Two Characters fire the Author - with dire results

Albert Ponceville de Twoot strode into the drawing room with a fevered expression.
“What’s happening? What's all this noise about?” He queried, feverishly (thus proving beyond all doubt that my recent description of the expression with which he just previously strode into the drawing room may justifiably be described as 'fevered'.)
Magnus, who had been playing his new tuba (I say ‘playing’ but maybe I should have been more precise and said 'doing impressions of an enraged cow') looked up.
“Oh sorry Alby, did I disturb you? I was just testing out the new new arrival.” and he patted the shiny brass intrument with pride.
Albert thoughtfully lit up an Egyptian cheroot before he spoke.
“Look Maggie this cannot go on. Every week you buy a different musical, and I use the term loosely, instrument, and each time it gets noisier.”
“But I’m a musician,” complained Magnus “surely I must be allowed to ply my trade?”
“Magnus!" Interrupted Albert angrily. “Please don’t force me to mention the …you know what.”
There was a tense silence, this was a particularly sore point with Magnus.
The previous week he had bought a new set of bagpipes, well new for him, they were admittedly second-hand but in excellent condition having been used only once before and then having been immediately sold on e-bay the next day by a newly married wife who had stated firmly that it was either her or the bagpipes but that one of them was definitely leaving.
Magnus had bought them for a song and on their arrival had perpetrated such a series of ghastly sounds that cook had run home in tears to her mother, two of the otter hounds had attacked a gardener and Miss Niff the Governess had gone into hysterics, crying “Thank goodness they don’t smell as well.”
The only positive result had been the miraculous healing of the deaf ear of Bitmop, the under-footman.
“It’s a miracle” he shouted euphorically “I can hear again.”
But after several more hours of the relentless din he had run screaming up to his room demanding earplugs and a bonus.
“I will never forgive you for what you did,” cried Magnus emotionally “It was just a poor innocent instrument and you…” his voice faltered.
“Oh for goodness' sake! I did what any sensible person would have done under the circs.” Retorted Albert crossly yet not without a twinge of guilt. “The whole household was falling to pieces, I had to act quickly.”
“Yes but… a shot gun,” blurted Magnus “couldn’t you have thrown it in the lake or given it sleeping pills? You could have done it humanely.” he was near to tears.
All at once Albert felt an enormous feeling of irritation at being in this ridiculous story and asked me to remove him without further ado, which of course I did, because I always obey my characters.

*****************

Albert’s place has now been taken by a Lapplander called Scroln Scrolnsson who speaks no English. We will see how he fares, but personally I fear the worst.
“Fworpdottir tul nip dupersnagsson?” Exclaimed Scroln angrily shoving a dead walrus under Magnus’s nose.
“Who the hell are you ?” screamed Magnus jumping back in shock, “and what’s happened to Albert?”
“Glorter skol dorttir crernsson.” Retorted the Lapplander, brandishing a harpoon in emphasis.
“I’m sorry but I cannot understand a word you’re saying,” Magnus was almost hysterical. “Hello Author? A minute ago I was in an English stately home talking to my best friend Albert and now I’m standing shivering in a sodding snowstorm somewhere near the North Pole trying to make sense of the maunderings of some Scandinavian imbecile as he brandishes a defunct mammal under my nose. Don’t you understand that Authors must have at least some semblance of responsibility towards their characters? ”
Magnus was almost crying in frustration. “And another thing, please stop writing things like: ‘Magnus was almost crying in frustration.’ People will think I’m an absolute wimp. I never bloody cry, I can’t, my tear ducts were stolen by an organ thief when I went into hospital to have my tonsils out. Oh for god’s sake that’s not true either.”
“Hoerner hoernersson!” Yelled Scroln Scrolnsson abruptly.
“Okay, that’s it. I’m out of here.” Shouted Magnus now exasperated to the point of madness by the irksome Lapp. “The whole thing’s become a bloody shambles. I’m sorry but I have no choice but to also depart from this narrative post haste. And you can take my name off the credits too.”

