Minor Essays

Post Romanticism and Gothic are a world view as well as being a genre of literature and generally rather dashed cool. Thus, as a break from the poems and stories, here are a few tiny essays from the Minor Essays chapter of a book called The Things We Need To Change About Our World, which I've been writing for the last few years. Those of you who are not overly familiar with metaphysics, Hermetic philosophy and Jungian psychology may wish to look at the essay found in the box at the top marked Essays which is something of an introduction.

On Fear of Death.

It seems likely that Christianity can be held largely to blame the fear of death in our society. The Christian sees life as being linear; one is born, dies, faces judgement, and then spends eternity in Heaven or Hell. The judgement is the first cause of fear, the Christian God asks more of people than they are naturally capable, and often seems contradictory in His demands, and His punishment is unimaginably harsh. The second problem lies in the linear model, which runs in conflicts with all else in nature (which, like the sun, moves in circles), and offers no second chances (with reincarnation, we have eternity to learn from our mistakes).

But Christianity has become a fringe faith. In the modern, western world, it has mostly been replaced by materialism and science, yet the fear of death remains. If anything it has grown stronger, so that the very thought of death is intolerable.

This may be a left over side effect, a fading shadow, of Christianity, and it seems likely that if Christianity had not preceded materialism, it would not be so stark. However, there is still much in modern materialism which breeds the fear of death.

Firstly, there is no life after death. No resurrection, no redemption, no second chance. This in itself is not pleasant, but it is not fearful, once we pass away, nothing matters.

The problem lies with the Ego. In modern society the Ego is king, it could even be said that the individual’s ego replaces God. The Self (or soul, which is immaterial) does not die, but the Ego (which is concerned only with the material) does. Therefore, the Ego is at war with the Self: the Ego breeds fear of death to further its own ends.

On Herd Animals and Pack Animals.

Our Society encourages us to be herd animals, weather it is as a nation under a government, or as a company under a boss, we are forced into the role of herd creatures. Very few people lead very many.

In school, children will (despite being put in the herds of classes, years and schools) form social groups of threes, fours or a few more. These groups of people left to their own devises and too young to be fully brainwashed by society, form groups closer to packs than herds. The same is true of ‘gangs’ in alternative sub cultures. The family unit of two parents, or one parent and another adult, with several children resembles the wolf pack with its @ Male and Female and their dependants. Often on nights out, I have observed that social groups normally consist of one couple and several addition members of the same sex.

The natural unit of humanity is the pack.

The herd is both against our nature and our interests. It serves only the ruling minority.      

On Justice.

The great philosophers tell us that justice exists, but on an abstract yet objective level. Not here in the material world, but in Kant’s Nominal World or Plato’s World of The Forms. If we want justice on Earth, and they tell us it is our moral duty to do so, we must attempt to bring it here.

To implement the Idea of Justice on Earth.

On The Creator.

God is often referred to as ‘The Creator’ by both orthodox Christians and Gnostics or Spiritualists.

One has to ask, what does a ‘Creator’ do.

A Creator creates- in both the past and the present tense.

God: The Creator is not the distant being which created the world in The Old Testament and then sat back and refused to intervene. If there is a Creator, it is a constant source of creation; the creation of all things, everywhere, forever.

In short: The Universe. Which is also the only thing which can be all powerful, all knowing, and everywhere.)

On the highest metaphysical level, the only thing which can be thought of as ‘the one true God’ is the universe itself.   

 Diogenes, by Waterhouse.

(Note the lamp at the great sceptic's feet, which he used 'in search of a good person'.)

The Last Berserker

Wrote the short story printed below a few days ago, to go with several other Norse Heathen short stories which I've been writing over the years. Can't take much credit for this, as the bulk of the story is the retelling of an old Norse folk story. Am a tad preoccupied with death at the moment.
It called 'The Last Berserker'. The word 'Berserker' means 'bear scinned' or 'bare scinned', which is ambiguous, but the general idea is that they are warriors dedicated to Odin, who fight with no regards to their own safety. This sounds rather heroic, but in the sagas, Berserkers spend most of their time turning up at parties and starting fights... 

The woman tended her fire with slender, wind tanned hands.

Outside her home of wooden timbers and thatch, the howling of wolves competed with the howls of the wind.

