Tag: Sargon of Akkad

The Peasants Are Revolting! (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Chapter CXLIX of Violet Crepuscular’s worst-selling romance, Oy, Rodney, is action-packed! Honest.

But before it all heats up, Lord Jeremy Coldsore’s friend, the American adventurer Willis Twombley, has a problem. He confides in Lord Jeremy.

“Germy, ol’ hoss,” he says, “you sure got a lot of creditors. I ain’t sure I’ve shot the half of ’em, and I’m afraid you’re goin’ to have to expand your cellar here at Coldsore Hall, ’cause I’m runnin’ out of places to stash the bodies. A few of ’em, y’see, they’re gettin’ kind of high, if you know what I mean. Especially that fella I parked in the closet in the billiard room. We need more space!”

“Oh, really, Sargon!” Twombley still thinks he’s Sargon of Akkad. “I am trying to prepare our wedding to Lady Margo, and I’m sure I don’t have the funds to hire a construction crew!”

“Who said anything about hirin’ ’em? You’re the nobility, ain’t you? And they’re the peasants. Just draft a bunch of ’em to dig out a bigger cellar. This is England, after all–you don’t have to pay ’em.”

Meanwhile, Miss Lizzie the spider girl has been crying for action vis-a-vis the vicar’s mysterious, dangerous backyard wading pool. In the taproom at The Lying Tart, her heated oratory inspires the rustic patrons to snatch up scythes and torches and form a mob to attack and destroy the pool–which is now believed to be the “nest” of the ancient sorcerer Black Rodney, from which he periodically emerges to devour his unsuspecting victims.

Howling and roaring, the mob streams toward the vicar’s property. But when the uproar dies down for just a moment, Albert the Daft Old Minstrel asks a daunting question.

“Er, I say! What are we to do if Black Rodney comes out and gits us all?” The mob is a mere twenty yards from the hedge marking the border of the vicar’s yard. Behind it lies the pool.

Albert’s question stops the mob in its track. Everybody looks at everybody else. Suddenly they all drop their makeshift weapons and run away in every conceivable direction.

Constable Chumley, alerted by the noise, arrives too late to see anything but a large pile of scythes, pitchforks, and guttering torches. He shakes his head.

“‘Tis a froffin’ mair dindle hereabouts, this verning,” he soliloquizes.

The Trial of the Century (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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In Chapter CXL of Violet Crepuscular’s indescribable romance, Oy, Rodney, she takes up “the Trial of the Century” in Scurveyshire.

Jasper, the village idiot, comes before Lord Nodule, Justice of the Peace, on the charge of creating a public nuisance. Before any testimony can be given, Lord Nodule bangs his gavel and announces, “I sentence you to be impaled!”

A shocked silence falls over the courtroom, broken only by Willis Twombley’s comment to Lord Jeremy Coldsore in the gallery, “Y’know, Germy, them johnny-come-lately Assyrians used to impale folks all the time. Did wonders for public morale. I’ll definitely consider it, once I git my kingdom back. Run out the Turks and impale the whole gang.” Twombley, an American adventurer, still thinks he’s Sargon of Akkad.

Jasper is the first to find his voice. Well, not the first: more like the second. “My lord, I must object most vigorously to this absurd and barbarous sentence, and you may be sure I shall file a formal complaint with the Chief Justice of England. You have no authority to levy these draconian punishments!”

Lord Nodule is confused. “Draconian?”

“Yes, my lord. According to Plutarch and other classical writers, Draco was made dictator and lawmaker of Athens in the generation or two before Solon–”

“Enough!” Lord Nodule snatches off his wig and slams it on the bench. “Enough, I’ve had enough of mollycoddling public offenders! No impalings indeed!” He hurls his gavel over his shoulder and storms out of the courtroom. His parting shot: “Tell the Lord Chief Justice he can’t fire me, I quit!”

Suddenly Scurveyshire is without a justice of the peace. The mayor laments, “Suddenly we are without a justice of the peace! What are we to do? We need a replacement!”

