Panache and the Great Hunt for the Acryli-Beast

[Panache]

Panache and the Great Hunt for the Acryli-Beast

A Victorian Tale of Horror told in Chapters

Chapter 26

“…and so we rendezvoused with Ensign Splash and picked up the grateful crew of the Maple Leaf before we undertook the long trek back to civilization. Mr. Splash was no fool, he had realized by the time he found the downed blimp that the storm was far too fierce for his frail craft to endeavor a return flight to the Saltire. He simply landed and waited for the worst of the blizzard to subside”.

I took another sip of my caipirinha made with some lovely Beleza Pura, lemon, and sugar and regarded Mr. Scott Gilmore who shook his head. We stood next to the dance floor where we had been both enjoying that lovely Latin beverage made of distilled and fermented sugarcane juice known as cachaca. Scott had chosen a Armazem Vieira which he drank neat. We were gathered at yet another formal kilted gala in the Southern part of our Golden State. Nearby was a thin, neat looking gentlemen in his early fifties possessing a most animate and fractious manner who was in deep conversation with Professor Tewksbury and that renown Kilt Scholar Mr. Newsome concerning military box pleats. They were joined by a handsome mature woman from Dorset who nodded at their discourse approvingly.

“What became of the crew of the Maple Leaf? The piratical SOKS?” he queried.

“We turned them in to the proper authorities once we reached Canada. Grant of course was deemed unfit to stand trial. He was admitted to the Wanker Wing of the Saskatchewan Institute for the Criminally Kilted.”

“Poor Grant” sympathized Mr. Gilmore.

“Well, I was assured by no less a personage than the Director of that Mental Health facility that as a safety precaution all new patients were subject to a careful, thorough, and probing search of their most intimate persons by attendants equipped with long rubber gloves. So in a manner of speaking Grant did finally manage to get his kilt check in the end.” We both shuddered slightly at this thought and again sipped our drinks.

A rousing Latin beat from the orchestra had so inspired some of the party goers that they had spontaneously formed what is known in the common vernacular as a “conga line” that weaved in amongst the merry throng of attendees. At its head followed by a procession of scantily clad young ladies was a kilted gentleman of robust build but thin of hair with a neatly trimmed full beard. He waved to me with a sly grin as he lead the procession past us.

“Who was that?” asked Mr. Gilmore.

“Mr. Dove, an old rival for a position within the League of the Moderators, but I beat him out for it.” I noted.

Scot watched the giggling line of nubile female flesh following him “It would appear he has gotten over the loss” he said.

“Indeed” I agreed.

“What about the others?” asked Mr. Gilmore.

“McMurdo recovered from his injury. Though sadly the blow gave him a curious case of slight amnesia wherefore he no longer possesses the ability to converse in the Inuit language. Quite unfortunate. He’s a good fellow to have about in a pinch and David, Todd, and myself recommended him highly to Dee as a candidate for Herald within the League of the Moderators.”

I took another sip of my drink and waved to that shaggy haired Scottish Pilot whose instructional manual had proven so useful to my security team. Which prompted me to continue my reminiscences (not that I generally require much in the way of prompting, either to reminisce or digress. But I digress. Of course. As is my wont).

“We awarded Mr. Splash, Mr. BEEDEE, and Mr. Mender the League of the Moderators’ highest honor, the Order of the Dandelion for tenacity and steadfastness in the face of overwhelming odds. They returned home with honor and our gratitude.”

“We dropped off Jake in San Francisco. His publisher refused to print his story, citing the ending as being distinctly unsatisfactory. Needless to say he was sorely disappointed that all his carefully crafted malicious fiction had been for naught. He is thinking of switching careers and going into Law.”

“We flew the great airship back to South Carolina. There unobserved on a moonless night we returned the Saltire to her secret mountain hangar. The crew we swore to secrecy and they returned to the Great Golden Hall of X marks the Scot via David’s clever system of secret passageways.”

“What about Mike and Nelson? Weren’t they waiting for you?” questioned Mr. Gilmore.

“Ah, well Nelson apparently was so delighted that his symphony had finally managed to find a superb balance between the horn and string section, not to mention that the woodwinds had sorted out a few irregularities in their dynamic harmonies that he forgave us for our transgressions.”

“What about Mike?”

“Well, we decided that it would be for the best (to avoid unnecessary bloodshed and horrific violence) if Todd and I took a bit of a leave of absence from the Great Golden Hall. We assume that eventually Mike’s anger will subside, or failing this and far more likely, someone else shall behave unwisely and receive the benefit of his full attention. Till then Todd and I will lay low.”

“David as well?”

“Oh no, David went back to the Great Golden Hall. He probably saw Mike the next day at the breakfast table and asked him to pass the marmalade.”

“With no repercussions?”

“Well for Todd and I, embezzlement and theft is a huge betrayal of our obligations. For David, it’s Thursday.”

“I don’t understand?”

“Well put it this way, have you ever tried to scold a cat?

“Yes.”

“The cat just stares at you and wonders why you are wasting it’s time.“ I explained.

“ I see. Still, it’s a pity you went to all that effort, traveled so far, and managed to finally kill the Acryli-Beast, but weren’t able to bring back a sporran.” said Scott.

I saw a flash of transcendent, shimmering white across the room. It was Jim and his magnificent sporran. Our eyes met and I raised my glass to him before turning my gaze away and back to my companion.

“Well the great Northern lights have been returned to their grandeur. That’s a prize for the whole world. As for the sporran, well perhaps some things are best admired from afar. They shine brighter in our imagination anyway.” I mused.

”Suas aventuras trouxeram-lhe uma medida da sabedoria, meu amigo.” Scott replied (Which either meant “Your adventures have brought you a measure of wisdom, my friend.” or “Never mistake a weasel for your clarinet”. This of course reminded me that I really must brush up on my Portuguese. But I digress).

Scott pointed at the dance floor and noted “Isn’t that Iolaus dancing with your wife again?”

Indeed there engaged in vigorous salsa was my lovely Flame-Haired Celtic Amazon Goddess and the tall kilted curly haired Californian.

“His hair seems to have gotten longer” said I.

“And curlier” added Scott.

“Well, Scott if you excuse me I need to go forth and reclaim my lady.”

“Ah, I see you used this time away from your duties as a moderator to master the art of Latin dance. You will woo your lovely woman back with your sensuous moves on the dance floor and make her forget about his thick mane of hair.”

“Not exactly”, I grinned . From my coat pocket I brought out a small portable electric cutting device, such as is used to shear sheep of their fleecy wool. Handing Mr. Gilmore my empty cocktail glass, I switched it on.

Confidently I strode onto the dance floor…


The End