The Victoryans (682 hits)
Category: Quotes & StoriesLabels: fiction
Rating: 1.09 on 22 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Flash Harry (View user info) at 2008-08-15 08:39:10 EDT
Part the First?
It began in the old and grim days of London, in a time when all the buildings were dirty with soot and the roads littered with dead, when hook-nosed accountants would rather sip thin mouthfuls of sherry than part with a penny for a bundle of firewood, when smart-mouthed young scallywags shimmied up chimneys and feasted on leftovers from the merchant's table and sang jolly melodies as they skipped from rooftop to rooftop, when winters were long and freezing and deadly, with snowstorms that battered the town in strong, arctic gusts, and when summer afternoons hung high and lazy, baking the tramps and their parcels of bread, bronzing the children on the grass and the cobbles, irritating the horses who kick'd out and snorted; a London where Victoria had always been Queen, and your average person was pleased to survive to the grand age of forty, and Dickens and Wilde were the talk of the town (in between conversations, that is, of the Ripper called Jack who had taken to cutting up whores with the craft of a butcher, and teasing the police with the guile of a thespian, and titillating all o' London with his plucky, evasive gallantry)...
...a London, in short, where justice meant hanging, where a night in a tavern was as likely to land one in a fatal brawl as a tall ship to Calais, where the Thames ran thick with waste, sawdust and giblets, and the gates were locked shut at the setting sun - those that were left outside to the mercy of jackals, wolves and the Welsh - and opened again as it rose the next morn; a London full of rakish rogues, raffish rascals and devious deviants, ready to pinch, pilfer and prosper at the drop of a hat (which were worn constantly by all who could afford them, and fashion'd out of household items by those who couldn't quite), who fought o'er corseted beauties, and tumbled with red-faced maidens at the first hint of a meal; but the ladies were not easy, squeezed as they were into material cages as narrow as sparrows, and brushing off commoners as drunk as five skunks, and fighting for legroom on benches with pigeons; a London (an England) where full-stops were not yet in vogue, and short, snappy sentences betrayed a man's lack of wit; and commas were king, semi-colons were super, and everything, everything, ended on the sigh of an ellipsis...
That was London, then. Long before the Stones, the Dome, Eastenders and Chelsea, the old town was a youthful place full of vigour and spunk (mainly because everybody died before they got old, and every second shop was one full of tarts), the buildings either condemned, ablaze or a Palace. Outbreaks of plague were as feared as they were frequent, the streets lined knee-deep in places with waste, rats big as cats, Holmes on the case, Punch causing mirth and politicians bent and dishonest with time-honoured habit...Thus:
One day, perhaps, in the early hours of the morning, let us say, everybody was having breakfast. Big Ben's peals bounced the hour 'cross town, rippling the murky waves of the Thames, waking the homeless with humorous wriggles of their open-toed boots, and alerting the staff at the Palace that it was time to clock on. The Great White Mother, as little Vicky was called (though not to her face, for fear of igniting her racist sensibilities), curled up asleep with the goose-feather duvet gripped 'tween her thighs. Albert, her beloved, was by this time dead (probably), and the great monarch had taken to dressing all in black, which shew her perpetual mourning, and sleeping with a hairy Scotsman from time to time. But on this day - whichever it was - her Highland fling was up north, and the soft, fluffy quilt was all that the lady had for company, and she held tightly onto it as though 'twere a colony.
Little Edna rolls happily from her bed, in a tidy chamber deep in the bowels of the Palace. She has been awake for some hours, pondering the article she read recently in The Tymes that diminutive sentences would soon be in fashion, and that all these long-winded, decorative descriptions she's so accustomed to will soon be a thing of the past (well, in perhaps one hundred years or so); she doesn't quite know how to feel about the demise of the semi-colon and the unstoppable insurgence in popularity of the period. Happy? Confused? She doesn't know yet. She'll think about it. It might take a while. She'll let us know.
Anyway, had endnotes been more common then perhaps this would've all gone into one; for it is all subterfuge, waffling confection. Edna rolls out of bed and pads bare-footed down to the kitchen dressed in a thick nightdress that covers her pale, plump body from her neck to her ankles, and stretches down her podgy arms to the wrist. Were she wearing more revealing pyjamas, a sweetly curved, slightly doughy body would be betrayed, unblemished by pox or the plague or rabies or the touch of man. Edna is a delightfully virginal girl, and we can contemplate this as we watch her dutifully eat her serving of cereal and fruit that the cook has left out for the staff.
