Lord Der Ärzte - Bone Valley Chpt4
Where we find out what aristocrats keep in their cellar, plus just how handy lady's bloomers are, and how helpful a subscription to National Geographic is when fixing a deviated septum!
Chapter Four
Everyone’s dirty, little secret!
Mori Tarty, an evil genius in the making and full-time sausage maker, woke up in a cellar he didn’t recognise.
Now, this to most people would seem odd, but when working on your ‘evil genius’ status – unknown dark little hidey-holes and your hobbies tend to go hand in hand. It was for Mr Tarty surprising, though, to wake up in a hole he was not familiar with.
A small, dirty stream of second-hand light meandered into the dark and cavernous room. Not that Mr Tarty could have enjoyed the light, as he was currently blindfolded with something which, when he found out what was encasing his mouth and face, would send a shiver down his spine.
It must be pointed out that this specific garment used to muffle and blind his senses went missing from the scene of the crime and was later found under Mr Tarty’s pillow by a young police officer, who had to have explained in great detail by a senior officer what it was and why it was there. The young police officer had to go back to reading Mother Harper's pamphlet for the “Young and Extremely Naïve”, which had fascinating pictures and details about lots of things that young men need to know about, but no one was willing to tell them, to work out why everyone was blushing!
“Who is there? I can hear you breathing through your deviated septum!” Mori Tarty tried to chew the translucent material from his head. Which, in hindsight, wasn't the wisest thing to do; his saliva only added to the difficulties he was encountering when trying to breathe through said tight-knit and silken material.
“You, sir, are not a very nice person! Stop chewing on my mother’s old bloomers. You sent me some deadly mushrooms, and when I called upon you to inquire as to why, you hit me in the face with a blood-wurst sausage, all of which is simply not done!
The knickerbockers were wrenched roughly from the gaging man’s covered head.
The second-hand light, which had made its way through a very dirty high-up little window, made its presence known to Mr Tarty, who blinked furiously, trying to take in the looming figure standing threateningly before him. His lordship did not quite carry his normal air and grace; this could be related to his deviated septum through his violent and abrupt introduction to blood-worst sausages.
“What are you talking about, you drivelling madman?” Mori Tarty pulled at his tight and unflinching bindings before looking widely around the dark, dank detritus-filled coal cellar and bellowing, “Why am I here? How dare you tie my hands behind my back. And where are my trousers and my expensive wallet that was in the pocket of my very expensive tailor-made trousers and was filled with 10, no 50, no 100 pounds? You terrible, terrible thieving hound!”
Lord Der Ärzte Looked down upon his captive. It was true that Mister Tarty was not wearing his trousers, but that had nothing to do with his lordship. It may have something to do with the fact that when Mr Tarty was bonked on the head, he was in the process of preparing himself to dress in his Master Butchers Society’s formal regalia, which consisted of a white apron, white puffy hat and white wellington boots. It was a society that his lordship had mentally decided he would never join. A cold breeze around his nether regions never sat well with him.
Taking a slight step to the right so that he could be properly seen in the gloomy light, his lordship glared at Mr Tarty. “I am not insane; I’m very cross. And when I become very cross, I get an upset stomach. And when I get an upset stomach, my bowel reacts. And when my bowel reacts, I get a windy bot, bot. And when I get a windy bot, bot, my mother gets upset. And when my mother gets upset,” Lord Der Ärzte took a deep and cleansing breath, “All hell breaks loose, and the shit really hits the fan. And so, you are here to calm my stomach before a chain of events beyond my control erupts!”
“How dare you, your lordship; you can't just drag a man out of his business and tie him up against his will. There will be retribution for your arrogant behaviour! The Master Butchers Society will hear of this, and when they do, they will ensure that you from henceforth get the worst cuts of meat for the rest of your miserable little life.”
The bindings were wriggled once more to no effect. With building fear and frustration, Mr Tarty stared with hatred searing through his brown eyes into his lordship's green orbs and spat, “I tell you, you stuck-up prig, the next time I see you, it'll be the last thing you see… well that and my swinging sausage!”
