Sense and Prejudicability

I now present the last page of my period drama ‘Sense and Prejudicability’. First published in 1992, my agent Diane begged me to remove ‘Prejudicability’ from the title, on account of it not being a word. I told her that if she gave me any more lip, I’d replace ‘Sense’ with ‘Gumptionality’. Check mate. Enjoy!





SENSE AND PREJUDICABILITY


By

Flann O’Coonassa



Page 548 of 548

…and though your proposal is kind and genteel in nature, Mr Dashley, I must regretfully decline sir. I do treasure the friendship we have forged this summer, and beg you that our correspondence might continue in a cordial vein, upon your return to London tomorrow morn,” said Lady Chastly.
“Why you Goddamned Mickey-teasing slut-faced bitch,” replied Mr Dashley.
“Mr Dashley!” gasped Lady Chastly.
“Ah, cut the shite. Three months I’ve been minding my ‘P’s and ‘Q’s, playing the society game, bending over backwards trying to get into your knickers. And for what? Not so much as a blowjob. You frigid oul’ bag, you. I’m absolutely gutted.”
“Mr Dashley, I must insist you curb your tongue, sir,” said Lady Chastly sternly.

Mr Dashley removed his gentleman’s wig and threw it in the fire. He then loosened his belt and let a slow, lingering fart that stunk the air green and unsettled the servants.

“That….is….heaven,” said Mr Dashley blissfully. “I haven’t been able to do that for three Goddamned months.”
“Sir, this will not do,” implored Lady Chastly, close to tears.

The butler entered the drawing room.

“May I present the Countess Meddlesworth,” announced the butler drily.
“Sir, you look dishevelled. What is the meaning of this?” she inquired.
“Don’t start with me, you big, fat, meddling oul fossil,” replied Mr Dashley.
“He’s gone quite mad,” replied Lady Chastly, running to her aunt’s side.
“Three months,” said Mr Dashley. “Three months I spent poncing around this dump, courting this wench. All because you suggested she was gamey.”

Countess Meddlesworth moved gracefully to Mr Dashley, removed a glove from her purse, and slapped him lightly across the face with it.

“Remember yourself, sir,” she scolded.
“Do that again, and I’ll take that glove out into the garden, fill it with rocks, come back in and beat you to death with it.”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me. To death.”

Unbeknownst to Mr Dashley, his words were heard by Baron Von Pinklesforth, standing just inside the door.

“What is the meaning of this sir? These threats will simply not do,” said Von Pinklesforth.
“Put a sock in it Von Pinkesforth, or so help me, I’ll flip you over and stick it in you. My balls are about to explode, and I’m in the red. I’m warning all of you, someone’s getting it tonight.”

Von Pinklesforth gulped visibly, and retreated several paces until his anus was secured against the nearest wall. Mr Dashley took a bottle of port from the mantelpiece and gulped from it, pausing occasionally to belch wildly.

“Three months…,” he occasionally repeated between swigs, as his three companions looked on in frozen terror.

Now drunk, Mr Dashley began to disrobe. First his pantaloons. Next his waist jacket, breeches and girdle. Soon he was stark-bollock naked.

“Sir, I beg of you,” said a teary Lady Chastly, “if not for my sake, please consider the good Countess Meddlesworth. Please return your member to its holdings.”
“No deal, Chastly. Dashley Junior is out of the cage, and he ain’t going back in till someone gives him a good oul’ tug.”

With that, Countess Meddlesworth fainted. Upon seeing her head collide with the billiards table, Mr Dashley burst into a laughter that spewed a cocktail of snots and bourbon from his nostrils.

“Fuckin, right off the side of the billiards table,” he laughed, before himself collapsing into a drunken stupor on the floor.

When Mr Dashley awoke the next morning, he found himself alone. At first, he had no memory of the previous night’s doings. Moments later, to his horror, he found that he was lying in a cake of his own defecation.

“This won’t do,” said Mr Dashley, his manners finally restored. He selected a pistol from a case in the writing desk drawer, placed the barrel in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

THE END

Old Rants

Rant by www.rant.ie is licensed under a Creative Commons License. Copyright © 2009 Flann O'Coonassa