Sir F. Chook, Inventor of Leopard Oil

Likeness captured upon a daguerrotype machine in Japan, July 1891


Wherein the Author reflects upon certain topical & personal issues of the Day.

The Bohemians, a Burlesque Scene

Penned upon the 7th of February, 2007

“I am the finest poet in the world,” Leopold cried, “and I dare any of you bastards to say otherwise!” Ned replied by vomiting profligately into the water carafe. “We’ll have a poetry competition” – Leopold again – “I mean it!” “You haven’t written anything in eight months. Not since your wife left you and moved to Gibraltar.” This was the Comte du Lisdoré, at the bottom of his second bottle of wine and a Quaker’s indolence from frothing into a rage. “Damnable lies!” Leopold cried, violently glassing himself. Ned rolled into a dish of hummus, his long hair sopping up a puddle of mint sauce, and began making bubbling noises.

Horace St Germaine, who had escaped previous mention, suddenly leapt to his feet and pulled a passing serving-girl into his chair. “Tell us your name and keep us company!” he yelled, causing Ned to sit bolt upright momentarily, with a fruit-plate stuck to his forehead, before resuming his slumber. The girl slipped away and had Horace booted into the street by the Crimean War veteran the café kept behind the bar.

Du Lisdoré was continuing his deconstruction of Leopold’s career. “You haven’t touched a pen in weeks. You just march up and down the river banks, calling picnickers terrible names. You wash in absinthe dregs even though you have perfectly good soap and you don’t drink the stuff anyway. You rhymed ‘powder’ with ‘slander!’ You’re all maudlin, and no poet!” “Enough!” roared Leopold and caught the Comte under the chin with his stick. As blood dripped down his forehead, the Comte landed softly in the flower display and Ned’s snores turned into the wheezes of a victim of hummus on the lungs, Leopold sighed heavily to himself. “‘Tis a pyrrhic victory… but I regret nothing.”

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