all to keep him out of Piccadilly or the Globe for at least a fortnight, till this terrorist assault blows over. His manual on terrorism had stated that most terrorists suffered from Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD), so a fortnight was about as long as they could wait to carry out their planned attack.
More to the point, and of much greater moment, the little fat manic depressive was brought out of his deep depression when, all at once, as though an angel sent by the Lord to help certain things grow, who should appear but Sir Edmund Dintletwitch and the Lady M. herself.
"I say old chaps, and old Hags, is this seat taken?" Sir Edmund inquired referring to the seat recently vacated by Snaggletooth.
"It will be when you and the good Lady take it," Cuntilever told his esteemed fellow academicians. "By the bye," Cuntilever asked in his first international dialogue, "how did we come to avoid you boarding?"
Sir Edmund decided to answer in his finest quippage. "The reason is because," he began, instantly bringing the manic-depressive out of his near catatonic state of mind, for the Lady M. hauled off and nearly sent him reeling. He grew and grew and grew that day, all the rest of the way to Brussels.
"And may one inquire what brings your Ladyship and Sir Edmund to Brussels?" Cuntilever inquired.
"We were advised by the Foreign Office to visit the European Union to fix our claim on my Lady's Haitian properties," Sir Edmund explained. "It seems that ever since Haiti was put on the Prime Minister's Terrorist Watch List, the Home Office refuses to permit any British solicitor handling any cases pending, as well as any new cases."
"Can countries be put on Terrorist Watch Lists?" the little fat recovering manic-depressive asked, adding before anyone could answer "and for what reason?"
He didn't get the response he was looking for - but neither did he descend back into a deep depression since he was already still growing from Sir Edmund's earlier remark.
"The reason -" anticipation grew "- has to do with the way our new PM looks at the world -" dejection ensued. "He feels he has every right to call anyone or anything a terrorist. The Crown Prince - now the titular head of state - expressed fear even the US may end up on that List, along with the King, Haiti, Iran, Nicaragua and Russia - all of which have been banned from entering Britain, except His Majesty, who has been safely returned to the Tower before effecting any great damage, though he did help one of Britain's most notorious terrorists to escape, for which his pension has been reduced by a guinea."
Soon the plane arrived at Brussels International Airport. All was quiet on board save for the snoring of the three old Hags. In time Cuntilever was able to rouse them and the entire company disembarked, each going their own way. As they were leaving, the little fat notorious terrorist received a bevy of extremely dirty looks from a group which had just departed: they were the traveling Troupe of Cirque d'Pornyay, and they all recognized the little fat terrorist as the one who flashed them on stage at DC, at New York, at Paris and at Piccadilly. In fact, several flipped a middle finger his way.
"Jealous?" he flipped right back at them.
One of the men shot back at him in his heavy Polish accent "At least ours are real!" to which the little fat flasher merely chuckled, thinking to himself "Can yours grow whenever a strong woman smacks you?"
Sir Edmund was immediately apprehended, of course, the moment his feet hit the tarmac. An agent disguised as a stewardess had phoned ahead to alert the European Union's police there was a Briton on board. Ironically, the agent cum stewardess was referring to Snaggletooth, but as that fine Scotland Yard inspector was still searching the hold for the King, Elkins and Pemberly, not having been informed of their re-capture, he was not taken by the Union's police. But Sir Edmund was. As it turned out, Sir Edmund was a dead ringer for British comedian Terry-Thomas. The strange thing was, he didn't look a thing like Terry-Thomas; yet everyone upon seeing him immediately took him for the late comedian. It wasn't so much a case of mistaken identity on his part as mistaken perception on everyone else's.
Lady M. had no choice but to go with her traveling companion to headquarters to bail him out.
"We're here on official business," the Lady told the Captain. "I've filed some offshore leases in Haitian territorial waters."
"Ah! Madam! Then you must get thee to France!" the Captain advised.
"I was there," Lady M. Pire explained. "But they sent me to England to converse with their solicitors, who were as it turned out in jail."
"Where all Brits belong!" the Captain swore. "Treacherous Brexit Bunnies to a man!"
"I'm told the King was being held with them," the Lady related.
"We would shoot him on sight here should he ever set foot in Europe again!"
"Nevertheless, I need my traveling companion to complete my travels. I'm sure you understand, you being a man of the world. Besides, Sir Edmund is barely British at all - only on his mother's side through his third cousin's paramour. In fact, while we stand here arguing, the real Brit, I've been told, is still on board."
"Why would he be still on board? That's underhanded even for a Brit. But then they never play fair, do they?"
Sir Edmund was first to answer this one. "The reason is because -" he had grown quite fond of that particular infelicity "- he's still searching the hold looking for the King and two solicitors!"
There being no little man present, the Lady M. made bold to give the slightly obese Captain a smack across his cheek. He felt a strange twitching in the vicinity of his trousers. "It's happening again," he thought, then rapidly thought another thought which made him smile and start to breathe heavily. Still, he was a Captain, so he stuck to business.
"Who is this Brit in the hold - when he belongs in leg irons?"
"All I know is his code name is Snaggletooth," said Sir Edmund.
"Ah, yes, we have heard of this British spook who slinks about in the holds of planes scheduled for arrival here at Brussels, planting his bombs. His name is at the top of our Terrorist Watch List."
"Am I on your list?" asked Sir Edmund, thinking to make a quip.
"Let me look," said the Captain. And, sure enough, there he was, plain as day! Terry-Thomas. "I'm afraid so," the Captain was forced to acknowledge.
"Ah, splendid! I did so feel left out, all my associates - and even their old Hags - on any number of lists."
"Old Hags," thought the Captain. "That rings a bell."
Sure enough, there it was, right on Page 2 of the EU's Awful Terrorist List: the Wicked Witch of the West. And these old Hags must surely be her witches coven. This was becoming a banner day for Captain Sasafrass. He was a shoe-in for this year's Terrorist Hunter of the Year award and the big blue ribbon that went with it, which if he won he could wear all year long. But he couldn't wear it if it rained: it was dry clean only. "I'll move to California" he thought: I have it on good authority that "it never rains in California!"
Of course none of the Captain's dreams came true. His trousers won the day, persuading him to attend the Circus, and the rest, as they say, is history. He, Captain Sasafrass of the EU Police, and a fat little groupie took turns exposing themselves that evening. And while the one a strong woman had repeatedly slapped awaited his solicitors' verdict on the contract, the rogue Captain signed it on the spot, becoming the newest member of the Troupe. Even the old Hags applauded his charm, grace, style and size (mostly the latter).
Berlin was waiting with open arms for a Troupe and a Terrorist to show. They had been alerted that someone might be coming their way with some Nazi pamphlets. Their records clearly showed that no foreign national had been licensed to use anything Nazi, even if a resident, so any such pamphlets would be both prima facie and ipso facto illegal. The Superior Court was notified, as was the regional prosecutor, that a statute violator was headed their way.
Through a mis-translation, however, the culprit was identified as a statue violator. So at once, every statue in Berlin was covered.
"There," the Court congratulated itself, "justice prevails in Germany!"
Meanwhile a whole bevy of terrorists entered Germany unnoticed: Snaggletooth, still searching the hold for King and crew; Sir Edmund Dintletwitch, alias Terry-Thomas; the little fat terrorist groupie; plus three old Hags recently associated with the Wicked Witch of the West's European coven.
'Welcome to Germany," the airport's official greeter addressed them all, except for Snaggletooth, who was mistaken for a baggage handler and given a nice bonus by the airline. Brussels had been unsatisfactory in resolving Lady M. Pire's Haitian lease issue, so she thought she'd give Berlin a go. She no sooner got her greeting and her lea (the newly hired greeter had just immigrated from Hawaii), than she was on her way to the German International Agency deep within what used to be East Berlin, an unfortunate circumstance for Lady M. in that the red tape therein belied, not to mention tarnished, the otherwise much deserved German reputation for efficiency. In fact, she was told their Haitian Lease Section was still in Moscow, but it was a violation of German Law to travel to Moscow; so no one could retrieve it. "There are carbon copies in Rome and Madrid," Lady M was told by the Haitian Liaison.
"How is that possible?" the Lady asked.
"From the days when Italy and Spain were allies of the Third Reich," the Liaison, who did not quite comprehend the new German diplomatic and legal thrust (and had been frequently reprimanded for it) informed her Ladyship, leaving the traveler with no choice but to attend the evening's performance.
Nothing like this had been seen in Berlin since the halcyon days following World War I. The venue was packed, everyone who could, got tickets to the Circus. The little fat groupie had not been one of the lucky ones; but as he was taken for, surely, a grandson of a former propaganda minister whose name was never spoken in polite company but whose ideas were inexplicably incorporated into the judicial system and elsewhere, he was admitted sans ticket.
The three old Hags of course simply cast a spell over the ticket master, who was mistakenly dressed as a circus ringmaster and who took them and their guest, Josephus Cuntilever, for the U.S. delegation; so they too were admitted.
Lady M. Pire and Sir Edmund Dintletwitch were also admitted, as Terry-Thomas and guest.
"I half feared a hassle from this ticket master," Lady M. confessed. "But here we are!"
"And the reason is because." - Splat! - "my uncanny resemblance to the British Royal Family," opined Sir Edmund. By mistake Lady M. took out her distaste for infelicity indiscreetly, slapping not a man but a woman. When nothing happened to the woman, the little fat gate crasher sat right beside the woman mistakenly taken for a man, where he proceeded to pout.
It was then that the renowned Scotland Yard Inspector code name Snaggletooth sat on the other side of the male impersonator. On his other side was Cuntilever with his three old Hags, who upon noticing who his seat mate was, asked how on earth did he turn up.
"The reason is because," Snaggletooth began, upon hearing which the male impersonator hauled off and slapped both him and the little fat grandson of the unmentionable Goebbles and declaring "You vill not butcher ze English!"
Whether she wasn't strong enough or her facial hair and Stetson hat blocked her true identity - whatever the reason, nothing happened. The little fat heir fell again into a deep depression which lasted all the way to Kigali.
No one on the planet had ever expected or even imagined school children so depraved to be lurking within the big school house straddling the border. But there it was, for all the world to see: a big bomb for a big school. Certainly no one wanted to have to kill a thousand school children, but the proof was beyond question: a terrorist had entered through the back door and infiltrated every classroom, taking over the very teaching of these students. In less than an hour this terrorist had converted and recruited all thousand students.
