CHAPTER 12 – FAERIES AND SMOKE

Funstas awoke just as dawn’s tiny fingers began to scratch out the eyes of the moon. He had nightmares. Bad nightmares. Faeries had assaulted him in his dreams and had tormented him mercilessly. They held ‘Faerie hearings’. ‘Inquiries’ the Faeries called them, and they tied him to an enormous toadstool with ropes made of spiders webs. An enormous dung beetle with vacant eye sockets had been converted to a truth detector by the nightmare faeries. Every time the Senator lied, or claimed he could not remember, or cited Senatorial Privilege, the dung beetle shook violently and passed gas. One Faerie stunningly beautiful with emerald eyes and named Rendre Justice, was dressed in a scarlet empire waste gown of silken threads. She was the interrogator. She was bare breasted or as the French Gnomes called it “au savage.” In the nightmare she bombarded Funstas with questions. Question, after question. Faster and faster. Faster than he could think of evasions, or delay, or patriotic slur. “How much money did you take from the Rubber Spiders Trust and Cabal? Where had the Senator hidden the Senatorial Pickle Jar? Was he sleeping with the Great Leader and Glorious Leader of Clissa? Was he or was he not the father of the Counts, 1,2,3,4 and 5? How large was the bribe he paid to governor Linden. Why did he kill Kutcher? Who was the penguin?

“No”, Funstas cried.

The beetle farted.

“But then, I forgot.”

“Fzzzutt” sounded the beetle.

“No, I don’t remember.”

“Spluuuff.”

“No my notes, the dog ate my notes.”

“Fooomph.”

“No, the Honorable Senator for the opposition is a liar and a pervert.”

“Shoosh”

“Yes I didn’t steal the slush money in the pickle jar.”

“Bllaafp.”

“Immunity, immunity applies.”

“Ptzzzzf.”

“No!” screamed the Senator.

“fumphh,” replied the truth beetle.

“Yes, no No.”

“Shoop, Fushhhh, Zuuulpp” sounded the beetle with finality.

Funstas awoke in a feather bed drenched is sweat and spittle. His head hurt bad, really bad. It pounded as if an insane team of taiko drummers was battling with a frenzied Reform School Drum and Bugle core and both were winning.. His throat was parched. He was going to be sick. The room was swirling about and he struggled to focus. Then Funstas remembered yesterday. The assassination attempt on his life. The way he had dogged the bullet and his friend Murdstone took the big one for the gipper. And then the dash to the embassy and Ambassador Sloth’s kind offer. He felt like vomiting and crying at the same time. As he fought for control the room decelerated its mad spinning and the walls, the chair, windows and emerald chandelier came into focus. Unfortunately for Funstas, Rendre Justice, with her bare bosom and pert nipples came into focus -- and the toadstool as well.

“Ah my love Funstas,” said Rendre in a soft melodious voice. “Feeling better?” “Now, isn’t confession good for the soul? Don’t you feel much better now?”

“Confession?” said Funstas. His entire Senatorial career flashed before him. This was rapidly becoming the worst day of his life. Far worse than the night he drew five queens in a high stakes poker game with Jobless Steves, the Chris Llanfair, and Governor Linden at the Calves Head Club. He was really sick now. He started to, as the Faeries say, ‘up-chuck’.

“The bucket, please, Dew Drop and Butter Cup,” said Rendre taking a cautious few steps back from the bed.

Dew Drop, a really tiny faerie hoisted the gigantic wastebasket over her head, closed her eyes, and her assistant Butter Cup held both their noses as they closed their eyes expecting the worst. Little Dew Drops tiny wings buzzed and hissed as she used every micro-gram of her tiny form to keep the wastebasket aloft. And in Faerie land to be vomited upon by an overweight, drunken, sick, lying senator was about the worst thing that could happen and not something taught at the Faerie School.

The Senator took a deep breath. He felt a little better. The nausea passed.

Rendere, with a look of compassion filled with motherly love, smiled and looked deep into the soul of Senator Hyram Funstas, Demican of Clissa’s and his soft puffy face. Funstas was feeling even better.

“Now,” said Rendre, “We have a few documents for you to sign.”

Funstas vomited.

The Chair stood staring out the window of the Claves Head Club, smoking a Testosa Grande, a glass of XOO brandy from Napoleon’s own basement on his arm. He turned slowly, creaking with age, and said, “Well Muffin, what do you think? Can our plucky Punky Pugilist pull this off?”

Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV, Royal, Dauphan of Second Life, Associate Professor, famed historian and Head of Anti-Monarchist Party, drew a deep breath as he wiped his monocle on his tie, trying to clean it of the broccoli soup that had spilled into has lap at the midnight supper. He took another breath followed by still another. He reached for his pipe and his pouch of rare Yellow Twist Bud and TN86 tobacco.

