Gordon Chancery Farquhar Cavendish Thorne IV, Esq. was not the sort of man one kept waiting. Lord Simon knew this, just as he knew that Thorne was likely to sew him up into a burlap sack and dump him into the Thames for this insult. But Lord Simon didn't quicken his pace. He strolled through the late afternoon sun, tipping his hat to passers-by, remarking on the pleasantness of the weather with the doorman, even going so far as to take the lift rather than hustling up the stairs, though it would add several minutes to his travel time.
Lord Simon had just discovered Gordon Chancery Farquhar Cavendish Thorne IV, Esq.'s secret, and he reveled in it. The man was a boor, an upstart of the lowest water, and Lord Simon, with his centuries of landed breeding and the power that only old money could bring, couldn't stand commoners who rose above their appointed station in life. Thorne was one of those, and now Lord Simon had him in the palm of his hand.
Lord Simon was thinking these thoughts, relishing each and every anticipated moment, when his choice to take the lift rather than the stairs, product both of carefree stubbornness and sloth, came crashing down on him like the roof of a device used to transport passengers between the floors of a building without recourse to stairs when said conveyance has dropped from a great height. Ironically, the roof of the lift did the same thing moments later as the cable snapped and sent the car plummeting to the bottom of the shaft.
That's where I come in. The name's Jack Dawson, and I'm the Chancellor of Detection for Her Majesty the Queen. Whenever a toff snuffs it under mysterious circumstances, Her Nibs calls me. When it's too delicate for the bobbies, I'm first on the scene. When Scotland Yard's blood isn't blue enough, I get a jingle.
Unfortunately in this case it turned out to lack of safety inspections and a poor maintenance record. And to top it off, Lord Simon hadn't departed this mortal coil alone. I had to tell the wife of the poor lift operator that he wasn't ever coming home again. Two young kids. It really got to me.
I took a few days off to wash the taste of splattered gentility out of my mouth with a lot of cheap gin. I wound up down the docks at a joint which could only be charitably described as a pub. And it was there that I met Baron Tristan von Deckler, inventor of the transmemrograph, a steam-powered device which allows one to transfer the conscious thoughts of a corpse to paper. Which I promptly used on Lord Simon to complete my report to HRH. She likes dotted eyes and crossed tees. And I then used Thorne's secret to help HRH settle some business with him, though I'm not at liberty to say exactly how.
Anyway, an experience like that makes a man realize that life is fleeting and death is no reprieve from the ills of the world, so the Baron and I destroyed the device, realizing that it was tampering in places man dare not tread. And then we fell in love and got married and adopted two Lithuanian orphans, and we're all doing just smashingly. You really should stop by if you're in the neighborhood. We'd love to see you.
Merry Christmas from the Dawson-Decklers!
A Series of Oceanic Misunderstandings
I don't know what happened, but at some point the crew of the streamship of which I was Acting Captain mutinied and threw me overboard. They had legitimate grievances, but I never expected them to throw me overboard like that. I probably shouldn't have insulted them, though in my defense my Portuguese is pretty bad, so some of the insults were unintentional.
How I came to be Acting Captain of a steamship is a story I might tell sometime, after certain statutory limitations have expired. Not for me, you understand, but Siggurdsen wasn't blameless in those events. He was a good companion to me and I'd hate to get him into trouble.
But Siggurdsen wasn't present at the time of my abrupt aerial departure from the deck of the steamship. Had he been, things might have gone differently. If nothing else, he would have found himself in the water with the same abrupt finality either shortly prior to me or, more likely, shortly after. Maybe he would have dived off the boat in attempt to rescue me. Siggurdsen was that sort of friend and companion.
It's pointless to dwell on hypotheticals. Siggurdsen wasn't there, he was in Havana attempting to secure funding for things which can't be mentioned for the next few years. And I was in the water watching the rapidly-disappearing stern of the steamship. They really do move much faster than sailing vessels. Definitely the transport of choice when it comes to maritime travel.
I'd like to say that I maintained a stiff upper lip, but I'd be lying. I was panicking. I'm a reasonably strong swimmer, but this was the middle of the Atlantic Ocean and unlike a steamship, the human body was not made for long, ocean-going voyages. It was a tight spot. A tighter spot you're unlikely to find, unless of course you should happen to find yourself stranded in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean as a weak swimmer.
As luck would have it, however, I was discovered by a sailing vessel before my strength gave out. This didn't cause me to reassess my opinions on the relative quality of sails to steam, but it did make me realize that yachts are much easier to command than steamships. They have fewer crew members. It's a simple calculus.
After commandeering the yacht which had rescued me, I sailed in hot pursuit of my mutinous crew. This may seem like madness because, as previously stated, the steamship is faster than the sail. As it turned out, it was madness. I think the terrific strain of my ordeal had gotten to me. They easily outpaced me and when I finally located them, the coast guard were there. After a prolonged series of questions in Portuguese where the word "piracy" came up frequently, it was established that I couldn't really understand them and they locked me up here.