*****************

Dear Reader I’m really sorry about this. I had no idea he’d be so sensitive.
Well that’s the end I suppose, I was hoping for a happier denouement.
You see, I can now reveal the secret, Scroln Scrolnsson is an eccentric multi-millionaire philanthropist who is just about to die and has decided that he will leave his immense wealth to the last person he sees before his demise and now there’s no-one left so he has no idea what to do with his bulging fortunes. Oh well.

“Hello? Er it’s me again.” It was Albert. “I was thinking that maybe I acted a little hastily a while ago, so I’ve come back.”
“Oh no, you don’t,” It was Magnus who had magically reappeared as well.
“I left last so that gives me first claim to the money. Fuck off or I’ll buy a suzaphone and play it outside your bedroom door.”
But it was too late, Scroln was already dead and his immense fortune, instead of coming to Albert and Magnus as I had hoped, went to Bitmop the under Footman who by mere chance happened to arrive at the North Pole at exactly the moment of Scroln’s demise.
Bitmop promptly blew a raspbery in the general direction of Albert and Magnus, gave in his notice, married Dora the parlour maid and bought the huge mansion which had been in Albert’s family for hundreds if not thousands of years, but which, by a clever lawyer’s trick, now belonged to Bitmop. Albert was given one day to pack up and had to move into a hut in the grounds until he found a place. As for his good friend Magnus things went from bad to….
“You bastard!” Screamed Magnus. “I demand a second opinion! You can’t just destroy my life like that, I was just about to be hired by the London Symphony Orchestra and now my life is in ruins.”
Okay Magnus, now I can reveal all and show you what a cruel fate I have just saved you from. You would have joined the LSO and in your first concert would have sat in the back row playing a b flat on your tuba.
BUT and I capitalize the ‘but’ deliberately because:
1. I can do anything I like as I am the author and I have Godlike powers and
2. Because it’s a necessary piece of punctuation to help emphazise the dire future which would have been yours had I not intervened in my timely, nay saintly, way.
I am Authorus ex Machina and don’t you forget it.

You see Magnus, and now the terrible truth can be told, had you played that fateful b flat that night at the proms, it would have been the signal for a terrorist attack of enormous proportions. The arch villain, a lapsed Muslim from Solihull, by the name of Mustapha Krap, would have told his waiting hench-persons ( yes some of them were indeed female, probably lesbians too, if they wanted to enjoy any of the 70 moustached virgins waiting for them, up there, I mean, get real, who is still a virgin at that age who doesn’t look like the back end of a very fat, unshaven bus?) that they will explode the entire city of London when they hear the Tuba play it’s ominous b flat. And you, Albert, would have died in the concomitant rubble. So get stuffed Albie, my little fictitious twitty friend and learn to trust your author.

*****************

Stern Warning to all Author’s Characters who get uppity
“Toe the line you stupid jerks, remember that you are but figments of my imagination and I can do anything with you that I please, heh heh heh!”
And as the sun sets slowly in the East we leave snowy Lapland with the haunting echoes of the author’s fiendish laughter fading gently on the breeze.

Queen Victoria's Secret Life

“ ‘LADY HYACINTH TRENCH'S DIARIES’

14th August 1884. This morning was summoned to the Royal Gym. Queen Victoria, having just terminated her daily weight training was swinging on the trapeze doing her “You Tarzan We Jane” imitation.
"Hyacinth, it's time you and us painted the town red.”
We were to meet that evening in Her Majesty's appartments in time to have a couple of beers and don suitable disguises.
Later that night, in a thick London Pea Souper Fog, two navvies might have been seen slinking out of one of the innumerable side entrances of Buckingham Palace. The fog was extremely dense and only after her Majesty had hailed a sentry box, several shrubs and a cottage did she finally manage to secure a Hansome Cab.
"King's Arms, Cheapside and make it brisk." She snapped as she swung lithely into the interior pulling me in after her with one tug of her huge arms.
"Well, Hyers, here we all are again."
The Royal ‘We’ plus me making at least three.
"Yes King's Arms. Only Pub in London that serves Pluggers Wallop! Best beer in the world. The lot of us might see a little action tonight."
Whenever the Queen was excited the Royal ‘We’ became more and more numerous.
“The crowd of us should be there shortly.” She expertly cracked a brazil nut in her bicep, a sure sign of imminent fireworks.
Ahead the glow of a well lit Public House could dimly be discerned through the ochre miasma.
The Queen sprang nimbly to the pavement with a lithe back-somersault and arm in arm the throng of us entered the packed public house.
Leading me in her wake, Her Majesty shouldered her way through the villainous assemblage crowding the noisy room until we arrived at the bar.