The Chair settled in for a very long pause of perhaps an hour or more. Royals were not known as fast thinkers, but they were known as slow talkers, and his lifelong friend Muffin was not an exception to the rule. The Chair watched as Muffin slowly fumbled for the drawstring on his frightfully expensive Cuban Yellow Bat scrotum tobacco pouch. They are extinct now, the Cuban Yellow Bats, just like old Muffin and I, he thought.

The Chair fell into a revere which was quite common for someone of his age and social status. He thought back to his childhood and his days with Muffin on the playing fields and in the detention halls of Old Andirons. “Non Sibi,” said The Chair. “Non Sibi.” He fondly recalled Old Andirons, its icy cold baths, the near starvation refractory, Head Master Phipps and his six foot cane of manliness and correction, the lead roof leaking onto their rusted iron frame pallets… And the sports, yes the sports.

Muffin, lit a match, and took a puff.

The Chair returned to his happy memories. The sports, yes the sports. The day they crushed their dreaded and hated rival Hill Top in Pi Ball. They were down 3.1415, with only two minutes on the hourglass. The Old Andirons stands were filled and the students’ proctors, and warders, shouting and screaming in a roar of insults and epithets so loud The Chair could barely hear, but he gained courage and felt refreshed from their total lack of support. In the huddle, young Muffin turned to him and winked, and then said after a long pause to think “ta balls pleasef.” The Chair smiled as he handed the ball to the Ball Sneak number 83. He knew … the entire team knew … even the Hill Top scum knew. The game was theirs. Glory to Old Andirons. As the huddle broke and the Pi Ball was released by the Andiron’s Ball Sneak, old Banny Plentagent-Plantagent, number 83, into the waiting hands of Muffin.

Muffin stood, paused a moment, and then shouted “Nobless Oblige”. “Nobless Oblige”, The Chair could not believe his ears. Victory was at hand. Then calmly, slowly, and with great presence Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV, Royal, Dauphan of Second Life, and sole surviving member of that noble blood line, bisected the circle and crossed the nexus line. Not a single Hill Top player had laid a hand on him. The game was tied and the cannon went off signaling the end of the game. Old Andirons had proven their stuff and the spirits of the long dead “old boys” was renewed. They had not lost. The crowd went nuts as they burned down the refractory and danced the highland jig.

Muffin exhaled a smoke spiral and began to stretch himself to his full height. As soon as he became ramrod straight, The Chair knew he would speak. Perhaps in five or ten minutes.

The Chair thought back to that night when he and Muffin had broken into the Laboratory of Chemicals and Leaches. They were trying to reach the ‘Gate of the Lame’ at the edge of the ‘Yard.’ The only way past the warders, to get to the gate, was through the laboratory. Muffin was a chick magnet at that age, and everyone especially the chicks new it. They had met two young things at the Sunday Mass. The young things turned out to be girls. When The Chair whispered who Muffin was, the two young things almost fell out of the pew. The Chair knew that two young things were dazzled by visions of castles, chateaus, bearing bastard children, and a lifetime of payoffs and soft comforters. The young things were from blue blood families and attended the prestigious Madam Ethyl’s School for Finishing Girls. If their parents knew their lovely chaste daughters planned a tryst with Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV, Royal, Dauphan of Second Life, they would have rented a film crew, invited their relatives, and poked holes in the protection. So The Chair decided to join Muffin on the chance he could pick up a little action in all the confusion and thrashing about on the sports field of love. They had almost made it to the rear door of the Laboratory when Old Professor Crumedion appeared in the darkness. He grabbed both of them by the scruff of the neck. “I got you now,” he chortled with glee. “I got you now.” Their goose was cooked thought The Chair. However Muffin managed to wriggle free and he ran across the room, leapt onto a work bench near the coat of arms of Old Andirons and grasped a rusty old sword. The Chair had never seen Muffin move that fast. Muffin returned to face Professor Crumedion waving the sword in his direction. The Chair heard the sound of pee spilling onto the oak plank floors. It was not his pee, and Muffin never peed, so it had to be the professor.

“Ons youz knees nave,” said Muffin in his best whiny elegant voice. The Professor fell to his knees, trembling in fear. Muffin raised the sword high above his head and struck. He taped the sword on one shoulder of the frightened professor and then the other. “Rises, Sirs Crumedion of the Highs Exaultedss Orderf of ta Garter of Saintf Phlem.” The Chair was stunned as a beaming Profession Crumedion rose and bowed to Muffin.

“My liege, I shall forever be in your debt. What is your command?” said Sir Crumedion of the High Exaulted Order of the Garter of Saint Phlem.

Nine months later to the day the countryside burst into celebration, fireworks displays, and feasting. Two lovely girls proclaimed “bastards royal” has been born into the families Talbot and Panscake-Fernmot. Even Governor Linden sent flowers and Certificates of Authenticity to the families.

Muffin exhaled, long and deep. He was about to speak.

The Chair focused and listened carefully as Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV, Royal, Dauphan of Second Life, Associate Professor, and famed historian. Head of Anti-Monarchist Party, replied, “Yesf.”