Dockland's Dust-Up.

[Silbuster]

“Aether! The stuff of life itself! Hic!”, burbled Chumley-Warner, knocking back a stiff eau-de-vie.
Argy Bargy winked at his confederate. The Lord was as drunk as a Lord and probably as loaded as he was loaded.
“Yes, who would have thought that evil Professor Winklehelm would have succeeded in extracting the Ambrosia of the gods?!”, chuntered Chumley.
This was all Greek to Argy so he went for the vitals.
“Worth a bit, is it??”, he murmured casually.
“A bally fortune, old boy! He sold it to the Yanks. That’s why I’m down here at the docks. You do know that these are the docks, don’t you old chap?”
“I had heard that somewhere”, admitted Argy, the Chief Docker.
“Yes, well, I’m with British Intelligence you won’t be surprised to learn and we’ve intercepted the load and hidden the barrels over by the Foregone Conclusion. She sails tomorrow for York, but not for New York!”
“Well, that is most intelligent of you. And I suppose they’ve been cunningly disguised?”
“All got my name on them! No flies on me, old lad!”, he said as yet another bluebottle went down like a lead balloon after cruising through his breath.
Argy Bargy sauntered out of the Drowning Duck.
“Right lads. Grab a barrel apiece and stash it away. We’ll put out the feelers and wait for the offers to flood in. By tomorrow, you’ll all be rich men!”, he said to men who would neither be rich nor for whom there would be a tomorrow.

An hour later, Lord Curr stood at the railway wondering which track to take. It was a shame that he would have to do without Lady Branthingham on this escapade but it was nice that he would have to do without her cut of the winnings. Over by the Drowning Duck, Lady Branthingham was was already counting the cash in her imagination while congratulating herself that her inscrutables would provide an oriental shock to any opposition. At the other end of the railway, the Dragon Lady assembled her Chinese chappies. With only degenerate Europeans to deal with, this would be a piece of fortune cookie. Near the labourers’ cottages, Asdullah struggled to keep hold of his hunting sheep while reflecting that, finally, the sons of the desert were going to give these sons of camels’ backsides exactly what was coming to them.

And then…

To be continued!

[wulfgar22]

Looking forward to the next installment!

[Silbuster]

Sergeant Borage stolled as casually as any military man is wont to do towards Mr White while attempting to smile engagingly. He looked like a wolf coming down on the fold.
“Would you be the gentleman with a barrel for sale, by any chance?”, he enquired in a voice intended to sound encouraging and would have been regarded so by the suicidal.
“Err, yeah. How much are you willin’ to….”
As is traditional in these circumstances, a shot rang out and Mr White collapsed into the arms of the Sergeant who, realising that he was extremely dead, allowed him to continue his path onto the floor while diving for it himself.
“Open fire you brain-dead shower!”
The incorrigibles moved to cover while exchanging rounds with the excitable crowd hiding behind the labourers’ cottages who seemed inordinately pleased with themselves. Pride goes before a fall.
“Anybody know who they are Sergeant?”
“Ours is not to reason why son, ours is but to shoot the baskets.”
Looking around, the Sergeant sized up the situation. The chief was legging it through the Tuaregs’ volleys towards Mr Black. More guts than sense, that bloke. On the left, most of the population of China seemed to be legging it towards them and Mr Green.
“Oi Mohan! Cut down the yellow peril and grab Green!”
He watched with some pride as Mohan’s machine gun opened up supported by a rattle of rifle fire. They managed to shoot a drunken bluebottle weaving unsteadily through no man’s land while carefully avoiding harming anything else.
“Hopeless. They couldn’t hit a barn door with a cannon. If only they were all like Sid there. I wonder who he’s drawing a bead on?”

Asdullah was feeling pretty smug. True, the situation had not looked bright on entering the dockyard. To his right he had found strange yellow men carrying the sort of swords which made him feel his own knife should be used for needle work. While to their front there seemed to be enough firepower to finish world war zero before it started. Still that inspired shot from Abdullah had put paid to the infidels’ plans and now here he was, talking to Mr Yellow. He smiled with all the friendliness he could muster. He looked like a polar bear eyeing up a seal. Mr Yellow gulped but the age-old, all important question regarding morals, the right thing to do and honest endeavour surged out of him anyway.
“How much?”
A shot rang out and he went down like a poleaxed bull. Curse these fiends! How typical of them to shoot innocent bystanders! Asdullah thought of Mr Red, only just behind the tall wall to his right. But also behind those gentlemen with cutlery usually reserved for carving elephant steaks. Opting for courage he lead his men into the cover of the cottages. He would have to rely on the wild charge of his fearsome hunting sheep to bring home the mutton.