It was lonely in her dwelling, after the Grim Reaper had taken her husband and children away. She put another few sticks on the fire and rubbed her hands together in the hope of stopping there shaking.

Then she flinched as she heard three pounding knocks on her door, like the blows of a mighty hammer. Visitors to her home were rare, especially on such a foul night. She touched the bronze cross that lung around her neck, and found the strength to open the door.

Outside she saw a beast of a man. A head taller than her, and twice as broad. Despite the snow which dusted his long dark hear and beard, he wore only a fur jerkin, woollen breeks and high leather boots. His eyes blazed from his scarred, brass tanned face like a polished blade under a summer sky. An upside down cross made of bone hung from his bull neck and thick silver torcs adorned his wrists. A Broad Sword hung on one side of his belt, and a long dagger from the other. His bare arms bled from a dozen minor wounds, and blood soaked through his jerkin.

‘Christ preserve us!’ she gasped, but she did not flinch from the creature which she thought must be a demon.

‘Odin made the world,’ the man muttered back.

For a moment they stared at each other with mutual disgust.

‘Who are you, and what do you want?’ she managed to say.

‘Thorfast Sigurdson of Whale Fjord seeks hospitality.’

Then she knew that he was no demon, but a heathen, which was just as bad, and rarer in those days. But she knew that Christ that said to ‘Love Thy Neighbour’, and spoken of Good Samaritans. She remembered the great importance which her grandmother- a Hell-bound pagan, but a good woman- had placed on hospitality. And she did not remember a priest ever telling her that heathens had asked permission before pillaging and ravishing.

‘Enter, Thorfast of Whale Fjord,’ she said defiantly.

He nodded, shuck the snow from his hair like a dog, and strode in.

‘Sit by the fire, there is a little stew left over,’ she told him.

‘Thank Odin,’ he grunted.

‘There will be no Devil worship in my home,’ she snapped.

For a moment his eyes blazed like fire in fury. She clutched her cross, but faced him, staring up, her face inches from his own. Then the fire faded from his eyes, and he laughed, deep and dry.

‘My Gods fight monsters far worse that your demons,’ he stated.

She smiled at that, and the tension left the air.

‘Sit down,’ she said, and he did.

In the warm fire light he could see that she was not the miserable crone that he had first thought. She was not old, and still pretty, and the waves of her red hair glistened in the light like a gentle sea under the sun.

In the light she could see that one of the wounds on his arm was deep, and that there was more blood coming through his jurkin.

‘Let me dress your cuts,’ she said, ‘I have needle and thread, and a few herbs, and-‘

‘It is too late for that.’

There was such weariness and determination in his voice, as though he was patiently waiting for death; that she knew not to argue. For a moment she felt pity for the man, then that was overwhelmed by curiosity.

‘What is your business here?' She asked him.

‘Odin already knows of the deeds that I have done, and He has a seat waiting for me in his hall, with a tall glass of mead in front of it. My father waits on the right hand side of my seat, and the prettiest of valkyries waits on the left. There is no need for me to boast of my life to you,’ he said proudly, then he saw the disappointed look on her face, and spoke more kindly. ‘But I can tell you another story, if you wish, to pass the time.’

‘That would be kind.’

He poured some of the stew from the bowl to his mouth, then wiped his beard with a blood stained hand. The wolves outside had ceased their howling. The distant wind and the crackling of the fire comforted the lady.

‘This is the story of The Troll’s Cave,’ he began. ‘There was a young man, lets call him Olaf, who had heard that troll’s lived in a cave on the fells by his home, and that they had a mighty hoard of silver. He decided to find the troll’s cave, and rob them.’

‘What is a troll?’

‘A monster made of stone, who prowls the land at night.’

‘A demon?’

‘No, a Troll... After searching for most the day, Olaf found a rock which blocked the door of a cave, on the top of a fell. Opening his strength-hoard, he pushed the rock aside, and climbed down into the cave. It was a big cave, and it led down into the earth. He lit a torch and followed it down for a long time. Then he heard a voice calling for him to halt. He had his dagger ready. “What brings you here?” the voice asked. Olaf did not think it could be a troll’s voice, for it was soft- like a woman’s. “I am looking for trolls” he said. “Then come closer,” said the voice. He did, and then he saw a tall man, with a pretty face, like an elf or a southerner. The man was dressed in silk robes and wore a fine sword. “Come to our hall and feast with us”, the pretty man said.

