The hour is upon is. Not literally. I don’t know how an hour would actually get up on top of us. The mere notion of it is ridiculous and doesn’t warrant the attention from the fine fellows in our solemn brotherhood. Please forgive me frippery and frivolity. Or even my frivvery and fripolity. I’m never sure which is it. Sorry. I’ve done it again. The point that I am consistently failing to make is that not only are our plans finally coming to fruition, but that I have set my sights on marriage.
That’s right. You fellas had better believe it. You do not require nanny to clean out your privileged lug-holes with a bit of string and a tub of olbas oil. You heard me correctly the first time. Of course, as this is a letter, you did not hear me at all; unless you are counting the imaginence of the words formed by your mind’s ear. But, please allow me this moment of artistic licence in a moment such as this.
So, who could this feminine flesh-bag be that finally captures the attentions of Lord Dennis\me? The situation, as you may well imagine, is somewhat complicated. My dear bum-chums, you will remember my recent incarceration for the alleged kidnapping of the arse-clown Crapper. Oh, how we laughed on my release. If only the rozzers had any inkling of even a sprinking of the myriad of depravaties commited by our fellowship. They’d literally shit a brick. Well, I’m sure that you also remember that tsunami of abuse that washed over me from my supposedly betrothed Eileen Bilton. Our nuptials had been agreed by our secret society as nothing more than a plan to seize control of her father’s land. Those golden acres are essential to the progression of our dastardly schemes. (Note: I think we may have to stop calling our plans ‘dastardly’ ourselves. I think it may possibly make us look a little bit suspicious. It’s bad enough that we’re part of an evil secret brotherhood, innit #justsayin). Anyway, this little firebrand’s abuse roused me in a way that I had never been roused before. The tenacity that she showed in her prolonged attacks on my personage were like a dog with a bone. And this made me like a man with a bone (I’m trying to imply that it gave me a stiffy). Sure, this might sound a little kinky, but we’re all perverts here. Why else would we all be members of a sinister cult-like organisation? That especially goes for you, vicar. If only your congregation knew what was going on underneath your robes. You disgust even me.
It soon came to pass that Crapper’s kidnapping was perpetrated by none other than Der Naughty Kitty. Yes, him. I know that I assured you all that he wouldn’t be a problem, but even the Stefmeister can be wrong from time to time. I digress. Upon hearing the news, Miss Bilton did me the utmost honour of writing me a gracious letter of apology. The silly bitch. She’s just playing straight into my hands. And, boy, do I ever have sweaty palms. She thinks she is still in love with Crapper, but she will be mine. I have perused my extensive library and studied my treasured first edition of “A Treatise Upon The Rules of The Game of Love: A Dazzling Insight into The Art of The Neg” by Count Neil Von Strauss. I have sent away to the finest tailor’s in all of Swindon for a jazzy red suit made of the plushest velveteen known in the empire. How could any woman not succumb to my elaborate peacocking? Then I’ll probably go up to her and tell her that her dress is nice, it’s like the one that the skinny girl was wearing earlier. Or maybe I’ll tell her that I like her FAKE nails. Bwah-ha-ha! Oh, my chums. How can any fraulein not fall directly into my lap after being given a compliment that was actually a vague insult? She’ll be like putty in my hands. Just think of how I’m going to use her to fix a window in position…. scratch that. I don’t think the metaphor really stretches that far.
Once she’s fallen for me then I’m going to do everything I can to wind her up. Only then will I once again fully experience the barrage of abuse that first attracted me to her in the first place. Oh, can you imagine living your whole life with a woman that does naught but harangue you from dawn till dusk? The deliciousness of the situation leaves me sticky with my anticipatory sap.
So, thats my plan. What do you guys think? You know you’re all, like, really really important to me. I wouldn’t want to rush into anything without getting your seals of approval. I know we’re like a team of Maciavellian miscreants, but, in many ways, I see us like those outrageous girls from Sex in The City. Oh, the hours we’ve wiled away in our chambers, deciding which one of was Samantha, who was most like Carrie and who had the whiff of Beryl about her. I hope it doesn’t affect my standing as an evil genius, but I really love you guys. Golly gosh, I’m getting quite teary here. I’m going to get such a ribbing at the next meeting!! LOLZ
Anyway, where was I? Yeah, I plan to marry this crazy chick, after all. I mean Eileen Bilton, not Charlotte Church. I don’t want there to be any confusion. Then, after we are wed, I can put the finishing touches to our masterplan. Yes, all the components are coming together nicely and even the antics of Der Naughty Kitty cannot scupper them. I will choose not to reveal any details of the plan in this letter. I just feel that if someone were to come across this menacing missive and read the minutiae of our perfect plot, then it would somehow ruin the suspense for them. Perhaps that they’re enjoying this letter as some kind of story. How would they feel if the mystery was taken away before the end? Whenever “the end” is. Real life doesn’t have an ending, does it? Well, it does when you die, but you know what I’m trying to say. Do you? I’m not really sure myself? I’ve just implied that we’re all in a giant story, but now I’m back-tracking slightly. What can it all mean?
Bwah-hahahaha-ha!! Oh my friends. How the big author in the sky would be laughing at us now. The whole world is a big story being written by our celestial scribe. It’s one of the weird beliefs of our secret society. Which you all obviously know as you’re all also members. I don’t really know why I felt I had to point it out to you. Could it be the work of the mystic bard working through my errant fingers? Or is it just because I’ve drank too much rhubarb wine? I dunno, but I bloody love you lot. Anyway, I better be off, I think I’m going to be sick.
Cool Lord D