Jeeves ran for the door of the Drowned Duck. Which was currently using Mr Chumley-Warner as a support.
“Good afternoon, Sir!. I wonder if you could help me….”
Lady Branthingham smiled benignly. Small children fainted clean away at the sight. Checking the sights on her carbine, she signalled the rest of her crew to form a welcoming committee for the Chinese delegation currently negotiating with Mr Blue outside the dock’s main warehouse. If Mr Blue were to lose his voice (Heaven forbid!), the only leader still talking to those in the know would be her and the inestimable Jeeves. Confidently looking down her barrel, she suddenly found herself gazing into a pea souper that had that completely enveloped the Middle Kingdom. What the blue blazes was that? If one of those inscrutable Chinese was smoking a cigar, it had to be size of the Eiffel Tower. As their bullets whistled harmlessly by their intended targets with only an unfortunate and sozzled fly sent erratically spiralling to Earth, she reflected that this business might be less certain than that fortune cookie had claimed. It had been an excellent decision on her part to cover her bets by sending Abercrombie to negotiate with Mr Red. The men she had sent with him would also be persuasive. After they all, they had been voted those most likely to remove your spleen without the aid of anaesthetic in this month’s Massacre Magazine for the Mental.

Mr Blue shrank backwards but found he couldn’t move through solid brick. My, my where had all these people with improbably large swords sprung from?!
“There is no need to be flightened, Mr Blue. We only wish to exact some mutually beneficial business.” said Fu-Manchu. He smiled winningly and Mr Blue’s knees gave up the ghost. The Dragon Lady popped into being beside him and Mr Blue’s eyeballs struggled to find a way out of the back of his head.
“Provide us some cover from these barbarians Fu while I lead the men to heavenly victory. It is time we provided these gits with the benefits of civilisation.”
Her eyes acquired a far away look much envied by Mr Blue’s feet which were attempting to depart in mutually impossible directions.

And then…

[Silbuster]

The first rank of samurai and old contemptibles gently swang their katanas and sabres in practise as the shrieking hordes of Manchu charged in from the right and the fearsome killer sheep from the left. Quiet confidence oozed from every pore. It looked like it would be Chinese mutton tonight.

The sole survivor staggered back. He considered harakiri but why bother when there were so many willing to do it for him. To his right, Jeeves gently pulled the swaying Chumley-Warner towards him before an axe-head slammed into the door behind his head. If the drunk didn’t come up with the Aether soon, they’d both be out of life force entirely. He would have asked for guidance from the Lady of the Manor if she hadn’t been fully occupied in trying to skewer Fu-Manchu at the time. Seeing the first rank disappear in a welter of teeth and blades, the second nervously checked their sawn-offs. Shooting suddenly seemed far preferable to combat.

Smith and Jones eyed up the occupants of the cottage.
“Ha ha hee, you cannot shoot me, because I am stealthy!” shouted one just before catching Smith’s bullet with his teeth.
“Ha ha terrific, but I’m a fanatic!”, he shouted again just before Jones’ bullet smashed his remaining molars.
“Hoo hoo don’t make me tired; my commander is inspired”, he said, knocked down but not out.
“This bloke is beginning to get up my nose.”, said Smith.

Courageously crouched down in their cottage, the Sons of the Desert bravely refused to have anything do with traditional pursuits such as charging about waving a scimitar. Instead they fearlessly popped off the occasional incorrigible while peeping over the window sill at their hideous hunting sheep and supporting hollow guard taking on all and sundry. Mr Black, in earnest conversation with a member of Curr’s crew, gulped as incisors the size of picks flashed around him and wondered whether the geezer all dressed in black carrying a scythe was there to negotiate for the Aether too. He wasn’t. Mr Black left to receive his celestial reward.

Once again, Rohan and his men let loose a blistering volley and then looked in puzzlement at their machines. There didn’t seem to be any bullets coming out. The only casualty looked to be rolling around on the floor in the grip of a sudden attack of hilarity. Mr Green, currently talking cash, fingered his collar and thought he’d better hurry up a bit.

One-hung-lo ran up that hill, ran up that wooden hill forever. He was following Mr Blue towards the top of the warehouse. Puffing hard, One asked himself whether the damn thing had a top floor at all and , not for the first time, wondered whether these cunning, insclutable Westerners weren’t pulling his damn chain.

And then…

[Craig]

I thought only the Welsh had killer sheep, I'll go and check the pen later...