 ‘Olaf was lead to the hall in the cave. It was the finest hall he had ever seen, fit for a king it was. Great piles of silver sat on the floor. And a king’s hall it was indeed, for a king sat at the head of the table, another tall, slender, pretty man. A queen sat beside him, who was also slender and elfin, and more beautiful than any woman Olaf had ever seen- and he had known many. But the princess that sat next to them was prettier still. “Be seated, feast and drink with us”, the king said. So he did.

‘Then after the feast, the king excused himself, and told Olaf to sleep because they all had to leave, and he must not follow them. When Olaf woke the next day, he found even more silver in the hall. The pretty people asked him to join them for another feast, so he did. Olaf stayed with them for many days in their cave, and they slowed him great kindness. The princess fell in love with him, and they were married, and the king showered him with gifts- rings, and swords and furs and more.

‘It was only on the bridal bed, when all that should be done was done, that Olaf understood what is hosts were… They were trolls. But in their own land, the trolls were pretty and kind, and only became ugly and cruel when they emerged into the world of men.’

There were so many questions which the lady wanted to ask, but she could not bear to interrupt the story.

‘Olaf lived with his fine troll princess wife for a few more days. And every day he was given a mighty feast. But, he noticed, there was never any rosemary to season the meat at the feast. “I will go up and get us some rosemary, for I want it on my meat,” Olaf said. He walked out of the cave, put the rock back behind him, and began looking for wild rosemary. What he found instead was a puddle. Looking at himself in the puddle, he saw an old man staring back. He had been in the cave for only a few weeks but he had aged many generations. He staggered back, then saw a herdsman, and ran to him. “Who is king here?’ Olaf demanded of the herdsman. “Foolish old man, everyone knows that Sven Redbeard is king”, the herdsman said. “That cannot be, last I was here, Erik Thorgrimson was king,” he said. “I have heard of Erik Thorgrimson, he was Sven’s father’s, father’s father,” the herdsman said. Olaf fled in horror. He ran back up the fell and tried to find the troll’s cave. But he could not. He reasoned that he must be on the wrong fell, so he searched another and found nothing. For the rest of his life, Olaf searched for the door to the troll’s cave, but he could never find it.’

The lady felt sorry for Olaf, but she had liked the story. She looked at Thorfast’s face, which was now very pale, with a new admiration.

‘There is a lesson in that story,’ she said.

‘There are many,’ he replied, ‘some I have learnt, and some I have not. But I go now to the hall of kings, and I will not complain if they lack for rosemary.’

He pulled his sword gently from its scabbard, and held it tight with both hands. Then he lay down on the floor and closed his eyes.

‘Valhalla’, he said once in a voice thick with pride, and then never again.

A raven called out once from the distant winter sky.      

To Freya.

Dedicated to The Lady Freya of The Vanir.

A Lady I once saw in the sky,

Who the Glorious Fallen

See when, on sword, they die,

Who is seen in Venus light,

In blood on water sunset,

And gentle heath-fire bright,

In the warmth of summer rain,

On pure snow of mountain top,

And passion of battle pain,

On ship across the Northern sea,

When wind lashes salt and spray,

The Whale Road carries part of me,

Onwards, always, to the day,

When She might take me away,

When blood flows in the night,

And foes for their dishonour pay,

The blade’s Moon reflected light,

Promises, always, of the day,

Her hand may lead me away,

Goddess of Death and Mystic Might-

Freya- of Love, and Verse, and Night. 

Freya Goddess of Youth, by Arthur Rackham, 1910.

Queen of Aces (Continued)

Below is the end of the story which was posted a while ago (see 27th of October). Now that I have gotten this out of my system, I may actually attempt to write some literature...

‘You interrupted my flying ponies!’ she snarled at him.

“I apologise, madam,” he spluttered out. “I am on urgent business… from The Duke.’

She let go off his neck and the razor disappeared back into her jacket. He straitened his wig.

“The Duke?’ she asked.

“Aye, The Duke.”

‘Then we must talk outside.’