So in an act of bravery and supreme self-defense, a twenty thousand pound bomb had had to be dropped, destroying everything for a hundred miles around this den of iniquity passing itself off as a school.
Of course, as always, there were skeptics; so the authorities conducted a thorough investigation, which, as expected, cleared the bombardiers of any and all wrong doing.
"It was self defense," they said when asked to explain their action.
"Self-defense," the final report concluded, "is nothing to sneeze at."
Next stop: Rome, in search of a Carbon Copy straight from the Third Reich. The big Jumbo Jet took off from Berlin at eight-fifteen in the morning and arrived in Rome at eight-fifteen in the evening. The flight had been stopped seventy times along the way for safety checks. As no terrorists were found lurking in the hold at any of the stops, the plane continued unimpeded by the threat of terrorist activities, although it did get held up at Zagreb, where a throng of fans who had gotten wind that Terry-Thomas was aboard stormed the tarmac seeking autographs.
Sir Edmund, who resembled the comedian no more in Zagreb than he did in London, signed a thousand autographs and was given the key to the city. It was only discovered much later that the key had been, not to the city but to the National Treasury, thus putting Croatia on a terrorist alert for the next hundred years. The World's Favorite Bank pressured Moody's to reduce Croatia's credit rating; now it was no better than the USA's rating.
The little fat groupie was first off the plane, for he had mistakenly taken the door to the hold thinking he was going to the bathroom and was taken for a stowaway and tossed off the plane the moment it landed. The authorities, having been notified, apprehended him, taking him into custody. Snaggletooth thanked his lucky stars he had finally come up from the hold, otherwise he might well have been taken for an accomplice of this stowaway. That's certainly how his years of police work had taught him to read such a coincidence: could he expect less from Rome's finest?
The police took the little fat stowaway to the Vatican for a confession before charging him. Not understanding what this was all about - his mastery of Italian was non-existent at best - the little fat stowaway confessed everything but his most recent crime. The monsignor hearing his confession grew to enormous proportion, quickly absolved the penitent, threw off his vestments and joined the Circus, which had just that day arrived in Rome. The little penitent, still unfamiliar with Italian, failed to realize he had been absolved of all his sins and remained in the confessional until he feared missing the last performance of the Cirque at St. Peter's.
While the little fat penitent was being forgiven his multitude of sins, Lady M. Pire and Sir Edmund Dintletwitch caught a taxi to the Vatican to consult with the College of Cardinals regarding the Carbon Copy Germany had forwarded. A Cardinal, who identified himself as Richelieu, after acknowledging the existence of the document in question and positing its likely whereabouts and qualifying its ending up in the Papal Archives with a brief explanation how it was taken for a leaf of the Crusaders' Manifesto, hastened to answer Lady M.'s next question with a "No, it cannot be." He went on to explain that the Pope had the only key to the Vatican Archives, but was under house arrest at Castel Gandolfo for suspected terrorist activities of such a nature that no visitors were allowed until he had finished saying the Rosary eighteen thousand times in penance.
"The Pope a terrorist?" a shocked Lady M. Pire asked. Sir Edmund, however, was not surprised in the least: he had always suspected His Holiness of having an "itchy trigger finger," and said as much to the Cardinals, who reluctantly nodded their agreement.
"Well, we may as well attend this evening's performance," the good Lady suggested.
"And will Terry-Thomas tell a few jokes as an opening act?" the Cardinals eagerly inquired, fingers crossed.
Sir Edmund shook his head. "Not this time," he dashed the Cardinals' hopes.
"Then perhaps we'll take a rain check," Cardinal Richelieu said, much to the dismay of his fellow Cardinals, who pleaded with him to reconsider.
"You never let us go anywhere," they pouted, so Richelieu relented and serenity settled again upon the College of Cardinals.
The lights of St. Peter's drew down, the audience took their seats, the Troupe made its appearance, to thunderous applause. The show began.
Right away the little fat penitent noticed something - someone new to the Troupe - which set his blood to boil. For there, becoming nude even before his cue, was none other than the very monsignor who absolved him of his sins.
"I thought he had another confession to hear," the little fat penitent explained away his confessor's abrupt departure from the confessional.
"I believe the confessional stays with the confessor," one of the Cardinals, overhearing the penitent, observed.
"So he gave up hearing confessions to run naked on stage?" another Cardinal inquired rhetorically.
"Wouldn't you?" a third Cardinal asked, rhetorically as well.
"That's the second one who's beat me out," the penitent pouted. "At this rate they'll be all filled up before I can join,"
"Then do as they do," suggested Sir Edmund, "sign the bloody contract!"
"Not till I get the go ahead from my solicitors!" the penitent insisted.
"You might consider going it absent benefit of legal advice," Cardinal Richelieu himself offered.
"Without legal advice?" the little fat champion of the Rule of Law puzzled. "Why on earth would I do that?"
What happened next was something never known to have ever happened in all the history of humanity, something so absurd and unheard of even the College of Cardinals was loathe to explain it. At the exact same instant - the very split second - both Sir Edmund Dintletwitch and Josephus Cuntilever said the exact same thing.
"The reason is because -" after which expression they diverged into separate explanations.
The Lady M. Pire, who heretofore had not partaken of the discussion, was so scandalized by the double infelicity that she reached out with her left hand, as she always did, and slapped the little fat advocate of Law and Order - then she reached across with her right hand and slapped him yet again. The entire audience gasped then went silent; the performance halted; the Cardinals went down on their knees to offer an impromptu benediction. And the champion of English solicitors and possibly barristers too grew to the cuff of his trousers.
"They've got to take me now, contract or no!" he declared.
For their part, the three old Hags twitted then tapped their fingers till the performance resumed.
Madrid was next, and it was sunny and nice. Everyone had come away from Rome dissatisfied and unfulfilled.
Lady M. had failed to obtain the carbon copy from the Papal Archives.
Josephus Cuntilever had failed to find the document his three old Hags had assured him was stashed either under the chalice or behind the altar of St. Peter's.
The little fat man now needing longer pant legs had failed to hear from his solicitors and, added to his misery, was still unable to impress the Cirque of his worthiness to join its Troupe.
A three - or even a ten - foot thing was no substitute and no match for a tiny little signature on a dotted line, he was told.
Snaggletooth, the ultimate tag-a-long, had failed to find his man and was starting to seriously consider resigning his commission and signing a certain contract. In any event he too boarded the big Jumbo Jet and flew off into the early morning mist - next stop Madrid.
Upon landing, the plane was searched top to bottom for terrorists. Every passenger was asked if they were a terrorist, or if they personally knew one, or even if they suspected any of their fellow passengers to be one. Everyone on board pointed to Snaggletooth as more suspicious than otherwise, the way he kept excusing himself to visit the hold. They were pretty sure he had planted a bomb.
"No," the Spanish authorities demurred, "terrorists don't plant bombs on planes any more."
"Well, maybe it was a decoy," they suggested.
"No, that's not their MO," the authorities shot down that notion as well.
"So what do they do?" the exasperated passengers then asked.
"Have you seen anyone trying to cut their way through any electrically charged fencing material?"
This stumped the passengers, who swore they had but could give no details, let alone a description.
"Didn't one of the stewardesses ask if anyone had wire cutters?" someone suggested.
"No, a real terrorist would already have wire cutters."
"Maybe she was in training," someone suggested.
Sir Edmund, always quick with a joke in his Terry-Thomas impersonation, feigned misunderstanding the word "training."
"She was a tranny, you say?" he asked, which broke up both the passengers and the authorities, who could see why Terry-Thomas had such a following.
Finally satisfied there were no genuine terrorists on board, at best only a few pretenders, the authorities departed and the passengers disembarked, all going their separate ways. Lady M. and Sir Edmund to the Foreign office; Cuntilever and his three old Hags to the Alhambra, where the Hags swore the Elizabethan document they were seeking was situated; Snaggletooth to the British Embassy to renounce his citizenship; and the little fat man wearing his pant legs almost to the floor to a specialist to probe a serious syndrome which had just manifested itself.
Dr. Juan Hernandez-Jimenez welcomed walk-ins to his sex clinic on a back street. His lovely assistant, who looked like Charo and did the Hootchie-Cootchie, greeted the little fat man with a sex problem at the door, took his name, had him fill out a form stating his reason for being here, said a Hail Mary with him, and ushered him into the examining room.
In his broken English Dr. Jimenez asked how he could help his newest patient. "And don't be shy, I've seen it all," the good doctor assured his patient.
Here his patient took out his thing and, not without some difficulty, laid it on the examination table.
"Well00," the Doctor qualified his earlier statement, "perhaps I haven't quite seen it all. Normally, you know, we have the patient lie down on the table. But there wouldn't be room for the rest of you."
Then he got down to business. "What is it I can do for you?" he asked.
"I seem to have a bit of erectile dysfunction," the little fat patient explained.
"Hmm," the Doctor puzzled a moment. "I would say more than just a bit," he gave out his diagnosis.
"I've tried all the medicines but they don't help.
Here Dr. Jimenez gave out the bad news.
"I'm afraid we would have to pump every drop of blood in your body into your thing to cure your dysfunction - and I'm not even sure that would do the trick, even with a massive transfusion added to the mix. We've had some success with formaldehyde in the past - but I'm afraid in your case it would take enough to pickle your whole body. I'm truly sorry. I just don't think there's anything anyone can do for you. My best advice is don't let a strong woman slap you ever again. Now there is a clinic, I'm told, in Tijuana, Mexico where they perfected unslapping techniques to help reduce the effects of a condition like yours. You might try them. Other than that, I fear your condition is hopeless. So, let me just say Via con Dios, me amigo."
Everyone ended up at the evening's performance. Snaggletooth asked if he might join the regulars as he already felt like one of them. No one objected; but neither did anyone agree to it since Snaggletooth was well known to the Troupe as a super sleuth and this made them nervous; and they needed absolute calm during their performance.
Sir Edmund thought to ask his academic associate Cuntilever if he had any luck with the Elizabethan document - a query which piqued Snaggletooth's interest and made him forget all about running off to join the Cirque.
