Bootman and the Boy Bobby

Publishers note.

With the current rage for all things Forumshire Creative, the Editors of this August Publisher, have decided to commission Ol’ Anon to write a new tale to hopefully help keep the Forumshiran Creative Tradition alive. Yes, we know Petty is doing his best, but.. weeeelllll...  with all due respect, he’s a Scotshobbit... I say no more...

Full credit must be acknowledged for our erstwhile leader and grand hobbit around town, and basic goodnik, Eldo Peevishboy.  All hail!

It is to he whom thanks may yet be given for the writing of this (potential) tale (which will start just below once it starts just below....) (keep in mind, you may also be able to blame him for the writing of this tale if things don’t go well, which is a definite possibility if history is anything to go by.....)

The irony, of course, as is the way of many Wholesome Tales, Eldo will need to pay a severe price (no doubt, when things start below) for his unceasing generosity, good will, and intelligence, all of which (no doubt) will be seriously abused in the grand Wholesome Tales tradition... though, it remains to see how excactly how this might play out or even if it will take place (to be frank) as the tale has not started being written yet...

So, if you dare, dear reader, await the next post... (You May see this post before the story even begins)...

I am now off to kick Ol’ Anon up the arse... he doesn’t know yet that he has been commissioned to write said tale, you see...

I will give him the title - as you may have noted at the top of this new thread - and a few ideas.... then he will have to do the rest himself, the lazy bastard.

Lesbo
Editor in Chief
The Archet Bugle

1

Everything was abuzz at Eldorion Manor for the Exhibition of Art by the Great Scotshobbit Painter (and Raconteur) (and Homosexual, not that there is anything AT ALL wrong with that), Petty Buckiemyer.

The Hall was set out with the great paintings, set out very, very neatly, everything in its right and proper positioning on the walls, with a painful - and I mean, painful! - attention to detail, almost homosexual in its pedantry (not that there is ANYTHING AT ALL WRONG with that!), for the current Lord of the Manor, Jacob Eldorion, did want to show off the Great Painter, Petty Buckiemyer’s, myriad array of cats on back fences making love to perfect best effect.

Jacob sauntered around the Hall, nudging frames here, tipping frames there, just a little, looking very resplendent in his fashionable Batman body stocking, in lavish pink, and a rather gaudy, and undoubtedly fetching, orange bandana.

The butler, Orwell Orlwaysrite, followed around the Hall, as always admiring - when he could do so tactfully, and not homosexually - Jacob’s rather perfectly formed buttocks and luscious  thighs. In his black butler outfit, Orwell looked anything but homosexual, just someone, perhaps, who could admire the magnificent buttocks of much younger men on purely aesthetic grounds.

“These pictures certainly have a theme,” Jacob mused aloud, stopping to straighten another frame, ever so slightly.

“The Great Painter does seem to have a penchant for the feline form, Young Master. I prefer, of course, people really.”

“What? Having sex on back fences?”

“No, that would be both uncomfortable and precarious, even as an artform. No, I prefer young people in more prosaic sexual situations. Possibly on a public bus to give the painting an aura of edge, if you know what I mean.”

“Indeed. Indeed. I often think of sex, you know, Orwell. Often. It is the very essence of art for me.”

“Abstract Art or merely Positional?”

“Both, really, but only when I can get it.”

“Well, you have some heriditary wealth behind you...”

“Yes, and indeed in front of me and all around me, Orwell.,” Jacob sighed. “But should I have to pay for art, for love, for respect?”

“It could save some time and mucking about, Young Master....”

“My problem is that I am unloveable and deserve only scorn!”

“Ohhh, Young Master, don’t say such things,” Orwell replied, slightly moist eyed, because he did love Young Master Jacob so (and not that there was ANYTHING wrong with that!) “You must not say such things. Everybody I know loves you. You are smart. You are kind. You are considerate. You are neat. Very, neat. Your friends adore you. Your family think you a chum of best proportions, a fine family member. Even your old and loyal butler thinks you the very image of a finely formed young man - a very, very fine figure. Please don’t speak this way of yourself. You mustn’t!”