The Queen gets a much richer, tastier, and altogether more extravagant breakfast of course, but sadly it is wasted on her since her appetite departed these mortal climes with the passing of her dear Alfie. This snippet of information is ultimately pointless (although it does add nicely to the tapestry of the story) unless you are introduced to our two male characters, men whose hunger and craving surpasses the mere frivolities of food. They are sitting across the room from one another in a nearby brothel, just up the Mall from the Palace, in the direction of Westminster, in blissful ignorance of one another's significance to the plot. Let us first discuss Walter, since he is the closest as we pass through the door into the low-ceilinged, dimly-lit, genitally-scented, wench-laden, gratuitously-hyphenated brothel.
He is Colonel Walter Smythe Benson, more commonly known as just 'Walter' (and even more commonly dubbed, rather patronisingly, 'Wattie'), a man of impeccable manners, standing and hairstyle. Life is easy for Walter. His teeth are brown and rotten, a sign of imperious wealth and sophistication during Victoria's reign, since sugar was expensive and only consumed by the upper classes and horses. Peasants were known to rub boot polish onto their gnashers to fuel the pretence of a sugary, and thus plentiful, diet. For the Colonel, no such delusions were necessary.
He is a fair-haired and square-jawed rascal, well-dressed, neatly-whiskered and even-keeled; the sort of fellow who would make a potato sack seem tailored, and whom other men aspire to mirror. Women have been known wet themselves when presented with his company, such is the effect of his door-frame shoulders, gymnastic waist and smooth, easy gait - thus his penchant for a brothel: whores have notable bladder control and rarely charge him full price. He is, in short a handsome and charismatic bugger, borne sucking on the proverbial silver spoonful of Demerara, bestowed with title, monies, reputation, land, and a nine (and a half, on a good day) inch...etc, etc. You get the idea. As we peer at him he enjoys a hunk of bread and mulls over a pamphlet about a radical young thinker called Marks (or someone) and casts sideways, lustful glances at the knackered young bizzum who snores gently into his armpit.
Across the way - and we will have to step over a sleeping landlord who stinks of ale and urine, so mind your feet - and none the wiser of the sudden narrative that is about to thunder down around his ears, lies Stanley James Blitheringshire, a local lad of sordid tongue and reputation. Local pugilist of fearsome fist, smuggled tobacconist, aromancer of Parisian fragrance, energetic fornicator, lustful conspirator, haphazard thief: all roles which Stanley would greet with a smirk, a twinkling glance and a teasing riddle. "That's me..." he would respond to accusations of rascally. "I'm the lad you're lookin' for...or am I?!"
Such vague and impertinent utterances have landed him in trouble on more than one occasion, as he talked himself to within a sane judge's pronouncements measure from the gallows; accused of the murderous bludgeoning of Whitechapel's chits, no less. E'en now, were we to ask (having undertaken first the dangerous task of waking him from his post-coital slumber) with straight faces if he were the Ripper, gallous Stanley would cock his brow askance, puff out his chest and declare proudly "How dare thee! Damn your eyes, heathen! for I ain't Jack the Ripper..."
Then we'd relax, foolishly, before he burst out (simply unable to contain himself):
"...or am I?!"
As for his appearance: well, you can decide for yourself. I see him as dark-haired, thick-stubbled, blue-eyed and dashing, with an eye for a lady and a throat for the drink, a man handy in battle but only if pushed, with a nice line of nimble wit and turn of phrase. Equally handsome to the more feminine Walter, but a more dangerous, dastardly, Byronic version. And so, with characters established, and the setting settled, let us trail off until the next instalment; with vague musings on whatever might happen to little Edna, and the contrasting perversions of Walter and Stanley, whose charms she may (or, better yet, may not) have to deftly deflect...
User Reviews
Submitted by BobSandwich (user info) at 2008-08-19 17:58:10 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
WTF? IDRAOT
Submitted by Banjo (user info) at 2008-08-18 09:17:34 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
His teeth are brown and rotten, a sign of imperious wealth and sophistication during Victoria's reign, since sugar was expensive and only consumed by the upper classes and horses.
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Reeeally! I never knew that!
I second X54 below. This is amazing. The attention to detail, the promise of an intricate plot, the setting and the fact you've obviously researched some of it. Well done! I like how you mix ye olde type speak with modern phrasing. Sometimes a writer can make a complete meal of it but you've pulled it off seamlessly.
Bravo! Can't wait for the next installment!
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-08-18 03:58:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
The Queen's highland fling was a Scotsman servant called John Brown that she might have had a tumble with once she was widowed. They made a movie about it called Mrs Brown, with Judi Dench and Billy Connolly, but I don't know if its any good.