"No," Cuntilever told his colleague. "We've had a devil of a time locating the place it's said to be: the Alhambra."
"I say old man: I should think so!" quipped Sir Edmund.
"Why is that?"
"The reason is because -" Sir Edmund had grown inordinately fond of that particular infelicity (after all he was a professor of mathematics and placed little value on rules of grammar).
Here the little fat sex patient, who was seated next to the Lady M., ducked so quickly out of harm's way that the gentleman seated beside him, a professional bullfighter, took the brunt of the Lady's slap; but it was only a glancing blow, which while it made him grow a few centimeters, barely grazed his tight fitting bull fighter's trousers.
"The reason is because, my dear chap, the Alhambra is not in Madrid but Granada," Sir Edmund said in his best Terry-Thomas.
Cuntilever glared hard at his three old Hags, who swore they would never, ever ever ever again take directions from a wizard - only from fellow witches, and only if the witches had had eye of newt for supper. Then they turned their attention back to the Cirque.
"So will you be taking a day trip to Granada?" Sir Edmund asked.
"I don't know yet," Cuntilever replied. "If we do, will you be joining us?"
"Oh no," Lady M. herself answered. "We have an appointment with the Registrar of Deeds and Leases to get a copy of the carbon copy they possess."
At 9 A.M. sharp Lady M. Pire and Sir Edmund Dintletwitch appeared at the Registrar's Office with their modest request.
"Unfortunately, madam and good sir, we no longer have the document in question," the assistant Registrar apologized. "Not knowing precisely what it was, this strange paper with the foreign lettering, the former Registrar, who has since joined a monastery, included it with a cache of Ottoman artifacts from the Mamluk Era, which was shipped, post paid, to the Cairo Museum."
"I see," said the good Lady. "So we must now leave Europe to head for Africa -"
"A million miles and Strait away!" quipped Sir Edmund.
All the Registrar's men laughed. "You British comedians are without peer!" the assistant spoke for them all.
"The reason is because -" God I love that particular infelicity, Sir Edmund thought to himself as, meanwhile, Lady M. slapped the third assistant hard in the face, prompting him to visit the lavatory and stand the rest of the day in front of an open urinal.
"The reason is because," Sir Edmund explained, "the peerage is already filled to bursting with men who make the people point and laugh."
"You're too much!" the whole office congratulated the comedian as they sent he and his Lady on their way to Cairo.
Cuntilever and his three old Hags almost missed their connection to Cairo when he decided to take a day trip to Granada; but the Hags nixed that plan in the nick of time by convincing their patron they were duped all the way around by the wizard who sent them on a wild goose chase when in fact the Alhambra had already been cleared of all Middle English documents and they had been shuffled off to Cairo. (They had started to say Buffalo but caught themselves in time.)
Cairo smelled of cedar. That's because the plane's compass got stuck at the exact same moment its on board computer quit registering direction. This threw the big Jumbo Jet off course and it ended up in Beirut instead.
Quite a panic ensued since three persons on board alone had plans other than attending the Cairo Cirque d'Pornyay performance: Lady M., Sir Edmund (alias Terry-Thomas), and Josephus Cuntilever. And the panic was acutest in four persons among the panic stricken travelers: the little fat frequent flyer with the growing need for unslap therapy, and Cuntilever's three old Hags.
The little fat man had just about made up his mind to at last sign the contract at Cairo, maybe. And the Hags? Well, that was a puzzle begging for resolution - which, unknown to them, was already in the works.
While awaiting the new compass which would take them on to Cairo, the passengers and crew were treated to a stand-up by none other than Sir Edmund Dintletwitch who, it seemed, alone in the world was ignorant of his alter-ego.
The captive audience loved him, laughed at his every quip, gave him 58 standing ovations during his performance and when it was over. Actually, they were already standing, having been vacated from the Jumbo Jet to remain on the tarmac while the hold was being searched for bombs.
Just as the applause died down a whole new round began when it was announced they could return to their seats now that the plane had been cleared of both terrorists and bombs, with the possible exception of the Captain; but that was seen as a minor problem which doubtless would resolve itself: either the plane would arrive safely at Cairo or be crashed somewhere in the Sinai. Either way, it was out of Lebanese hands.
Fortunately for all aboard, the former scenario occurred. Safely landed, the passengers, after being patted down, searched, questioned and found terror free, were on their way.
Lady M. Pire and Sir Edmund Dintletwitch made at once for the Cairo Museum to inquire after the carbon copy they sought. Josephus Cuntilever and his three old Hags made their way by Jeep then camel back to Giza to rummage through the Great Pyramid of Cheops in search of the document they sought.
As the day wore on the three old Hags grew nervous, fearful of the Egyptian night. They reached into a niche they passed near the apex and, finding nothing but an old wizened scarab, declared the search a bust. The little party of five (for the Hags had made off with the scarab) worked its way back down, out of the Great Pyramid, and back into Cairo, just in time for the performance.
And while they were pilfering scarabs, the little fat slap victim was exposing himself to the entire Troupe, every one of whom merely yawned and returned to their dressing room (more appropriately here, undressing room) to ready for the show. Which sent the dejected flasher once more into a deep depression.
Only Lady M. and Sir Edmund had any luck in Cairo this trip. Unfortunately it was mostly bad luck.
They definitely found their carbon copy. But the conditions surrounding the finding were less than auspicious. The carbon copy had been stolen and taken to Kigali, capital of Rwanda.
"How is this possible?" a visibly irritated Lady M. demanded to know.
The curator explained. "We were preparing a new Mummy for display during our annual Mummy Week Marathon," he told the Lady and gentleman companion. "Our Mummy couturier misjudged the girth of this particular Mummy and failed to prepare a proper shroud. He lacked precisely eight by eleven American inches of shroud. As it so happened the copy you inquired about was precisely the perfect size to fill the gap and, not only that, because of its tissue quality and its yellowing over time, it blended almost perfectly into the shroud. So it was sewn in and the Mummy was all set to go. Sadly, though, go is precisely what it did. Stolen right out from under us by a ring of Mummy thieves operating out of Kigali. It may have been sold by now, we don't know. Our best man was fast on the trail until he was captured and held for ransom by a rampaging band of mountain gorillas who forced him to eat so many bananas his electrolytes were thrown so out of balance he has yet to recover. To this very day, almost a month later, he still runs in terror whenever he sees not only a banana but anything even remotely resembling one, or even something the same yellow as a fully ripe banana."
As it happened, this Egyptian agent was an outpatient at the same mental hospital in Kigali the little fat slap victim checked himself into for the afternoon because of his depression, asking for what he termed "either a shocking or a slapping therapy - preferably the latter." He certainly had no intention of exposing himself to anyone not connected to the Cirque; but he had developed a chafe and consequently an itch way down along the shaft, which he undertook to scratch just as his roommate was entering the room. Seeing what he took for the biggest banana on earth, the Egyptian ran screaming from the hospital. He happened upon a gorilla suite someone had left beside a dumpster, put it on as a kind of conversion therapy, ran the streets and back alleys of Kigali yelling a strange hieroglyphic, which no one could decipher.
He was taken to the University's Linguistic Department, where one and all agreed it was unlike any hieroglyphic they had ever heard. "Must be specific to gorillas," they all agreed. He was sedated and kept for observation for 24 hours. Then he was taken to a tribe of wandering gorillas and assured he would one day return to normal with their help. But when the Linguists left and the tribe began coaxing him to try a nice Rwandan banana, he took off running through the mountains, came upon a second tribe of gorillas which turned out to be a group of naturalists intent on studying mountain gorillas first hand wearing gorilla suits.
"Where'd you get that outfit?" they demanded.
"It was just lying around outside a swanky restaurant in downtown Kigali," the agent explained.
"Well it belongs to me!" a man in plain clothes stepped from the midst of the gorillas to declare.
"And does your name just happen to be McQueen's Costumes?" a clearly piqued gorillified Egyptian agent shot back at the naturalist, who was forced to admit that was not his name.
"Just call me Alex," he said. It was beginning to look like his days of gorilla watching had come to an ignominious end.
Something good did come of this however. The gorilla's shrieked hieroglyphic snapped the little fat banana impersonator out of his depression, allowing him to attend the evening's performance full of hope and high spirits.
Not wanting to be victimized by infelicities, he foreswore his usual seating arrangement vis-a-vis his academic associates to seat himself between two of the three old Hags, a change they seemed not to mind at all, their attention flitting between their seat mate and the performance.
Cairo and two days later Kigali both having proven a bust for all concerned, the Lady M. and Sir Edmund finding no trace of the missing Mummy; Cuntilever failing to find Queen Elizabeth's Shakespearean document in one of the Capiaki Crafts Village Stalls of Kigali which his witches pinpointed as the secret hiding place; Snaggletooth almost in despair that once again the King and his solicitors/accomplices had eluded him; the little fat groupie still unable to impress the Cirque of his fitness to join its Troupe; and the Egyptian agent cum gorilla, who had joined the party at Cairo in hopes of finding the Mummy but whose electrolytes were still out of whack, along with his hieroglyphics - in a word, all parties thoroughly dejected, they boarded the Jumbo Jet once more. Next stop Addis Ababa, where hope not only reigned supreme but as well transformed itself into little packages of goodies for all concerned. Even if some of the goods were stolen while others proved more ephemeral than substantial.
The plane flew the 1588 miles from Kigali to Addis Ababa in just under 17 hours, landing at Bole International Airport at 7 P.M. Africa time.
"We made good time," Captain and crew advised the passengers. Indeed, considering the numerous and lengthy terrorist searches, passenger pat downs and luggage openings, closing, openings again and yet a third and in some cases fourth time, it was indeed an excellent time. Of especial concern was the Egyptian agent in the gorilla suit, owing to the innate British distrust of Egyptians wearing disguises ever since King Farouk's overthrow. The Home Office to this day considers the matter "so bloody unfair! We were a nice empire, we gave empire a good name: Victorian. A perfectly lovely name, which now they throw rotten tomatoes at, the ingrates!" So you can just imagine how thorough the Gorilla's investigation.