“But I feel such an imposter, Orwell. Such a fraud.”

“Young Master, please cease this self-loathing. Look, admire these fine depictions of cats fornicating on back fences. Let them bring a smile to your jaundiced eyes - your lovely blue jaundiced eyes!”

“Sorry, Orwell; even these cats fornicating can bring me no joy today. I am in a bleak frame for some reason. All I can see here in these equisitely realised cats, is looks of the divine sexual sexual act causing more pain than pleasure. I can almost hear their painful wailing.... ... oh my.... That’s interesting. In this painting by the Great Painter, it looks like it’s two male cats having sex. Didn’t expect that...”

Orwell stepped forward to take a closer look with his somewhat older and weaker eyes.

“My goodness. Yes. I can see one penis out of picture, clearly penetrating deep up the other cats anus, while this other cat’s penis can clearly been seen here, very large and very erect, almost disproportionate. Fascinating. Petty Buckiemyer has always been, among other things, an interesting Painter...”

“The guests begin to arrive!” Jacob exclaimed. “I must, perchance, put my best face on things, Orwell.”

Jacob span off, in an instant the gay host.

Orwell watched him saunter off as he did not have a trouble in the world, his Batman body stocking clinging ever so artistically to the figure of that fine man.

“If I had been born with any artistic talent, at all,” Orwell thought somewhat sadly, “I don’t think I’d bother with fornicating cats. Not when I could be painting the Young Master’s buttocks. They are an artform. Yes, pure art!.”

Thanks, Anon. You really know how to flatter a guy. And it's always good to see the Bugle back in action!

The Archet Bugle wrote:Yes, we know Petty is doing his best, but.. weeeelllll...  with all due respect, he’s a Scotshobbit... I say no more...

There's that, plus the most recent story to be updated before this one is by me (not that I'm bitter or anything).

{{{ }}}

Well, honeybun, you do insist on carrying a cross on your back! For me it’s one of your defining characteristics and definite traits to admire, but for you it must be often an utter pain in the arse....

You know, too, off course, that I do love and admire you. Even if you think you don’t deserve it.

In all seriousness I would love to know what you (and everyone else whose writing I have writing I have read and enjoyed on here over the years) think of my latest, good or bad. One of the reasons I mention this is because this story is a pretty accurate representation and Love Is A Doing Word is (in part) an attempt at explaining/processing why I'm like this. And there are some very similar passages in the two stories, which is a testament to your/Anon's perceptiveness.

“My problem is that I am unloveable and deserve only scorn!”

“Ohhh, Young Master, don’t say such things,” Orwell replied, slightly moist eyed, because he did love Young Master Jacob so (and not that there was ANYTHING wrong with that!) “You must not say such things. Everybody I know loves you. You are smart. You are kind. You are considerate. You are neat. Very, neat. Your friends adore you. Your family think you a chum of best proportions, a fine family member. Even your old and loyal butler thinks you the very image of a finely formed young man - a very, very fine figure. Please don’t speak this way of yourself. You mustn’t!”

“But I feel such an imposter, Orwell. Such a fraud.”

Eldy nodded. “For me it’s just that there’s a lot riding on this. I don’t want to fuck it up. This is my chance to prove that I have worth as a human being.”

Baingil faltered at the look of glum seriousness on Eldy’s face. “I know this is important and I don’t want to trivialize it, but even if things don’t work out you’ll still have lots of people who love you.”

Eldy began fidgeting with her fork. “I dunno. I guess.”

“Of course you will,” Baingil said with a frown. “I’ll certainly still be here.”

“I’m not trying to say I don’t believe you,” said Eldy. She stared at the far corner of the dining area. “But if I don’t ‘live up to my potential’ I don’t really have a right to be here.”