“I think not, Mori Tarty; this will be the first last and only meeting we have. You’re just not my kind of fellow. And furthermore, your sausages are hard!” Lord Der Artze straightened his blood-stained blue waistcoat, put both hands on either side of his nose and pushed until a nerve-wrenching crunch occurred. “Oh, thank the great goddess. I thought I’d have to walk around with a bent honker for the rest of my life. Mother said it made me look as if I were trying to sniff around a corner.” Angry green eyes glowed brightly behind bruising. “So, you can just be damn lucky that my National Geographic collection had decidedly clear photos and a step-by-step procedure on how to straighten broken noses. The bill, sir, for my next subscription to the said magazine, including the collector’s binder, will be sent directly to you!”
His lordship turned into the darkness to only abruptly reappear wheeling Banks Zimmer Frame in front of the seated and bound Mori Tarty, then his Lordship carefully slid the old Butler off his shoulder, ensuring the geriatric had both hands firmly placed on the frame’s handles before turning to face his foe.
“I have been raised to act as a gentleman in thought, word and deed. So, it pains me that I cannot actually put you in a bag and dump you in the river. That would be a bad thing to do. But it also pains me that you sent me poisonous mushrooms, which could have hurt my staff, and I will not have that in any way, shape or means. So you, Mr Tarty, are going to be taught a simple lesson.” His lordship lent in, so his now reddening nose almost touched Mr Tarty’s very own, “I am a deep believer in the FAFO approach to learning. It’s a very efficient style which brings the lesson home, rather sharply in this case, to transgressors.”
Leaning closely into the face of Mori Tarty, his Lordship growled, “The police gave me a cavity search after I went to them with your little parcel. They wanted to be sure I wasn’t hiding anything magical.”
“You’re a total nutter! I didn’t send you any packages. Why would I send you any packages ya jumped up toff! What the ‘ell is FAFO?”
Without warning, a little nick was scratched on the bound man’s face, slowly allowing one tiny spot of blood to ooze down his cheek. “Policemen have rough fingers! And, you silly little man, you wrote your name and address on the package, so” his lordship yelled, “it WAS you. And in regards to FAFO, … you're about to find out!”
“You’re insane, Der Ärzte, completely raving bonkers. I never sent you nuthin’. You've obviously mistaken me for another Tarty.” Mori Tarty raised himself to his full tied-up height, “You know, I heard rumours about you and your family. Your father's death was highly suspicious. Everyone talks about you, you know. No one likes you. Everyone thinks you’re an annoying twat who should have been rounded up with the rest of the nobbies and fed to the dragons when we had the chance.” Spital flew from the corner of the captive’s mouth and into the air around him.
Lord Der Ärzte stood to his full six-foot-three height and straightened his now very much marked blue waistcoat, assuring himself his golden tie pin still held his purple silk tie in place. “I am quite sure there are many rumours about myself and my family; I would expect to have them having such a long lineage in Bone Valley. And regarding my father's death, well, that's my business and not yours. I don't care if everybody talks about me; I am quite used to it. And frankly, I really don't care if the likes of you like me or not. I have a friend, and that's all I need.” His Lordship began bouncing up and down on his heels in a rapid succession. “But Mr Tarty, being a gentleman prevents me from telling you what I’d really like to say, so I’ll leave you with this to think upon.” His Lordship flipped two raised fingers towards his captive, turned on his heel and strode out of the cellar, locking the heavy iron-bolted door behind him.
Mr Tarty looked around the now empty coal cellar, his eyes finally resting upon the snoozing geriatric. The ridiculousness of his situation made him laugh quite hard; he shouted to the listening but hidden aristocrat, “Is that the worst you can do, ya, silly nob? You flip the bird and lock the door, leaving me with your old sultana butler. If I blew on ‘im, ‘e’d fall over ya pillock!” Mori Tarty sniggered into the dark cellar. “What a stupid…”
Unfortunately, that was as far as his boasting was able to go as Mr Tarty caught sight of two monstrous green glowing slits in the dark.
“ ‘Ere what tha’ hell is that?”
A low, quiet growl grew in the echoing cellar as the external door blot slid into place.
Banks was awake.
Truly awake.
His emerald green eyes glowed with hungered lust.
Lord Der Ärzte ignored the screams that snuck out from under the heavy door. “Good old Banks, you’ll be as fit as a Malley bull once you’re all filled up again.
“Harold, what is that terrible irksome noise?” Lady Der Ärzte bellowed down from the top of the stairs.
“Nothing, Mother, just feeding Banks.”
“Well, it’s about time. He was looking like a dried-out prune. It’s very wrong of you to let him go so long between good meals.”
“Yes, mother.”
I'm suitably impressed, even Holmes at his worse
never fed an enemy to his butler.