Unknown to all, said Gorilla's electrolytes were coming back strong, which allowed him to resume his true mission: retrieving Princess Ut-Mut's Mummy. It was just a small thing, for the Princess was but a child with stunted growth - it could have easily slipped into a traveling satchel or a very big shopping bag, of which both were legion on board this particular flight. Which explains why the terrorist searches caught the Gorilla red-handed rifling through all the luggage in the hold. He was questioned for 12 hours but refused to divulge his purpose in being so nosy.
All the while, Terry-Thomas was engaged in entertaining his fellow passengers yet again, much to their collective delight.
It was inevitable that the Gorilla would hook up with Snaggletooth. A case of birds of a feather. What prompted their partnership was strictly a police matter. The Gorilla was caught red-handed rifling through the carry-on luggage while the other passengers were being entertained and the Ethiopian authorities were all engaged in searching the hold, from which Snaggletooth emerged just in time to catch the Gorilla looking through his, Snaggletooth's, very own satchel.
"Looking for something?" Snaggletooth asked.
"She's not here," was all the Gorilla said as he carefully replaced the satchel.
"Who?"
"The Princess Ut-Mut. She was but a child," the Gorilla went on the explain.
"As a 2nd tier Egyptologist, I take exception to your assessment of the Princess," Snaggletooth, in turn, insisted. "The Princess was a dwarf - a midget. But as the gods assured every member of the Royal Family a minimum of 5 feet 5 inches in height, the idea of a dwarf Princess was out of the question. So Ut-Mut was designated a small child, not withstanding her being the longest lived member of any Dynasty in Egypt's long and glorious history. She lived to be 100 years of age."
The Gorilla came right up to Snaggletooth and, taking hold of Snaggletooth's face in his big Gorilla hands, kissed him on each cheek in the style of the French.
"I bow to your superior knowledge of the 13th Dynasty," the Gorilla proclaimed. "I have tried and failed for 14 years now to convince the Curator of just that circumstance, but to no avail. Indeed, as I was boarding the plane, he called to me 'Find that little girl!' Then he laughed and turned away."
Together, they searched every satchel, leaving but one to go. Together they opened it. Together they jumped back as a tiny Mummy tumbled out.
"We must set a trap to find out whose satchel this is," Snaggletooth proposed.
"No need," the Gorilla countered the plan. "For I already know: it's my very own."
"Yours?"
"Now I remember," the Gorilla explained. "As I was leaving Cairo, the curator rushed up and handed me this satchel, saying 'You nearly forgot your satchel!'"
"So your curator is part of the smuggling ring?"
"I doubt it. He was, I suspect, fearful the Princess would be found out once she went on tour, so he desperately wanted to get her out of Egypt."
Snaggletooth shook his head as the Egyptologist took over the inspector once again. "Even for a Mummy," he noted, "she's much too wizened for a small child."
Again the Gorilla kissed his cheeks. "Now I will help you find whatever heinous criminal you're after," he vowed.
"Someone remarked on board that the Singing Nun who had boarded at the last minute in Cairo looked much like my quarry. I shall watch this nun very carefully."
"As will I," the Gorilla promised.
Outside, on the tarmac, the Singing Nun did something the passengers found very un-nun like: she walked up and snacked the entertainer formerly known as Terry-Thomas up side his head. She was treated to a round of boos, even a round of tomatoes tossed her way (a box of fresh tomatoes had been brought aboard in Kigali).
The Singing Nun's two traveling novitiates were horrified, scandalized and let their dismay be known - perhaps a bit too carelessly. For they shook their middle fingers at the audience and exclaimed for all to hear "Is this how you treat your Monarch?"
The audience was aghast. But the Singing Nun herself, ever quick with a song or a quip, covered her companions' gaffe with a hasty rendition of an old 60s tune "The Elusive Butterfly." After which she pointed out the "Monarch" reference to have been to Monarch Butterflies, which were just entering their molting phase in these Ethiopian highlands - an explanation much appreciated by the audience. And not lost on Snaggletooth and Gorilla, who had just disembarked the Jumbo Jet. They looked at one another and nodded: they had their man alright; but would bide their time lest the King be apprehended by the Ethiopian authorities, resulting in a possible international incident.
Of course, their concern was misplaced since by now the world had forgotten there ever was a King: the Out of Sight Out of Mind dynamic had reduced the King to but a vague memory barely above the level of the mummified 13th Dynasty Princess Ut-Mut.
And anyway, the passengers would have resisted any attempt to arrest the Singing Nun as a terror suspect. The Pope was one thing, the forgotten King another; but a nun who could sing and play guitar while saying vespers quite another. They might throw a tomato or two at her, these passengers, but they'd never turn her in.
The Singing Nun and her frocked novitiates, at the last moment, were persuaded by some of the passengers to attend this evening's performance. Maybe, they suggested, she could get on stage and belt out a few old favorites, though, admittedly, that might necessitate her having to disrobe. Would Mother Superior object to her removing her habit? (Good question, thought Snaggletooth and Gorilla.)
Unbeknownst to everyone, both Sir Edmund and the little fat flasher cum terrorist cum penitent caught something no one else picked up on. Namely, when the Singing Nun - a strong woman by any account - slapped Sir Edmund, alias Terry-Thomas, nothing happened. Nothing, nada, zip, zed, zero: absolutely nothing. These two fellow academics looked at each other and nodded knowingly. The look in their eyes said "Singing Nun my ass!" Though actually Sir Edmund's thought came out as "My Aunt Fanny!"
Once the passengers were released and all went their separate ways (except those engaged in following someone in particular), Cuntilever with his three old Hags went in search of the very man they had come here to meet up with: the Patriarch of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church. They found him sitting on a hill just outside the city, meditating.
"If anybody knows the whereabouts of the Elizabethan document we seek, he will," the Hags assured Cuntilever. They could hardly keep a straight face, since of all people on Earth, the Patriarch of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church was the very last who would or even could possibly know, or care, anything of such a document.
The three old Hags nearly fell over when the hilltop Patriarch informed Josephus Cuntilever that he not only knew of the document in question but its exact whereabouts as well.
"My blessed children, seekers after Truth, this precious document was given to me by a wandering Patriarch of the Eastern Orthodox Church disguised as a mountaineer. He laid the precious parchment in these very hands you see raised in prayer on this hilltop. He prayed me to hide it, to keep it safe from all infidels. Then he started down the hill but, being no true mountaineer, lost his footing and fell to his death."
"So can you now show us this document?" asked an excited seeker after Truth, the academic Cuntilever.
"I cannot," replied the Patriarch. "I no longer have it in my possession. For I stuffed it deep inside the precious Holy Grail, which had come into the possession of our humble church along with the Shroud of Jesus and the Ark of the Covenant. But, alas, one day as I was fast at prayer on this very hilltop, someone came upon our humble church and stole the Holy Grail away from my safekeeping.
The three old Hags breathed a sigh of relief at this news. "And they have taken it to Pretoria," the Hags announced in their best witches' voice.
"No, my blessed Hags, for it is to America it was taken," the Patriarch dashed the Hags' hope.
Part 1
The plane landed at New York's airport, though not the big Jumbo Jet that had taken the Cirque on its tour but a smaller, regular plane. Josephus Cuntilever and his three disgruntled old Hags prepared to disembark. As it happened, they were the only passengers on board, so the disembarkation took only fourteen hours.
The hold, the cabin, all the luggage cleared, it remained only to question the passengers.
"Name, age, occupation, reason for daring to enter the safe and secure USofA," they were asked.
"Josephus Cuntilever, 42, academic, coming home," the first of four passengers gave out his personal data.
"And have you ever been, ever wanted to be, or are you now or do you or will you contemplate being a terrorist?"
"No on all counts."
"Have you ever associated with a terrorist, knowingly or otherwise?"
"No, to the best of my knowledge I have not."
The three old Hags, seeing a chance in all this to clear a path to Pretoria, whispered in a stage whisper, "Except for the King."
"What was that?"
"The King," they repeated.
"Of England by any chance?"
"Yes," the Hags admitted. "And also the little fat groupie," they added.
"Just hold it right there," the authorities ordered. "Before you say another word, you are cautioned not to persist in denigrating heavy citizens of this or any other country!"
"Even if they're terrorists?" the Hags asked.
"Especially if they're terrorists. We don't want them getting off on an identity technicality. So now, we'll ask you the same questions as your young paramour: Name, Age, Occupation, Reason for presuming to be here."
The first Hag to answer said "Put-n-Tame, if you ask me again I'll tell you the same!"
"You'd better tell us the same or else be hauled before the Department of Aliases to explain yourself."
"Age: 102," the first Hag continued, "Occupation: Witch; Reason for coming: to convey secret messages to operatives."
"Hmm," the agents mulled over her response. They looked up "operatives" in their Little Red Book of Names and found it to be in general a good guy so they let it slide.
"Next."
"John Brown, ask me again and I'll knock you down," the second Hag gave out her name.
The agents, ever quick on their feet, leaped back and drew their pistols. "She's a violent one," they concluded. "Better not ask her any more questions just now. She's obviously distressed by her days held hostage by a gang of terrorists."
"Now you," the agents, pistols still drawn, asked the last Hag, who said absolutely nothing.
"Cat got your tongue?" the agents asked.
"That's exactly how it happened," said the other two. "A bewitching gone very wrong," they added.
These being men of the world, they knew only too well how even the best laid traps can backfire, so they left off.
"Well you almost passed the Terrorist Assessment and Association Test," the agents informed the party of five: five because the Hags, unnoticed, had appropriated the dwarf Mummy and animated it.
"However, there's this association with a known terrorist: the King of England."
"And his dammy good scrambled egg, Elkie the Terrorist Solicitor," the Hags wasted no time taking full advantage of this splendid turn of events.
"What's this about a solicitor with egg on his face? Isn't it supposed to be on his head?"
"You're thinking of barristers," the Hags corrected the agents.
"The little fat - we meant heavy - flasher cum terrorist's solicitor who has partnered with the terrorist King to steal the Crown Jewels," the Hags went on to relate (the third Hag had miraculously found her voice).
"Crown jewels or round jewels?" the agents asked. "We never could get it straight which it is."
"Both!" the Hags declared in their best witches' voice.
"God save the Queen!" the agents exclaimed before realizing their infelicity. Their embarrassment speeded their decision.