“What do you mean?” Baingil asked in a concerned tone.

“Just … here.” Eldy waved her arm to gesture at their surroundings. “On a campus like this, I guess, or maybe anywhere. I don’t want people to find out how lazy I really am.”

“A lazy person wouldn’t have put in all the work you’ve already done.”

“Then I guess I’m still able to keep up appearances.”

“Appearances have nothing to do with it,” said Baingil. “I don’t know who told you that you’re lazy or that people won’t like you if you don’t accomplish great things, but whoever they are, they’re wrong.”

“That’s very nice of you to say,” Eldy sighed. “I’m sorry for being so moody.”

No fornicating cats though, I'm afraid. Anyway I'll stop badgering now. I do look forward to the next installment here!

Mate, you have a brain that, as far as I can see from what I have learned about you and from you over the years, will always hold yourself with a certain contempt, sometimes in the pits of darkness, you will seriously hate yourself.

Indeed, I know you have been there in that pit too often for comfort. Maybe, had you but but known it, I have given you comfort at times (don’t tell anyone!!!!) while being in the same place myself: catharsis for me, a slight help to you, I think. Thanks btw for that, for your aginy actually made me exert myself to try and help, and it did help me. I, of course, hoped I could offer some perspective to you, but, in the end, we know you are responsible for the management of your own depression etc, just like I have to do at the end of the day - and in the morning too... and through th night.... The drugs help, and no joke there.

Actually, and I am wandering now, once I decided I am a nothing, a fraud, an imposter, a freak, a failure in life, and..well, a nothing... a common nothing, not a grand nothing....I have generally been able to smell the roses occasionally  - expecting a bee sting, of course, but taking a moment out of my own self loathing to take a sniff - and savour it while I can. But that’s me. You are better self hater than me, I swear it.

Actually, thinking more, I see myself nowadays as a mere a speck in the universe. Call it a graduation to a higher state. That will have to do.

And when I’m Down (with a capital t) I try to get up and do something and ride it out as best I can. I love the sun. When I manage each night to get through to see it, my spirits do lift a bit - often, a lot. Don’t knock the simple things. The sun is both simple and powerful. Birdsong is too....

You know I pray to Eru every day and night that one day you will see yourself as not so much a nothing but as an actual speck in the universe, not a big speck, just a modest self loathing next to nothing speck, but a speck nonetheless!

Now that’s better than nothing, surely.

NB I don’t really pray to Eru for you. I only wrote that to make you feel better. Hope it did.

That was a lovely speech there Orwell. Question now is, are you a speck that wants to sparkle or, a speck that fades away ? Fading is easy, you can blend colourless into world of people buzzing about. Sparkling is the brave bit. But you shine much more with each twinkle you do. And you join the galaxy of stars, twinkles & specks, all the same as you.

Maybe a speckle can sparkle sometimes. And when you do, enjoy it while you can, I say.

2 (as posted by orwell on behalf of Ol’ Anon who is... err... indisposed for some reason....)

Jacob met the first visitor to his Hall, one Amarie Cougarlicious, the CEO of Peevishboy Forumshirewide Philanthropic Industrial Falseleg Fabricators, or Pefpiff as that laudable business enterprise was known to the world, with its headquarters in Forum City. She was a tall shortish woman with brown golden slightly lighter than dark brown but still not so light as to be invisible hair; she certainly did not look bald. It was hard to tell how old she was with her equisitely applied makeup, so subtlety applied that it was impossible to tell no how thickly applied it was. She was experienced in a number of ways. One of them was good manners.

“Good evening, Mister Peevishboy. And thank you so much for inviting me to this event. You woukdn’t know but I am quite fond of fornicating cats. In art, I mean. It is all the rage, and Petty Buckiemyer is as fine an exponent as any of the other exponents, however fine, though some... well..... [cough] ... not so fine... but Petty is fine alright, and quite a good friend of mine.”

