Lord Muck of the Aristo Mob here on holiday in sunny foreign climes.
We were strolling through Transylvania, pursuing our traditional cultural activities of “Grinding the faces of the poor into the dirt”, “Snatching alms from the beggar’s bowl” and “Hurling the poor infant orphan”, when, all of a sudden, we espied the Country House Mob in a hurry on an errand of thuggery. They were making for a castle. Ghastly looking place. Wouldn’t like to meet the owner! Ever eager to bury the hatchet with the Mob, preferably in their ghastly heads, we arranged ourselves to block all exits and waited the opportunity to be a ******* nuisance. After all, what’s more fun than a pheasant shoot if not a peasant shoot? The Country House gang split into two and tried to force a passage on both flanks. For those who don’t know these dreadful upstarts, the Mob consists of Colonel Saunders and his Kentucky Frying arc cannon; a Pretender to the throne of England; Smirking Poirot (Hercule’s evil twin), something that the cat dragged in; the bad butler, the criminal cook, the murderous maid, the shifty chauffeur and the pygmy king and sundry small people.
On the right, the Reverend Green occupied a commanding position on the heights and chastised the sinners mightily with his Gatling gun. Their fake Queen (Gawd bless her!) was made wholly holy before she could reply with her flame thrower. Looks like our Maj (Gawd bless her!) is safe for at least a little longer. Their pygmies then attempted to force a passage under cover of supporting fire from the rest of the scoundrels. However, once again, it was like Rorke’s Drift without the Zulus as they were all gunned down in the charge with our only loss being Private Parts. Whose private parts were shot by the murderous maid. Nasty! Very Nasty! The servants then tried their luck with the gentlemen in support. Lightning bolts from their arc weapons and bullets filled the air. Fortunately, the Mob’s incompetence was matched only by their ineptitude. Our only casualty was Colonel Mustard who caught a hot one from Smirking Poirot’s arc rifle. It may be sometime before his moustaches regrow. And his eyebrows. And his hair. All of it. Everywhere. Nasty! Very Nasty! However, our fire was devastating. Potting peasants was like ten pin bowling though much more satisfying. With all the kitchen staff down for the count and the prospect of no cooked meals for a fortnight, their remaining leaders left the field in shock at their loss.
On the left, Colonel Mustard’s brother, Colmans, dropped a pygmy with his first shot. It got better. I personally bagged the chauffeur. Cheeky blighter tried it on with a Martini Henry. What are things coming to? Doesn’t he know his place? The butler made a run for it past Lord “Filthy” Lucre but was intercepted by Colmans whose sawn-off bagged his second peasant of the day. Good shooting Sir! The remaining pygmy was sliced and diced which only left something the cat dragged in before realising what it looked like with the lights on. Our butler, Crichton, tried his best but he was having too much trouble keeping his lunch down to aim well. Pass the sick bag!
All in all, an excellent day’s hunting. We may go on holiday to Romania again. Apparently it’s going to be quite empty soon.
Lord Muck,
Knight commander of the indefensible. Order of the execrable. Seigneur of the Aristo mob.
Dedicated to robbing the undeserving poor to give to the deserving rich.
Our piccy shows the aristo mob charging through the forests of Transylvania. I doubt you'll see this on many holiday brochures for Roumania. They hardly look inviting.
28 May 2008, 03:47:12 AM