"We cannot allow you to enter our safe and secure country at this time. You have the right to remain silent - no wait: you have the right to appeal once you are safely on your way. You may text the Director at his My Space, his Twettle-de-dee or his Mug Shot Channel. And have a safe and secure journey away from the good ol' USofA. Oh, and perhaps you should remove the bandages from your little great grandchild before he/she/they/it smothers. Farewell - and don't do anything we wouldn't do!"
"Pretoria here we come!" exclaimed the Hags as the plane took off.
The Lady M. Pire and Sir Edmund Dintletwitch, alias Terry-Thomas got caught up in Snaggletooth and Gorilla's frantic search for the Dwarf Mummy of Princess Ut-Mut of the 13th Dynasty.
It was of course the Gorilla who first noticed the Mummy's disappearance. He told his partner in crime prevention, code name Snaggletooth, of the disappearance. Both then undertook a thorough search of the Jumbo Jet.
Noticing their activities, Lady M. and Sir Edmund started following them, finally flat out asking what they were looking for.
Not wanting to give away the Mummy's existence on British Airways Flight T-911, which for all they knew may have violated every aviation rule in the book, they needed to come up with a subterfuge. As they fished for an answer the Gorilla, having just that evening watched an old Bette Davis/Joan Crawford movie, blurted out "Baby Jane! She's gone., We can't find her. And she's...ahm...she's..."
"She's afraid of flying!" Snaggletooth added his two cents (which was actually worth two American dollars plus ninety-eight cents).
"Yes, that's it: deathly afraid of flying!
"Then why was she on a plane?" and ever quick witted Sir Edmund asked.
"Ahm..." The Gorilla mumbled.
"She mistook it for the last train to Clarksville!" Snaggletooth, a big Monkees fan, offered.
This seemed to satisfy one and all: who wouldn't mistake a Jumbo Jet for a train?
This became the little fat heavy man's opportunity to add yet another designation to his growing list: ol' Eagle Eyes. For as he was on the tarmac during the Terry-Thomas Revue, along with the other, less eagle eyed passengers, he chanced to look up, directly into the plane's windows. And saw, clear as day for his eagle eyes, a Mummy come tumbling out of the gorilla's traveling satchel. That wasn't all he saw, this little fat heavy eagle eyed terrorist. For while both Snaggletooth and Gorilla turned away, just for a moment, he distinctly saw his fellow academic's three old Hags snatch this Mummy and make off with it. But he had bid his time in revealing this train of events.
"So what ever happened to Baby Jane?" Sir Edmund inquired of Snaggletooth.
"She...ahm...she..." This time it was he who fumbled for an explanation.
"She...ahm...Baby Jane that is...she...ahm..." The Gorilla took a turn fumbling.
That was his cue! The little fat heavy eagle-eyed terrorist split the mystery of Baby Jane's disappearance wide apart and left it shrouded in cloth and carbon paper.
"She turned to a Mummy!" he announced.
"A Mummy?" a flabbergasted Gorilla exclaimed.
"A Mummy!" the eagle-eyed would be porn star cried out.
"But of course!" Sir Edmund said in his best comic voice., "Doesn't a lost child always turn to her Mummy?"
"Yes!" Snaggletooth immediately agreed, "she does - she surely does!"
"Unless," conjectured the Lady M. Pire, no stranger to the archeological sciences herself.
"Unless?" Snaggletooth and Gorilla both echoed the Lady.
"Unless Baby Jane was merely an alias for another: specifically the Princess Ut-Mut of 13th Dynasty Egypt!" the Lady delivered the coup de grace.
"Ut-Mut you say? What!" Sir Edmund, who in fact was already thinking of abandoning his academic career for a go at the Comedy Circuit, quipped.
"Ut-Mut was actually not a Princess of the 13th Dynasty at all but Prince Utty-Mutty of the 15th Dynasty," the Singing Nun, who had just come on board playing the lute, told everyone with such aplomb and certainty that everyone immediately bought it. "No Prince so small could ever be acknowledged, so the Archbishop of Canterbury came up with the idea of making the Prince's Mummy a Princess from an earlier Dynasty."
"Say what?" one and all asked. "Archbishop of Canterbury?"
"I believe who Soeur Sourire meant was of course the High Priest of Amon-Ra Ra Boom dee Aye," the Novitiates accompanying the Nun quickly corrected her (perhaps a bit too quickly).
The next several hours were spent sorting out the various identities of poor missing Baby Jane. Then the Jumbo Jet landed at Pretoria and once again the little fat heavy eagle-eyes earned his reputation many times over, for he no sooner looked out the window than who should he see but the three old Hags disembarking the plane they had taken from New York. And in their possession was none other than Baby Jane cum Princess Ut-Mut of the 13th cum Prince Utty-Mutty of the 15th.
The world, as all men know, moves ahead on hunches. The Big Investigation Bureau was no exception. On a hunch (some heartless wag called it a burr up the ass), the Bureau raided, based solely on nothing but a hunch, the home of one Joseph Cuntilever, known associate of a suspected terrorist - the King of England. On a second hunch, Cuntilever having spent time in the Vatican, it was concluded he may have, might have, most surely must have (it was multiple choice all around) associated, however briefly, with the Pope himself, one of the seven premier suspected terrorists of the Western World.
"Did you boys think to question him in Latin, or at minimum in a Gregorian chant?" the ever thorough Director grilled his men.
"No sir, we were so taken with the tragedy of the little girl bandaged head to foot that the language barrier rose up before us and we lost our Latin dialect entirely."
"I'm scheduling you boys for a refresher course in remedial Latin all next week," the agents who had been posted at New York's Kennedy Airport were told.
The search proved futile. No terrorist materials were found among Cuntilever's things, only a collection of photos of all the American Presidents.
"These are harmless," the searchers concluded. But the Director knew better.
"In the hands of the right demonic force these can become killing machines, these American Presidents!" he told his agents.
"Bingo!" exclaimed the agents who had grilled Cuntilever at the airport before sending him on his way to Pretoria. In their excitement they got confused and another language barrier rose up before them.
"Your Majesty," they mistakenly addressed the Director. "We just remembered there were three old Hags accompanying this suspected terrorist associate!"
"Witches!" the Director concluded. "It's all starting to fall into place. Go at once to wherever these witches live and conduct a thorough search."
"Should we get a warrant?" they asked.
"To search a Demon Den? I think not!" they were told.
One month later they completed their search of the Demon Den in downtown Buffalo, New York.
They were in a state of absolute panic, the three old Hags accompanying Josephus Cuntilever. They made it to Pretoria just in the nick of time to catch the Cirque's performance. However, they were denied entry to the show.
"No children allowed," they were told at the Box Office. "You must remove your great grandchild from these premises."
"This child here?" they asked, pointing to the Mummy.
"That child, yes," they were told.
"She's not ours," the Hags insisted. "We found her wandering about searching for a gorilla - at least that's what she said in her little child's dialect. So we thought we'd bring her here rather than leave her marching through the streets of Pretoria. Have you seen a gorilla of late?"
The ticket taker thought back to a man leading a gorilla awhile ago "Why yes," she said. "I do believe I did. Do you suppose that was the same gorilla this little girl is looking for?"
"It surely must be," the Hags eagerly volunteered.
"Well in that case it would be cruel to separate a little girl and her pet gorilla. I tell you what: I'll hold her here until intermission and keep an eye out for any gorilla getting refreshments - and if you see this gorilla before I do, let him know I have his little girl."
"Oh we will - we will!" the Hags promised.
Of course they had no intention of doing so. They fully intended to reclaim their Mummy on the way out.
Finally they were seated. As it so happened next to the Gorilla and Snaggletooth.
Meanwhile Lady M. Pire and Sir Edmund Dintletwitch, now billed as Terry-Thomas, running late, entered the venue and made at once for the box office to get their tickets. That was when Sir Edmund, almost as eagle eyed as the little fat heavy eagle eye, happened to spot the Mummy seated in a corner of the box office.
"By George!" he declared, "I think she's got it!"
"Got what?" the Lady M., with a right hand that could slap a man senseless and a hankering for offshore leasing, asked her companion.
"The Mummy - see? over there? on that chair?"
"Where did you find the Princess?" Lady M. demanded of the ticket taker.
"Three old Hags turned her in, said she belonged to a gorilla," came the reply.
"You mustn't giver her to that particular gorilla," the Lady M. insisted. "He and his master have performed unspeakable things upon the poor child."
Here, Sir Edmund's eagle eyes caught something even more valuable than the Mummy of the dwarf Princess Ut-Mut of the 13th Dynasty.
"Look!" he exclaimed to his Ladyship. "There: isn't that the very Carbon Copy we seek?"
"By George!" the Lady declared. "I think he's got it."
She at once forced her way into the ticket booth and proceeded to skillfully but carefully remove the Carbon paper from the wrapping with the scissors she always carried on her person. Doing so, unfortunately, caused the entire wrapping to begin unraveling, exposing much of the Princess's remains.
The ticket taker gasped. "Oh my God, I see what you mean! It's unspeakable what they've done to this poor child already! Why it's just beastly!"
Neither Lady M. nor Sir Edmund contradicted the ticket taker: they had what they came for, so they simply proceeded to their seats to enjoy the rest of the show.
No one thought to look in the overheads, not with a huge Jumbo Jet hold to rummage through. Nor did it say anywhere in the Terrorism for Dummies Handbook to do so either. So no one did.
Ah! But a Jumbo Jet, as it turned out (this one at least) has Jumbo overheads, fully adequate for housing one, two or even three full size men. Now the Crown had to be removed and hand held, that was the only drawback.
"Those overheads are still making all that racket - even after we complained all the way from London1" several passengers remarked in passing. "I was hoping we might get in a nice nap on our way to Kinshasa."
"Me too," added a grandfatherly man seated beside a grandmotherly woman. "The book they gave us to read -" grandfather started to say.
"- You mean the 'For Whites Only' Manual?" grandmother asked.
"Yes, that's the one. It specifically said to be at our most alert when entering a Non-white neighborhood."
"Is Kinshasa a neighborhood?" grandmother asked.
"Bigger than one of our ghettoes back home," grandfather explained.
"Oh my!" exclaimed grandmother.
Their seat mate, a little girl hastily bandaged head to toe and brought aboard by three old Hags, rattled a few bones at this.