“And mine,” Jacob answered cordially. “We go back a long way ourselves, Petty and I. Right back to the days when his kilt was longer and his haggis much smaller.... around ‘67, I think, or ‘69.”

“Was that the small haggis grey furry haggis, or was it the crimson... I can’t remember it’s so long ago. I do remember his crimson haggis... and that sapphire studded kilt he wore. I especially remember his hems a’sparkle and his legs shaved to the sheen of bowling balls.”

“Ah, yes. It was ‘67, I am reminded even as you talk. He was gay even then. I think he actually had the operation in ‘66 and by early ‘67 he was mincing with the best of them. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the paintings.”

The next guest was Chief Commisioner Dave Cranberry of Forum City, along with his trusted Policebuddy, Sergeant Halfred O’Hara Fysickfreke.

“Good evening, Mister Peevishboy,” the Chief Commissioner said reverently, for he had known Jacob’s father and his father’s father and he had heard of his father’s father’s father, the newspaper tycoon Upstart Peevishboy. All Jacob’s ancestors were successful upstanding citizens of Forum City. And even if Jacob had a low opinion of himself, Dave Cranberry viewed him as a bonzer lad, and a chip off the old block, and a young man with a great arse. Of course, Dave was a raving homosexual and he didn’t mind who knew.

Jacob tended to be a little uncomfortable in his presence, but he covered it up in his usual dignified way, and when he spoke, he did so very urbanely without the slightest hint of unease in the presence of the older man and his wandering eyes.

“Thanks for coming, Chief Commissioner. I hope you enjoy the show. No still life’s of vegetables, I know, but some very thought provoking paintings by the greatest modern painter of our fair city.”

“I don’t mind a fornicating cat now and again in art,” Dave replied with some enthusiasm. “Sergeant Halfred is mad keen on them too. Aren’t you, Halfred.”

“Indeed, I am,” Halfred replied. “And I am keen to have a look. You will excuse us, won’t you, Sir....”

“Of course, of course,” Jacob said, quietly pleased they were moving off. “My goodness, they’re holding hands....” he thought as he watched them go. “Oh well, Sergeant Halfred is off duty... though i’m not sure he should wear his uniform if that’s what he is going to do in public.”

“Why, hello, young man. Mister Peevishboy, I believe,” a female voice purred.

Jacob turned to be greeted by a wonderful apparition. A beautiful woman of indeterminate age with a lot of red hair and clothes that were very nice, feminine, provocative, demure and hard to describe if you are a writer who is feeling a little lazy.

“Sorry,” Jacob spoke quickly. “I don’t think I know....”

The woman before him stuck out a gloved hand and took his immediately proffered hand in a velvet embrace. “ Julia Figg, my dear, but my friends call me Pussy.”

“Pussy Figg?” Jacob blurted, feeling both uncomfortable and stimulated under that beautiful woman’s piercing gaze.

“No, no, Julia Figg. My friends call me Pussy because of all the pussies I have.”

“And you have more than one pussy?” Jacob asked, immediately feeling stupid he had asked.

“Oh lots,” Julia Figg laughed. “Lots and lots of pussies. Possibly,” and here she giggled in a way that could be only be described as ‘inviting’ - “Possibly more pussies than a girl should rightly ever have...” and she gave that giggle again. Strange it was. It was like what a cat would sound like if it was giggling...

Yes, strange....

Ignoring the latest contribution for the nonce, that was a fine speech you gave back there, Orwell. One fine day the "Self-loathing" speech may be ranked up there with the "Crispin's day" speech.

For my own self, realizing I was insignificant was quite liberating. Takes off the stress of great expectations. Bumble on from day to day and only put in effort if you really care about it or if someone puts a knife to your throat, that's what I say. If doing great and wonderous things for other people makes you happy, do that. If eating a peanut butter and cheese sandwich in front of the telly truly makes you happy, then do that without shame. All you are obligated to do in life is be nice to other folks and don't punish yourself either, unless trying to change makes you happy.