She slapped herself across the face in an effort to clear her mind, gathered her belongings, then led him outside.

‘Who are you, sir?’ she asked him, gazing intently though hazy eyes.

‘I am Charles George James Spencer- Harvey Esq.’ said he, “and I take it that you are Lady Molly Alice Wine; The Greatest Spy To Have Ever Lived, The Most Dangerous Lady In England, and Scourge of The French?”

‘Charlie,’ she said. ‘If you insist on being formal, please use my full title, just in case you have not completely exposed me to all passers by.”

‘Pardon?’ said he.

‘I am Lady Molly Alice Wine; The Greatest Spy To Have Ever Lived, The Most Dangerous Lady In England, The World’s Greatest Lover, and Scourge of The French.’

‘I say.’

‘Quite. Now what do you want?’

‘The Duke requested your assistance on a matter of great importance to the county.’

‘The Country?’ she said and her pretty face briefly displaced bitterness and just a little sadness. “I am retired, and what does the country care for me anymore.’

“Madam, England still cares for your services.’

‘Unlikely.’

‘The Duke asked me to give you this,’ he handed her a wax sealed parchment.

 It read;

‘Dearest Molly,

Please be a dear and do as the good Duke says,

Your most jolly appreciative pal,

George (Prince Regent, Prince of Whales.) xxx’

‘I see,’ she said. ‘Well, Charlie, may I suggest that we discuss this over a drink?’

‘Splendid, my carriage awaits.’

‘There is a fine pub just down the road.’

‘As you wish…’ he said as he strolled after her.’ I say, it shall be an honour to drink with The Greatest Spy To Have Ever Lived.’

‘Aye, and it will be interesting to be bought a drink by The Most Disgraced Man in England.’

‘Rather… One moment, it that really what they are calling me?’

‘Aye.’

‘Splendid.’

‘Here we are’ she led him through the door of a destitute drinking den. ‘Pint of porter if you please, Charlie.’

Charlie ordered two pints of porter then joined her at an unstable table. She began smoking the largest cigar that he had ever seen, the smoke of which slightly improved the foul air.

‘I must say that this is not quite the setting in which I expected to see you,’ he said after a few sips of the thick, black liquid.

‘I am undercover,’ she explained. ‘Playing the part of an unsung national hero who has been driven to poverty and debauchery.’

He decided against commenting on that statement.

‘As for the mission…’ he began instead.

‘No. Not yet. This is the bit where we tell our respective sob stories, and then you try and fail to seduce me.’

‘Are you quite sure?’

‘Aye. ‘Tis necessary in order to provide suspense and amusement to the reader.’

‘If you insist.’

‘Indeed I do. So, pray tell, why are you The Most Disgraced Man in England.’  

‘Because Britain does not yet exist as a nation state.’

‘Continue.’

‘There was an incident, involving a bottle of rum… and a nunnery…’

She took a drag of her cigar and a swig of her porter, and watched as he blushed in a most unmanly manner.

‘Indeed, and was it worth loosing your rank and knighthood?’

“Entirely. But I do not think of them as being lost, rather… mislaid. It is my hope to earn them back during this most important mission.’

‘Ah, yes, the mission. Do tell.’

‘What about your story, and the seduction?’

‘That can wait.’

 ‘Righto. The Duke wants you to kill someone, something to do with the Frogs and the Yanks. He wishes to discuss it with you, by which I mean us, in person.’

She downed the rest of her drink, and all of his, and stood abruptly.

‘Jolly good. Off we go then, best not keep The Duke waiting.’

She strode out off the pub before he could object, and he followed her.

Out onto the street, where three men armed with knives and clubs were waiting.

‘Yon folks be far from home,’ the biggest man said to his comrades, then addressed our heroes,’ ‘and over yer valuables, ye daft toffs!’

Before Charlie could react, Molly shuck her right wrist and produced a pocket pistol from her jacket cuff with which she shot the biggest man down. His closest comrade stabbed at her with his knife. She ducked, reaching for her boot knife, which she used to stab her assailant in the face. Then she jumped into the air and delivered a flying kick to the neck of the third ruffian, killing him instantly.

Charlie began jumping up and down on their bodies, stomping them with his stylish boots.

