Mr Roger Buggery, returning from his pandar’s tour of the hinterlands some days following the riots and the incarceration in Bristol Prison of Mr Helix Folt, was both pleased and dismayed by the recent denouement. On the one hand, the resounding if not unanticipated defeat of the Conservative interest had dashed his lingering hopes of reversing his usurpation by Mr Rex Anusol. On the other hand, absent the feline, rodents will disport. Mr Roger Buggery, vey soon wearying of the solicitations of his wife as to the welfare of Mr Helix Folt, and being moreover as bound as any other parcel of dirt caught in the iron bands of determinism, picked up his mobile and dialled the number of Ms. Amelia De'Ath. —
Bristol Prison, Mr Roger Buggery, Amelia De’Ath
Arriving at the De'Ath residence, he found vey much to his chagrin that the lady in question was as much preoccupied as his wife had been with the fate which had befallen Mr Helix Folt. —
De’Ath residence
“I don’t not know,” griped the Bath Buildings Bathory, glaring balefully at her visitor as she dandled her latest acquisition on her knee, “I don’t not know as how you can have such a nerve as to wisit at such a time as this, what with me being at my wits end what with Helix misgendering a officer of the law and my having this new bubba what I have to make arrangements to work off. Don’t not speak to me of no colonics at no such a time as this. It is the height of insensitivity, really it is.” —
Bath Buildings
I think it may safely be averred that Mr Roger Buggery’s renewal of his petition, nasty as it was, would have met with vey little enthusiasm on the part of his hostess. In any event, her response was preempted by the return to Bath Buildings of Mr Rex Anusol. —
Mr Rex Anusol
Taking his way back to Eastville, Mr Roger Buggery cut a thoroughly disconsolate figure, which in some mysterious manner served to exacerbate even his habitual abjectness. As he slunk nastily along Shaftesbury Avenue and past the Startling Farter, the ladies who encountered him instinctively crossed the road to avoid him, and the gentlemen looked him up and down in disgust. Mr Roger Buggery, being entirely used to such treatment, paid them vey little mind, instead concentrating on the grinding of his teeth and the cultivation of his own petty contumelies. He was more than ever convinced of the existence of an unseen malign force, uniquely dedicated to the frustration of all his plans and the unravelling of his life’s purpose. Things had come to a pretty pass when an honest decent National Socialist who had slogged his guts out in the thankless task of exposing the machinations of Jew finance could not even get a bumflush. —
Eastville, National Socialist
Mr Vercingetorix Bumhole it was who had set this particular wheel in motion when, upon learning of Lord Handjob’s passing, he had notified his Lordship’s executors of Mrs Roger Buggery’s address. At the vey moment when Mrs Roger Buggery learnt of her good fortune, Mr Vercingetorix Buggery happened to be savouring a gluten-free organic pig in a blanket washed down with a pint of wholesome Californian ale in the Unlettered Thug in the Horfield Road. Had the narcissists tenanting that shithole not all been utterly self-absorbed, and had the cacophony not been blaring quite so deafeningly from the speakers in the Unlettered Thug in the Horfield Road, Mr Vercingetorix Bumhole as he munched his puff pastry might have been heard to mumble with an unbecoming satisfaction something really rather spiteful about an utter nimrod and gigolo and altogether petty piffling putrid sowshalist what was presently going to find his self deprived of a significant revenue stream. Having delivered himself of this insight, Mr Vercingetorix Bumhole bethought himself that he might indulge in good cheer, whereupon he sipped his pint of wholesome Californian ale, and chuckled and pronounced two or three times more the words “nimrod” and “gigolo”, and was vey promptly seized with a paroxysm which caused a great cloud of puff pastry flakes to shower all over the corner of the Unlettered Thug in which he was ensconced. One or two of the narcissists tenanting that shithole glanced at the source of this minor disturbance but, not finding themselves edified thereby, vey quickly went back to talking over eachother. Mr Vercingetorix Bumhole likewise went back to chewing his gluten-free organic pig in a blanket and his pint of wholesome organic ale, and hoc modo we leave that gentleman to his devices. —
Mr Vercingetorix Bumhole, The Unlettered Thug
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