Funny, Halfy, as I read your post I was thinking of the word ‘humility’. Strange word for me to use, of course, but nonetheless.... seeking humility is not a bad quest, a fine adventure even Bilbo would be proud of. After all, wasn’t Bilbo’s journey about learning about himself,  all about what one was capable of, but especially about what was important in the end? Not really about being a hero, or piling gold; wasn’t it? It was really about coming to a point of hiumility in the end. Never thought about it that way. If right, might explain why The Hobbit is my favourite book of all time!

No, I am not a loud banging cymbal calling attention to Myself! (With apologies to that Mad Hatter Saint Paul, that weirdo who was unambiguously human in his best moments). I am a little tinkering bell, still there, but humble. And in humility finding some kind of solace. Why do I have to be so big!? I’m a hobbit. Being a good person is as big a hobbit as any hobbit needs to be! Three foot or four, thst’s just how it is. Hey, while shooting at being humble, maybe I should give myself a break, too.... maybe two times a day for five minutes - while wading through all the shit, and managing, as best one can, all the shit that happens in the world, both personally and on the human scale. Where’s that tobacco jar?

Hey! I’m thinking - and I do hate having to actually think!!! - i’m thinking of that phrase about thinking globally and acting locally. So, maybe, we should be looking at ourselves - possibly with some kindness knowing how small and insignificant we are - with a view to being kinder to the universe. I mean, if we are kinder to our little insignificant selves we might start to be kinder to the big insignificant universe, including our insignificant friends and family, because other insignificant humans around might well do with, and kind of ‘need’ a bit of kindness themselves; a smile in their direction now and then. Imagine! Giving other other insignificant hobbits, just like you, a smile. Better than no smile at all. For other insignificants.... for yourself, actually. Now that would be acting locally, while putting egotistic self loathing aside - if only for a moment. (Look, finding a smile for others is often a hard task, I know, but it’s usually worth it, even if you get nothing back sometimes, just the ‘doing’ is worth it in my opinion. Yeah, not judging the response: though you,  more often than not, will get a smile back in return).

Anyway, I’m getting away from philosophy and into poetry, and we all know what a waste of time poetry is.....

I need to get back to Ol’ Anon and see where the next instalment of this absurd and cheeky tale is going.....

very cheeky indeed

3

When the very interesting, and powerfully female... no, no, feline was a better word....

When the powerfully feline, Julia Figg had padded off... padded off? Well, she wore high heeled shows but still managed to move, somehow, like a cat... a very attractive cat in very nice feline clothes... now that the writer can be bothered thinking about it, a nice slinky skirt, and a tight upper clothing thingee that might be a blouse, but might be something else because the writer didn’t know because he was an Old School Man, you know, someone who was totally ignorant about women but liked to look at them because he thought they had a nice shape; some of them, mind, not the ones he didn’t like the shape of... ummm...

When Julia Figg padded off on her high heels, a marvelous feat really, but she managed it... err...

When Julia Figg padded off, Jacob watched her, almost like he was an Old School Man, except he wass studying intently the equisite aquiline profile of her face and not her sumptuous arse.... which I guess showed he was not an Old a School Man after all, but a respectful young tycoon and not an old perve; he was a young man for a start, anD definitely no perve, young or old....  now Orwell, standing to the side, watched her arse... but then, he did like arses, and he was not always gender specific in his arses....

“What a mysterious woman,” Jacob said softly, turning to his old retainer.

“What a great arse,” replied his old retainer. “I mean that with the greatest respect, Young Master” Orwell added.

“I know you do, I know you do, Orwell. Arses have long been an important part of your life. But this probably is not the best place speak of such things. Not when we have many guests of the Forum City establishment here, you know how excited they can get... .... Look. Here comes the Great Painter himself!”