Yet it continued all the way to Kinshasa, this racket overhead. At one point, hitting some turbulence, the overhead door flew open just long enough for a Crown to go flying across the aisle. It made a perfect landing on the little girl's head - and she was transformed once again to the 13th Dynasty Princess Ut-Mut. Then, just as abruptly as the transformation took place a hand from the overhead over Grandfather and Grandmother's head swooped down and retrieved the crown, thereby rendering the Princess once again a little girl with full mortality.
Grandmother and Grandfather didn't recognize the Gorilla coming down the aisle straight for them; but they most surely did recognize Snaggletooth trailing behind: they knew very well what he was about. So they took out their AK-47s and set them on their laps, fingers on the trigger, ready for anything.
"Ah!" cried the Gorilla, "at last there you are you little stowaway!"
"We took her for a terrorist the minute we saw her!" Grandfather told the Gorilla.
"Oh no," Snaggletooth interjected, "she's an Egyptian Princess!"
"Same difference!" Grandmother snorted out.
"Now you good folks be careful of those guns," Snaggletooth cautioned.
"Oh we will," they both promised. "We read the 'Oozies for Dummies Manual' before we purchased them."
"Now that's what I call responsible citizens," both Snaggletooth and Gorilla complimented the old couple. "And give the grandkids a great big hug for us!"
"Oh we will!" Grandfather and Grandmother assured the Scotland Yard and Egyptian agents.
"And if you see any terrorists, you let us know!"
The nice old couple nodded their assent, hiding their smirks.
Grandfather and Grandmother were first to disembark at Kinshasa.
"You folks look tired," the authorities said as they released the nice grandparents, "so we won't keep you while we search for terrorists. You may go."
Grandfather and Grandmother, upon leaving Kinshasa's International Airport made straight for the nearest Bank of Kinshasa for a withdrawal.
"Now those bank robbers are dead ringers for that nice old couple we had the pleasure of talking to," Snaggletooth remarked to his partner in crime prevention.
"Small world," Gorilla agreed as he started to return the Princess Ut-Mut to his satchel once the terrorist search was over 10 hours later and the rest of the passengers were given the green light to go.
But he was distracted by the little fat heavy eagle-eyed man opening then closing every overhead.
"What are you doing?" Gorilla asked.
"My nose tells me my solicitors are here somewhere," he said.
"I say old chap, they would hardly be in the overhead!" noted Sir Edmund Dintletwitch with a big gap-toothed grin. Reality copying art seemed at work on the Jumbo Jet as Sir Edmund, who was mistaken for and had performed so often as Terry-Thomas, was starting to really look like the comedian.
"I guess you're right. Nothing to see here."
As much as Elkins and Pemberly wanted to reach out to their client and inform him it was alright to sign the contract they had been engaged to review, they wanted even more to avoid Scotland Yard, even if its premier agent was beginning to resemble a big purple lion.
And just as much as the King's solicitors wished to meet with their little fat heavy client, their nemesis wished to assist his new partner Gorilla in getting the Mummy Princess safely off board and on a flight back to Cairo in time for the 13th Dynasty exposition. But as the authorities were searching every satchel and carry-on, that was looking ever more unlikely. Until Snaggletooth got an idea, but an idea that required one more person for its success: Sir Edmund Dintletwitch, alias Terry-Thomas. So they approached him.
"How would you like to join a Troupe of three performers?"
"And be a fourth man?" Sir Edmund asked.
"Exactly!" Snaggletooth answered.
Looking around, Sir Edmund noted how he only saw two.
"The reason is because.." Gorilla blurted out, an unfortunate remark that prompted Lady M. Pire to reach out and slap a man passing by, who happened, just by chance, to be the co-pilot of this very Jumbo Jet. He immediately tore up his pilot's license and took off running in the direction of this evening's Cirque d' Pornyay performance.
Realizing the time, Josephus Cuntilever's three old Hags likewise took off, if not actually running then in a very brisk jaunt. Had it not been for Cuntilever's quick thinking his Hags would have been arrested for running on a runway. But he informed the authorities that these Hags were his patients and he prescribed a brisk jog twice a day for six weeks. As a result of his quick thinking, he and his Hags made the show in time for the opening ceremonies.
The co-pilot, meanwhile, signed the contract and was welcomed into the Troupe.
While this was transpiring, Gorilla was explaining to Sir Edmund how the third member of their little Troupe would join them on stage.
"The Princess is shy," Snaggletooth thought to add.
Upon hearing this, Elkins and Pemberly, fearing their Majesty might make an appearance, leaped forth from their overhead and immediately threatened a stay lest this Princess despoil the good name of the Monarchy. Snaggletooth at once summoned the authorities to apprehend the King's solicitors that they might be returned to the Tower of London.
"And where is the King?" they demanded.
"In the Tower," Elkie explained. "He never left - he took one of the new Invisible Pills and remains undisturbed to this day."
"Then why didn't you take these pills?"
"We had business aboard this flight - our client awaits our studied opinion," Elkie told the authorities.
"And did you conclude your business?"
"Ah! I see him now - our client! The little fat heavy man! Come Pembi, we must advise him at once!"
Knowing it wouldn't be right to impede solicitors in the execution of their duties, the authorities stepped aside while the solicitors made for their client.
"We've looked over the contract," they advised their client once a suitable place was found, "and we pronounce it Just Peachy Jim Dandy John H. Barleycorn okay - as you Americans like to say!"
Here the little fat heavy client brought out his contract, signed it on the spot, had his solicitors notarize it, and immediately made for the Cirque.
"Oh my!" Elkie exclaimed loudly enough for the authorities to hear, "our client neglected to provide us, his solicitors, with a signed copy. We'll have to follow him and collect it."
"Well, don't be long," the authorities insisted. "We have to secure you so you don't get away just as soon as your business is concluded."
"You have our word - the word of Britishers!" Elkins and Pemberly promised, both well aware that a solicitor's word carried no weight in Court.
The King's solicitors cum terrorists fully intended to return to the Jumbo, though it meant a return to the Tower of London. But they were recruited by grandfather and grandmother into a mercenary army specializing in bank robberies as their solicitors. And since the King was unable to pay their fee as long as he was on the run, they could hardly turn down such a lucrative offer.
Meanwhile the little fat heavy contract laden man was backstage showing off his wares to the Cirque's Selection Committee.
"We'll of course need to see it in action," they told their latest applicant.
"I may need a transfusion to accomplish that," he told them. "My doctor tells me I don't have enough blood to showcase it to best advantage."
"Well, come back when you get this transfusion," the Committee told him.
"I was hoping you might take me as I am."
"We run a tight ship here. Our audience demands performance perfection - why, we've even gotten catcalls from three old Hags who demanded their money back if we don't deliver. Sorry. we can't accept your application at this time."
The proof was unmistakable: the hospital sat directly above a terrorist den of iniquity. Three highly reputable officials all agreed: beneath the hospital was a cache of terrorists and their weapons. They had been assured of the report's veracity by six completely trustworthy soldiers who, in turn, had been apprised of the setup by one hundred settlers who had read all about it in a special newsletter which directly quoted from a white paper commissioned by three highly reputable officials. Even the Speaker of the US Congress, one skeptical so-and-so if ever there was one, accepted the conclusion as indisputable - so he had no choice but to authorize the sale of a nuclear bomb, which once unwrapped and signed by thousands of well wishers, was dropped on the hospital, leaving nothing in its path or wake but the signatures of the well wishers.
No one wanted to be in Lagos - except of course the CEO of Jumbo Jets R' Us, a real travel buff who, in fact, had changed his name from Petrie Dishopan to J. Umbo J. Ets and was currently being sued by five men and two women who had registered the name already with the Hall of Records, one of whom had charged him with corporate terrorism. Interpol was looking into the matter, as were the terrorist czars of 16 countries. As a result he always traveled disguised as an old Hag named Dagmarand Blondie.
Gorilla, being of the mountain variety from Central Africa, eschewed coastlines of every description. Snaggletooth, assuming his quarry had given him the slip, just wanted to return to Scotland Yard to pick up his monthly pay. The little fat heavy reject desperately wanted to get to the Unslapping Clinic in Tijuana. Lady M. Pire had what she came for and only wanted to get to Haiti to settle her offshore leases. Sir Edmund Dintletwitch was anxious to begin his career as Terry-Thomas. The King of England was getting tired of living in an overhead and only using the toilet when everyone else was asleep or on the tarmac being questioned. Josephus Cuntilever kept planning a way to sneak back into the good ol' USofA and get his hands on the Elizabethan Document, which thanks to the Patriarch of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church, who had gotten his hands on it from the Patriarch of the Eastern Orthodox Church before that mountain climbing prelate's career abruptly ended, now resided in the Holy Grail. In truth, only three people desperately wished to remain in Lagos: the three ol Hags, who had now been joined by a fourth, just as eager to remain in Lagos, if for an entirely different reason.
Umbo, as he preferred to be called when not posing as an old Hag, saw his chance and took it. And when asked by Cuntilever who he was and how he came to be with his three old Hags, replied in a husky witches' voice "I'm their long lost sister, stranded here in Lagos for over 40 years. Our mother was testing out parachutes and mistakenly got caught in the strings and I fell right smack in the middle of this lovely city."
"And now our long lost sister wants more than anything to see the Cirque d'Pornyay before going home to Buffalo," the three old Hags reported.
"Do you even remember your old home town?" Cuntilever asked.
"Oh yes, Buffalo Bill Falls, South Dakota: it seems like only yesterday!"
Cuntilever, being something of a Geography buff, questioned the placement of Buffalo, New York, in Buffalo Bill Falls, South Dakota, or even in fact the very existence of such a place at all - much to the consternation of Ombo the fourth Hag.
"Oh no, don't tell me the Corps of Engineers and Earth Movers Inc. finally did as they'd been promising and moved Buffalo Bill Springs back East where it originated," wailed the distraught fourth Hag.
"You'll like it," the other three Hags prompted. "It's nice and cozy and you'll never want for reading material - you have our word on that."
Once everyone was cleared to leave, the authorities asked if anyone had happened to see the notorious terrorist J. Umbo J. Ets while on board. "He'd look exactly like this fourth old Hag only without the wig and pointed cap," they said.