‘Stop that,’ she protested. ‘Tis very un

He instantly ceased his stomping and looked at her. Her pistol still smoked in her right hand, and her blood stained knife hung limply in her left. He remembered her cut throat razor and was glad that he still breathed.

‘Just quite how many weapons do you carry?’ he felt the need to ask her.

‘Nine. You get a prize if you guess where I keep them all.’

‘Have a problem with the Americans and the French,’ Wellington explained.

The Duke stood in his Spartan office, his bright eyes intense above his strong, hawk like nose. His crisp grey suit, like everything around him, was practical and unpretentious, yet of the highest possible quality. Molly and Charlie faced him from the other side of his desk

‘There is always a problem with the Yanks and the Frogs,’ Charlie commented.

‘President Monroe has been re-elected without competition,’ Wellington continued, ignoring Charlie and staring intently at Molly. ‘For all the Americans talk of democracy, they do not like elections with more than one party. Confuses them. He has become arrogant. Wants another war against us to stabilise his power on a permanent basis. Plans to use Napoleon as a figure head, maybe an alliance with France. Need you to stop it.’

‘Aye sir,’ she said. ‘How would you like that done?’

‘Kill Napoleon.’

There followed a rolling of drums and a clash of thunder.

’I say! What the blazes…’Charlie exclaimed.

‘The sound of Private Steel and Corporal Englishman entering the building,’ Wellington explained.

Molly remained unmoved.

‘Who the Devil?’ Charlie asked.

‘Private John Steel and Corporal Tommy Englishman,’ said Molly.

‘Quite,’ said The Duke. ‘There are joining you on this mission.’

At that moment a massive man with an equally massive moustache and long hair tied back in the military style of the age, and a short, wiry man with a staved head and intense grey eyes, marched into the room, nodded a greeting to them, saluted The Duke and stood rigidly to attention. Both wore the green uniforms of the British Rifleman, and both had rifles slung over their shoulders and sword bayonets at their belts.

‘I work alone,’ Molly protested.

‘Not this time. Too important,’ The Duke stated.

‘We shall make a fine team, Miss Wine,’ Charlie said.

‘I think not,’ said she.

‘Indeed not,’ said The Duke. ‘Your part in this mission is over Charlie. You may return to your usual duties. Miss Wine will be working only with the soldiers.’

‘Sir, I must protest…’ Charlie began.

‘You must not,’ said he. ‘In The War you would have been hanged long ago, but certain matters prevent that now, so you work yourself from disgrace. Back to mucking out the stables with you.’

Charlie stomped out off the room, and Molly glared at the soldiers. She knew of their reputation- they were said to be the finest fighting men alive- and she would have been honoured to meet them under other circumstances. But not on that day, for she always worked alone.

‘To the plans’, The Duke declared.       

‘I’ll put the tea on, sir,’ Tommy Englishman said.

Napoleon Bonaparte moved a tiny bishop forward on a tiny chess board. He played against himself, as he considered no one else to be a worthy opponent.

Seeing as he was not a tall man, and was unfortunate enough to be hung like weasel, he had issues regarding size. The British, knowing this, choose to punish him by imprisoning him on the tiny island of St Helena, in a miniature castle, in which a normal man might bang his head on the ceiling. To add insult to injury, everything- furniture, cutlery, even the food- was wrought on a tiny scale. He was served by dwarfs, and allowed a tiny army of midgets with miniature swords.

This annoyed him no end.

He lost at chess and hurled the tiny board across the tiny room.

    

‘I cannot understand it,’ Charlie said to The Duke, After washing horse manure from hand which, in better days, would have been finely manicured. Molly and the soldiers had long since left the Duke alone. ‘If there is a risk of The Frogs and The Yank invading the Empire, why have you only sent one failed and debauched spy girl and two psychotic soldiers to deal with it? Why not send me too?’

‘You need to repay your debt to society before you can be trusted again.’

‘Then why the blazes do you not send a decent spy, or an assassin, or an entire battalion to deal with it?’

‘Do not want them to succeed.’

‘What the Devil?’

The Duke did not look up from his work. Charlie was used to him being a stoic, stiff lipped fellow, but this was too much.

‘I say! What the Devil?’ he protested.