And through the great doors of Peevish Manor, the be-kilted figure of Petty Buckiemyer was appearing. He looked the sheer image of a Scotshobbit. Think of a steroroypical Scotshobbit and you can imagine Petty perfectly. He hurried up in his stiff-legged, bow-legged gait and addressed the Young Master with red glazy eyed respect.

“Ock tha noo! Et bee a foon uxabission ya hug cruatad, Young Mooster. Uh foon uxabission!”

“Without your great artistry and fascination with fornicating cats, Petty, we could never have put this thing together. And I thank you for allowing us to enter your condobarrel and unsticking your originals from your tables and floors and ceilings and do-do hole-room wall. It brought a tear to our eyes to be given the privilege, but those gas masks Orwell brought made it all possible in the end.”

“Ock tha noo!” Petty cried. “Iza not bookey eye can see o’er thar on tha booffay!”

And the Scotshobbit was off, just like all great artists, seeking his own preferred inebriator....

Orwell, not for the first time, could not help noticing the mince of his buns rolling like hillocks, bulging sort of, in his tight Campbell kilt, even though Orwell’s glimpse was only momentary, because any Scotshobbit, let alone a Great Scotshobbit Artist, moves very, very quickly with free Buckie in their sights. In a nonce, he had disappeared into the crowd that had been gathering.

“It is sad how such creative hobbits destroy themselves with drink and drugs and sex with strange emaciated men in parks,” Jacob said sadly after Petty had gone.

“I must differ with you on that,” Orwell said. “It’s what keeps Scotshobbirs alive. Pure water, pure vegetables and pure celibacy; if you want to kill a Scotshobbit, that’s the way to do it.”

Orwell wrote:You know I pray to Eru every day and night that one day you will see yourself as not so much a nothing but as an actual speck in the universe, not a big speck, just a modest self loathing next to nothing speck, but a speck nonetheless!

Now that’s better than nothing, surely.  

I've put off responding to this because every attempt at doing so has devolved into me being even more of a whiny piece of shit than usual, but I don't want to give the impression that I'm ignoring your message or your story. As you may already know, hearing people say nice things about me makes me feel especially guilty since I don't think I deserve positive attention from other people, so my response is frequently to run away or lash out to try to make them stop. I don't want to do either here, both because it's you and especially because it genuinely does mean a lot to know that you care, even if in the moment it hurts as much as it helps. It's more consistently helpful when looking back/re-reading stuff at a later date. But anyway, yeah. I'm not trying to avoid this thread, it's just ... not easy to read. Sorry. I hope this doesn't come across as ingratitude because it was very kind of you to make this thread even if I am terrible at accepting positive anything. And part of me does like hearing it; I wouldn't feel so guilty otherwise.

Nah, i’m often uncomfortable with positive things said to me about me. Do I really deserve it? But i’ve come to the conclusion that to shit in the face of a genuine compliment is shabby behaviour indeed. So I make the best of it, accept that people care about me, and the last I should do, if I have any decenc6 at all, is to take the compliment as graciously as I can and not shit in their faces. Yep, and i’ve Shat in good people’s faces before, Eldo. It is something I feel justifified andreasonable in loathing about myself.

But, then, when you’re in a dark place, it’s easy to turn a nasty face on others. I know. I’m still not immune from it. But I work fucking hard not to do it. I don’t give myself any credit for it, i’m no martyr, but I logically see it as the best thing I can do, when I can force myself past my loathsome ego; best thing I can do to my fellow human beings, and the best thing I can do for myself.

I often used to wallow in self-pity, but not so much anymore. It takes intellectual honesty, and genuine effort, not to hurt others because of your self pity. It’s worth the effort - even if i’m not perfect at doing it. I also try to avoid beating up on myself all the time because I am pretty good at it. I know just what to call myself. And it’s ain’t pretty - even if perfectly applicable. But, no, nowadays I try to give myself a break, even when I am at my worst. Remembering in dark times that other people still matter, helps too. It’s an effort, but worth it, like I said.