Well done Sir Silibuster! I have learned from past mistakes and refrained from eating breakfast while reading your missives so all is well 

[wulfgar22]

Very entertaining stuff! 

[Silbuster]

“You look like a trustworthy chap.”, said Chumley-Warner to a man wanted by the police of thirteen different countries. “Take good care of this.”, he continued, handing Jeeves a phial of Aether.
“Thank you most kindly sir!”, shouted Jeeves, legging it for home with a flock of killer sheep and terrible Tong at his heels. As they slammed into the second line, the Dragon Lady appeared out of nowhere next to the incorrigible Wright.
“I am an expert in martial arts and my claws are poisoned. You appear to have no melee weapon at all. How most unfortunate for you.”, she smiled encouragingly. A drunken fly, passing by ,passed out in shock.
“It certainly is madam.”, said Wright smacking her straight between the eyes with the butt of his rifle.
She went down like a sack of potatoes. Sheep and Tong looked gobsmacked. The sawn-offs sang out and most were smacked for good.

“You still haven’t got me, because I am stealthy!’
A shot rang out.
“Pardon?”, asked Smith.
“Irritating little b*****r!”, said Jones.
A blaze of fire erupted from the cottage as the Sons of the Desert fired on all and sundry in an effort to get their revenge.
“Blimey, there’s more of them!”, said one of Curr’s incorrigibles. “Ow!”.
“Three rounds, rapid fire!”.
The cottage was now being prepared for summer with ventilation holes appearing everywhere. Hiding upstairs, the owner Mrs Trotter was feeling put upon. This was going to cost a fortune!

“Stuff this for a game of soldiers!”, said Rohan, looking at this machine gun with contempt and charged in with his sword closely followed by his men. There followed as manly a bit of Bolshie Boxer bashing as has ever been witnessed on these shores. The Boxers may have been bullet proof, but they weren’t butt proof.
“Are you Mr Gleen?”, said one, interrupting Aether negotiations.
“No, he isn’t”, said an incorrigible Saunders, flattening him with a trusty butt.
“My word! They’re all done and dusted. Everyone alright? You OK Mick?”
Just then Mad Mick McFarlane caught a bullet with his grenade.
“He’s alright. We’ll get him down from that roof later. Who’s that over there””
The incorrigibles watched with interest as the hollow guard was attacked by a dragon warrior. The latter appeared to be swinging a halberd cleverly disguised as a tree trunk tied to an anvil.

One-hung-lo was going up that hill. Going up that wooden hill forever. The one thing he was sure of was that the git leading him would not be coming back down with him.

Fu-Manchu charged Wright.
“I shall avenge the Lady!”, he cried, “I am an expert at sword combat; trained since childhood with years of experience behind me. You have no chance!”.
“You’re right. I haven’t got a hope.”, said Wright and smacked him between the eyes with the butt of his rifle. Fu-Manchu went down like a sack of potatoes.
Around him, the Yellow Peril decided that that was more than enough perilling for today and exited stage left as Jeeves exited stage right carrying his precious cargo with him.

Curr’s incorrigibles, lead by Lady Felicity were practically at the door of the cottage. Asdullah leaped to his feet.
“I shall be an inspiration to my men! I shall…’
A shot rang out.
“You’ll never get that lucky again, you dogs!”, shouted one of the Sons.
A shot rang out.
“Nice shooting, Smith”, said Jones. Smith fell.
“Now that was naughty”, muttered Jones.
“You see, you will never shoot us all!”.
A shot rang out.
Now that the noise had stopped, Mrs Trotter descended to the ground floor armed with a dustpan and broom. As she swept up the Sons of the Desert, she reflected that that was the problem with these foreign gentlemen. They were just so untidy.

Saunders followed Mr Green up the water tower. Why did the b*****s have to keep hiding these b*****y things at the top of buildings?

One-hung-lo knew exactly what he meant. Feeling like a very old, very battered Boxer he was wheezing his way downstairs when a noise below caused him to pause.
“Curr?! What the hell are you doing here?”
“Lady Branthingham! Well, what a pleasant surprise…”
Curr ducked instinctively as a bullet took his hat off.

Suddenly, noises were heard off.
“Evening all!”
“What’s all this then?”
“Ere! I want a word with you.”

“Sounds like the authorities, old girl. How about dinner?”
“You’re paying.”
“Fair enough.”
As the pair wandered off arm in arm, One-hung-lo shook his head. It was no good. These cunning Westerners were just too damned insclutable for him.

The End.

[wulfgar22]

Splendid, old chap! 

[Silbuster]

Splendid, old chap! 

Thank you kindly, sir. Time for a spot of Tiffin now, I think.