“I nominate Jasper,” calls out Mr. Jimcrack, the wool magnate. A hubbub ensues, until Sir Alastair Widget, an amateur scientist who breeds very skinny, bad-tempered hogs, calls for silence.

“There is only one obvious replacement for Lord Nodule!” he bellows. “I nominate Lord Jeremy Coldsore of Coldsore Hall! He’s the only lord we’ve got left.”

Jeremy is speechless. The crowd goes wild with enthusiasm, and he is elected on the spot by popular acclaim. Twombley claps him on the back.

“Atta boy, Germy! You’ll soon set this place to rights!” And whispers into his ear, “You can save the impalings for later, after the folks get used to you.”

Jeremy can only mutter, under his breath, “Oh, no!”

Is She Already Married? (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Returning to a point raised some chapters ago, Chapter CXXXII of Oy, Rodney has author Violet Crepuscular devoting some time to the man who supposedly married Lady Margo Cargo by proxy many years ago. Unfortunately for all concerned, Mr. Proxy cannot be found.

The man in question addresses the crowd of inebriated villagers in the taproom of The Lying Tart:

“I am Colonel Fildebert Blemish, of the East Bunkingham Blemishes. In the year 18-something-or-other, while serving with Her Majesty’s 8th Hussars in Africa or somewhere, I married Lady Margo Cargo by proxy. This marriage has been valid all along; she is not free to marry anyone else.”

In the crowd, Willis Twombley whispers to Lord Jeremy Coldsore, “Don’t worry ’bout him, Germy. I’ll bushwhack him when he leaves tonight.”

“He isn’t going to leave! He has a room upstairs in this establishment.”

“Then I’ll have to do what I once did to some snake in the grass from Babylonia,” says Twombley. He still believes he is Sargon of Akkad. Lord Jeremy does not want to hear what he did to the snake in the grass from Babylonia.

Conspicuously absent from the gathering is Lady Margo herself. On her way out the door this evening, her wooden leg fell off again. It being his night off, Crusty the butler is not available to re-attach it. He has gone all the way to Plaguesby to attend a lecture on the mating habits of literary men.

Crawling about in the dark, Lady Margo soon loses her way–until suddenly, as the moon emerges from behind a cloud, the dreadful shape of the vicar’s backyard wading pool looms up in front of her.

She just has time to say “Uh-oh.”

Here the chapter concludes with Ms. Crepuscular’s recipe for cat food casserole.

‘Oy, Rodney’ Gets Serious

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I don’t know what possessed me to write that headline. Sorry.

In Chapter LXXXXI of Oy, Rodney by Violet Crepuscular, the jovial shepherd known as Mack the Jovial Shepherd goes missing overnight. His sheep are nonplussed. The next day he is found floating face-down in the vicar’s backyard wading pool. There are tentacle marks all over the body. Constable Chumley shakes his head and opines, “Aye, me gangers, ’tis a murragh dally-dooly ront, so I tell ‘ee.” The townspeople continue to believe they really ought to get a constable who speaks English.

Meanwhile Lord Jeremy Coldsore is horrified that the American adventurer, Willis Twombley, who thinks he is Sargon of Akkad, is going to marry Lady Margo Cargo, the richest widow in all of Scurveyshire. Lord Jeremy was supposed to marry her, as his only hope of staving off bankruptcy and losing Coldsore Hall. How this came about is very difficult to explain, and Miss Crepuscular finally gives it up as a bad job.

Willis comforts his friend. “Donchew worry none, Germy! Oncet me and Lady Margo is hitched, you and me, we’ll jist change places an’ the ol’ gal’ll never know the diff’rence!”

To everyone’s surprise, the vicar suddenly recovers from his conniptions and declares himself anxious to perform the marriage between Lady Margo and Sargon of Akkad, Ruler of All Mesopotamia. This is accompanied by a sinister smile that he never had before. When asked what he saw when he peeked under the wading pool, he only smirks and says “What conniptions?”

The other mysterious stranger who came into the book a few chapters ago hasn’t said or done anything yet.