Interlude: A Decade Of Disintegration
626 Words
“I’ve heard they’re powered by steam, automatons, or some such strange name. Apparently, they’re close to eight-feet tall and can flatten buildings with one swing of a metal arm.”
“Preposterous!”
“No, it’s true, Charlesworth, I swear! All very hush-hush. They’re Monk’s handiwork. If not for his supervision…”
“Is that what they call it?”
“Indeed. However, as I was saying, if not for his supervision, that idealistic i***t Swift’s work would have come to nought. As it is, he’s the only reason she’s alive even if he is not. Old beak nose has been working on them, and perversely, her, for the last ten years. Not that he ever tells us much, secretive blighter!”
“Has it been so long since the accident?”
Jackson counted the fingers on one hand, frowned, then repeated the action. “Yes,” he confirmed.
Charlesworth pulled a face. “Why must you always listen to gossip, Jackson, Monk’s a scientist, not an engineer.”
“Gossip is the stitching that holds the fabric of society together. Altogether more reliable than a newspaper, you know.” The smaller of the two well-dressed hippos rubbed his grumbling stomach.
“Bah, I hold Wainthrop responsible for what’s happened.”
“He always was a baboon wasn’t he, Charlesworth.”
“Indeed, a lumbering oaf. He reminded me of that Frankenstein fellow but with more facial hair.”
The two burst into stifled laughter.
“But facts are facts,” Charlesworth continued, “Old hero-for-hire Wainthrop’s disappearance — he touched the side of his nose — initiated Her Majesty’s decline, which has progressed from a deterioration of the mind to a corruption of her entire body. By rights, she should be rotting in her own grave, Jackson. All this steam-powered mumbo-jumbo is just wrong, plain wrong. Britannia, the Empire, us, were never meant to be ruled by a metal miscreant. It’s embarrassing! b****y embarrassing! Russkies must be in hysterics!”
“Before the Boche invaded them?”
“Does it matter?”
“Calm down, man.”
“Well, honestly! Where did it all go wrong?”
“I sometimes think she felt more for old walrus moustache than she did her own husband.”
“True. Disgusting, but true. The whole thing stinks, or rather, stank.”
“Here! Here!” Jackson’s multiple chins rippled their agreement.
“Shush, man, you never know who’s listening.”
“Or, what?”
“Exactly.”
“So, are you going?”
“You mean, to you know where?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t see we have much choice, everybody’s going.”
“You know what I mean.”
Charlesworth grinned.
“And has it been given the go-ahead?”
“Of course.”
“By Victoria? Why would she?”
“Use your head, man.”
“Oh, I see. One in one out and all that.”
“Certainly.”
“We’d best polish up on our syntax, then.”
“Ja.”
“Oh, Charlesworth, although always in my bad taste, your wit never ceases to disappoint.”
“Likewise, old bean.”
“Why, thank you.”
“And I’ll tell you another thing for free.”
“Hm.”
“If we’re going up in one of those goddamn floating asylums…”
“Floating asylums, I like that.”
“One can’t choose one’s company all the time. But as I was saying.”
“Sorry.”
“If we’re going up in that thing, I’m making damn sure I get some eel pie first.”
“Well said, sir. Well said.”
And away the two corpulent Lords strode, or wobbled, into a cold and foggy London morning.
- Writer