In as many minutes she had chugged nine or ten pints of Pluggers Wallop and was loudly arguing with a group of dockers about the sport of "Spitting." It seemed that in their midst was the local champion, a large personage named Bert. His claims seemed preposterous and Her Majesty determined to put him to the test.
So, there and then, it was decided to hold an impromptu competition, the Queen challenging the champion, the contest to take place immediately in the crowded snug. Everyone promptly ran for cover and those that could not find shelter covered their pints with hats, beer mats or religious tracts (these last being in plentiful supply as the Salvation Army had just passed by.)
I knew that Her Majesty was not only an Olympic Class Spitter, but was also a renowned Hawking Blue as well as a proven Long Distance Snail Drowner, furthermore she was capable of extinguishing fifteen candles in the Ten Yard splutter.
However I did not fancy the face of the Champion. His huge cheeks indicated vast powers of propulsion, while his immense chest suggested a tremendous thrust of wind. And, with eyes crossed, that long thin nose could be a devastatingly accurate sighting device. Certainly a by no means insignificant opponent.
The match was to be ‘Bell Playing’, the most difficult of all the spitting competitions! The Expectoraters were to perform a piece of music by spitting at a row of bells. Each competitor was allowed five minutes in all to compete. In this time he had to dry his tongue in front of the fire (to prevent ‘spit stashing’, a common deceit), then gather enough fresh saliva to last him through the tune and also, of course, to play it.
The Landlord was voted Judge. He would be giving points for accuracy and musical feeling and penalties for wrong notes and dribbling.
This particular competition was to be ‘Call the Tune’.
The competitor would only be given the title of his piece of music as he stepped to the line, and woe betide him if he did not know it.
The Champion drew the short straw and amidst much cheering from his mates and massaging of his salivary glands from anxious seconds, walked confidently to the mark.
The Landlord gave instructions: “Right Gentlmen, remember, no slavering, slobbering or slurping. No hawkers or circulars. Spit straight and may the best man win!”
Bert let his tongue hang out by the fire for some seconds until it began to steam and then proffered it for inspection by the judge.
"Good'n dry!" Came the time honoured verdict. “Right Bert, your tune is ‘The Merry Widow Waltz.’”
Bert frowned for an instant, then his brow cleared and he gave a thunderous laugh.
"Oi knows it begod! Ha ha!" and without further ado he commenced salivating as hard as he could. The hushed throng could hear the rush of liquid surging around his teeth. Soon he was ready and what a performance!
Note perfect, a good firm waltz rythm, the playing was simply virtuoso!
The accurately shot globules hissed through the air in perfect concatenation, zinging into each bell with Maestro-like technique. The audience was enthralled, ignoring the fine mist that was gently vapourising over them. One final, masterly crescendo and then - uproar!
"Bravo!!" There was a huge roar of applause. The crowd was on it's feet, never had they heard such spittiffication.
But then a voice accustomed to being heard pierced the hubbub.
"My turn I believe?"