As dungeons go, Portuguese ones aren't the worst. That would be one thing this adventure has taught me. But the main takeaway from all of this is that investment in a steamship company is definitely a plan for success.
Love's All-Consuming Maw
One afternoon, several years after I met Jennifer, her body washed up on shore. To be more accurate, half her body washed up on one shore and what was left of the other half washed up on a different shore. This story involves a shark, in case you were wondering.
Jennifer was a princess in exile. Her family had ruled portions of what had then become a republic in the former Soviet Union, although being overrun by the Reds hadn't had anything to do with her family ceasing to rule. It didn't matter anyway. She only told me bits of the story, which didn't involve a shark. This story does. Hers didn't.
We weren't in love, exactly. With each other, I mean. Jennifer and I, I mean. The shark may have loved one or both of us, though the fact that Jennifer's body hadn't been digested suggests that if the shark loved her, it didn't care for her taste. But Jennifer and I weren't in love. Still, we moved in the same social circles and her family were modern enough to believe that I made a good match for her. So they encouraged our relationship.
My parents didn't care for her. "She's a nice enough girl," my father said, "but she isn't very interesting company." My other father didn't say anything because he was dead, but the chill in the air whenever Jennifer entered the house spoke volumes. Still, my fathers might not have liked her that much, but they knew I'd do what I was going to do and were more supportive than that time I got the tattoo of Marlon Wayans on my left thigh. It was a phase.
But Jennifer and I were in no rush to get married. Her family was champing at the bit a little, wanting grandchildren to continue the royal line, but we were still young. There was time. And anyway, her older brother was married to a countess and had the heir and the spare, so they didn't champ too hard.
And then a shark killed Jennifer's brother and his entire family. It was tragic. And suddenly the pressure was on. I started getting bridal magazines in the mail every day. Jennifer claimed it was coincidence, but I knew. And I realized, more and more, that while she was nice enough, she wasn't that interesting company and I didn't love her.
So I paid a warlock to curse her. Nothing major. But I guess he made a mistake and she wound up being brutally sawed in half during a failed magic show on a boat which exploded, sending the halves of her corpse flying into shark-infested waters.
Several days later, as previously related, her body washed into several shores. I was sad, certainly. She had been important to me. But I moved on, probably a bit too quickly for propriety. There was gossip all around our quaint seaside community. The warlock went into hiding. I think he works for a defense contractor now.
Sometimes I think of Jennifer when I see really bad magic acts. I don't think about sharks though. I really ought to, given that I live by the shore. Maybe I'm just waiting for my shark to show up. Maybe the taste it wants is me.
Jennifer was a princess in exile. Her family had ruled portions of what had then become a republic in the former Soviet Union, although being overrun by the Reds hadn't had anything to do with her family ceasing to rule. It didn't matter anyway. She only told me bits of the story, which didn't involve a shark. This story does. Hers didn't.
We weren't in love, exactly. With each other, I mean. Jennifer and I, I mean. The shark may have loved one or both of us, though the fact that Jennifer's body hadn't been digested suggests that if the shark loved her, it didn't care for her taste. But Jennifer and I weren't in love. Still, we moved in the same social circles and her family were modern enough to believe that I made a good match for her. So they encouraged our relationship.
My parents didn't care for her. "She's a nice enough girl," my father said, "but she isn't very interesting company." My other father didn't say anything because he was dead, but the chill in the air whenever Jennifer entered the house spoke volumes. Still, my fathers might not have liked her that much, but they knew I'd do what I was going to do and were more supportive than that time I got the tattoo of Marlon Wayans on my left thigh. It was a phase.
But Jennifer and I were in no rush to get married. Her family was champing at the bit a little, wanting grandchildren to continue the royal line, but we were still young. There was time. And anyway, her older brother was married to a countess and had the heir and the spare, so they didn't champ too hard.
And then a shark killed Jennifer's brother and his entire family. It was tragic. And suddenly the pressure was on. I started getting bridal magazines in the mail every day. Jennifer claimed it was coincidence, but I knew. And I realized, more and more, that while she was nice enough, she wasn't that interesting company and I didn't love her.
So I paid a warlock to curse her. Nothing major. But I guess he made a mistake and she wound up being brutally sawed in half during a failed magic show on a boat which exploded, sending the halves of her corpse flying into shark-infested waters.
Several days later, as previously related, her body washed into several shores. I was sad, certainly. She had been important to me. But I moved on, probably a bit too quickly for propriety. There was gossip all around our quaint seaside community. The warlock went into hiding. I think he works for a defense contractor now.
Sometimes I think of Jennifer when I see really bad magic acts. I don't think about sharks though. I really ought to, given that I live by the shore. Maybe I'm just waiting for my shark to show up. Maybe the taste it wants is me.
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