That was our agony aunt, Orwell, btw, who wrote that last response... .....

4


The exhibition was going well. Many of the hoi poloi of Forum City had come to view the exhibition, just showing how much they were connoisseurs of great art, or fans of fornicating cats, or both. There was also trays of fine Wynyard in crystal glasses and finger food of the best quality, for the Peevishboy Family were well known for their hospitality and generosity, even if Eldorion himself thought he was never quite hospitable and generous enough, being the kind of young Hobbit who set his own personal standards far too high, which was sad really, because all the hoi poloi of Forum City liked and respected him very much; but when one sees oneself through a prism darkly lit it is hard for one to see it, to feel deserving of it, but what can you do, if someone is submerged in their own darkness, can the outside light and warmth of others penetrate it, especially if that very light and warmth is seen with distrust. It’s a fair muddle it is, or a fair ‘muddy’ might be a better way of putting it, and there you go.

Around nine fifty seven, just when the murmur of appreciative conversation had grown to a rather loud Wynyard fueled crescendo, something very bad happened. Suddenly, the Elvish magic lights went out, casting the whole hall in darkness.

First: the Forum City hoi raised their voices in surprise. Second: stunned silence fell. Third: someone giggled - it may have been Orwell. Fourth: the lights came back on. Fifth: Some elevated conversation ensued. sixth: someone screamed in feline horror - it was definitely Orwell this time!

A crowd crowded around the distraught figure of the old retainer who stood quivering before an empty space on the wall where a painting had once hung.

Petty Buckiemyer’s famous depiction of two male cats fornicating on the back fence of the Forum City Town Hall was gone.

Eldorion pushed through the crowd, his moody mood now forgotten in the excitement. He was the kind of Young Master who needed a mystery to solve, or, at least, something useful to do to distract his complicated and thoughtful mind from its complicated and thoughtful thinking.

“Look,” he said, taking immediate control of the situation. “On the wall where the painting was hanging... a paw print... a cat’s paw print... and this little note... What does it say?”

Then in a slow, ponderous voice, Eldorion read the note out loud:

“Two pussies on a garden fence,
Two pussies making love,
Two hot and ready pussies,
Stolen by the Velvet Glove.”

“What do we have here?” Eldorion mused aloud, his quick mind thinking quickly.

“What do we have here?” Orwell pondered too. “Well, a pretty ordinary bit of poetry to start.”

Things are hotting up nicely.

Can't wait to see what happens next!

5

Now this was a fine kettle of fish, no mistake, and Eldorion knew he had to do something about it. And, actually, he was just the hobbit to do something about it. But he couldn’t do something about it there and then because he had a lot of agitated guests around him talking agitatedly, not that there were actually any alligators there, mind... actually, ignore that thing about alligators....

Petty Buckiemyer staggered to the front of the crowd.

“Ock tha  noo,” cries he in abject pain and instant misery. “Som boosted huh boodley stooloon mee grootest wark! Et was un embodiment ov orl eye stoon for, mee unnar moist thooots und dreamz und azparashoons!”

“Fair enough,” said a Orwell, who, for once in a very long life, didn’t  know what to say.

“Never mind, Petty,” Eldorion said with steely eyes. “I think I know who we need on this job.”

“It sure is not something I can imagine Halfred O’Hara Fysickfreke’s men and women to investigate alone...” Chief Commissioner Dave Cranberry said.

“No,” Halfred said, looking uncomfortable, almost like he needed to fart or something but not in public. “There’s only one person who I can think of who can solve this cunning and clever crime... blooming heck, turned the lights off, paddedup silently and pinched the painting, then padded off silently and turned the lights on again. Both diabolically clever and sarcastic at the same time! Only a cat could be so playful , yet evil... well, AND evil, considering i make a simile about cats.”

“Well, enough gab,” said Mayor Amarie. “Get back to your office and on the Bootphone, Chief Commissioner! We need Bootman on the case.”

