-=Dark_Angel=-, P.I.12 May 2004

Am I to understand you still a teened-ager? Oh dear boy. Do you have the faintest idea of how old I am? When you look at the bags under my eyes, you can count the years in the soft, leathery folds; to count them all would take a lifetime in itself. When my used jodhpurs are incinerated and the foul smoke billows up into the evening sky, the very scent of Age seeps into every pore and crevice of the wretched, doomed butler-boy. And when the time comes that my bent, wither'd form can bear the weight of my colossal idiocy no longer, and the nursemaid drapes my bow'ls about the manor grounds as has been done since the days of my forefather's forefather's, then it will be as though an eternal brown night has descended upon the peasants who work the lands, for the impenetrable rope of my centuries-cured innards is as a slippery, stinking noose around the doomed village below.

And my shaving vest and my razor shall contain my life-essence, and they shall be passed on to my legions of bastard half-erect man-pigs, and my legacy will never die...

-10-

P.S. bow'ls