"THIS is most irregular," said Quilliam Senior as he gingerly lowered his big, heavy metallic frame into a large, reinforced chair, accompanied by a symphony of hisses and whirrs. "I really only see people with an appointment, you see."
"I hardly think THAT is the most irregular thing right now," I retorted. "What in the name of mechanised maleficence are you doing in that unsightly armour?"
"Oh, this old thing?" said Quilliam Senior, as if he had just thrown on a casual suit. "Well, I am not getting any younger, you know. I am ninety seven, and this suit of steel and steam is very much helping to keep me alive. It allows me to remain mobile, and within this chestpiece is a system of pistons which aids my heart in the business of beating. It is quite amazing what technology can do these days, don't you think?"
That was emphatically not what I thought, but UI reasoned that I should keep the old fool on my side, and return to the business at hand.
"It is certainly... something," I said, diplomatically. "Anyway, may we return to the business at hand? I should like you to consider my diaries for publication!"
"I suppose you are here now, your lordship. Let me have a look, then," said Quilliam Senior.
I clicked my fingers at Botcher, who looked at me sullenly and clicked his fingers back at me.
"What is with all this?" he asked, continuing the clicking. "I'm not a dog!"
Worrying that my belligerent man-servant could cock up this entire meeting, I smiled at him and said through gritted teeth, "Please could you pass me one of my diaries, Botcher?"
"Certainly my lord," Botcher grinned as he retrieved a volume from the chest. "There you go. Happy to serve!"
"Much obliged," I said, retaining my rictus grin, until the cove placed the book in my hand, at which point I leant in to him and hissed under my breath, "You will pay for this, Botcher!"
"Yeah, good luck with that, mate," Botcher whispered back. I snated the book from his filthy mitts and spun round to face Quilliam Senior, a broad smile plastered upon my face.
"Here you are! I think you'll find that these are simply sensational reads. I have lived quite the life, full of wonder, romance and splendour!"
"I see, I see," said Quilliam Senior, as his mechanical arm took the book from me. He opened it up and started reading aloud. "May the Fifteenth, 1882. Thrilled to say that my exercise regime has paid off handsomely, and I am now supple enough to bring the tip of my tumescent tallywhacker up against my moustache. If I close my eyes, it is like brushing the tip against the well-maintained lady garden of an elegant woman."
Quilliam Senior tossed the book upon a table beside him. "I cannot publish this! It is utter filth! We are a reputable company, with a history of quality publishing behind us. If we put our name to this... this SEWAGE we would be ruined in an instant!"
I was taken aback. "But.. but.."
"I am sorry, your lordship, but that is my final say. Quilliam & Son is on an upward trajectory at the moment, busier than ever, more prestigious than ever. I shall not have it jeopardised by printing such puerile drivel."
"Um.. father," Quilliam Junior interjected, consulting a clipboard. "Your appointment with Artemis Wode is due to take place now..."
"Now there is a fellow who can write! Artemis is a hugely admired author and he has chosen us to publish his last novel, a sweeping romance set during the Reformation. THAT is the kind of critically acclaimed work we seek to distribue, not the pornography you have sullied my eyeballs with today."
By this point, I was quivering with rage. "You.. you DODDERY OLD FART!" I raged. "You PRETENTIOUS STEAM-POWERED SNOB! You would not know great literature if it came up and kicked you square in the balls, you crusty cocksmear!"
Quilliam Senior rose to his big, metallic feet and with a hiss and the grinding of gears, he advanced towards me.
"If that is all, then I am afraid I shall have to ask you to leave," he said.
****
BOTCHER AND I found ourselves being unceremoniously hurled from the front doors of Quilliam & Son's by Quilliam himself, who tossed us outside as if we were sacks of rubbish.
"And stay out!" Quilliam Senior snapped, rubbing his oversized hands together. "Take your salacious sleaze to the penny dreadfuls, where they belong!" With that he turned, and stomped off in a cloud of steam.
"Well, bollocks," I sighed, once again finding myself looking up at the smog-filled skies of London.
"I've got to say, boss," Botcher said, hitching himself up to his elbows beside me. "That rant you gave the old prick was probably the most inspiring thing I have ever heard you say. There might be hope for you yet!"
I drew a silver-plated cigarette case out of my jacket pocket, and extracted a cigarette from within. I lit it and watched as the smoke rose up, to join the smoke belched out into the sky by the city's factories. Too much filth. Not enough filth.
"So what's your plan now, boss?" Botcher said, getting to his feet.
I drew on the cigarette, deep in thought. "You heard the man," I said, allowing myself a small smile. "We go to the penny dreadfuls!"
- Lord Likely.
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