The Queen, completely unconcerned, was already drying her tongue before the fire. The cheering died down, bets were placed. Bert was now firm favourite. After that brilliant tour de spit I am ashamed to say that even I held out little hope for Her Majesty's chances. The Landlord peered at the Royal Tongue.
“Good'n dry!" and he repeated his previous admonitions to the Challenger. Then came the tune: "Rather fitting, yours, Handel's Water Music!" A shout of laughter went up. My heart sank, Classical Music had never been her Majesty's strong point. The Queen was stony faced. I was nervously searching for an emergency exit when she suddenly gave a contemptuous snort.
"Morceau de gateau," she muttered and began trying to salivate. But what was this? Was she in trouble? Oh fiendish ploy!! One of Bert's seconds was standing beside her eating a lemon! It was a catastrophe! The Sovereign's lips were puckering up. They were being helplessly sucked by vaccuum into the arid mouth! No spit, no contest! Her eyes were desperate, the tip of the regal nose was turning white and buckling under the relentless pressure! Suddenly I had an idea! I rushed over to the supper counter and picking up a leg of mutton waved it excitedly in the air! "Your Maj...blast, Fred, look!"
She looked about her, drawn and haggard. But when her demoralised eyes saw the gesticulating viande they lit up with joy! In quick succession I exhibited smoked herrings, veal chops, a smoked salmon, a good black ham and a large ripe stilton. And then, oh happy sound! From across the crowded room could be heard the sudden flood of released saliva surging across the Imperial Molars! A roast goose, a venison pasty and a jar of pickled lampreys and the job was done!
Her eyes were gleaming now, her salivation like the great rush of the English Channel at full tide.
"Objection!" "Foul!" Bert and his supporters roared in anger.
"No showing food! Vat Bloke vas cheating. Unfair! No vittle flaunting!"
There was a surly hum of agreement while the Landlord considered the protest. Then he delivered his verdict.
"Vere's nuffink in va bleeding rules abaht it, Bert, so belt up!"
And to Queen Victoria, Empress of all the Indias, he shouted: "Right mate, spit on."
A silence fell over the assembled throng as the Queen stepped up to the starting line. Then the miracle happened! Not only did she expectorate superbly, striking each bell with superb assurance but …was it possible? She was playing chords! Yes, indeed, twin, triple and even quadruple gobs were simultaneously striking their targets with eerie magic. Could it be? Was it possible? Now she was hurling spinners! They were curving through the air pinging their targets with devastating accuracy then ricochetting onto an adjacent bell! Never before had the mob heard anything so beautiful. Indeed, throughout the packed room a suspicious moisture was creeping into the eyes of even the most hardened spectators and even some tears as well.
The end was spectacular. Five oblate spheroids of gyrating spittle struck a penultimate chord then rebounded fantastically to perform the final majestic harmony! The five bells rang mellifluously, sonorating throughout the hushed room. Then the ultimate touch of genius: a soft ptui! and a fine spume floated through the air to mute and finally silence the exhilarating carillons!
There was an awed hush for some moments and then suddenly a great cry erupted from the throats of the hardened spittophiles.
In the ensuing bedlam the crowd was enthusiastically banging the bar with beer mugs, fists, wives, whatever was in reach.
The Landlord lifted the Queen's arm and yelled into the pandemonium: “The Winner!"
Queen Victoria, radiant in her moment of victory, acknowledged the plaudits of the crowd with becoming humility.
"Thank-you, you are so kind. Sorry about the arpeggios, lost my lip for a moment."
The only person who seemed unimpressed was Bert, who sat alone scowling in a corner. "Come on Bert," called the landlord, "ain't you going to congratulate the winner?"
"Yes, go on Bert, be a sport." Urged his friends.
"Winner be blowed," came the surly answer. "That weren't proper spitting, just bloody tricks!"
I felt her Majesty tense, the blood rushed to her cheeks and then it happened. One minute Bert was wearing an old top hat and the next minute he wasn't! The Queen had hawked a splasher and knocked it off! A hoarse yell of rage and then turmoil! Everyone was hitting out, right, left and centre. Luckily I was able to vault over the counter out of harm's way and managed to get a safe view of the subsequent events. Queen Victoria of course was in her element, punching, gouging, biting, sometimes boxing, sometimes deploying Savatte, the French sport of foot boxing also known as kicking, sometimes throwing an opponent with a judo technique, or using Ugg Lee the Chinese Martial Art of pulling frightening faces. Soon she had fought her way through the throng and was just about to throw Bert through a window when an extraordinary scream pierced the tumult! The combatants froze in shock. Onto the bar had leapt a hunchback! His eyes flashing, his lips writhing, his long simian arms flailing like a manic windmill. The fighting stopped dead. There was total silence. All eyes were fastened on the capering cripple. Suddenly from his foam flecked mouth came the ghastly cry: "The Bells! The Bells!"
And snatching up the spittle spattered set he said:
"I had a hunch this would happen. Sorry dears but they cost an absolute FORTUNE!"
And clutching the bells the bent campanologist minced proudly out.”