And cheers, X54.
Submitted by X54 (user info) at 2008-08-15 16:36:16 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This was excellent and funny as hell! You have reestablished yourself as my favorite contributor to this cesspool, where "short, snappy sentences [betray] a man's lack of wit." I for one am looking forward to the next installment.
Who was the Queen's Highland fling?
You must read a lot from that era.
Submitted by beeltea (user info) at 2008-08-15 12:49:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
BIWRIL
But i will read it later. I just figured that out all by myself without any help from anyone.
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-08-15 10:50:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
BIWRIL?? What the devil does that mean?
Okay, I just read this back to myself (and it took all of three minutes, lazybones), and while I appreciate it might not be to everybody's taste, I think its fucking brilliant. Y'know, I don't like to sound arrogant or anything, but this is tremendous stuff.
Submitted by orphelia (user info) at 2008-08-15 10:47:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
WTFINRAT BIWRIL!
Submitted by sexualchocolate1984 (user info) at 2008-08-15 10:18:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
I didn't like this, sorry.
"...where a night in a tavern was as likely to land one in a fatal brawl as a tall ship to Calais, where the Thames ran thick with waste, sawdust and giblets, and the gates were locked shut at the setting sun - those that were left outside to the mercy of jackals..."
Same old London then, only now you don't need to go to a tavern to get stabbed, just look at a bunch of hoodies the wrong way.
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-08-15 09:51:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Gay (user info) at 2008-08-15 14:49:59 BST (#)
Ranking: 2
Guess who didn't read this. GO on, guess...etc, etc.
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WTF? INRAT!
Submitted by Gay (user info) at 2008-08-15 09:49:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Guess who didn't read this. GO on, guess!
I'll wait.
Here, I'll give you a hint.
It was me.
Still don't know?
I just told you.
Seriously, it was me.
As a matter of fact.
I can't remember one thing of yours I've read.
Well...maybe one or two.
Does that make you feel like a wasted effort?
I hope not.
Guess what else...
You are still a fag!
Ciao!
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2008-08-15 09:32:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by i_can_get_you_a_toe (user info) at 2008-08-15 09:16:07 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2008-08-15 09:09:34 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Will read later..+2 to offset the douchebag below
---
moi? :(
====
HAHA not you, toe. You know we cool.
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-08-15 09:29:56 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
It sure does, we had it first. I am Scottish. I am in Scotland. Where's she staying?
You better tell her to wrap up fucking snugly if she's coming from that climate to this in winter.
Submitted by i_can_get_you_a_toe (user info) at 2008-08-15 09:28:28 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-08-15 09:10:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Whiskey? You're one lucky sod, lady.
It is Friday afternoon here...
And I have had plenty of sympathy sex, thank you very much
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Jamieson is a good friend. Especially mixed with Bundeburg ginger ale.
I know, england is behind time wise, I have a few good mates living there at the moment. I get the random phone calls from them when they are wasted at night in a pub - and I'm at work.
My little sis is going to live in scotland in december. Does Scotland have the non-smoking in pubs rule?
Submitted by EmissionImpossible (user info) at 2008-08-15 09:20:57 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Good old dickens and wilde, they were good fun for an afternoon
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-08-15 09:18:13 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
This is probably the most fun I've had whilst writing something. The spelling and grammar check on Word was going ballistic at my verbal tomfoolery...
Bwuhahahaha!
Submitted by Doodles (user info) at 2008-08-15 09:16:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I <3 that comic.
Submitted by i_can_get_you_a_toe (user info) at 2008-08-15 09:16:07 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2008-08-15 09:09:34 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Will read later..+2 to offset the douchebag below
---
moi? :(
I +2'd.
I +2'd.
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-08-15 09:10:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Whiskey? You're one lucky sod, lady.
It is Friday afternoon here...
And I have had plenty of sympathy sex, thank you very much.
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2008-08-15 09:09:34 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Will read later..+2 to offset the douchebag below.
Submitted by i_can_get_you_a_toe (user info) at 2008-08-15 09:09:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
due to time zones, I can't read this. whiskey, you see?
But, since you're a virgin...
Sympathy +2.
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-08-15 09:01:17 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by skee (user info) at 2008-08-15 13:56:31 BST (#)
Ranking: -2
why? why?
U really wrote this shit, this early.....wow
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Damn, sorry mate, forgot to label this NSFI (Not Safe for the Illiterate).
Fuck off back to your sad little one-liners, toots.
Submitted by skee (user info) at 2008-08-15 08:56:31 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
why? why?
U really wrote this shit, this early.....wow