‘Do not want them to succeed,’ The Duke locked his steel grey eyes on Charlie’s boyish blue eyes and saw that a further explanation was necessary. ‘Why do you think that Bonaparte was imprisoned in Elba after the Peninsular Wars, and in St Helena after Waterloo, when he could have been hanged?’

‘Charity?’

‘Was I charitable to men who broke discipline in the wars?’

‘No,’ Charlie knew that The Duke had hanged more of his own men than he had hung Frenchmen, in order to keep discipline and protect the civilians of Spain and Portugal. ‘You were just.’

‘Indeed. But it is unjust to keep Bonaparte alive. ‘Iis weakness. Do it for myself… I need him, he is my nemesis.’

Charlie experienced shock, and then satisfaction that his master was human after all.

‘Need another war,’ The Duke continued. ‘Another victory… Britain needs it too. We need to hate The French. Keeps us strong.’

‘Another stout?’ Molly asked.

‘More tea?’ Tommy Englishman suggested.

‘Both’ John Steel decided.

After being briefed by The Dude, which basically involved being shown where St Helena was on a map, they had left his office for the nearest pub. Molly had rode off on her trusted stallion Norris, and ordered a round, and they had joined her remarkable quickly.  

Tommy went to the bar and came back with a mug of tea for himself, a mug of tea and a pint of stout for Steel, and a pint of stout for Molly, and a bottle of rum- because he believed in forward planning.

‘What next?’ Steel asked.

‘We kill Napoleon, tomorrow,’ Tommy stated.

‘Realistically,’ Molly said, ‘we set off to kill him the day after tomorrow, because tomorrow we shall be bastard hung over, and it may take a while to find a ship.’

‘Aye’ agreed Tommy.

‘There is a ship,’ stated Steel. ‘”The Captain” sets sails the day after tomorrow. He will grant us birth?’

‘The Captain?’ Molly asked, full of dubiousness.

‘Aye, “The Captain”, arch enemy of Captain Bastard, friend of “The Cabin Boy”, “Big Dave” and ale and whores. Clearly you have not read the early and un -publishable works of Aki Atkinson.’

‘Indeed, I could not have done,’ said Molly, who felt the need for more stout. ‘But he sounds quite the fellow, we shall sail with him the day after tomorrow.’

‘More tea and stout?’ Tommy asked.

‘Aye’ said Steel.

‘Aye,’ said Molly, ‘and ale and porter and rum.’  

They drank until the early hours of the morning. Then Molly rode home on her mighty stallion, Norris, and Steel and Tommy marched home.

She spent a day sleeping off her hangover, and rose bright and early the following day.

After packing a bag with some rather fetching spare clothes and a double barrelled horse pistol (weapon number ten- for special occasions), she galloped off to the docks.

Dismounting Norris, she found Private Steel and Corporal Englishman sat on a pier, drinking tea. After offering her greetings and tea, they lead her to a rather shoddy galleon which seemed to be crewed entirely by drunk people.

Following the soldiers, she trotted Norris up the gang plank.

A small boy with long blond hair sat on a pile of gold and drank rum, a very large man with a shaved head juggled anchors and a tall man with fey hair and a huge hat, who appeared the be The Captain ambled over to them.

‘No animals on the ship, madam’ he declared, then took a swig of rum and lit a cigar.

‘He will earn his keep,’ she said.

‘I already have Small Dave to do all the heavy work,’ The Captain said, pointing his cigar at the giant man.

‘Aye, but my mighty steed Norris can also sew, darn, and bake a fine trifle.’

‘He makes a fair cup of tea, or so I hear,’ said Englishman.

‘Norris is with me,’ Steel added.

‘That settles it then, it shall be an honour to have such a talented beast on board. Pull up a pile of gold and have some rum, we sail at once!’ The Captain declared.

  

It was after two days at sea that they encountered The Land Kraken.

The Land Kraken hath seven axes and whip, and at the end of time it shalt rise from the sea and roam the land, spreading nay but death and woe. And when all this world is torn a part, the Land Kraken shalt have eight nice cups of tea.

(‘Tis sort of like a giant squid, with loads of weapons and a mono-brow)

The Captain hailed the Land Kraken, and invited it over for tea, seeing as they were the best of friends.

