Part ~ 2
Lord Bad Egg and the Kava
Karve Up
By
Ivor Hughes
"How often is the image of the good
shepherd held up before us as the epitome of gentle and kind ? And in his
other persona as the vigilant and courageous protector of the flock, from
the predators of the dark.
How often do I forget? that its only mutton and lamb on the hoof as it were.
All to be slaughtered and eaten. Perhaps the shepherd and his dog are not so
benign after all ?
Lord Chief Justice Lord R.U.A. Bad Egg
KC VD and scar came to a horrified halt, damn ! I am playing the wrong tape
..... He stood high in the oratory overlooking the Norman nave. In serried
ranks the dark oak pews retreated to the dusk at the end of the nave. The
Abbey was full. 4 thousand pairs of eyes, firing 8000 poison darts and
arrows.
Bad Egg flinched before the psychic onslaught, but was literally saved by
the bell. His cell phone rang. "Bad Egg here" .... A disembodied voice was
saying ... this is a recording, 'Your annual subscription to Erotica Mania
Weekly is due to expire'.. Bad Egg drew breath, and facing the entire Abbey,
said in a loud voice " What's that you say .. the King is seriously ill ?
Tell his Britannic Majesty that I shall be at his esteemed Majesties bedside
in a brace of shakes, if not sooner."
Arms raised in benediction, Bad Egg faced the congregation. "Dearly Beloved.
We are gathered here today, to rend our clothes from us, and to don
sackcloth, and to anoint our heads with ashes. For the Patron and Defender
of our faith is a deaths door. As his Britannic Majesties oldest and dearest
friend, it is fitting that I should be with him as he passes over to the
Right Hand of God.
The organ boomed the opening chords of the National Anthem. As a body the
congregation rose, and with barely concealed emotion, thundered out the
rallying call to the flag. 'God Save Our Gracious King', that call to
the pathetic that works every time. Bad Egg stood to attention, clenched
right hand, upon his heart. "Blithering Idiots" he was heard to mutter.
A scant 2 hours later, Bad Eggs Bentley Corniche, purred past the machine
gun nests and gun emplacements that lined the grand drive of Pharmageddon
Castle. The Bad Egg Seat since 1066AD. Hastings and all that rot.
The snow scrunched under the wheels as the Bentley slowed to a halt before
the grand entrance. Fotheringay held the rear door open as Bad Egg
alighted. The assembled 120 staff stood shivering, as they had done for the
past 2 hours. Clad only in their threadbare summer clothes and worn tennis
shoes. Bad Egg looked at their running noses in disgust. "Back to your
kennels you sniveling curs", he barked, the whimpering peasantry, scuttled
tail between legs for cover.
Ensconced in the library with log fire roaring and crackling. Bad Egg
replaced his chased silver pill box into a waistcoat pocket, popped the
6x500 mg Black Bombers and rinsed them back with two good gulps of Marks and
Spencers Vintage Port. Fotheringay stood like a motionless ghostly
penguin, salver under arm, but with the alert attitude of a good gun dog.
Bad Egg 'harrumphed ! "Righty Ho Fotheringay, listen in very carefully.
Phone the Parliamentary Under Secretary for Health 'Lord Snowjob. Tell him
to pick up the The Secretary of Health, The Rt Hon Wata Bumlicker MP. and
get their unsavoury bodies over here, toot sweet !" Bad Egg spoke French in
the same way that Maurice Chevalier spoke English. "Bloody Froggies" he
muttered. "Oh and tell them to bring along General Lord Montsnoggery of
Benghazi Red Light District."
30 minutes later to the second, the phalanx of radar controlled, ground to
air nuclear missiles, mounted on the East Tower, swung in a menacing manner,
to meet the sound of the incoming helicopter. On receiving the recognition
signal the phalanx went flaccid. The black helicopter with its silver toten
kopf insignia made a neat 3 point landing on the croquet green outside the
library window.
Bad Egg viewed his visitors with distaste. "Righty Ho Fotheringay, a 3 litre
cask of Chateau Cardboard for Montsnoggery. Marks and Spencers Vintage Port
for Snowjob and a beer shandy for Bumlicker and a fresh bottle of brandy for
me. Ok faster than you would like, Go !" Drinks delivered, Fotheringay
retired to the outside keyhole of the library door.
"Blithering hell Montsnoggery ... take that stupid beret off, you look like
a froggie onion seller. With a glare" Bad Egg continued, "after the Saint
Judes Orphanage balls up, I had the US Gen Nuke Rubyridge transferred to the
Persian Gulf. Therefore you will fill his place in the Defence of the Realm.
I want an English Brigade in Ireland, an Irish Brigade in England, a Welsh
Brigade in Scotland and a Scottish Brigade in Wales. That should keep the
blighters at each others throats, and take the pong away from us."
"Your task Snowjob, assisted by Bumlicker, is to load the CMA (Committee on
Safety of Medicines) with Pharmaceutical Company sympathizers. That should
be easy, 99% of those PhD,s have already accepted the Pigeon Masters
beneficence." Bad Egg, when using the term 'PhD' used that tone of voice
that one uses to describe the smell of effluent on a new settling pond.
"This one, is a top share price Commercial Coup, it is worth billions of US$
Crinklies. Its 'Kava Kava' " Bad Egg spoke as though he were short of breath, "As you
know, the filthy unwashed masses have rumbled the Old Bailey wheeze. So this
time the CMA must exercise those powers that we suborned Parliment into
vesting in them".
"I say Roger old bean. "spluttered Snowjob, "what about the evidence ?" Bad
Egg looked at Snowjob as one would look at the sole of ones shoe, covered in
Corgi dog turd. "Evidence!"
barked Bad Egg, "Evidence!
? you groveling little bum job, do what we
always do !" ("Bally Blithering idiot" muttered Bad Egg) "Manufacture
some shonky evidence." Snowjob puckered his nose, stuck out his lower lip,
and retreated into a sulky silence.
"Me L'ud," ventured Bumlicker, "we will have to produce some deaths to make
it all look Pukka Sahib." "Precisely!" barked Bad Egg ... "drag the chain on this one, and your
name is first on the list." Bumlicker was suddenly overcome with a classic
case of watery guts. "Fotheringay !"
Bad Egg bellowed, "take your bally ear off that
keyhole, and bring some fresh trousers for Bumlicker."