Cuntilever, after looking his three old Hags' long lost sister in the face for several moments, shook his head and assured the authorities no such person had ever been on board the Jumbo Jet.
"Well, if you see him, remember: he's armed and dangerous. Well, he may not be armed, but he is dangerous. Well, he may not be dangerous either, but you don't want to take any chances. And don't forget: he's a master of disguises. He's even disguised himself as an old Hag, if you can believe the audacity of the man1"
"I'll be on the lookout for him," Cuntilever promised.
"If only half the people were as conscientious or as perceptive, we could lick this terrorist problem once and for all!"
"You didn't see an old Hag that looked just like you, did you?" Cuntilever asked on the way to the Cirque.
"Only once," Umbo admitted. "But it turned out to be me looking in a mirror."
"In a mirror everyone looks like an old Hag," Cuntilever observed.
"Tell me about it!" said Umbo the fourth Hag.
The auditorium was packed but the four old Hags muscled their way in, even casting a spell on the front four seats so that they appeared to have moved three feet closer to the stage, resulting in those seats' occupants, upon returning with popcorn and cotton candy, misperceiving their seats' whereabouts and plopping onto the floor, spilling their popcorn all over the place, while their actual seats were taken by four wizened old ladies with ragged smocks, stringy hair and warts on their noses, three of the warts natural, the fourth paste.
The little fat heavy man, having fallen once again into a deep depression, never left the Jumbo Jet, the only passenger remaining on board. Well, at least the only seated passenger. This of course was always when the King came out of hiding to stretch his legs and get a bite to eat, no one being around to finger him to the authorities.
He tumbled out almost on top of the little fat heavy man, his crown doing just that. He landed in an adjacent seat, his crown smack dab on his seat mate's bald head, which reeled from the impact.
"I say old man," said the King, "that's mine. I command you to relinquish it."
The little fat heavy newly crowned King merely looked at the former King of England as if he were an imposter.
"I would gladly trade my crown for one night with the Queen of Unslap if I but could. But as there's no such thing, I must keep it till one comes into existence."
While the little fat heavy man King was reminiscing about how good it would feel to be unslapped all night long, the real King was busy formulating a new strategy for getting out of overheads for good.
"Suppose I let this little fat heavy King impersonator keep my crown" the real King was thinking to himself, "and suppose I keep him here until Snaggletooth and Gorilla return, and suppose I turn him in and collect a reward? It just might work."
"Rest uneasy, your Majesty," cautioned the real King.
"That is the only way I know to rest," rejoined the little fat heavy newly crowned King.
Unknown to either the new King nor the abdicated King, Snaggletooth and Gorilla sneaked back from the show before the final curtain, thinking they might find their prey, the King of England. They were unprepared for what they found instead.
In King's Row, seated at one end was a strange man they both swore they'd never seen before. But on the other end there sat none other than -
"Ut-Mut, dwarf Princess of the 13th Dynasty!" exclaimed Gorilla. "And lo and behold she's come to life again!"
"And so much more!" exclaimed Snaggletooth. "For unless my eyes deceive me she has become a he! And less dwarfish than anyone could have ever guessed!"
"All that was needed to reveal her true self was for her bandages to come loose!" added Gorilla.
"And how rotund she has become - and a dead ringer for the little fat heavy groupie terrorist! You don't suppose, do you -" added Snaggletooth before being cut off by his partner.
"It must be!" Gorilla deduced. "Surely the little fat heavy manic depressive is none other than Ut-Mut's descendant!"
"The likeness is too great for him not to be," Snaggletooth added.
"So now we know,' the stranger seated across from Ut-Mut, little fat heavy Prince of the 13th Dynasty, said under his breath. "Ancient Egyptians were hung like horses. At least in the 13th Dynasty."
"But you know this presents a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma," suggested Gorilla and Snaggletooth together: "How did Ut-Mut get from an Egyptian satchel into this seat?"
"Let's ask this gentleman if he knows," they both suggested.
"I was just sitting here, minding my own business," the stranger explained, "when I heard this noise coming from one of the overheads - "
"Could you describe it?" the Scotland Yard in Snaggletooth asked.
"It was a kind of scraping sound - you know: like old parchment, like an Elizabethan document being shuffled through. Then all of a sudden I saw smoke coming from the same overhead - "
"What color was the smoke?" Gorilla asked.
"It was colorless, if my memory serves me."
"Go on," the interrogation proceeded.
"Then all of a sudden this thing, like a store dummy I thought at the time, pushed the overhead open and leapt from the overhead right onto the main aisle, where it proceeded to squat. I of course cautioned it against remaining in the middle of the aisle lest it get trampled when the passengers return."
"Wisely done, sir," said Snaggletooth.
"So I invited it to join me on King's Row here. And this is where it's been ever since."
Snaggletooth and Gorilla looked at one another and said "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" They nodded yes.
They both made the stranger an offer he could not refuse.
"We could use a good, observant man like you," they made their offer. "What do you say? Will you join us as we search for the terrorist we're after - the King of England?"
"Why, yes, I think that sounds a dammy good plan," the stranger agreed at once to the plan.
"Good man!!" they congratulated him as they officially made him their newest partner.
All was quiet on the Western Front of Lagos' Airport, where the big Jumbo Jet was parked. Four persons sat quietly in the body of the Jet: Snaggletooth, Gorilla, their new partner and the 13th Dynasty Princess cum Prince Ut-Mut, soon to become Utti-Mutti.
"We don't even know your name," Snaggletooth remarked to his newest partner. "What do we call you?"
"Call me Ishmael." And so it was.
"It'll be easy to find the missing terrorist King," Snaggletooth assured Ishmael. "He's a dead ringer for you - except he'll be wearing a crown that's a perfect replica of Ut-Mut's here."
"I'll be on the lookout," Ishmael promised.
"Anything to add?" Gorilla was asked.
"Yes. I've been thinking it over and I now realize we've got it all wrong," Gorilla related in his best Egyptian accent. "There was no Prince Ut-Mut in the 13th Dynasty. But there was a Prince Utti-Mutti in the 15th Dynasty. So the mummy of Princess Ut-Mut of the 13th Dynasty not only changed sex, and name - she even changed her Dynasty by two. It's indeed one for the books."
Nothing more was said till an hour or so later when the weary passengers began boarding after being searched on their way in, just glad to finally be on their way home to the good old USofA. They were quiet as church mice on their way up the ramp and filing into their seats. Most of them were.
Weeping and wailing cut the stillness of the Lagos night all the way from the auditorium to the Western Front, then on into the big Jumbo Jet.
The three old Hags were beating their chests, tearing their hair, weeping, wailing, gyrating, cursing in a strange chanting way, and banging their heads wherever they could. The fourth old Hag was not.
J. Umbo J. Ets, in drag, was of course stoic as was his wont. Even though he did shed a tear or two just thinking of his big Jumbo Jet waiting to carry him across the ocean and back home. But these were happy tears, tears of joy, tears of reunion, of seeing a dear old friend again.
"I say, what's wrong with three of your old Hags?" asked Terry-Thomas. "They seem a bit long in the tooth!"
"I don't know what's ailing them," Josephus Cuntilever admitted. "One minute they were fine, next minute they were like this. They were just sitting there, quietly, watching the performance, like all of us. Then the strangest thing happened. When the performers came out for their final curtain call, and we all arose to applaud, which of course was only right, this being their final performance anywhere on earth this cycle, all of a sudden my three Hags let out a piercing cry, began leaping about like banshees, and started carrying on like someone who's lost their most precious possession, or been denied tenure. I don't know what to make of it - do you?"
"I've only seen this kind of thing once, but I can't say as I remember where or when," Sir Terry-Thomas recollected.
Then one by one each passenger remembered having witnessed the same thing, but no one could recall where or when. They thought and thought, but no, not one of them could recall where or when they had seen it.
"Maybe if we pool our recollections," the Captain suggested, "we'll come up with both where and when." But try as they might, they still failed to find either place or time.
"I think you're forgetting something," Lady M. Pire, refusing otherwise to partake of this mass delusion, as she called it, reminded her fellow passengers: "Time and tide wait for no man." Then she said no more.
"Dammy she's got it!" exclaimed Ishmael. "She's narrowed it down for us: it was 'no man.,' It therefore must have been a woman!"
"I say if you don't sound just like the King!" said Sir Edmund Terry.
"Of course he does!" Snaggletooth explained. "He also looks like him - and that's precisely how we're going to catch the King! Why, if Ishmael here were wearing a King's crown, I might just arrest him and be done with it!"
Everyone had a good laugh at this.
"Ah, catch a King! Just like Elizabeth had her Prince Hamlet say," Josephus Cuntilever poignantly remarked.
"That we'll never know," said the Captain.
"Au contraire," said Cuntilever, "we'll know the moment I locate the Holy Grail, where the Elizabethan Document is currently housed."
Nothing further was said the way home, as all the passengers sat quietly pondering who this elusive woman so intimately connected with the where and the when of their having once encountered a tantrum just like this one the three old Hags presented might be.
In fact, the passengers, except for Lady M. Pire, Prince Utti-Mutti, Snaggletooth, Gorilla and Ishmael, kept at it day and night for the rest of their lives.
Cuntilever had paid no mind to the brouhaha over his Hags' tantrum. He had more to worry about than their wailing, flailing and making a general spectacle of themselves. He was headed home, and home, to him, far from being where the heart is, was where the police were waiting to turn him away again. While the others were busy pondering this mysterious woman caught up in all manner of tide and time, Cuntilever was busily engaged in working out a strategy for getting into the USofA - as it turned out, needlessly.
The big New York International Airport was bustling with cops; but none were watching the planes taking off and landing. They were all engaged, to a man, in the lounge where the great big super duper screen TV was blasting out the latest poop.
"Shush! He's about to speak!" their Captain called out.
"What should we tell him?" the Secretary of State asked at a hastily called Cabinet meeting.
"Tell him nothing - it's safer!" the Secretary of the Interior recommended.
"No," countered the National Security Advisor, "he's pretty sharp. He just might figure it out and fire us all for leaving him in the dark."
"I just don't know," confessed the Secretary of State.
"Don't know what?" a most unwelcome voice asked. Before anyone could answer, the newcomer said "Sorry I'm late. I completely forgot I called this meeting," the President of the United States apologized.