The Land Kraken swam over to the side of the ship, reached atop the deck with one of its tentacles, laid down one of its axes, and took up a giant mug of tea. The Captain, The Cabin Boy, and Small Dave chatted with it.

‘’Tis far too silly,’ Molly declared.

‘What ever do you mean?’ The Captain enquired.

‘Giant squids and mad pirates and things,’ she answered. ‘This story started as satire, and has descended into farce.’

‘Agreed,’ Steel said grimly. ‘’Tis inefficient, and makes a mockery of our mission.’

‘It got daft when we started drinking all the rum,’ Englishman added.

It ought to be noted at this point, that Norris the mighty stallion was serving the tea.

‘We ought to scrap this part, and start the story again,’ Molly said.

‘Am not going through that day long hangover again,’ said Englishman.

‘Aye, we shall start again from when we reached the docks,’ she agreed.

So they left the ship in a puff of smoke, leaving the pirates and the Land Kraken to their tea.

‘’Tis a shame,’ said the Cabin Boy, ‘I quite fancied her.’

‘Never mind,’ said the good Captain. ‘We shall always have her horse’s needle work to remember her by. More rum?’

Having erased the last two days, our heroes returned to the port, and found lodgings on a far more sensible ship.

Which begs the question of how they found a ship heading to that remote South Atlantic Island at such short notice?

The answer to that is simple; they sought passage on one of the many slaving ships sailing to Cape Horn (which was approximately the right direction).

History does not record how they commandeered that immoral vessel. Perhaps Molly seduced the captain and invited him to her bunk, where she garroted him with garrote which she used as a hair band (Weapon Number 7). Or maybe, when he reached her bunk, he found John Steel and his rifle hiding there. Or, mayhaps, Tommy Englishman just threw him overboard.

And how did the crew respond? How did they sail that vessel across the ocean and find that tiny island?

Maybe the crew were all good Englishman at heart, and glad to be rid of their evil, slave dealing captain. Maybe the hand of God guided their quest.

All of this is unlikely.

Anyway, eventually they reached the golden shores of St Helena.

Where they were immediately set upon by a hoard of French dwarfs.

Corporal Englishman charged them, whilst Molly, Norris and Steel provided covering fire.

That small problem was soon dealt with, and they were on their way to the miniature castle.

At the tiny gates of this small castle, a second, larger force of equally small French soldiers advanced on them.

‘Take care of this for me boys,’ Molly said. ‘I shall sneak into the castle using ninja skills.’

‘What’s a ‘ninja’’ Steel wisely asked.

‘I have absolutely no idea,’ Molly replied. ‘’Tis far too early in history for that word to have entered the English lexicon.’

With much cat like climbing of gutters and ape like swinging of ivy, Molly made her way up to a window high in the castle (but not very high, as the castle was quite small).

There followed a dramatic smashing of glass as she swung through the window; pistol in one hand, dagger in the other (Weapon’s 1 and 10), and an ivy vine between teeth.

A shocked Napoleon looked up at her from across the room. A pot of wall paper paste in hand, and a sour look upon his face.

‘Don’t try to stop me,’ he said. ‘Life has become unbearable. I must end it all.’

‘You are planning on committing suicide?’ she enquired, quite aghast.

‘Wee,’ he replied. ‘By drinking this foul stuff. Shameful as it may be, there is nothing else for it. Do not try to stop me.’

‘Not at all,’ said she. ‘You are doing the right thing.’

THE END.

Seriously, this last bit actually happened.      

Madness, debauchery and eternal life.

Halloween and bonfire night were excellent, 'twas all manner of debauchery, which no gentleman could put into print.
Am have little success in publishing my Vampyre novel, but have decided to put a monologue from it here, which expresses a few things which are of significance.

“I thought you’d say that. I just had to ask… Hear me out. I’ve spent a lot of time with you lot, you vampires, and I reckon I know how you think, and I reckon I like it. Your psychotic bastards, but you’re damn cool about it. You don’t give a shit, really, do you? And I reckon I know why. You reckon you all live forever, with reincarnation and that. I reckon we all do. So I don’t give a shit either. I want you to know how I feel, and how I’ll always feel... Maybe we can go out in the next life, I can wait… I’m going to go home now Molly.”

Art from Faust by Harry Clarke