“And his trusty companion, the Boy Bobby!” Orwell chipped in, with eyes glowing and knowing, and possibly showing, in showing off... or something....

So immediately Dave and Halfred were off out of the Hall and off down to the Cheif Commissioner’s office to make that important call.

It took awhile, but finally Eldorion and Orwell managed to shepherd all the guests out of the Hall, Eldorion politely, and Orwell less politely, and swearing at people occasionally.

When they were all gone, Orwell cried: “Golly gee willikens, Young Master! What a fine kettle of fish this is.”

“Interesting you should say: Kettle of fish,” Eldorion repeated quietly and weightily. “Now, Orwell, think. What kind of creature likes fish?”

Orwell thought ponderously, frowning; then he brightened. “Dolphins!”

“What about a mammal with four legs.”

“Umm... a pantomime horse?”

“Ha! But I am not thinking of strange lonely men in a pantomime horse who like fish, Orwell, I am thinking of a cat.”

“My goodness gracious, what a fine feckle of felines... cats! Of course! Oh my, not Catwoman!”

“Well, no, that would be plagiaristic... no, what about my old nemesis, Pussywoman!”

“Oh my God! What a fine pickle of peckles, Young Master!”

“Yes and interesting thoughts suddenly rise in my mind... “ Eldorion mused aloud, scratching his fine patrician jaw. “But, first.... Orwell, not a minute to waste... to the Bootcave!”

Alright, I cracked up at this part. It's a really nice feeling seeing Ol' Anon still at it after all these years.

At it... ‘it’... not sure what you’re getting at.... I’ll ask Ol’ Anon... he might know....

Still writing and posting stories, I mean.

6

Bootman and the Boy Bobby stood at the bottom of two smooth long metallic poles, Bootman shaking his head rather sadly, and the Boy Bobby wincing at a slight ankle strain, both looking resplendent in their slinky eye masks and slinky costumes, Eldorion’s blue for boys and Orwell’s pink for girls, to give the caped crus... the bedecked do-goodies favourable gender inclusive aspect - according to Orwell, anyway.

“You will oil your pole, Orwell,” Eldorion was saying. “That’s the third time this year you’ve slipped down your pole far too fast and hurt yourself.”

“Well, my pole sticks if I don’t oil it; it’s these corduroy leggings that does it.”

“And why cordouroy? You know, there is such a thing as lycra nowadays, or any number of natural fibres if you’re environmentally conscious like me.”

“Well, you can take the old masked hero out of the eighties but you can’t take the eighties out of the old masked hero, that’s what I say. Mind you, I do think your upgrade to hemp knickers makes you look far more comfortable when you walk.”

“Yes, and I do wish you wouldn’t insist on me wearing them inside out.”

“Not all tradition needs to be discarded, Young Master. Oh....and are you wearing your cat-boots... Maybe I should change out of my bone-crusher oy-here-I-come sneakers...”

“I suspect a feline quality to this painting heist, Boy Bobby,” Eldorion said, taking on his Bootman persona. “To catch a cat who pads you must pad up yourself.”

“You could easily be talking about cricket, you know, Young Master,” the Boy Bobby said with a laugh even as he continued to wince with pain.

“Whatever that is,” the Bootman said. “Quick now, slip into something more pussy creepy. I’ll meet you at the Bootdesk.”

And Bootman sped off on paddy-boot feet. So silently, the Boy Bobby could not hear the sound of footwear on the boot friendly ceramics of the boot tunnel that led down to the boot cave. The Boy Bobby admiringly watched him as he climbed gingerly up his Boy Bobby ladder to get to the top of his oily pole again. Once at the top he put on his Boy Bobby horn rimmed spectacles and searched for the pussy-pad sneakers button....

To the Bootcave! I would love a video with the whirling camera/music and then suddenly they plop down the poles in corduroy and hemp.  I imagine old WWI flying cap and goggles as well.  Where's our illustrator?  NORC!!