chapter one: a mysterious new arrival
The rough-and-tumble drunks of the RAF looked up from their sweaty beers, warming in the fierce midday heat. Haze wobbled above the cracked pavement of the makeshift Dum Dum airfield like a crowd of shambling foreigners around the delicate bosom of an englishwoman. The levanthine rumbling of the just landed mail plane from bangalore rode across the waves of heat towards them, as a gallant figure, blonde hair flashing from under his goggles, leapt from the cargo door and commenced a brisk walk toward them. It was as if the foreign air, cowed by his magnificent blonde hair, was pushed back from the plane, rolling away from the majesty of the Royal Air Force: a magnificent sight, wholly lost on the burnished savages and slackjawed lower classes who maintained the airstrip in the name of her majesty.
"I say, isn't that bally Johnson Piewater from bigade?" Asked the major, squinting. A pomegranite of a nose erupted from the ruddiest of jolly features, his monocle dropping from his right eye with scarce concealed puzzlement. Through a gin haze, his eyes reached top to bottom, attempting to identify the figure: like a wayward cueball in the lounge of some gibraltar cruise vessel, they rolled lazily about threatening, yet never achieving, rational contact. The years of rough bumming in the browner quarters of delhi had taken their toll on his faculties, and he gave up, raising an arm to indicate that one of the men should finish his supposition for him, in a palsied malarial flail.
"gor blimey," said one of the enlisted men, hands and face smeared with grease from the object of his labour, a smith billington repeating rifle clip which he was busily cleaning. "lawks a mercy god save the queen, it's captain bigglesworth, sir", spitting on the ground in the uncouth manner of the lower orders. He dropped the cleaned clip onto a pile, and raised another, almost automatically. Biggles appraised his working class efficiency with a swift, approving glance, noting that if sundry events had to be noted, here was a man for the task.
"Of course it is!" ejaculated the major, smoothing his stained fatigues as the ironed figure of the captain approached, hand forward. Refusing the informal greeting, the major snapped off a salute; "Major Porcupine Larley-Whittingstal", he barked.
Casually returning the salute, casting an eye over the cards and glasses of the mens makeshift drinking table, Biggles took the scene in at a glance: "Captain James Bigglesworth, transferring from RAF heartley heath, sir" After a pause, he judged it safe to add "any bally chance I can join your table, and leave embarkation papers till morning, sir? It's been an absolute forced sodomy of a flight from Delhi, and the journey beforehand wasn't exactly the soft thighs of Boudicea either"
The enlisted men chuckled at the frivolity of Biggles' reply, as ever amused in the manner of the street classes by mention of lady's thighs and bumming. The major raised a slight grin and spastically indicated toward the chair wallah, "I'm sure one of these dervish black bastards can bring you a chair captain, at which point seating yourself here in this bally heat is really your only option. Damn embarkation forms burned with the rest of the documentation on the base last month. Natives, don't you know. Fascination with fire, rum thing. Have a gin, here."
Biggles grasped the oily glass and wiped the rim, wary of the dread plagues that passed by drinking water in the colonies: malaria, typhus, communism, egalitarianism, and the scourge of the forces - heterosexuality. With a politely suppressed shudder, he downed the gin with nary a grimace. The news of natives and fire met with his fierce disapproval, and he knotted his brows thoughtfully: these two things always spelled trouble.
It was at that point he spied the hollowed, greasy eyes of a native, glowering at him from the shade of the nearest nissen hut, shamelessly meeting his gaze as if an equal, stooping like some preternatural monkeybeast in the shade of the clean british lines of the hut, like some symbol of colonial mutiny. He gripped the handle of his pistol, and with his cricket arm deftly spun the glass toward the native's head. Quick enough to dodge the spinning glass as it glinted across its swift arc, the native was entirely unprepared for the heavy round from Biggles pistol; he dropped lifeless to the floor, arms twitching as he danced whatever dervish dance his gods decreed to the side of his ancestors.
"Dirty little bastards", Biggles ejaculated, heroically striding swiftly across to land a skilful kick to the still-bleeding skull of the thugee fiend. "think they're bloody people". The major handed him another glass, this one filled with warm beer and not a few fly carcasses.
"calm, old bean - we're not in a position to spare the labour don't y'know" volunteered the major. "not like it used to be, these days there's entirely a fuss every time you land a bullet on one of the blighters. Next it'll be Ireland all over again, except with worse booze, don't y'know"
Biggles spat thoughtfully in the dead native's eye. It never ceased to incense him how, as the empire aged, the murder of its subjects became more and more of an issue, blurring the lines between englishman and naked dancing savage. At least out here in the tropical heat there was a degree of leeway; his last post had seen him escape court martial by the bloodstained seat of his pants, after a night of high spirits had led to the death of not a few native boys. Once dismissed as harmless, it had been made all too apparent that Her Majesty's displeasure now attended the rape of each and every boy in the empire. This seemed beyond unfair to the brave Captain, who had in his time dispatched enough native youths by the route of rough sexual proceedings to line both sides of the shining thames. It was as if Her Majesty was witholding an agreed bonus in his salary, and he felt unfairly chastened. Thus he had applied for transfer to bangalore, with an eye not just for the local boys, but an ear also for the legends of the golden monkey of bangalore. Absent mindedly, he wondered to himself if he could have his way with a statue: he had never tried.