"So tell me," the President went on," what's this house arrest business? Does it mean the White House is arrested? or am I arrested - because I sure don't feel like an arrest warrant!"
"Well," the Attorney General explained, "the warrant is what authorizes them to arrest you."
"And there's a separate warrant for my house?"
"Something like that, Mr. President, yes."
"So what is this arrest all about?" the President thought to ask. "Is it a good thing or a bad thing?"
"Oh it's a good thing, Mr. President!" all the Cabinet rushed to assure their boss.
"I'm beginning to see," said a thoughtful President. "An arrest for terrorist activities -"
" - Suspicion of!" the Secretary of Defense corrected his boss.
"So, arrest for suspicion of terrorist activities simply means I'm being cited for arresting - stopping - suspected terrorist activities. I'm liking this already. It's some sort of award. Well thank you gentlemen for clearing this up," the President said as he turned to go.
Later that evening, just as J. Umbo J. Ets big Jumbo Jet was taxieing down the runway, a hastily called Press Conference was beginning. All the authorities left their post to gather in the big lounge to watch.
"Ladies and gentlemen: the President of the United States."
"I called you folks here to make a big announcement," the President got right to the point. "I've been awarded a Terrorist Arrest Certificate. I've already had the warrant framed and hung in the Oval Office. I want to thank everyone who worked so hard to make this possible. But especially, I want to thank my Secretary of State, my National Security Advisor and my Secretary of Defense. Without their help I'd never have received this arrest warrant. Are there any questions?"
"Mr. President: are you saying your Secretary of State, your National Security Advisor and your Secretary of Defense ought to receive an arrest warrant for terrorism also?"
"Absolutely. I could never have done it all without them."
By nightfall the entire Cabinet had been placed under house arrest as terrorist suspects. Only the Vice-President was still at large, having wandered off earlier in the week and could not be found.
"Hasn't the VP been chipped? The Bureau Director asked the Speaker of the House, who was now in charge of the country.
He spat into his spittoon before answering. "We couldn't find one in a style the VP liked," came his answer in a fine drawl.
Meanwhile a press conference had been set up in the Speaker's Chambers.
"How does it feel to be in charge of the whole dang country?" came the first question.
The Speaker spat before answering. "Feels good," he answered.
"By the way," the reporter followed up his first question with an observation, "That's a fine spittoon you've got there. It looks a bit like the pictures I've seen of some famous vase. Where'd you get it?"
The Speaker Spat. "Some old crank happened by one day and had it with him. Called it green or some such - and holy to boot. Ain't green though." He spat again. Green! the very idea!
Everyone was glad to be home, except for Snaggletooth, Gorilla and Ishmael: this was not their home. And of course Lady M. Pire was off to Haiti with her carbon copy which would put her in the running for the offshore leases she so dearly sought and had traveled half the known world to secure bidding rights.
The three old Hags had not done yet with their weeping and wailing, though the fourth remained on board his Jumbo Jet until they made him leave, at which he too did some weeping and wailing, but subdued and discreet.
The little fat heavy Prince Utti-Mutti remained in a semi-catatonic state, caught in the grip of two separate and distinct states, one pulling him toward Tijuana's Unslapping Clinic, the other toward an itsy-bitsy pyramid far from Giza and the Madding Crowd of Tourists. While in an unopened satchel still lay the real Mummy, the dwarf Princess Ut-Mut, barely a memory now - except by Terry-Thomas of all people.
"I say," he addressed Snaggletooth, Ishmael but especially Gorilla, "this little fat heavy Prince Utti-Mutti looks a tad familiar - and not a whit like that dwarf Princess Ut-Mut I distinctly recall seeing pop out of a camelback satchel."
"T-T - may I call you T-T? - and I say this in all sincerity: there hasn't been such a satchel seen in my mountain home in six thousand years - not since the 13th Dynasty," Gorilla assured the famous comedian.
"Then what's this?" Terry-Thomas, alias Sir Edmund Dintletwitch, grabbed up the very satchel as he asked.
"Why anyone can see this is a camel front satchel," Gorilla pointed out.
"Dammy if you don't stand corrected," Ishmael noted.
Josephus Cuntilever happened to be watching the evening news from his hotel room in New York before setting out aboard the Amtrak first thing tomorrow. And what he saw convinced him to put off his return trip a bit longer. For there, inside the Speaker's office, sitting at the feet of the new Head of State, was what appeared to be none other than the Holy Grail.
"Ladies," Cuntilever announced to his three old Hags, now become four, "first thing tomorrow we take the train south - to Washington D.C. - to pick up the document I've gone halfway around the world to find!"
"We want to go home!" the Hags whined. "All our stuff is there. We miss our home. We want to shuffle off to Buffalo!" and they started banging their heads on the wall.
"You're fee to go home whenever you want. But I'm heading to D.C."
The three old Hags opted for a shuffle off to Buffalo - as did the fourth, who didn't care where he went so long as he got there by Jumbo Jet.
Midday the next day the Hags arrived at their home in Buffalo. And began at once screaming, wailing, rending their garments, tearing their hair. For all they found inside their home was a receipt signed by an agent of the Bureau.
"Took everything. Come to Bureau HQ in D.C. to put in your claim. Yours, Bollinger Battlement."
The next day the Hags were fast on the trail of their confiscated goods. In fact, they managed to beat Cuntilever by a couple hours. He had caught the wrong Amtrak and ended up in Podunk, Iowa; and had to catch a Jumbo Jet to Washington.
'We want our stuff!" the three old Hags burst into Battlement's office demanding.
"It's gonna be a couple days," the Agent said. "The Director's sifting through for evidence of terrorism."
The Hags decided to go over the Director's head, straight to the Speaker of the House. They found him just minutes ahead of Cuntilever, reading his Bible - the one with the color pictures - and every so often spitting into his spittoon.
"You into Jesus?" they asked.
"You got it!" the Speaker said. "Nothing I wouldn't do for Jesus! I'd spit for Jesus! Why, I'd bomb a village for Jesus if need be!"
"We once took all our clothes off for Jesus!" the Hags admitted.
"Well who wouldn't?" said the Speaker.
"That's why we know you'll help us," the Hags suggested.
"Anything for a fellow Jesus Freak - I think that's what they're called," the Speaker told the Hags.
"The Director's got all our stuff!" they told him. "We'd like it back!"
Consider it done, ladies of Jesus! And I can just picture all the biblical literature you've got stashed away in there!"
By day's end the little house in Buffalo was once again filled floor to ceiling with all manner of pornography. And three old Hags knelt down and thanked Jesus before diving in.
Josephus Cuntilever patiently awaited his turn. But now that the three old Hags had shuffled off to Buffalo and, there being no sign of Hag Number Four, Cuntilever stepped up to the big oaken desk.
"Mr. Speaker," he began, "I couldn't help noting how like the Holy Grail your spittoon looks -"
"Ah! So it's Grail, not Green. Starts to make some sense. Holy Grail, yeah," the Speaker agreed, "that's what everyone says. It's what the wizened old codger who gave it to me said too. Who knows? It's all in the eye of the beholder."
"Can you tell me, Mr. Speaker," Cuntilever went straight to the heart of his month long quest. "Were there any papers inside this Grail when you got it?"
"Funny you should ask," said Mr. Speaker. "There were some old heathen parchments all folded up and stuffed right inside."
"Where are they now?"
"In hell where all heathens belong!"
"What does that mean?"
"It means I'll not be having any heathen stuff cluttering up my spittoon. So I had my secretary commit it all to the flames like any good Christian would."
"So...the document is no more?" a distressed, defected and depressed Josephus Cuntilever asked in one final desperate hope something remained of his precious Elizabethan document.
"You got it, citizen: it's no more. The whole dang thing's a pile of cinders waitin' for the cinder man to come and take it away."
"Might I see the cinders?"
"I think they're in my secretary's waste basket. Hey Cindy!" the Speaker called, "you still got that ol' pile of cinders?"
Cindy came into the Speaker's office carrying her waste basket full of cinders.
"The cinder man's on his way," Cindy said.
"Don't give them to him1" Cuntilever, on a sudden impulse, cried out. "He's a sorcerer! He'll cast a spell over them and cause them to reconstitute! He must not get his hands on them! Let me remove them before he gets hold of them!"
"Hey, it's Cindy's waste basket, it's up to her," said the Speaker.
"I don't want to lose my nice new waste basket," Cindy admitted. "I suppose I could dump them in a bag."
"That'd be fine!" Cuntilever agreed.
"Is a plastic grocery bag okay? It's a nice blue Food Lion bag. We got ice cream sandwiches in it - remember Mr. Speaker?"
"Dang if we didn't! And boy was they good!"
"That'd be great!" said Cuntilever.
A couple minutes later, just a step or two ahead of the Cinder Man, Cuntilever was on his way, shuffling off to Buffalo, a nice blue Food Lion bag full of Elizabethan cinders in hand.
"We don't do cinders," the three old Hags advised. "Everything but. Sorry."
So Josephus Cuntilever gathered up his bag and departed, vowing to find someone, witch or wizard, who could magically restore an Elizabethan document reduced to cinders.
Lady M. Pire inspected her offshore leases as the Haitian people watched, wondering why it was they had no lease to call their own.
Sir Edmund Dintletwitch submitted his resignation to the Academic Board and began his world wide tour billed as Terry-Thomas Tonight.
Gorilla and Snaggletooth parted ways, Gorilla returning the still catatonic Prince Utti-Mutti to the Cairo Museum, where all who saw the exhibit marveled how well hung 15th Dynasty Princes were once their mummy's bandages were removed.
Snaggletooth, now teamed up with Ishmael, who looked, acted and spoke exactly like the King of England, resumed their search for the escaped terrorist King.
Elkins and Pemberly set up shop in the guerilla camp, making sure every "i" was dotted, every "t" crossed, and every "p" and "q" was watched in every communiqué demanding ransom. The guerillas grew rich and were even nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature thanks to their efforts.
J. Umbo J. Ets, comfortably positioned as a Fourth Old Hag, flew non-stop around the world at the expense of the airline.
(The Pope was still under house arrest, as were the President and his Cabinet.)
For a child this day is born in Bethlehem, who will show his people a land of peace and freedom. And he shall be called...
Nov. 15, 2024