Returning from his imaginings just in time to aim a distracted kick at the chair wallah, he seated himself. Conveniently this placed him beside the dead native, and as the chair wallah struggled to lift him, Biggles squinted one eye and caught him in the ribs with a well aimed kick. The major, letting a grunt of laughter, joined in the kicking, and as their merry giggles floated out of the heavy air, the bloodied chair wallah dragged his filthy countryman toward the latrine.
"So!", said Biggles, exhaling with satisfaction, "What in the blue blazes is this I hear about a bally golden monkey?"
"I say, isn't that bally Johnson Piewater from bigade?" Asked the major, squinting. A pomegranite of a nose erupted from the ruddiest of jolly features, his monocle dropping from his right eye with scarce concealed puzzlement. Through a gin haze, his eyes reached top to bottom, attempting to identify the figure: like a wayward cueball in the lounge of some gibraltar cruise vessel, they rolled lazily about threatening, yet never achieving, rational contact. The years of rough bumming in the browner quarters of delhi had taken their toll on his faculties, and he gave up, raising an arm to indicate that one of the men should finish his supposition for him, in a palsied malarial flail.
"gor blimey," said one of the enlisted men, hands and face smeared with grease from the object of his labour, a smith billington repeating rifle clip which he was busily cleaning. "lawks a mercy god save the queen, it's captain bigglesworth, sir", spitting on the ground in the uncouth manner of the lower orders. He dropped the cleaned clip onto a pile, and raised another, almost automatically. Biggles appraised his working class efficiency with a swift, approving glance, noting that if sundry events had to be noted, here was a man for the task.
"Of course it is!" ejaculated the major, smoothing his stained fatigues as the ironed figure of the captain approached, hand forward. Refusing the informal greeting, the major snapped off a salute; "Major Porcupine Larley-Whittingstal", he barked.
Casually returning the salute, casting an eye over the cards and glasses of the mens makeshift drinking table, Biggles took the scene in at a glance: "Captain James Bigglesworth, transferring from RAF heartley heath, sir" After a pause, he judged it safe to add "any bally chance I can join your table, and leave embarkation papers till morning, sir? It's been an absolute forced sodomy of a flight from Delhi, and the journey beforehand wasn't exactly the soft thighs of Boudicea either"
The enlisted men chuckled at the frivolity of Biggles' reply, as ever amused in the manner of the street classes by mention of lady's thighs and bumming. The major raised a slight grin and spastically indicated toward the chair wallah, "I'm sure one of these dervish black bastards can bring you a chair captain, at which point seating yourself here in this bally heat is really your only option. Damn embarkation forms burned with the rest of the documentation on the base last month. Natives, don't you know. Fascination with fire, rum thing. Have a gin, here."
Biggles grasped the oily glass and wiped the rim, wary of the dread plagues that passed by drinking water in the colonies: malaria, typhus, communism, egalitarianism, and the scourge of the forces - heterosexuality. With a politely suppressed shudder, he downed the gin with nary a grimace. The news of natives and fire met with his fierce disapproval, and he knotted his brows thoughtfully: these two things always spelled trouble.
It was at that point he spied the hollowed, greasy eyes of a native, glowering at him from the shade of the nearest nissen hut, shamelessly meeting his gaze as if an equal, stooping like some preternatural monkeybeast in the shade of the clean british lines of the hut, like some symbol of colonial mutiny. He gripped the handle of his pistol, and with his cricket arm deftly spun the glass toward the native's head. Quick enough to dodge the spinning glass as it glinted across its swift arc, the native was entirely unprepared for the heavy round from Biggles pistol; he dropped lifeless to the floor, arms twitching as he danced whatever dervish dance his gods decreed to the side of his ancestors.
"Dirty little bastards", Biggles ejaculated, heroically striding swiftly across to land a skilful kick to the still-bleeding skull of the thugee fiend. "think they're bloody people". The major handed him another glass, this one filled with warm beer and not a few fly carcasses.
"calm, old bean - we're not in a position to spare the labour don't y'know" volunteered the major. "not like it used to be, these days there's entirely a fuss every time you land a bullet on one of the blighters. Next it'll be Ireland all over again, except with worse booze, don't y'know"
Biggles spat thoughtfully in the dead native's eye. It never ceased to incense him how, as the empire aged, the murder of its subjects became more and more of an issue, blurring the lines between englishman and naked dancing savage. At least out here in the tropical heat there was a degree of leeway; his last post had seen him escape court martial by the bloodstained seat of his pants, after a night of high spirits had led to the death of not a few native boys. Once dismissed as harmless, it had been made all too apparent that Her Majesty's displeasure now attended the rape of each and every boy in the empire. This seemed beyond unfair to the brave Captain, who had in his time dispatched enough native youths by the route of rough sexual proceedings to line both sides of the shining thames. It was as if Her Majesty was witholding an agreed bonus in his salary, and he felt unfairly chastened. Thus he had applied for transfer to bangalore, with an eye not just for the local boys, but an ear also for the legends of the golden monkey of bangalore. Absent mindedly, he wondered to himself if he could have his way with a statue: he had never tried.
Returning from his imaginings just in time to aim a distracted kick at the chair wallah, he seated himself. Conveniently this placed him beside the dead native, and as the chair wallah struggled to lift him, Biggles squinted one eye and caught him in the ribs with a well aimed kick. The major, letting a grunt of laughter, joined in the kicking, and as their merry giggles floated out of the heavy air, the bloodied chair wallah dragged his filthy countryman toward the latrine.
"So!", said Biggles, exhaling with satisfaction, "What in the blue blazes is this I hear about a bally golden monkey?"
posted by fragilehooligan at 1:18 PM
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